Click here.
They haven’t invented Spanx yet, and in the fall of 1999, tights are the next best thing. You squeeze your flesh into your chosen sausage casing.
You lay three options on your extralong twin bed: a black stretch crepe cocktail dress, a navy blue summer-weight wool dress that you fear might be snug as you haven’t tried to zip it up in more than two years, and a white blouse and gray kilt combo.
If you choose the black dress.
If you choose the blue dress.
If you choose the white blouse and kilt.
You choose the white blouse because you think it’s the most professional, but then, when you put it on, the buttons strain across your breasts, creating eye-shaped gaps. You don’t have time to change. You don’t want to be late. If you hunch your shoulders forward, the eyes mainly close.
“Whoa,” your roommate Maria says, “sexy mama!”
“Should I change?”
“No way,” says Maria. “Put on some lipstick, though.”
You sloppily apply red lipstick to your mouth. You are not good with makeup because you rarely wear any. When you went to your prom, your mom put on your makeup for you. Yes, you know how that makes you sound. You and your mom are close. She’s probably your best friend though you are not hers. Her best friend is Roz Horowitz, who is funny and, in the way of many funny people, occasionally mean.
You arrive to the new intern orientation. The other female interns are wearing simple black and navy shift dresses, and you regret that you did not wear such a dress. The boys are wearing khaki pants and blue dress shirts. You think they look like they work for Blockbuster.
You feel conspicuous. After the orientation, you go to the bathroom and try to wipe off the red lipstick with a scratchy brown paper towel of the variety only found in public restrooms. It does not wipe off the lipstick. It just spreads it around, and now you look like a tragedy. You look like Bette Davis in What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?, which is one of your mom’s favorite movies. You splash water on your skin, but it doesn’t help. You can’t get a decent stream of water because the taps are set to run for five seconds at a time, and the quick splashes seem to tattoo the lipstick stain onto your face.
Back in the conference room, they are training the interns to place and receive phone calls to and from constituents. One of the boys raises his hand and asks, “When do we get to meet the congressman?”
The training person says that the congressman is in Washington, D.C., right now but will be flying back in the evening. You’ll all be gone by the time he gets here.
“The congressman is personable, but at this level, you won’t have much direct interaction,” the training person says.
Later that morning, the boy who had asked the question sits next to you at the call bank. He is skinny and tall, though his shoulders slump like an old man’s. He uses Yiddish phrases, which seem to go over well with the callers. He’s the same age as you, but he reminds you of your grandfather.
He introduces himself, “I’m Charlie Greene,” he says.
“Aviva Grossman,” you say.
“Since we’re going to be interns together, do you want to have lunch with me?” he asks.
You go to lunch with him because he seems nice enough and because it beats eating alone and because he reminds you of the boys you went to high school with. The other interns seem to have already made friends with one another. How did friendships form so quickly? You wonder if you had worn one of the dresses whether things would have been different.
“What do you want to do when you graduate?” he asks over French fries.
“I’d like to run campaigns for a while. Then, I’d maybe like to run for office myself,” you say
“Me, too. That’s what I want to do!” he says. “High-five!”
You smack palms.
“What’s your major?” he asks.
“Political science and Spanish literature,” you say.
“Me, too!” he says. “Double high-five!”
You smack palms twice.
“Minus the Spanish literature part,” he says. “But that’s smart. I should get on learning Spanish. Who’s your favorite president?” he asks.
“This is going to sound weird,” you say, “because, you know, Vietnam. But other than Vietnam, I really like Lyndon Johnson. He was an excellent dealmaker and legislator. And I like that he started out a schoolteacher. And I like that every person in his family had the initials LBJ.”
“Even the dog was LBJ,” Charlie says. “Little Beagle Johnson.”
“I know!” you say. “Who’s yours?”
“Despite everything, Bill Clinton,” he says. “Please don’t shoot me.”
“I like him, too,” you say. “I think he got a bad rap. I mean, isn’t it on Monica Lewinsky, too? People talk about the power imbalance between them, and I guess that matters. But she was a grown-up and she pursued him. And whatever, people make their own choices.”
“I like you, Aviva Grossman,” Charlie says, “and I think you should be my official Phone-a-Friend.” The show Who Wants to Be a Millionaire is at the peak of its popularity. “For the internship, I mean.”
“What does that entail?” you ask.
“Oh, you know, if either of us gets access to the congressman or gets in trouble or whatever, we vouch for the other one.”
“Okay,” you say.
He gives you his phone number and his e-mail address, and you give him yours.
After lunch, you spend the rest of the afternoon on the phone bank, which is fun at first, like playing at grown-up work, but gets boring fast. At the end of the day, the supervisor of the interns calls you into her office.
You go into the office, wondering why you are being singled out.
“Aviva, sit down,” the supervisor says.
You sit, but your skirt is so tight, you can’t cross your legs. You have to mash your thighs together. You cross your arms over your breasts.
“How was your first day?” the supervisor says.
“Good,” you say. “Interesting. I learned a lot.”
“Well, I wanted to talk to you about something potentially awkward,” the supervisor says. “The thing is, there’s a dress code for the interns.”
You had read the dress code. It had only mentioned “professional work attire.” You feel yourself begin to blush, but you aren’t embarrassed. Mostly, you are angry. The only reason the clothes aren’t professional is because of your fat ass and your inconveniently enormous tits.
Okay, you are somewhat embarrassed.
“I thought it would be best to nip this issue in the bud,” the supervisor says.
You nod and try not to cry. You can feel your chin begin to stupidly quiver.
“No,” the supervisor says. “It’s not as bad as all of that, Aviva. Take tomorrow off. Get yourself something nice and appropriate to wear, okay?”
You go out to the interns’ room, and you gather your things. The other interns have left, and your eyes are beginning to spill over.
The hell with it, you think. No one’s here. It’s better that you cry before you drive. Miami’s confusing to navigate at night, and they haven’t invented Google Maps yet.
You weep.
There is a knock on the window. It’s Congressman Levin. You knew him when you were a little girl. He smiles at you.
“Are we treating our interns that badly?” he asks kindly.
“Long day,” you say. You wipe your eyes on your sleeve.
“Aviva Grossman, right?” he says. “We used to be neighbors in Forestgreen.”
“No, I don’t live there anymore. I’m in college now. I live in a dorm.”
“You’re all grown up,” he says.
“I don’t feel very grown up,” you say. “You just caught me crying in the break room.”
“How’re your folks?” he asks.
“Very well,” you say.
“Good, good. Well, Aviva Grossman, I hope your second day is bet
ter than your first.”
You had heard about the congressman’s charm. You must admit: his presence is warming.
You are leaving when Charlie Greene calls your name. He had been waiting for you in the love seat by the elevator banks.
“Hey,” he says. “Phone-a-Friend! Where’d you go?”
“I had to call my mom,” you lie.
“Well, I had a thought. What if we watched Conan together? You strike me as a Conan person. Maybe you’re a Letterman, though? You’re definitely not a Jay.”
“You can be a Conan and a Letterman person at the same time,” you say.
“That’s how it’s done, Grossman,” Charlie says. “Finish Letterman, flip to Conan. It’s how the ancient Romans did it.”
You laugh. You like Charlie Greene. He feels as comfortable as your Birkenstocks.
You both look up to see the congressman running toward the elevator. He has long legs. You think you read that he used to be a pole-vaulting champion and you can believe that. You imagine him in tight track shorts. “You left your keys,” he says. “Cute keychain.”
Your keychain is a spinning cloisonné globe, which was a gift from your father to commemorate a trip you took to Russia with your high school history class. The congressman spins the globe, and it strikes you how large his fingers are compared to the tiny world your father gave you.
“Thanks,” you say. When he hands you the keys, your fingertips touch the congressman’s, and through a curious feat of human circuitry, you feel his touch directly between your legs.
“Since I caught you, I was thinking,” the congressman says. “I don’t like the thought of one of my interns crying on the first day. I definitely don’t like the thought of Dr. Grossman’s daughter crying on the first day. I mean, I have a lot of stress in my life. I might need a quadruple bypass someday. Let me take you for a falafel or something. There’s a café downstairs. They do other things, too, but I’d go with falafel or frozen yogurt.”
If you introduce the congressman to Charlie and then tell the congressman you already have plans.
If you don’t introduce the congressman to Charlie—indeed, you forget Charlie is even there—and immediately leave with the congressman.
You forget Charlie is there. You’re about to leave with the congressman when the congressman holds out his hand to your Phone-a-Friend. “Aaron Levin,” he says. “You must be one of the new interns.”
Charlie manages to say his name, and then he says, “An honor to meet you, sir.”
“Thank you for coming to work for us, Charlie,” the congressman says, looking deep into Charlie’s eyes. “I appreciate it.”
The congressman suggests that Charlie come to the café.
“We actually had plans,” Charlie said.
“Nothing solid,” you say.
“What plans?” asks the congressman. “I like to know what the young people are up to.”
“We’re going to watch Letterman and then Conan,” Charlie says.
“Let’s do that,” the congressman says. “But let’s get something to eat first. It’s only ten thirty. We have time.”
“Whoa. What?” Charlie stammers. “My apartment’s pretty dirty. I have roommates. I—”
“Don’t worry, kid. We can eat downstairs and watch up here,” the congressman says. “There’s a TV down the hall.”
You go downstairs to the café, and the owner bows when the congressman comes into the restaurant. “Congressman!” he says.
“Where have you been? We’ve missed you!”
“Farouk, these are my new crackerjack interns, Charlie and Aviva,” the congressman says.
“Don’t let him work you too hard,” Farouk says. “He works all night long, six nights a week.”
“You only know that because you keep the same hours,” the congressman says.
“When anyone asks me, I say, no one works harder than my congressman . . . except me,” Farouk says. “I don’t know when you see those boys or that pretty wife of yours.”
“I see them all the time,” the congressman says. “In my wallet. On my desk.”
The congressman orders a plate of falafel balls for the table and a side of hummus. Farouk brings baklava, on the house.
“So let me pick your brains,” the congressman says. He has a spot of hummus on his upper lip. You don’t know if you should mention it, but you can’t stop looking at it. “I’m supposed to give a speech for the National Organization for Women about the leadership gap and what we can do about it, especially thinking about the next generation. You’re a young woman, Aviva.”
You nod too eagerly.
“You must know a few young women, Charlie?” the congressman says.
“Fewer than I’d like,” Charlie says.
The congressman laughs. “So, any thoughts, kids?”
Charlie says, “I think it’s the same thing with late night television. I’m really into late night . . .”
“Yes,” the congressman says, “I’m gathering that.”
“The person who hosts the late night show always wears a dark suit,” Charlie says. “The person who becomes the president always wears a dark suit. Maybe if a lady put on a dark suit, the problem would be solved.”
The congressman looks at you. “What do you think?”
“I think he’s right-ish.” You can feel yourself blushing.
“Ish?” the congressman says.
“Ish,” you say. “I’m not, like, a feminist.”
“You aren’t?” The congressman looks amused.
“I mean, I’m not not a feminist. I mean, I believe I’m a human before I’m a woman.” You say this because you are young, and because you have the wrong idea about feminism. You think feminists are your mom and Roz Horowitz. You think they’re middle-aged women with fond memories of 1970s-era marches and ancient trunks filled with buttons and message tees. “But I think—I mean I know—women are judged on their appearance. If a woman wore a dark suit, they wouldn’t make her president. They would say she was ‘trying to be a man.’ She can’t win.”
The congressman excuses himself to the restroom. Charlie says, “How do you know him?”
“We used to be neighbors,” you say. “And my dad operated on his mother’s heart.”
“Wow,” Charlie says. “Go me for picking an awesome Phone-a-Friend. I can’t believe he wants to hang out with us! Seriously, he’s so earnest. He really seems interested in what we have to say.”
You agree.
“Man, I kind of wanted to work for a senator or in the White House, but this is turning out great.”
You all go back to the office where the congressman puts on Letterman. Halfway through the show, he removes his tie and dress shirt and then he is only wearing a white undershirt. “Sorry, kids,” he says. “Avert your eyes. It’s damned hot.” You suddenly become glad that Charlie is with you. You have heard that the women staffers have crushes on the congressman, and you would rather avoid that particular cliché.
When you get back to your dorm that night, your roommate, Maria, isn’t there, but that isn’t anything unusual. She sleeps at her girlfriend’s apartment most nights. You wish you had a girlfriend’s apartment to go to. The novelty of dorm life has worn off. You are tired of the cinder block walls and your roommate’s Pulp Fiction poster that will never stick to the wall for more than five days straight. You are tired of shower shoes and communal bathrooms and the dry-erase board on the door that doesn’t quite erase. You are tired of objects going missing and not being entirely sure if they have been stolen or just misplaced. You are tired of the smell of body odor, of sex, of dirt, of football fields, of socks, of weed, of week-old pizzas and ramen, of moldy towels, of bi-semesterly changed sheets. You will die if the guy across the hall plays “Crash into Me” one more time. It’s his hookup song. The worst. All this seems particularly intolerable when you have put in a full day at work.
You aren’t physically tired, though, and you wish you had someone to talk to
about everything. You think about calling your mom, but you don’t. It’s late, and there are things she wouldn’t understand.
It’s late.
You check your e-mail on your roommate’s computer. She has left her browser opened to a blog, written by a woman who works in fashion. Lately, everyone has a blog. You read a little. The woman puts up pictures of her outfits, with her head cut off, and rants about her boss and the sexist practices of her industry.
You could do that.
You lie down on your bed and you take out your laptop, and you decide to start a blog.
You decide to make your blog anonymous, because you want to be able to speak candidly about your experiences. You don’t want this blog to affect you later in life. It’s a way to blow off some steam.
You write:
Just Another Congressional Intern here.
First day on the job and I’m already in trouble. Did I steal from the campaign? Did I throw a tantrum in front of a constituent or the congressman? Did I arrange a Watergate-style break-in and then try to cover it up?
No, Imaginary Readers, I BROKE THE DRESS CODE.
Congressional interns have a dress code, and I thought I was following it. But my Big Boobs had other ideas . . .
And I guess this is my point. If a less well-endowed intern had worn the exact same outfit I wore, would she have gotten in trouble? Methinks not. This means there are double standards, based on body types, implied by the congressional intern dress code. This smells rotten to me, Imaginary Readers.
And also, what am I meant to do? I gained twenty-two pounds my first semester at U. Am I supposed to buy an entirely new wardrobe? Did I mention INTERNS ARE PAID NOTHING? The guy interns are dressed like tech support slobs, so maybe I’ll get myself a pair of khakis and a denim shirt and call it a day.
On other fronts, met the Big Kahuna tonight. You know Gaston in the cartoon version of Beauty and the Beast? He looks like that, only more muscular.
Is it weird that I have always been, like, “Belle, choose Gaston. He’s not that bad. He’s good-looking. He’s rich. He’s into you. A bit egotistical, but who isn’t? Seriously, Belle, do not go with the Beast. That guy lives alone in a castle and he has anger issues and his closest friend is a servant who also happens to be a fucking candelabra. Major warning signs ahead, babe. Also, did I forget to mention? He’s a BEAST!”
Young Jane Young Page 18