“Here you are,” I say. “We’ve arrived.”
Olivia doesn’t point out that we’re not there yet. She just slithers out like she’s relieved to be rid of me and my stench. Chris thanks me for driving and follows her out. He seems to know it’s not safe for him to linger, that he might fall victim to my charms like he did the last time.
“See you soon!” I call out with cherry-flavored cheer as they walk down the sidewalk.
They’re not holding hands. It’s like Olivia is still trying to freeze Chris out. Not enough that their relationship will fall apart, just enough so he’ll take her out to a Michelin-starred dinner tomorrow night. As if that’s where happiness lurks, in the shallow shells of hundred-dollar oysters.
They should be thanking me, really; I’ve given them conversation fodder, no doubt more interesting than whatever they’ll talk about at their posh little party. Everyone sitting around comparing six-figure salaries and planning their next European vacation so they don’t have to find anything original to bond over in the present.
I keep driving for a while longer.
I’m all wound up after that, and sometime after midnight I start thinking about sleeping with my riders. It’s the easiest way ever to have a one-night stand, all these people going home from the clubsafter failing to find someone to go home with, and then they luck out with an irresistible Uber driver.
I’m not in the mood for it tonight, though, so I drive back to Bushwick and park the Red Rocket outside the Inn in the parking spot that we’ve painted with a big “Private Parking—Violators Will Be Towed” sign to scare off the other cars. The police around here have bigger things to worry about than coming for us.
I’m not ready to go inside. Privacy appeals, so I walk around the neighborhood. Emptied spray paint cans litter the gravelly potholes of Knickerbocker Avenue. Spotty streetlights illuminate sidewalk graffiti with shapes I’ve never seen before but immediately recognize as true.
This is what art is supposed to be. Communal and evolving, on full display for everyone and their mother to see and stomp their feet on, scream out for. Not something private and static that’s caged away in galleries and museums where you get arrested for touching it, hushed for expressing the uncouth emotion it stirs within you.
Revolutions aren’t born in fancy theaters where rich people pay an arm and a soul for tickets. Revolutions are born on grimy city blocks where broke communities refuse to break by walking together, dancing together, dreaming together, banding together.
Feeling a surge of affection for Bushwick, I try to scope out a street fight, a drug deal, a shoplifting bust. I’m not going to insert myself in the middle of it; I just want to watch something interesting swirl around me, swirl within me. But it’s dead quiet.
I’m not a fan of silence; it makes everything louder inside. It makes me wonder when I’ll hear from Chris. Because the question is “when,” not “if.” I know he’ll text me once Olivia stops censoring his phone. He’s obviously bored out of his bones. The problem is that all his friends are bored too, so he just thinks that’s the way relationships have to be: pairing up with someone who makes people say, “Oh, what a perfect couple,” when you post photos on socialmedia. Little do they know your faces sag back to apathy right after the camera flashes. Guys like Chris want someone who seamlessly fits into their life, as if it’s a good thing to fit in. As if it doesn’t mean that you hardly even notice the other person’s existence and don’t evolve in their presence at all.
It’s late. Chris and Olivia are probably in bed right now. The thought makes me itchy, so I take off my patched denim jacket, and then I peel off my T-shirt and then my bra too because the metal wiring is poking into my skin. Talk about a grassroots advertising campaign for liberation. I continue down the block, past Blazin’ Skinz Tattoo Parlor, which looks as reputable as it sounds. Tony’s Pizzeria, our no-frills anchor, is wedged beside it, just dilapidated enough to keep the swarm of Manhattanite foodies from invading and propagating our deep Brooklyn culture into a social media hashtag.
The streets are nearly empty. I’m not scared for my safety. My aura oozes invincibility. The neighbors would come help me anyway, at least the ones who aren’t far away on a trip where screams sound like seagulls.
I expect to be noticed, but the few people I pass don’t glance twice. They barely glance once, too absorbed in their phones or their pizza or the real or imaginary music in their ears. And isn’t that the truth about Bushwick—you can walk around topless and not even stand out. Kind of great but kind of sad too. It almost makes me miss Michigan, how I could be guaranteed to cause a scene just by going running in a crop top.Gasp, the scandal of a belly button.
Refusing to slump under the defeat of it all, I maintain the strong neck of a sphinx as I return to the Inn and take a scorching shower. No one else in the building is using the hot water this late; it’s all mine to hoard. One of the best perks of being nocturnal.
I take out my contacts. The gray irises bleed through again. Looking away from the mirror fast so I don’t have to see myself likethat, I bumble into my room and settle into the bottom bunk. The thin little mattress bends to my body like most things do.
I try to conjure up a steamy scene for a lucid dream, but all I keep thinking about is how Chris blinked twice when I gave him my number, like he was trying to tell me he got it.
Chapter 4
Chris doesn’t end up calling, which is completely fine. It’s his loss. It’s more just annoying because I had that sense that he would and I don’t like being wrong.
But it’s probably better to keep him as a stranger and preserve the mystery of illusion before the uninspired reality of being with an accountant ruins the vibrancy of the things I can fantasize about it. Not that Iamfantasizing about it, but I could if I wanted to. That’s all I’m saying.
Spring slopes sharply into summer and the Redstockings spend basically all our free time out in the garden, begging for a breeze. Our window A/C units work only when they want to. I’m torn between being proud of the A/C’s rebellious streak and furious because we’re basically reflective with our own sweat, that’s how shiny we are.
One afternoon we’re all out there in the garden and I’m practicing lines with Tara for a musical she’s been cast in.
I’m standing in for the lead. It’s this character who travels through time and breaks a heart in every century. I’m really pouring myself into the role, ad-libbing left and right and left again. It makes me wonder if I threw in the towel a little too soon when it comes to acting. Then I remember how the directors would try to squash my creative liberty, demolish it under the formulaic treadsof their shoes. I won’t stand for that, so I’ll have to keep my talent underground. Sometimes darkness is the brightest place.
Tara has landed a supporting role for an off-off-Broadway show. That might not sound like a big deal, but it is by New York standards. It’s a huge fucking deal. The only problem is she’s got imposter syndrome. I think it traces back to the whole foster kid thing and how she tried to fit into all these different families that only half wanted her and she felt like she was never enough.
No imposter syndrome for Hal. She’s abandoned the bra-humbug idea, deciding that the most progressive and environmentally friendly bra is no bra at all. I must’ve inspired her when I shared about my late-night topless stroll, plus the original Redstockings burned bras back in the seventies, so that’s really the precedent to beat all prejudice.
Now she’s onto something new, a horoscope/telescope app that maps your zodiac chart with stars in the sky that are giving off vibrations on any given day so you can physically sync up with the stars. Hal hasn’t actually built the app yet, but that doesn’t deter her.
“All the guys out in Silicon Valley do it,” she keeps saying. “It’s all about getting investors to buy into the idea before the product exists, then using their money to build it.”
I’m not big on zodiac signs. Looking to anything external for guidance is just a capitalistic ploy or patriarchal tactic to keep women from realizing we’re in control of our own destiny. But I’m obsessed with Hal’s confidence. It’s contagious and it’s always easier to believe in the unbelievable when I’m around her. She says the same about me.
