Free Citizen Girl by Emma McLaughlin

heater.
    ‘Help you?’ he grunts.
    ‘Yes, I’m going up to My Company.’
    ‘Ten.’ He jerks a thumb over to the elevator bank. ‘Gotta sign in first. And let’s see some ID.’ In the elevator an impressive roster lights up with each passing floor – clothes I’d love to wear, furniture I’d love to own. Anticipating glamour I step out … onto an abandoned loading dock. Instinctively I get back in and re-press ‘ten’. The doors slide closed and then open again onto thesame cavernous cement space. Confused and not a little concerned that this is how ladies end up on milk cartons, I step cautiously. Filthy eighteen-wheeler bays stand empty around a Mack-truck-sized hole in the floor, presumably where a freight elevator once was. I peek my head over the gaping chasm and see that it drops all the way to street level. This is not safe.
    As I turn back towards the elevator, I’m relieved to spot the brushed steel letters of My Company, Inc., the woman’s symbol backlit as if hovering. I cross to the other side of the bay and peek in through the glass portals of the double doors, suffering an instant crush. On the far end of an open layout of at least a hundred blond wood desks, floor-to-ceiling casement windows bathe the humongous bustling room in views of the star-sprinkled skyline above and the Hudson River below.
    I want in.
    I open the door, preparing to synthesize all I know about women’s magazines (something) and software (nothing) with the determination to speak only in grand affirming statements. ‘I have a six thirty with Guy.’
    The receptionist picks up her phone. In keeping with the Urban Outfitters vibe of the rest of the staff, she sports a Mickey Mouse tee shirt beneath her suit. ‘Okay, follow me.’ Happily.
    She walks me across the room, past youngish employees in various stages of wrapping up their work week, messenger bags filling, bar names being volleyed. She deposits me in front of three steps leading up to a glass wall running the width of the room, which delineates alarge office. I watch the man inside stoop to retrieve a Nerf Ball while animatedly addressing the air over a speakerphone. I wait for him to hang up before I climb the upholstered steps and enter.
    ‘Girl!’ Guy grins at me, his blue eyes twinkling as he tosses the orange ball in the air. ‘It’s great that you could come in. It’s great that you just called me up. I love that.’ He tucks the ball under his elbow before tugging lightly at his royal-blue cords and dropping into his desk chair. ‘How are you?’
    ‘Good, thank you.’ I smile radiantly back. ‘How are you?’
    He laughs, the air around him charged with the arrogant charisma of a man who has derived maximum mileage from his prep-school-crush good looks. Picking up a mug of filmed-over coffee, he gulps, wiping his upper lip swiftly as he sets it down. ‘I’m great, Girl.’
    Channeling Whitney, I stride over to the seat facing him and sit, unbidden. ‘Guy, first off I have to tell you that I’m a huge fan of My Company – I love what you do here: linking women to information. It’s such an important service.’
    He smiles, his eyes locked on mine as he steadies the ball on his lap. ‘Pretty impressive, isn’t it? Women of all ages log on every day with beauty questions, fashion questions, health …’ He smacks his desktop with his hands, rattling the pens in their stainless-steel holder. ‘Yeast infections are our number-one hit!’
    ‘Really!’ I match his enthusiasm.
    ‘Want a Vagisil tee shirt?’
    ‘Uh, sure – yes! Absolutely! I’d love one!’
    ‘Great, you got it.’ We smile and nod at each other. ‘Cool,’ he says. ‘So now I want to take MC, Inc.’s success and leverage it —’
    ‘Absolutely. Everything should be leveraged. Otherwise, why bother? I’ve spent the last few years conducting research on the needs of teenage girls and then leveraging that information to create effective social service policy. Really