Young Jane Young(60)

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, turn to page 4.

If you choose the blue dress, turn to page 5.

If you choose the white blouse and kilt, turn to page 11.





11


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





12


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.





13


“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.”