Young Jane Young(62)

22


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.”





23


“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?”





24


“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.





25


“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.