SOUTHWEST LOOP 820

That summer in Dallas my roommate Tina stole a Penthouse from her father’s stash. We wanted to see why Miss America surrendered her crown. Tina scoffed at the black and white photographs. Disgusting, she said. What sluts. I thought their bodies were tender and beautiful. Later, when Tina went to sleep, I turned the TV on low. Three women were dead in a bar on Southwest Loop 820. The newscaster said the rampage began after patrons declined to dance with a man who later returned with a gun. The Penthouse lay open on our floor. I could feel Vanessa Williams’ shame burn through the pages and into my skin.

In the morning Tina yelled about the cockroaches coming up from the drain. I was in my room, squirming into pantyhose, an empty L’eggs container cracked open on the bed. I can’t handle this, Tina carried on. Come kill them. Do it yourself, I yelled back. Quit being a baby.

We’d lived together in college, had finally landed jobs downtown. She had a K-car. I took the bus. Bananarama was playing on the radio: It’s a cruel, (cruel), cruel summer. We were both late for work. Rent overdue.

 The front page of the newspaper showed some of the carnage from the shooting. The inside of Penthouse showed some of the vaginas. Other than my own I’d never seen one up close.

 When I exited the bus, I could smell the exhaust on my blouse. The heels on my white pumps were scuffed. I rode the elevator to the nineteenth floor, where Oliver was in charge. He wore wrinkled suits with crimson ties, and when he passed the cubicles, he glanced upward. He was the only one with a private office. Had a bathroom too, and a middle-aged assistant named Jane who collected his dry cleaning and replenished the toilet paper. The rest of us assembled entertainment guides. My job was proofreading and I believed I was good at spotting errors.

Around ten-thirty I went out for a smoke and a fun-size Kit Kat. Two banker types were standing by the door. It was ninety-seven degrees, the sidewalk griddle-hot and just as greasy. I saw the taller guy bum a cigarette from the shorter one. Heard him say, Guess them Bettys should’ve danced.

Turning away, I tossed the Kit Kat, still in its wrapper, thinking about men and Vanessa and whether anybody would consider me pretty enough to pose in the nude. I’d wanted to bring Penthouse to work so I could look at it in the bathroom during lunch but Tina had seen me try to slide it in my briefcase.

What are you—a lesbo? she’d said.

I wasn’t sure. I had no one to ask. The only time I kissed a girl was back in fifth grade. I didn’t answer. Just stared at Tina and then at the floor.

Anyway, she said, give it here.

It’s wrong what they’re doing to her, I said. Making her give up the crown.

Tina crossed her arms and shook her head. She deserves it, for doing those things. Why are you so weird? Then she snatched the magazine. It’s going in the trash, she said, and so is this. She picked up the newspaper, muttering, So awful, so gross. All of it. You can thank me later.

She left the apartment and I pictured Vanessa and the women from Loop 820 lying in a heap.

Back at my cubicle, I dabbed my pits with Kleenex then sniffed to see how bad. Like a raccoon up the chimney. Oliver was approaching so I straightened up and said, Good morning. Sir.

There were only ten of us crammed in the small workspace but I knew he didn’t know my name. He didn’t acknowledge or return my greeting. I watched him walk toward his doorway and I heard him tell Jane to hold his calls. He needed a nap. He closed the door.

Oliver left shortly after five, followed quickly by Jane and the rest of the staff. I’d never been in his office but was suddenly seized with a strange urgency to do so—growing up I’d been forbidden to enter my father’s home study for reasons that had never been explained. I paused at the threshold then crossed Oliver’s room slowly, holding my breath. There was a large maple desk with a tobacco pipe on top and a burgundy leather chair with rolling wheels. I walked toward the window and looked down at the miniature people crossing the baked asphalt, rushing to bus stops and newsstands and markets. Take some dictation, I said aloud and laughed, turning dramatically from the window, addressing an imaginary assistant. I’ve got a lot to say. Let’s start with the Miss America Organization. After that, we’ll tackle Penthouse.

I laughed again, sadly. Always so much braver in my mind.

I picked up Oliver’s pipe and knocked it upside down on the desk. Took the gum from my mouth and stuck it on the edge of his chair. Rifled through a stack of manila files and mixed up some of the pages and took a few to hide in the bathroom and that’s when I saw her in the rack: Vanessa Williams—between sports columns and spreadsheets.

I’m taking you home, I said, and pressed her to my chest. Seconds later, I collided with Jane.

Oh! she shrieked—What are you doing here?

I dropped the magazine. The pages splayed open on the floor, revealing Vanessa yet again.

Well? said Jane.

What are you doing here? I said.

Never mind that. I could have you fired, you know.

I nodded. Inched my way toward the door.

Jane picked up the magazine and turned it over. I kept scooting away.

Wait, she said after a moment, extending her arm—I believe this is yours.