CHAPTER FIVE
I look up at the building that is so high I can’t even see the top of it from inside the cab. So that’s why they’re called skyscrapers. The trip from JFK to this building has officially blown my mind. I always knew Manhattan was a big place. Even living the sheltered life I have, I read about it and saw pictures of the skyline. But intellectually understanding it’s huge and actually experiencing it firsthand are completely different things. There were several points along the way that I lost my breath, but it wasn’t from fear; it was from excitement. This place is so very, very different from the farm, but in a good way. I could probably drive over this bridge every day of my life and never get tired of that view.
“Here we are,” the cabbie says. “You want to pay using a credit card or cash? Just touch the screen in front of you and make your choice.”
“Are you sure this is the right place?” I check the business card in my hand and the number on the outside of the building. It looks correct, but maybe my driver has the wrong street. This address seems a bit much, even for Greg Lister and his fancy car and custom-made suit. It looks like a home base for aliens, all black and shiny. Are those windows? Can people see out of those big dark panels? I can’t see anything from my side other than the reflection of the surrounding buildings and the clouds in the sky.
Butterflies are going crazy in my stomach. Coming here sounded all well and good when my sisters and I stayed up late into the night weighing the pros and cons over the past week, but now . . . not so much. I can’t remember why I argued so heatedly against just letting sleeping dogs lie. Sleeping dogs are great. I love sleeping dogs. Who doesn’t love a sleeping dog?
“I’m sure,” he says. “You can ask security if you’re worried about it.”
“Security?”
The cabbie points to a person wearing a dark uniform and a badge. “That guy right there.”
I have to believe that this cab driver knows his stuff, which means this is Greg Lister’s office, and this is the place I need to be. I said I was going to do this, so I just need to go in and get it done, butterflies be damned. My sisters say I’m the brave one and that I never back down from a challenge, and even though I don’t necessarily believe that about myself, I’m going to do this anyway. I comfort myself with a personal promise: after I’ve had the necessary conversation with the band, I can go right back to the airport as soon as it’s over and cry about what a disillusioned hippie chick I am where no one can see me—probably in the public bathroom.
I check the flat computer screen in his backseat as instructed. “I don’t have a credit card, so I guess I’ll pay cash.” I press the button and silently hand over two of the six fifty-dollar bills I withdrew from the bank yesterday, even though I’m more than a little shocked at the price of the trip from JFK to downtown Manhattan. Seventy bucks one way? I’m going to have to eat fast food to survive on my meager budget.
“How much change you need?” the golden-toothed man asks me, looking at me in his rearview mirror.
“Uhh . . . is that a trick question?”
He shrugs. “May-be.” He opens up a zippered pouch and holds out a ten-dollar bill. “That gonna be okay?”
I frown, wondering how I’m going to say this without offending him. “I was never super awesome at math, but I’m pretty sure one hundred dollars minus seventy equals thirty. And that looks like a ten-dollar bill to me.”
Suddenly, my door opens and a head is poking itself into the backseat with me.
My jaw drops as I get ready to yell at this impatient New Yorker who can’t wait two seconds for me to figure out my change, when I realize it’s that guy again, from the airport—Mister Grabby Hands. What the hell!
I do what comes naturally, which is to start slapping at him like he’s an entire nest of wasps that’s about to sting my lady parts. “Get out! Get out! Get out!”
“Hey! Hey! Hey!” he yells, trying to cover his head.
“Man, what the hell are you doin’, comin’ in my cab like that?” The driver throws his door open and exits the vehicle. My hero!
The guy’s baseball cap falls off and I snag it, using it to slap him about the head and shoulders instead of my hands because they’re stinging from all the contact I already made with his person. “Assault! Assault! Mugger! Thief!” I shriek, furious that this lunatic is messing up my plans and scaring me into wanting to leave the city before I accomplish my mission.
Suddenly, his head and shoulders disappear from the backseat and he’s facing off against the cabbie on the sidewalk. I grab my bag and the ten-dollar bill that fell to the floor and hug them both to my chest. I guess this cabbie is going to get a hell of a tip today. Dammit. Hot dogs and subway rides for me for the rest of the day. Sliding over to the far side of the seat, I attempt to exit through the other door, but I’m forced to stop when a chorus of horns blares into my ear, telling me I’ll be flattened if I even think about putting a leg outside.
I slide over and try to calculate my chances of escape. The two men are shoving each other just feet away from me, but then the driver suddenly stops. “Hey, man. You’re . . . that guy . . . I saw you . . .” He’s cocking his head to the side, pointing at him, obviously trying to place Mister Grabby Hands’ face.
Mister Grabby Hands looks down at the ground, distracted all of a sudden. “Yeah. Times Square. I know.” He searches behind him. “Where’s my fucking hat?”
Several people have gathered to watch the show, including a guard from the building. I hear whispers and then people yelling. “Hey! That’s Ty Stanz. Tyler! Over here!”
Okaaay . . . So apparently, this guy is a celebrity. He seems less sinister, now that I know he can be identified by any number of people walking down the street, but still . . . Why he’d want to engage in these shenanigans with me of all people doesn’t make much sense, but I let the incongruity slide on by in my mind. I need to stay focused on finding Greg Lister and then the band. I will deliver my message and then get the hell out of this crazy city and go back home where I belong. My grand ideas about feeling at home in Manhattan are long gone.
I grab his baseball cap from the floor of the backseat and throw it at him. “Here’s your stupid hat, you big jerk!”
The stiff bill of the hat hits him right in the ’nads.
He bends over, his legs pressed together with his hands cupping his man parts. “Damn, girl, watch it; that was close.” He snatches his hat off the ground, scowling at me.
I quickly get out of the cab and run around both him and the crowd that’s growing bigger by the second. The last thing I hear over the sound of people calling out to my attacker is the cab driver. “Hey, give the man some space, would you? Back off! Back off!” My former hero is now canoodling with the enemy, and the crowd standing around him is not berating him for harassing me; they’re begging for autographs. Figures. This is New York, after all. Crazy people everywhere.
I head for the building, fly around inside the glass turnstile doors, run on tiptoes across the marble floor of the entrance because I’m worried I’ll slip otherwise, and arrive at the security desk out of breath and sweaty. Perfect. I sure do know how to make an entrance. My sisters are going to laugh and laugh when I tell them what I did. I won’t tell them the part where I was scared shitless because some weirdo tried to accost me outside the airport and Greg Lister’s office.
The guard who stayed in his chair rather than joining his friend outside to handle the fray stares at me. “Can I help you?” He looks as though he’s about to die of boredom.
I let out a long sigh to try and control my runaway emotions—a potent mélange of fear, frustration, confusion, and determination. Whoever that guy is outside, he sure is persistent. You’d think he’d be gone by now, trying to escape the mob that’s gathered, but he’s still there, signing autographs of all things. Thankfully, I feel safe standing here in front of a man in uniform with an actual badge on. That crazy guy wouldn’t dare come after me in here. I hope.
“Are you a police officer?”
He slowly shakes his head. “No, I am not.”
“But you have a badge.” I point to it, in case he forgot he put it on this morning.
“You’re wearing a hippie skirt, but I bet you’re not a hippie.”
I grin, feeling more comfortable by the second. He’s big, and now I know he has a sense of humor and that we’re connecting. “I’ll bet you I am, though. I just arrived here from Glenhollow Farms in central Maine, and I grow all my own veggies and fruits and sell honey from my hives at the local farmers’ market.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “No shit.”
“Yes, shit. I do. I promise.” I hold my hand over my heart.
He chuckles, just a little at first, but then the sound gets longer and louder, until he’s throwing out a full-on guffaw. I can’t help but smile along with him. I’m pretty sure he’s laughing with me and not at me.
“Girl, you a trip. Where’re you headed today?” When he smiles his cheeks turn into big apples on either side of his face. It’s totally charming and puts me right at ease.
I hand him Mr. Lister’s card. “I’m going here. If you allow me past your barriers.” I glance over at the turnstiles that people are using electronic badges to get through.
He nods as he reads the address. “Thirty-third floor. Your name?” He leans forward with effort, his belly straining the buttons of his shirt.
“My name is . . . Jessica Albatross.” I have no idea why I just said that. Maybe because I saw an article about Jessica Alba in the airplane magazine, and I thought she was really pretty. Huh. I’m learning a lot about myself today. Maybe I do panic like Em a little when I’m stressed. I knew I wasn’t as brave as my sisters say I am.
I glance over my shoulder. The crowd is still there, and I’m worried that guy is going to try to come after me. If he does, it’s better if he doesn’t know who I really am; it’s better if he’s on the lookout for someone named Jessica rather than Amber. I’m happy my big-city savvy came to the rescue once more.
“Jessica Albatross. Really.” He loses his smile.
I grin as hard as I can. “I know, right? Crazy name. Blame my father.” I twirl my finger in the air next to my ear, just like Mister Grabby Hands did to me earlier.
He slides a clipboard over to me, back to being seriously bored. “Sign in here. And take this badge over there . . . Jessica Albatross.” He points at the turnstiles with the plastic card in his hand as I fill in the name and phone number section on the paper. I make up a fake number too: (555) 867-5309.
“And bring the badge back to me when you’re done.”
“Yes, sir. I will do that.” I take the stiff plastic card and check it out, bummed it doesn’t have my photo on it like his does. I feel pretty official, though, as I clip it onto my shirt. I also feel very safe because now I know Mister Grabby Hands will have to pass the sniff test with this guy before he’s allowed in.
“Anything else?” he asks.
“Yes.” I look behind me for a second before turning back to him. “Could you please not let that man in here?” I point to the guy slowly making his way toward the door.
“Why not?” He glances at the door but then focuses on me.
“Because. He tried to accost me at the airport and then followed me here.”
He frowns. “I’ll take care of it.” He picks up his walkie-talkie.
I grin at him, feeling like I have sunshine bursting out of me, I’m so relieved and happy.
“Anything else I can do for you?” He looks like he’s about to laugh again.
“This is my first badge.” I’m smiling like a loon as I look down at it hanging from my white peasant blouse. I know I’m being a total rube, but I can’t help it. My mind is spinning with the notion that I’m in New York City . . . the Big City . . . I’m about to go hang out in a building that is literally scraping the sky, and my mission to tell these big-city buttheads that they can forget trying to bribe my sisters and me is almost over. I’m totally doing this. Nothing can stop me.
The front door spins around and loud noises spill in. I turn in a panic, and my mouth drops open as I see the huge crowd that’s pressing against the glass, trying to enter all at once. “What in the hell . . .”
“Don’t worry about it. Just go on upstairs. I’ll handle this.” The security guard stands up and adjusts his thick leather belt, tucking a bit of his belly under it and smoothing his shirt over his chest.
“Okay . . . Lamar,” I say, reading his name tag. “You go get ’em.” I point at his chest. “Show ’em your badge.”
He shakes his head as he comes around the desk, headed for the front doors. “I will do that.”
I take my official visitor’s card and go to the turnstiles. I have to lean over really far so the machine can read it, because in my hurry, I’m not able to figure out how to unclip it from my shirt. The crowds behind me are making me nervous. When I’m finally through, I seek out my next goal: elevators. There are two banks of silver ones to my left and right, set deep into shiny black walls that remind me of Mr. Lister’s shoes. Everything is so cold and hard here—very impersonal, just like him.
I walk over to the right and press the call button. The elevator just to my left opens up immediately. I go inside all alone and press the number thirty-three. I realize as the doors slide closed and the elevator starts its ascent that this day has been full of firsts: my first plane ride, my first taxi ride, my first assault, my first visitor badge, and my first building over four floors high. The tallest building where I went to college, an hour away, was two stories.
I smile for a moment until I realize what’s next. The easy part is over; now comes the hard part. My good humor disappears as I begin to worry. I nibble my thumbnail and wonder what’s going to happen when I say what I’ve come to say. Will they yell at me? Laugh and call me a naïve fool? Toss me out on my butt? The idea that they might feel bad and apologize seems really silly to me right now, even though that’s what my sisters and I were hoping for. We talked about getting justice, about saying our piece, about getting these men to feel even just an inkling of the pain we felt when we realized we had living, breathing fathers out there in the world. Now I’m not so sure I can make that happen.
I guess we’ll soon find out. I resist the urge to call Em and Rose. I said I was going to do this alone and I am. I’ve been taking care of my sisters, sacrificing my happiness for theirs, and making the hard calls since day one, and I’m not going to stop doing that today.