Karolina Waclawiak: How to Get into the Twin Palms

When my grandfather let go of the broomstick handle I sailed down the street, felt the wind, felt the concrete beneath me and felt free for once. Until the pack of boys with the new and clean bikes saw me fly by, long broomstick handle bound to my bike, toothless grandfather trailing behind me. I felt my cheeks burn as they laughed, pointing at the broomstick, and I rounded the corner, falling out of sight.

“ Głupia! ” My grandfather came up and pulled me off the ground. I left him, my bicycle, and the broomstick on the street and ran for home.

MY UNEMPLOYMENT CHECK CAME EARLY THISweek. I was going to try and make it last this time. I had to make sure I did not answer the phone between 9 and 7 if my mother called. As far as she knew I was still an employee of the FastTrak Employment Agency.

I had been a placement counselor and placed people in their temporary positions. I found people the right fit. I got a certain sense of pride when a temp hire became a full-time hire. It gave me a sense of accomplishment.

I had worn the same thing to work every day. Black slacks made from cheap synthetic fabric. Black or gray or white button down, with a bit of stretch. Black, sensible shoes. I tried to keep them unscuffed. I tried to keep my appearance neat. I understand the importance of looking good at work. When we first came to this country my mother went to work bra-less and without stockings. She was scolded by the owner’s wife and made to wear a bra and nude stockings in the sweltering heat. She would come home and peel the stockings off her sweaty legs. She would tell me they said she looked too foreign, indecent. In America you couldn’t show skin. You could not show your legs. You had to hide your skin with the appearance of skin, a bit browner than your own. I wanted to make sure my appearance was acceptable at work so I covered as much skin as possible. I wore collared shirts to cover my neck, as to not appear sexual or feminine. I was fired anyway. “Laid off” is what they called it. Our key client called and said I had sent them an inappropriate candidate. They were going over to Manpower Inc. That’s what did it. Manpower Inc. Now I was getting a check on Fridays and had to call in to the state to tell them that I was looking for new work, new opportunities. Something in HR. I knew just what to say. I hadn’t had a vacation in 16 months at FastTrak. But now I was going to take one and for as long as I could.

The first thing I was going to do was take up smoking. It was going to hurt the running, but help my attempts of getting into the Twin Palms. Getting in with Lev. The cabbies were already trading in their heavy leather jackets for simple Members Only jackets in dreary grays and blacks. They smoked Marlboro Reds. Amerykanskie papierosy.

In Poland, men smoked Marlboro, L&M, Golden American, Slims, Vogue, West, Pall Mall, and Rothmans. They all sounded Western and romantic to me. Golden Americans. I wish we had Golden Americans in America, mostly unfiltered and always smoked in quick succession.

I was going to be a casual smoker, I decided. I hadn’t seen the women in front of the Twin Palms repeatedly snuffing out cigarettes like the men. They smoked slim cigarettes, like small straws. Virginia Slims. A few puffs finished them off.

I was going to have to invest in Virginia Slims.

I went to the convenience store and stood at the counter, scanned the cigarettes and asked to see several packs. I wanted to see how slim they were. There were Virginia Slim Luxury Light 120s, Ultra-Light 100s, Ultra-Light Super Slim 100s, and Ultra-Light 120s. I wanted to know which one was the slimmest. Which cigarette would look like a thin coffee straw between my fingers. Which version would make me look dainty and nimble-fingered. The clerk couldn’t help me so I bought them all and I opened them on the street. I opened each pack and pulled out each slender stick. I crushed several between my fingers by accident. Creases formed along the stem of the Ultra-Light Super Slim 100s as I tried to perch it in between my index and middle finger. It wasn’t working. My fingers weren’t thin enough. The elongated straws made my fingers look like sausages. Over-plump sausages. I didn’t look sexy at all. I would have to take them home and practice.

I sat on my balcony on my dining chair and dropped extinguished Virginia Slims into the overflowing ashtray at my bare feet. The Slim Luxury Light 120s seemed to be the best fit for my fingers. Their length and luxury looked best crooked in my hand. I inhaled deeply and saw Lev approaching. I smiled as I exhaled slowly. Allowing the smoke to luxuriate between my lips like it was supposed to. He came up and stared at my feet. At the white, crushed pile.

“Have you been here all night?”

I stared up at the sky becoming brighter. Morning, finally. Then down at my feet at the wrappers from my Virginia Slims purchase escaping the black convenience bag. “No, just a little while.”

He stared at me. I kept inhaling and exhaling.

“You smoke those old Russian women cigarettes.”

I snubbed out the 120 into the pile of others and stared at them. I couldn’t look at him.

“Hello?”

I finally looked up, sick from the Slims. “It’s something new.”

“I see you running. You shouldn’t smoke.” He played with the dry leaves on my ficus plant. Tugging at them. “I see Polish girls smoking and they don’t look good when they’re older.”

He scolded me like a father would. I didn’t want to think of him as a father. As my father, or as anyone’s father.

“Or do what you want,” he said.

I pushed the rest of the packs in the black plastic bag with my foot, under my chair. He pulled the leaves off the tree and dropped them on the concrete sidewalk, in front of me and in front of my balcony. Cluttering the walkway.

“I’ll probably quit soon.” I tried to make it sound convincing. Like it was a decision I’d been laboring over, losing sleep over.

“I’ll see you around, Anka.”

He started walking away, pulling out a cigarette from his pack and lighting it. He called me Anka . The diminutive, the child tense. He didn’t take me seriously.

He turned around and inhaled deeply, squeezing his eyes like he was in pain or trying to smile. He kept staring at me while walking away.

“HEY.” LEV WAS STARING AT ME THROUGH THEscreen. He was watching me walk around my apartment with my towel slipping off. “Aaaanka.”

He sang it to me. “Aaaanka. Aaaanka. Aaanka.”

The rest was in Russian and I couldn’t understand. He was smoking outside my window. Calling to me like a tomcat. I pulled my towel up and tight.

He was speaking in Russian. Singing in Russian. I could only understand “Anka.” He smiled at me. “Anka, come here.”

I went toward the screen. Unsure. “What are you doing?”

“Come out here,” he slurred, accent thick. He looked at me, lids hanging low over his eyes.

He wanted to come inside, come home with me, instead of one of the Russian women at the Twin Palms. Or he wanted to push me up against his car. Like the other men did. Like how I saw them do it.

“Anka…”

The rest was a slur of Russian.

He was singing it to me.

“You’ll wake up the neighborhood.”

“ Lyubimaya moya … Laskovaya moya … Devochka moya , Anka…”

The last one stopped me. Little girl. Devochka . Little girl. My little girl. Anka.

He was smiling at me. Beckoning to me and humming to himself. “Come here, devochka .”

I finally slid out of the screen door. Onto the balcony. Only a concrete divider between us.