Box Girl (5 page)

Most days, “Lilly” drove to work by herself. My roommates would cheerfully announce that they had gotten all of their East Coast phone calls done on the way to work. But in the morning, I didn't want to talk to anyone. Some mornings I'd listen to music on the radio, or to NPR, or, more mornings than not, nothing. Just staring, in silence, at the endless bumpers before me. The agency's office was off of Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. Those first few weeks during the drive from Santa Monica to Beverly Hills, every sign I passed seemed like a prop in a film. Beverly Hills wasn't a real place, was it? And Rodeo Drive? I mean, come on, that was just where Julia Roberts went shopping in
Pretty Woman
. Even Wilshire Boulevard sounded sort of regal, not at all real. It was disorienting and, though I desperately tried to suppress it, depressing.

During those first months in LA I reported back fanatically to friends and family on the East Coast:

“I absolutely love it!” I'd say.

“We live only blocks from the beach!” (Twenty-six.)

“I can ride my bike everywhere!” (I didn't even have a bike.)

“Traffic? Ha! I haven't seen a bit!”

I concocted these lies because I couldn't bear to admit the truth: many a morning, I welled up thinking about the leaves on the trees in Connecticut. It was October, and I desperately missed fall foliage. I missed leaves of any color, for that matter. I missed
trees
. I thought for the first several months that the thermometer in my car was broken because it always said 73. I hated the sameness. I hated that it was always sunny. I wanted it to rain. Though I had abandoned my longing for a cozy wool sweater, I wanted to at least be able to wear pants. Or put on a pair of socks. While my East Coast friends were wrapped in fleece watching football, I was sticking to my seat in stop-and-go traffic. I thought nothing was more depressing than mid-day, mid-week in Los Angeles—so hot, so bright, too still—nothing but sharp angles and exaggerated shadows. High noon was an unsettling, sunshine-y nightmare, and I totally, completely hated it.

Bam

Like a zookeeper, the concierge comes to shut me in the box.
There's no handle on the inside, so I can't shut myself in. The door always seems swollen, no matter what the weather, and requires a rather startling
BAM
to shut.

After placing my book, laptop, and notepad in a neat stack (if I am going to break the “one item at a time” rule, I figure I need to keep it tidy), I tap on the glass to get the concierge's attention. He turns around, and I write with an imaginary pen in the air. He nods, then writes the hotel's Wi-Fi code on a piece of paper and holds it up to the glass. I jot it down on my yellow legal pad and give him a thumbs-up.

I enter the Wi-Fi code. It doesn't work. I enter it again. Still, nothing. I knock quietly on the glass. No one notices. I knock louder. No one notices. I knock again, this time really rapping on the thing. People in the lobby probably think the Box Girl is having some sort of emergency. And you know what? I
am
having some sort of emergency. There is no way I am sitting in here for seven hours with no Wi-Fi. The concierge turns
around. I wave toward myself and mouth, “Come here for a second.” He jerks open the door and I tell him the code won't work. He goes back to the front desk and returns a minute later, explaining that he forgot a number when he wrote it down the first time.

I didn't mean to cause a scene, but I cannot sit in here for seven hours with no Internet. I will go crazy.

But maybe without it, I'd actually finish a book. Maybe, come to think of it, it would be like a seven-hour vacation. Maybe I'll take this piece of paper with the Wi-Fi code and use it as a bookmark. That's what I'll do. Watch me go. I'll be done with this book in no time.

I read a page and a half. I am distracted because my laptop is staring at me. That little slit on its side is “breathing” its creepy electronic breath at me. Also, the Apple logo looks so strange from this angle. Had I ever noticed there was a bite taken out of it? I don't think I had. My laptop looks so funny all folded up like that; I rarely see it closed. It's so slender when it's shut. Like a rectangular silver clam. A clam with wonderful little pearls of procrastination inside. A clam with . . . okay, enough with this clam metaphor. Just give me the damn laptop.

I reach for it. I open it. It lights itself up, so delighted to see me.

I shut it. I'm not doing it.

I read three pages. The stupid computer is still breathing at me. Its breath seems labored. Is it dying? Is it lonely over there?

I bookmark my page with the piece of paper with the Wi-Fi code on it. I open the laptop. I retrieve the piece of paper from book and enter the Wi-Fi code. I click on Safari and I start to scroll. The lines have been cut. I am officially untethered. I'm out to sea.

Now the book looks abandoned, shoved behind the mattress. I pick it up, caress its cover as if to say, “I'm sorry,” and use it to prop up my laptop.

The Various Positions in My Rotation

Typically, when I first get inside the box, I slide onto my
stomach and face my laptop with my legs crossed at the ankles. Reaching behind me, I pull out my hair so it spills over my shoulders. I wipe the excess lip gloss from the corners of my mouth and rub what I removed into the back of my hand because there is nowhere else to wipe it. I get my shorts just so. I like the elastic band rolled over and hiked down so a sliver of skin shows between the bottom of my shirt and the top of my shorts. I've decided this is slimming. I'll stay this way for about a half hour—until my back or elbows or neck or all three begin to ache.

There's no perfect position in the box. Without a chair, I'm working with a very limited set of options, and the most comfortable positions are not the most flattering. The ergonomically-correct-yet-aesthetically-pleasing tango is sort of a nightmare.

Thus, I have outlined some of my favorite yoga-inspired box positions. Except I don't do yoga, so I have a very limited
knowledge of the poses. I think there's one about a dog and one about a child, but other than that, they all look like some sort of one-legged bird to me. But don't despair, I can work around this, and with practice and patience, even you can master the most challenging Box Girl poses.

The Slender Typist

We'll assign this name to the dependable default position I described above. For the yogis out there, this position is reminiscent of “chaturanga” (I looked that up), except you will find it much easier than chaturanga because you in no way have to hold yourself up. This position engages absolutely no muscles and is definitely bad for your neck.

       
PROS:
Slimming.

       
CONS:
Neck pain, elbow numbness, loss of feeling in fingertips.

The Indian Princess

For this pose, sit facing the front of the box with your legs crossed in the position formerly known as “Indian style.” (I hear nursery school teachers are now going with the more politically correct “pretzel style.”) This pose is akin to the “lotus” position in yoga (I think), except you don't have to fold your feet up on top of your thighs because that would be weird. Thus, you will find it much more comfortable. Once in the position-formerly-known-as-Indian-style, place your laptop on your lap. While this pose risks exposing a certain private area, it can be sustained for many hours.

       
PROS:
Good for typing over prolonged periods of time.

       
CONS:
Crotch shot. Laptop can get very hot on bare legs. Makes you look sort of squatty. See also: neck pain.

The Downward reader, with the Side-reader Variation

The Downward Reader is an excellent option if you are reading something that is lightweight, like a paperback or a Kindle. This position is very simple: Lie on your back and hold your book in front of your face. This pose cannot be sustained for very long, however, because your arms will get very tired. First, they will feel hot, then heavy, and then eventually like lead. Plus you will sort of look like a dipshit holding a book right in front of your face. If you are experiencing any of these sensations, I'd suggest moving into the Side-Reader Variation pose. For this, roll onto your side, lean your weight on one forearm, and hold your book in the corresponding hand. This will free up your other hand to turn the pages. This position comes in handy if you are reading something heavy. Unfortunately, after about fifteen minutes, the supporting arm will start to tingle, and after an hour, it will go completely numb.

       
PROS:
Slimming. Reading is good for you.

       
CONS:
Loss of circulation to arms. Possibility of looking like a dipshit.

The Sleeping Booty

The box-adapted sleep poses will remind you most of the end of a yoga class. Sleeping positions in the box are tricky.
There are four variations, none of them good. You can lie on your back, but I wouldn't recommend it. You will look like you're dead. (Consequently, this is called the “corpse” position in yoga.) This will be alarming for guests. You can lie on your stomach, but this is not very comfortable, and hasn't your mother ever told you it gives you wrinkles? You can lie on your side, and face the lobby in a borderline fetal position, but then your open mouth is also facing the lobby, which is awkward if you drool and/or snore. Unless you look like the people in the Lunesta commercials when you sleep, I wouldn't recommend this position. You can lie on your side and face the back wall in said fetal position, though while your drooling and snoring mouth will be hidden, your butt will be on display for the entire lobby.

       
PROS:
Sleep is good for you.

       
CONS:
Too many to list. Drink an espresso before your shift.

The Nutcracker

The Nutcracker is an emergency position that was developed in a moment of desperation. When it was “that time of the month,” I got my shift covered for reasons so obvious, they need not be stated here. One incredibly unfortunate night, however, I got my period
while
I was in the box and had to ask the male concierge if he could find me a tampon. For the rest of the night, I sat with my legs sealed together like a wooden nutcracker doll. This pose is very confusing for hotel guests who will wonder why you haven't moved from the same position for several hours. Some might even wonder if you are, in fact, made of wood.