The Party Upstairs by Lee Conell

Author:Lee Conell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Penguin Publishing Group
Published: 2020-07-06T16:00:00+00:00

AFTERNOON

8 The Top of Theodore Roosevelt’s Head

An internship.

A free-MetroCard-college-credit-what-you’re-not-in-college-well-you-can-take-home-the-leftovers-after-certain-functions-and-fund-raising-events-you-will-share-your-desk-with-Francie-who-comes-in-M-W-F-and-leaves-specks-of-cottage-cheese-all-across-your-limited-supply-of-Post-its-on-good-days-the-specks-will-look-kiiinda-like-stars-on-bad-days-feminine-discharge-and-Francie-is-a-sophomore-in-school-college-university-yes-will-ask-you-what’s-your-major-every-week-and-even-if-this-doesn’t-turn-into-a-job-it’s-such-an-opportunity-looks-fantastic-on-a-résumé-even-while-your-sweaters-pill-and-molt-and-turn-to-dust-an-opportunity-did-we-mention-it’s-an internship.

Ruby did not get the job at the Museum of Natural History because there was no job at the Museum of Natural History. Assisting in diorama maintenance and research, Caroline had told her. When, in the middle of her interview, Ruby found out what she was actually dealing with, she admitted she didn’t have the financial means to take a nonpaying position right now. The man interviewing her, very young and sweetly round faced, looked distressed. Ruby had to reassure him for almost half an hour that it was nothing that the museum had done wrong. She loved dioramas, she said, yes, more than almost anything, for reasons slightly beyond her own comprehension, to be perfectly honest, and she wanted dearly to step inside one, but she just couldn’t take a nine-to-five without pay, and no, of course, the MetroCard was a great benefit, just not enough for where she was at this time in her life. No, she wasn’t interested in the paid summer internship for college students. No, she didn’t need college credit. She had her degree. Nobody to blame, nope. Just a miscommunication. Understandable. These things happen.

She exited the museum’s administrative offices.

In front of the entrance to the Museum of Natural History stood an equestrian statue of Theodore Roosevelt. Roosevelt’s chin jutted out and he gazed forward, surveying the perimeter of Central Park as if scrutinizing a vast unknown. His horse, on the other hand, seemed to be panting in a way that was less than dignified, bronze nostrils flaring, oxidizing horsey eyeball bulging out, equine stare directed not just downward, but straight at Ruby. Ruby tried to admire the horse—the physics of equestrian statues were tricky (she remembered from a class at school), requiring feats of balance and weight support. Roosevelt and his horse were flanked by a statue of a Native American man and a statue of an African man; both of these men were on foot, mere accompaniments to the rugged melodies suggested by the horse-mounted Roosevelt who loomed above them, seemingly leading them onward.

The top of Roosevelt’s head was covered in thin spikes to keep pigeons from landing on it. Some buildings in the neighborhood had done the same thing: placed spikes near entranceways to keep people from sleeping there. Would her father ever be asked to install spikes like those? Would he do it?

Of course he would do it.

Her mother called. “Babe,” she said, “how did it go? Look, I can’t talk long, because I’m on the bus, and there’s traffic, and did you know there’s a rule now on Greyhound against talking for a long time on your cell phone? How did it go?”

“Mom, you can text me if you can’t talk.”

“I hate text. I need an actual voice. How did it go?”

“What?”

“The interview, Ruby.”

“Oh, it was okay.”

“Something went wrong. I can hear it. See, this is why I need to call. Even though the woman across from me is narrowing her eyes—yeah, I see you, lady, it’s my daughter on the other line.

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