The Roxy Letters

by Mary Pauline Lowry

  Now the cops were on the scene. The popos grabbed me. Artemis screamed my name, ripped off her gold pasties one at a time, and threw them at the cops. As Artemis stormed toward me and the police, chest bare, an older, squat woman came out of the crowd, grabbed her, and yanked her back into the throng. The cops tried to follow them, but Artemis and the older woman seemed to disappear. By then I was kicking and fighting like hell, and once they had me in the police car, Mitch turned off the video.

  “What’s going to happen to that other girl?” I said, meaning Artemis.

  Mitch looked at me. “Can I give you some advice?”

  “You’re my lawyer. Isn’t that your job?”

  “My advice: tend to your own butter churnin’.”

  “What does that mean? And I’m vegan, by the way. I don’t churn butter.”

  “It means mind your own business. I’m pretty sure that will keep you plenty busy.”

  I had not expected my public defender to be a life coach, too. I was annoyed at being bossed around, but I could also kind of see his point.

  “They grabbed me from behind—I didn’t know they were cops,” I said.

  “So we could argue that in court,” Mitch said. “And if it worked, you could get off on the resisting arrest charge. But no jury will let you off on the vandalism charge when there is a crystal-clear video. And if you ARE convicted of resisting arrest, with an unsympathetic judge or jury, you could get two years in prison.”

  I felt as if the air had been forcibly squeezed from my body. “Shit,” I said.

  “I rarely recommend my clients plead guilty to anything. But I think you should plead on the vandalism count in exchange for asking that the resisting arrest charge be dropped.”

  “What would that mean?”

  “In Texas, vandalism and destruction of property could be charged as a Class B or Class A misdemeanor—or even a felony. But I think reasonably we could get a Class B misdemeanor. That would mean up to a five-thousand-dollar fine. And up to one hundred eighty days probation. But probably no jail time.”

  “Five thousand dollars!”

  “But maybe little or no jail time.”

  “If I had an expensive lawyer, what would she say?”

  “Probably the same thing,” Mitch said.

  “And if I plead guilty for a misdemeanor charge, what does that mean in the long run?”

  “Depends. Let’s see what I can get and then we can discuss what it would mean.”

  I sat there for what seemed like a long time. “What would you do? If you were me?”

  “I’d try for the plea deal.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Now the assistant DA might not go for it. There’s been a lot of vandalism downtown lately so it might be she’ll want to make an example out of you. We’ll have to see. I can go call her now?”

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll wait. But don’t seal the deal until you tell me all the deets.”

  He smiled in a really nice way. “I wouldn’t do that to you. Oh, wait.” He paused and pulled out his own iPhone, opening an app. He held out the phone so I could see the app was called “My Girls: Period Tracker.” Then he studied it for a moment.

  “Sweet!”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The assistant DA is ovulating. This could be fortuitous.”

  “You track the assistant DA’s menstrual cycle?” I asked, totally incredulous.

  “I track the cycle of every lady judge, assistant DA, and admin in the Travis County court system,” he said. “Makes my life hella easier.”

  “Oh my Venus!” I said.

  “Well, to be honest, I only track the few lady judges who aren’t postmenopausal. A judgeship is a powerful position, and one most women come to later in life.”

  “That just seems wrong.”

  “Using My Girls is a must,” he said. “What? Hormones are powerful, are they not? I’m using all the tools and technologies at my disposal in my clients’ best interests. In your best interest, that is.”

  “How do you know when these women have their periods?”

  “A courthouse is a microcosm. It’s not an antiseptic environment. And the clerks like me.”

  He winked as he left the room and I sat there for what felt like hours. And even though my fate was on the line, I couldn’t help but wonder where in the building Texas (a.k.a. Sam) was and if he was thinking about me and, if so, what he was thinking. Probably he was hoping I wouldn’t show up at a FAIL BETTER! show like a piece of criminal trash blown in off the streets to projectile vomit everywhere.

  I realized this has been a pattern all my life—I worry about boy problems instead of my real problems. It’s actually a fairly effective method for managing stress, but one I hope to someday outgrow.

  Just when I finally decided that Mitch had forgotten all about me, he reentered the room. He punched his fist with his open palm. “Deferred adjudication on a Class A misdemeanor, baby!” he yelled.

  “English, please!” I said.

  “No jail time. A five-thousand-dollar fine. Three months’ probation, and once probation is completed the whole thing is dismissed. Wiped from your record. Nada. Nothing. As if it never happened.”

  “That part sounds good,” I said. “But a five-thousand-dollar fine?”

  “You have to pay it off by the time you finish probation.”

  “I’m unemployed,” I said. “I can’t get that kind of money together in three months.”

  “Well, you better get employed with the quickness. Employment is a term of your probation anyway.”

  “How do poor people do this?” I’d always struggled with underearning. But now I realized there was a difference between my version of being “broke” and being really, actually poor.

  “Honestly? Lots of times it sinks them like a stone. But I promise you, this is your best option. You need to recognize that you are totally privileged. You have every advantage. If you work hard, it won’t sink you. You can do this.”

  “Okay,” I said, but my heart felt heavy. “I’ll take it.”

  And now, while I’m relieved I’m not going to jail, I am very stressed out about being unemployed and owing the court $5,000. And I’m weirdly sad that Texas reappeared in my life only to disappear again.

  Financially fucked, but otherwise still celibate,

  Roxy

  October 6, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  Last night I slept on it and I woke up today knowing what I had to do. I drove down to Whole Foods, Austin’s skyline laid out before me. This city, with its limitless growth, should be full of job opportunities. But the University of Texas graduates 15,000 bright young minds a year, and all of them want to stay in Austin. So for every decent job there are hundreds of applicants. And what jobs am I qualified for, really? Our society is not designed to offer a regular salary to artists of the non–graphic design variety.

  I parked in the Whole Foods parking lot and walked slowly toward the building. I could do this, I told myself. I could drink a giant bucket of shit and piss and blood and everything that’s gross. I could eat my humble pie.

  I slipped through the deli to Dirty Steve’s office, gesturing at Jason and Nelson so they’d know not to swarm me. They understood right away what I was there for, giving me little lifts of their chins as if to say: we’ve been there too.

  I stood outside Dirty Steve’s office. I took a deep breath. I knocked.

  “Come in, Dingle Dufus!” he yelled.

  I stepped inside. He turned. “Poxy Roxy? What the fuck are you doing here? Didn’t you get my message?”

  “Look, I really need—”

  “I don’t care what you need. You’re fired. That means you don’t work here anymore.”

  “I really need my old job back. I can explain—”

  “Oh no. Let me explain,” he said, in a way that was so calm AND full of rage that I shut right up. “First you accuse me of poisoning you. Then in some kind of nutball ‘retribution’ ”�
�he made exaggerated air quotes with both hands—“you dose me with ex-lax brownies. Who does that? Though I have to say I did enjoy testing that last brownie out on my brother. Thank God we have separate bathrooms. Anyway, you are late over and over despite multiple warnings that you need to arrive to work on time. You regularly steal copious amounts of deli food. I put up with ALLLLLLL that. But then you recruit half of my deli staff to bail on their shifts to go to a nonsensical protest of a ladies’ exercise clothing store? Poxy, I worked an entire deli shift behind the counter practically BY. MY. SELF! And that I ain’t having. THEN the very next day you are a no-call, no-show? Oh no. I’ve had it with you. So you can take your sad, mopey, pouty little face the fuck out of my office and go deal with the consequences of your actions elsewhere. YOU ARE PERMANENTLY FIRED FROM THIS DELI. Capeesh?”

  “Sheesh. Capeesh,” I said. And for the first time, I could actually see (most of) his point. “But by the way, the ex-lax brownies were dictated to me by my tarot deck, so—”

  “Get the fuck out of my office!” he yelled. I think he must have been in the midst of a hideous coke hangover.

  “Okay, okay,” I said.

  I hurried out, making a gesture at Nelson and Jason to convey I had been unsuccessful in my plea and would burst into tears if pressed to discuss it further.

  I pulled myself together and drove home wracking my brain. What kind of job could I find that would pay me decent money, much less enough to cover my mortgage AND my fines? In this town, where the cost of living far exceeds average incomes—nothing. I was so up in my head I had to slam on my brakes at the last second to avoid running a red light. My parents would be home in three weeks. I could always hit them up for money—my usual move. But I’m really ashamed about all this and am going to try my damndest to make sure they never have to know about any of it. True, they’ve always been incredibly understanding, but:

  This mess is embarrassing.

  If I give in to the urge to be rescued at this point, I may be stuck in this twilight postadolescence forever.

  In summary: I want to figure out how to sort this mess out myself instead of going to them, hinting and wheedling that I need cash.

  I could rent my house on Airbnb, but then I’d have to find somewhere to sleep and a place to board the furballs. I pulled into my house and ran inside, opening my laptop and looking to see how much houses in my neighborhood rent for. Seventy bucks a night for a small two-bedroom, one-bath seemed to be the going rate—not bad. But then I looked up furball care. To board both my animals it would cost $60 a night. So that was a no-go. Maybe the furballs and I could couch surf with a friend? But that would be a double mooch. I wanted to figure out how to take care of this on my own, like—Goddess help me—a Real Adult.

  Then it came to me. The clouds parted. Light shone down from the heavens to illuminate my face.

  PHARMATRIAL.

  PharmaTrial was a low bottom—the lowest of the low, in fact—but goddamnit, it paid. Did I really want to be a guinea pig for Big Pharma? Hell no. Did I need to figure out how to make thousands of dollars in a few weeks without turning tricks? Hell yes.

  I googled “PharmaTrial clinical-trials test subjects” and found the page listing upcoming trials and test subjects needed.

  OBESITY TRIAL—SEEKING ADULTS AGE 34–60 WHO ARE AT LEAST 40 POUNDS OVERWEIGHT.

  While I feel plump at times, realistically that was a no.

  ACNE TRIAL—SEEKING ADULTS AGE 18–44 WITH SEVERE CYSTIC ACNE.

  Perhaps if I ate enough Brie?

  HAIR LOSS TRIAL—SEEKING MALES WITH BALDING PATTERNS AGE 22–55.

  A definite no.

  Fuck. I realized there was going to be nothing for me. And then I saw it.

  SEEKING ADULTS 18–55 FOR MEDICATION STUDY.

  No specifics on what they were testing but I was definitely an adult age 18–55. I called the number listed and an automated voice answered. I dialed in the “trial number” posted in the ad, and a woman’s voice answered almost immediately. “I’m calling about the trial for adults age eighteen to fifty-five,” I said.

  “Great! We had that trial filled but two of our trial subjects backed out yesterday. The trial starts tomorrow. Could you come in today for an interview and blood testing?” she asked.

  “What is the drug you are testing?”

  “It’s a pain medication. An opioid,” she said. Which is absolutely perfect, Everett, because if there’s anything I need right now more than I need money, it’s a cure for pain.

  “How much does the study pay?” I asked.

  “It’s a two-and-a-half-week live-in study and it pays seven thousand dollars,” she said.

  The words “seven thousand dollars” reverberated in my brain. “Can I come right now?”

  She said I should come in at 4 p.m.

  So now I’m headed to PharmaTrial to hopefully rent out my body to a pharmaceutical company to pay off court fees. I feel trashy and ashamed, yet slightly exhilarated by my ingenuity and resourcefulness.

  Scrappily,

  Roxy

  P.S. Shit, shit, shit! If I get accepted to the study, what am I going to do with the furballs? I’ll figure it out later. If I don’t leave now I’m going to be late.

  October 8, 2012

  Dear Everett,

  I’m in! I can hardly believe it. They wouldn’t let me bring much with me into this place—they even made me leave my cell phone at home, and there’s no internet access for drug-trial participants, either—so I’m glad I have my trusty spiral notebook. I need to write down everything before Nurse Ratchet comes around to give me my first daily dose of on-trial opioid, at which point I’ll be too out of it to function.

  First let me say it means a lot to know the pets are in safe hands with you! (It did feel strange to ask you and Nadia to housesit, which was basically requesting that you violate ground rule #5a.) And I’ve been thinking nonstop about that dachshund puppy mill bust you told me about—forty dachshund moms and their puppies all needing homes! I hope you and Nadia are able to move out of the OM house so you can adopt one of those puppies! Taking care of Roscoe should be a good trial run.

  I left Annie a voice mail message about going into PharmaTrial when I knew she’d be in a work meeting—I didn’t want her to talk me out of this! And I told my public defender Mitch, too. He said while it doesn’t count as employment in the eyes of the court, it’ll be a good way to pay off my fines, and I can start applying for jobs as soon as I’m out.

  Yesterday morning after I arrived and was checked in, my roommate—a skater chick and self-proclaimed PharmaGrrrl named Cheryl—and I went to the cafeteria for breakfast. All the other trial participants straggled in as well. As soon as I sat down, a cafeteria worker slammed down a tray in front of me. “Enjoy,” he said with fake brightness. The tray held the following vegan’s nightmare:

  One little carton of whole milk

  One “high-fat breakfast sandwich” consisting of an English muffin, cheese, an egg, butter, and a giant slice of ham

  When I went in to apply for the study and got poked and prodded, the scientist guy asked if I had food restrictions. “At PharmaTrial, all clinical-trial participants have to eat the same thing to minimize variability of medication effects,” he said. “So we can’t allow participants with food restrictions.”

  “I eat everything,” I said. I knew in that moment I would be selling not just my body to Big Pharma, but also my vegan values. But I glossed over it in my mind, figuring I could push meat around on my plate, eat the bread and veggies, make the best of it.

  Now faced with a repulsively animal-product-heavy breakfast, I pulled the ham and egg out of the middle of the breakfast sandwich. As dairy is my weakness, I figured I could polish off the milk and English muffin with cheese and call it good. But before I could even nibble on the English muffin, my coordinator Melanie was at my side saying, “You have to eat everything on your tray.”

  “Seriously? I don’t like ham,” I said.


  “Equivalent calorie consumption between clinical-trial participants is an integral part of minimizing variability,” Melanie said in a voice that reminded me of the love child of Nurse Ratchet and an evil robot.

  I put the ham and egg back on the English muffin and lifted it to my mouth. I literally gagged as I took my first bite, imagining the poor, factory-farmed pig that had lived a miserable life and then died a violent slaughterhouse death so that this high-fat breakfast sandwich could exist. “Thank you, piggy,” I thought as I chewed. I forced down the high-fat bite with a swig of whole milk. Ugh.

  “You don’t like it?” the guy across from me asked. He had friendly eyes, a shaved head, and stainless steel loops in both ears.

  “I’m a vegan,” I whispered. “I haven’t eaten pork in years.”

  “I was in here one time with this girl Ximena? She was, like, lactose intolerant or something, and man, you shoulda heard her burping. I never heard nothing like it before.”

  “Ximena?” another guy a few seats down with a neck tattoo of a crowing rooster said. “She’s my girlfriend, man. She’s the one that told me about this study.”

  “No way, bro,” the guy across from me said, and laughed. “Small world.”

  They reached across the table to bump fists.

  “A small world of poor, disenfranchised people whose only option for turning a quick buck is coming in here,” I said. The two guys stared at me as if I’d started speaking in tongues. “Never mind.”

  The guy with the shaved head turned to Rooster Boy. “She’s a vegan,” he said, as if compelled to explain my outburst. “She ain’t eaten pork in the longest and it’s making her cranky.”

  I nodded. A fair assessment. All around us the coordinators circled, encouraging us to eat. I lifted up my high-fat breakfast sandwich and glumly took another bite.

  “You can do it,” Rooster Boy said.

  “We believe in you,” the guy with the shaved head said.