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I'm Seen, Therefore I Am by Vanessa Grigoriadis -- page 4
Nikki is explaining the legalities of the dorm to me. "The dorm lawyers are not very good," she says, pushing her glasses up on her nose. "First they made the argument that people do work from home all the time. But we're an adult
establishment, and the law says that adult establishments can't be in a residential neighborhood. So then they said, 'Well, there's no foot traffic here.' But the law doesn't say 'an adult establishment that has people coming and going.' That just is not how the law is stated." She takes a last drag of her Marlboro Light. "The only way out that I can come up with is that these feeds are going to Hammil's downtown office, so there's really no business going on here."
"Wow, maybe you should be the lawyer," I say.
"Yeah, at least then you'd actually make some money," says Tamra, pulling a set of light blue sheets out of her drawers.
There's a pause. "Um, why don't you guys ask for more money?" I ask.
"I guess, you know, supply and demand," says Tamra. "There are always girls who will replace me."
"But look, Zoe had a big following," says Nikki. "And when she left, they all left with her."
"So maybe we're not expendable," says Tamra. "That's cool."
"But," says Nikki. "But, to take it one step further, even if Zoe's guys left, there are always other guys who will replace them. So therefore, we are expendable."
Tamra stops making neat hospital corners and cocks her head as she takes this in. "But I'm making a special impact on this place," she says. "I have so many ideas." It's true: her ideas are what got her Voyeur Dorm Girl of the Month in August, an award worth a $300 gift certificate to Victoria's Secret. "Hard-core
sites in Russia, Los Angeles, Amsterdam. A Voyeur Dorm store, where you can buy things like bumper stickers and calendars. A Winnebago and a yacht with cams. A Voyeur Dorm hotel in Miami with thirty girls in little efficiencies. An auction site — Amber's gonna sell her red bikini. I'll sell whatever I have, but no DNA!"
She starts packing clothes for tomorrow in a little black knapsack. "This is the best thing I've ever done in my life," continues Tamra. "I love being so creative. This is just a really good opportunity for me to concentrate on myself for once. To improve my body and my mind. You know, I never had female friends before cause they were so catty. I was a total loner in high school."
"All those things you said — I feel exactly the same way!" says Nikki.
Every woman in the dorm expresses those sentiments to me at one point or another over the course of my stay. It's the kind of bonding that could be overheard in any women's freshman dorm room at around 1:30 a.m. Except that in the chat room, Robyn has pulled her breasts out of her lacy bra and is massaging them with one hand while she slips another down her underwear. And in Alex's room, Alex and Amber are topless, kissing passionately on her rumpled bed.
Before Tamra leaves, she takes a tin of powder off of her vanity. "Do you like the way peach smells?" she asks me. I nod.
"Cool," she says, sprinkling some of the powder on her pillows.
Rexx: Tamra you sure were moving around a lot last night honey
Herbert: No the reporter girl was staying in her bed
George: Why doesn't the reporter show her cunt
I wake up at noon to total darkness, because there are no windows in Tamra's bedroom. No one else is awake except for Milla. "They call me the Energizer Bunny when I get on chat," she says. "I just can't stop." She shows me a digital photo that her "favorite," a 32-year-old Australian with the alias Knobby, has sent her. He's adorable and preppy, holding a piece of looseleaf paper that says I love you. "Isn't he cute?" she asks me, touching his mouth on screen. "He wants me to move to Sydney. It's so far, but I think I'm gonna go."
Five minutes later, Milla has gone to sleep.
There's nothing to do, and 6,000 people could be watching me. I sit on the couch and watch Wild Things on TBS.
At 2:30 p.m. J.J. and Robyn, hung over and chain smoking, wake up in time for their chat slots. "I'm bored," I announce. They look at me with bloodshot eyes and nod empathetically.
By four o'clock, I'm going nuts. Luckily, I don't work here. I can leave.
It's cloudy and humid outside. I meander along Farwell Street, a wide street with no sidewalk that ends in a cul-de-sac. It has about a dozen houses, all
one story with two-car garages and little lawns. Near the end of the block, there's a rundown mini-plaza with a laundromat, a Cuban restaurant, a barber shop and a Catholic gift shop. I devour a plate of rice and beans at the empty cafeteria-style restaurant.
What now? The only person in the house with a car is Hammil, and he's gone. Where would I go anyway? To the mall?
I walk back down the street slowly. The only sign of life is an old man with a sailor's cap hobbling along. "Walking is the best exercise!" he announces as I walk up. I decide to ask him how he feels about Voyeur Dorm. "I lived here fifty years. I don't know these girls. They seem like very nice neighbors, very nice indeed." He smiles.
"I walked every day with my wife for fifty years. Walking is the best exercise!"
tree: I saw down the reporter girl's blouse last night
tsnapper182: Reporter girl, I saw your titties!
At 7 p.m., I drive with Hammil to pick up a new candidate for the dorm — sixty women per day e-mail in applications — and Hammil has arranged to have her flown up from Gainesville. "This is the part I really like," he says, slipping into his Jeep. "The great unknown. What's she gonna be like? It's her personality I care about. I don't give a shit what she looks like." Uh huh.
"What if she's overweight?" I want to know.
"I'd welcome some really big girl into the house," he says. "She'd take some abuse over chat, sure, but anyone who'd put themselves in that situation would be a fighter."
We arrive at the airport ten minutes before Heather's plane is supposed to land, at a gate which has a good view of passengers as they get off the local commuter planes. "Blue sundress, blue sundress, blue sundress," Hamil chants as each plane disgorges a bunch of people, none of whom are in the apparel Heather's supposed to be wearing. Finally, we see her. She's around 300 pounds, maybe 35, with thicker glasses than the kid from Rushmore. "Oh, shit," says Hammil. "Let's go. Let's make a run for it. Fuck." As she passes by, he stage whispers, "Heather. Heather. Heather." She doesn't stop.
"Thank God, man," he says.
The real Heather's plane has apparently been delayed. "Let's go get something to eat," Hammil suggests, and as we're walking towards the food court his cell phone rings. "You're here?" he says. "Are you wearing a blue sundress?" He starts laughing and hangs up the phone. "Her plane arrived early. She goes, 'Yes, I'm down here motherfucker and I am not that fat chick.' I love it. She's already fucking with me."
We go back down to the gate, and there she is. Blue-black hair, big brown eyes, olive skin, wide smile, perfectly worked-out body. She's wearing a strapless Lycra dress, more silver than blue, with a big slit up the side and no bra so
that her nipples leave an outline on the dress. "Man, I saw you looking at that big girl," she laughs, pointing at Hammil. "You had that scared look."
Hammil grabs her bag and we start heading out. For the first time, I'm seeing him look a little aroused. He starts shooting questions. "How'd you hear about us?" he asks.
"Howard Stern," she says, lighting a cigarette. "I just thought, those girls are having so much fun. And I'm the kinda person who's open to lots of options. I always regret things I don't do."
"Do you drink?"
"No," she says. "My dad's an alcoholic and I refuse to become one myself."
"What about school?"
"Well, I need to turn back the clock on those high school years," she says confidently. "But after I get my GED I want to go to ITT for computer graphics and design. Put any computer program in front of me and in one hour, I can figure it out. My ultimate thing would be to do the graphics for the Kentucky Derby. I love horses."
"Ever acted?" he asks.
"Nah," she says. "Fear of failure."
"Boyfriend?" he asks.
"Nah," she says. "I just broke up with a guy in Dade County Recruiting. I don't want a man right now. I need some time to improve myself. Right now, I need to concentrate on me."
Herbert: Who's that with the reporter girl?
Rexx: Get the reporter girl to give the new girl a kiss
Tamra's on chat when we get back to the house. "Did you sleep well last night?" she asks. "The guys want to know." I thank her for her hospitality and say yes, I did. I hear her type back a response. "Where do you work again?" she asks. "The guys want to know."
Stupidly, I respond honestly. "New York magazine," I say, which is where I'm on staff. Here's what comes back:
Herbert: Tell her Caroline Miller says that if she doesn't take her top off she's fired
Caroline Miller is my boss. This fact, however, is not exactly common knowledge. I remember that HERBERT told me last night that the piece I'm writing is lame. He also wanted to know if I was a pervert. Who is he? Does he sit in the cubicle next to mine? Is he the circulation manager of Esquire? Is he Walter Isaacson? Until now, I've been able to maintain the fiction that the guys on chat exist in another dimension, in a separate universe from the men I know; they're the men I don't know who yell out to me in the street, not the guys who flip through New York magazine looking for cute East Village eateries.
That's the power of chat in this setting, the terrifying honesty that makes the girls feel they actually have to reckon with what they read. Maybe if the guys on chat tell Nikki her stomach is fat, they're only telling her what everyone else is thinking. Maybe what these guys say about women's bodies with the safety of anonymity reveals something raw and honest about what most men think but don't say. Maybe my story is lame, maybe I am a pervert, and maybe Caroline Miller would consider me a lame reporter if I didn't go whole hog and strip down. These men colonize the girls' minds, and the girls let them, although that's not officially part of their job description. I understand what Voyeur Dorm is really selling with their display copy: The Girls in Voyeur Dorm Have No Secrets. Their Privacy Is Your Pleasure.
There are hoots from outside as Alex and Robyn splash around in the pool with a sad-looking pink inner tube. The pool is tiny, surrounded by a high fence, and screened in to keep out mosquitos
— every bit as claustrophobic as the dorm itself. When Hammil appears on the porch with Heather, they cover their breasts with their arms and stare her up and down.
Kellogg: Nice tits, new girl. I'm guessing 34B.
"Hey, nice to meet you guys," says Heather. "I'm so psyched to be here."
"Hmm," says Alex. "How did you hear about us?"
"Well, my brother used to log on all the time," says Heather. "And my old boyfriend is totally obsessed with you guys."
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©1999 Vanessa Grigoriadis and Nerve.com
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