Shirley Is No Longer with Us
Jody Scott

In the seventies, before feminism was integrated (some would say say co-opted) into the mainstream of things, there were a number of feminist magazines for fantasy and science fiction readers, including Jennifer Bankier's The Witch and the Chameleon (really the classic of the type), my own Windhaven (subtitled "a matriarchal fanzine"), and Janus, which is the only one still published (under its new title Aurora) from the Madison, Wisconsin, science fiction society. The present story appeared in Windhaven #3 in 1978.
Jody Scott was editor of a California literary magazine that counted among its contributors Anai's Nin and Henry Miller. More recently she has risen to fame and glory as author of Passing for Human and the lesbian cult classic I, Vampire, available in America from Ace Books and in England from The Women's Press. Her short stories have appeared chiefly in major magazines and anthologies, but pushover that she is, she is easily cajoled into contributing to piddly non-profit thingies, which is how come "" Shirley'' came to appear only in Windhaven.

All she'd wanted to do was dash into Bloomingdale's for ten minutes during lunch hour and grab up a couple of Olga brassieres in tan tricot polyester, the ones with seamless cups for a totally natural look under all her clothes, advertised "for the woman with a fuller figure," in size 36 with a C cup. She didn't even need to try the bras on since she'd been wearing the same model for a year now. They had the no-stretch straps. She hated elastic in the straps. If you were a bit larger than average, the elastic made your breasts jounce when you ran. The Olgas cost six bucks apiece but they were worth it because they made you look and feel good. And now this had to happen! She couldn't get out of the Goddamned revolving door! It seemed to be stuck, but she wasn't panicky, because several people had seen it happen. She juggled the parcel containing the tuna fish sandwich and tangerine which were her lunch, which she meant to eat at the office, and should have left in the desk, but didn't, because everything you left there got stolen (people were creeps!), and she tried not to get hysterical, thinking that the men would be sure to call the manager who'd turn the machinery off, or whatever needed doing.
She'd gone around twice already. Darn! She might have jumped out when the door opened onto the street side, but she needed those bras because the ones she had were beginning to sag and look tacky from machine washing and hot-air drying, and every time the section of the door in which she seemed to be stuck opened onto the store side, the lousy thing was going so fast she couldn't possibly leap to safety. Damn! She had to get back. She was just starting out. She was taking courses at night. She was going to be a legal secretary. She had to hurry. She didn't have time for this. People were gathering, too, both inside the store and on the street side, to watch what was happening, and that was good because it meant help would soon be on the way. She could hear bits of conversation:
"Can't somebody do something?"
"They already called the city."
"Do something, somebody! Hurry!"
People always said that accidents occur in a flash, so fast you don't know what happened, and it was true of the way she'd got stuck in this door: one minute rushing busily to do tome essential shopping and the next instant trapped, unable to rest, nudged by the door behind if she lagged for so much a fraction of a second, and no way of getting out or slowing the thing down. Peculiar that she could think it out this, almost calmly, with one part of her mind, while at same time she knew she was screaming hysterically and ting herself, and had dropped the bag containing the tuna fish sandwich and tangerine and was trampling them in the muck underfoot. She could hear voices.
"Do something, you people! Don't just stand gaping!" "Don't blame me. It's a power lock." "Somebody call the fire department!" Running in a tight circle, she was too exhausted to go on shrieking, and now felt extremely light-headed, as if she'd drunk about five martinis. Maybe she had drunk five martinis and this was some kind of terrible dream or nightmare from which she'd awaken, in safety, in a few minutes, in her own bed at home. It was strange how all in one flash this revolving door had become her whole life and getting out of it was all that mattered. Well, it couldn't take much longer. She just had to remain calm. The men were working on it. She heard them say,
"Jam a two-by-four in there."
"You crazy? You'll kill the lady. Call the fire department." "Well, I've got to get home. Call me if anything happens." "She's fainting. Please hurry." "Some kinda publicity stunt."
"Slow down," they kept yelling, but the door was much too heavy for any effort she might make. This icy lightness, this dream snow that washed over her, must be shock. Her feet were in agony from pounding the hard floor. She could look down and see little diamonds of mica shining in the cement and a dark path going around and around, about six inches out from the center part of the revolving door, where her sandwich and tangerine had been mashed to dirty pulp. The door itself, she noticed, or rather all four doors, were made of lacquered mahogany inset with thick plate glass. She hung onto that rod for dear life, vowing not to panic again and make a damn fool of herself in front of all these people. It would surely not be more than a few seconds longer; help was on the way. The people were standing, shuffling, and milling, most of them gaping, some screaming in horror when they first caught sight of her, and several wore broad grins. A few were laughing. Well, could you blame them? She'd probably laugh, too, if she saw some poor dummy in this embarrassing situation. The plate glass, she noted, was deeply inset into the shiny wood of the frame. Could she possibly jump up and manage to put a foot on the ledge of the door in the front? Then she could get the other foot up, and stand on her toes on the two ledges, hanging tightly on the brass rods on either door. She knew she was crying like an absolute fool in front of everybody but she also knew she had to get up off the ground in a hurry because very soon she'd faint, and the door would crush or mash her, it would mutilate her, just like it mashed the food on the floor all mixed with muddy urine, the mud black because it was still raining out, and she was going to faint. The door would crush her as it swept her crumpled body around and around. Racing the clock, she gathered every ounce of strength and tried to put one toe onto the ledge in front but stumbled and almost fell, banging her head on the glass. She tried it again; her foot slipped off again. This must look funny because people were laughing, although others were shouting angrily.
"Hurry! Do something!"
"Stand back, you're using up all the air."
"The poor girl will die."
"Excuse me, do you have the time?"
"Is it a man or a woman?"
"Hurry."
She was sobbing uncontrollably, no longer caring what people thought. Did she dare try getting a toehold on the ledge again? She had to do it. Feeling that it was someone else trapped in this revolving door while she herself stood outside and watched, she finally put a toe up on the ledge, which turned out to be nearly half an inch wide, and grabbing the brass rod tightly, she reached for the brass rod in the rear and at the same time managed to get the other toe up on the rear ledge.
"Who is she?"
"Don't just stand watching! Do something!"
There she hung, mouth open, eyes closed, clinging like a sloth, or a bat on tiptoe. After the exertion she felt limp and extremely dizzy and suddenly had to throw up. This happened much too fast for her to be able to prepare for it, but at least she managed to do it over one shoulder so most of it landed on the floor where it was soon mashed fiat into the filth already there. The onlookers, pale blurred faces now, seemed disgusted with what she had done. Slowly she turned her right foot sideways on the ledge behind her. That was better. Much better. The outside edge of each shoe was wedged against a ledge, and each hand clung to one of the brass rods as she whirled around and around. She seemed to be getting out of her body, as it hung propped in that position, and was looking down on the scene, which was ridiculous in the extreme. She only hoped her hands would remain locked in that clenched position because most of the sensation was gone from them, and she was afraid they would relax their grip, especially if she went unconscious, and send her bouncing to the ground like a sack of potatoes -- then she'd never be able to stand up again! But a lucky thing happened. She found it was possible to jam each hand under one of the rods, tightly, and now she could pass out at any time without fear of falling. Her own sobs and the pneumatic whooshing of the door were all she heard as with eyes clenched against the horror, she tried vainly to get a few second's rest.
It was dark out. Most of the people had gone home. A crew worked frantically. For a while, men were crawling all over the walls and ceiling. After several hours another crew replaced them; eventually it was light out again. She heard somebody say,
"Is she dead?"
"Must be, by now. Propped up in there."
"Well, no rush then."
She couldn't see the firemen, or whoever they were, very clearly in the blue murk. They showed only as blobs of faces against dark clothing, ever shifting and changing. Sometimes the street was filled with barely moving traffic but other times it looked empty as an abandoned stage set, except for the crews who worked tirelessly. From her glass cage could be glimpsed a whirlpool of lights going on and off, traffic signals turning red, green, red, green, red. Sometimes a bus crept past. Once a TV truck pulled up at the curb and took pictures of her in the gyrating prison. Sometimes she went into a dreamlike state, a swirly, gulfy trance in which she was a bud that ripened and uncoiled into a flower and then jerked awake, spinning in blue murk.
It seemed the workmen couldn't stop the revolving door in its whirlwindy pivoting and unless this was another nightmare, a month later her flesh had shrunken and turned black from constant exposure to the elements. Each time her section of door reached the street side there was a gust of rain, or blazing sun, or crumpled papers and filth would blow in, but inside the store it was always comfortably warm and dry. The following year they put up a plaque, and there was a ceremony with crowds, popping flashbulbs, speeches, and applause.
For her? Could this be an award, were they making this revolving door into a public monument? She hardly dared hope. By now only a whirling mummy, still, she managed to glimpse a word here and there on the handsomely engraved plaque until she had the legend all pieced together. It said:
In honor of "Shirley," the unknown heroine whose stoic death is an example to us all.
She felt flattered and pleased. Well that was darned nice of them. They didn't have to do that. And she'd thought people were too selfish to notice her. But a nice plaque like this, a gesture of concern and real caring, well, it kind of restores your faith in human nature, now, doesn't it?