Page 32 of Make Me Scream

“Fucking freak,” he mutters, pacing to the other side of the car. “That’s not funny.”

I dip my head again, allowing the hood to fall back into place.

It doesn’t take long for most of the riders to reach their stops and disembark. Soon we have a mostly new crowd, and new subjects.

For over an hour I act out “What You Want.” The four more men and one woman react with some combination of fear, disgust or anger. I can sympathize. No one likes to get tricked, and I look like a nightmare come to life.

However, at Astor Place, two pairs of feet approach, their matching navy pants igniting a gout of fire inside me.

“This is it,” one says.

Joel, to his credit, doesn’t activate the speaker to play my voice line. When I look up at the cops, they don’t flinch at my appearance.

“Miss, can I see some ID?”

Fuck. Fuck!

Joel has my wallet. I wasn’t going to keep it in my pocket with my hands cuffed, just in case.

“I don’t have it with me,” I say. “I left it athome.”

Joel motions for his pocket. He could give them my wallet, but then he could get in trouble too. That’s not going to happen. I shake my head as subtly as I can and repeat, “It’s athome.”

Frowning, Joel gets up and backs away.

“Well, that sucks,” says one cop, a bald, no-necked middle-aged man. He reaches into a pouch at his belt and retrieves a pair of handcuff keys. “I was going to just give you a ticket. Now I have to bring you in. Do you have any idea how much extra fucking paperwork that is?”

—

Despite the cop creeping on me in the rearview mirror all the way to the station, I force myself to remain calm. I didn’t commit a serious crime. I’m not resisting arrest. Once they see I’m not wanted on some other offense, it should be okay.

Once we reach the station I call Joel and tell him where to bring my ID. When he arrives, the police charge me with disorderly conduct. It’s a $250 fine — not even a misdemeanor. It’s not like I have a ton of money to spare, but I’ll make it work. If I have to get a second job for a few weeks, I’ll survive.

Note to self: Alistair Rat never got caught. He had the right idea. Or maybe I should just get a permit or something next time.

Thankfully, I learned a few lessons from “Bloody Bride.” Editing the video together goes much faster, and this time when I post it, I title it “What You Want.” Also, I post it under my new artist name: Enmity Jane. With some thorough hashtagging and widespread posting, the video picks up steam as quickly as “Bloody Bride.”

Joel, Martin and I go out for drinks to celebrate; throughout two bottles of Malbec, we chat and watch my phone blow up from thousands of likes, shares and follows. It’s only after we’ve returned to the apartment that Joel’s face falls.

“Gwen, you need to see this,” he says, handing me his phone.

There’s a comment on our video rapidly rising in user engagement: another video. We watch it to find it’s a clip of my arrest, clearly taken by someone else on the subway.

Looks like someone had enough of Jane’s shit. Probably not the first time,the user commented.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “What an asshole.”

“Maybe it’ll help,” Joel suggests. “People like it when artists take risks.”

“But no one likes people who are annoying on the subway,” Martin counters.

“You think I was being annoying?” I ask.

Joel takes my hand.

“Yes, sweetie. You kinda were. But that was the point. You’re not there to amuse people, you’re trying to disturb them.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

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