Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  “I’m coming out to Pasadena this weekend. We’re looking at the wedding site and meeting with the event planner one more time. She keeps saying she can’t do Italian café lights, but I know she can. Remember that wedding we saw the summer before college? They had Italian café lights, so she can go fuck herself. I’ll hang them myself if I have to.” Olivia has been studying the Pasadena City Hall gardens since she was fifteen years old, and she has always counted on the fabled Italian café lights. Usually upscale Pasadena brides choose the venerable Ritz-Carlton for their wedding festivities, but for some reason Olivia has always set her sights on the Pasadena City Hall gardens. It’s as if she wants some kind of public exhibition of her success. Everyone in town can witness a wedding at the gardens. Everyone in town can see Olivia in her tiny dress, with her perfect man and the fucking Italian café lights.

  “You’re flying?” I ask, remembering the last time she flew here from her new home in Washington, DC, she needed a cocktail of Valium and anti-anxiety pills, chased with two shots of straight vodka, just to get on the plane.

  “Yes, I’m flying.”

  “We won’t dwell on it. I’m sure you’ll be fine,” I say, knowing she will crash and die in a fiery explosion and that she’ll have several long minutes to think while plummeting to her death. I, too, am a little shaky about the whole flying thing. Olivia and I finalize the details of her weekend visit as I park behind the coffeehouse and ready myself for the explanation of a lifetime.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Choose a Man from Among You to Come Fight Me”

  Joe’s Joe for the Average Joe is in the newly gentrified Playhouse District of Pasadena. The coffeehouse was refurbished about eight years ago. Most of the architecture and decor were kept the same as in the early 1960s, when it was a local greasy spoon. The vinyl booths exhale as the clientele slide themselves across, and the smell of fifty-year-old grease is an accepted part of the ambience. The counter area was redone so people could order then seat themselves. Better for them, better for us. I started working here the summer after I got my master’s in museum studies from San Francisco State University. This was supposed to be a summer job. After two years, I still begin every shift by questioning what I really want to do when I grow up. Instead I just keep asking whether that four-dollar coffee will be for here or to go.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” I say, walking past the counter not making eye contact with anyone.

  “That’s three nights in a row you’ve been late. I don’t want to give you The Talk. But The Talk is what you shall have if it happens again.” Cole has his hands on the counter, a washrag pinned underneath as though I have caught him midclean. His voice raises every hair on the back of my neck. As I turn to begin my excuses, Cole is ready. His arms are now across his wide chest, washrag dangling, eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open. Cole in a nutshell.

  Cole Trosclair seemingly had it all in high school. Now he is just an ex-football-jock with old jerseys dotting his daily wardrobe. But I still feel I’m intruding on him in some sexless, work-colleague kind of way after two long years. If I were skinnier, he’d be nicer. If I were quicker with the jokes, he’d be my friend. I have visions of him defending me in the glow of his television late at night at one of his sports parties, a bunch of guys sitting around talking about titties. Cole defending me, saying, “If you just got to know her,” and the other guys nodding.

  Do I have to wait until I am officially in the right to toss yet another rock at this Goliath? At some point, isn’t that rock supposed to catch him between the eyes and I am free? Is there some other version of the story where Goliath is champion?

  “Wasn’t that technically The Talk?” I say, my tiny pebble hurtling through the air.

  “Yes, it was. Now, let’s never have it happen again, young lady.” Cole picks up his espresso and leans back on the counter, my tiny pebble landing at his feet.

  “I got kicked out of my house,” I say, emerging from the back room as I tie my apron around my waist.

  “You’re still fifteen minutes late.” Cole yawns.

  “Can you lay off for one second? Huh? I . . . got . . . kicked . . . out. And I have one week to find a new place.” I pause but Cole says nothing. I continue. “Anything?”

  “Fine. Why did you get kicked out?” Cole acquiesces.

  “She says she’s putting in a lap pool,” I say, pushing my chest out in some desperate knee-jerk reaction.

  “Do you believe her?”

  “What’s not to believe? There’s a bulldozer in front of my door,” I say, diving chest-first into a pot of fresh coffee.

  “Poor, stupid, little Maggie . . .”

  He called me little.

  “She’s trying to get you out with no argument,” Cole continues.

  I look over the coffeepot in time to see Domenic Brown amble into the empty coffeehouse, his black hair flipping just right. Little flips right by the ears. Little flips I just want to bite off, they’re so perfect. His pale skin only accentuates those dark features. His pants are low-slung, and I can see that brown leather belt just peeking out where his thrift store, secondhand T-shirt is hitched up in the back.

  I cock my head a little to the right. I’ve found, through hours of practice in the privacy of my own bathroom, this makes me look skinnier. The mirror on the back wall—that’s what makes me look fat. No practice necessary for that little revelation.

  I try to smile as offhandedly as I can. No big deal, just saying hi. Just being breezy, brother.

  “Could I get a hot lemon toddy, please?” A tiny blond woman stands before me. Did I miss Domenic’s smile back? Did he even smile back?

  “For here or to go?” I stammer to this blond saboteur as I get my last glimpse of Domenic walking through the swinging back door.

  “Here, please.”

  I move away from the counter and stare at Domenic doing his usual routine before he comes on shift. His real name is Domenico. I was in the office late one night and caught a glance at (okay, ransacked) his file, and found his W-2 form. Later, I offhandedly asked him where his name came from. He explained that his grandmother is a sculptor and suggested they name him Domenico, after Michelangelo’s teacher. I remember sighing and maybe fainting. It’s all such a blur.

  I would love to call him Domenico. To be the only one who could. For now I’ll call him Domenic. He grabs an apron as he eyes the radio and judges the previous busboy’s taste in music, usually ending with an eye roll. He finishes tying his apron while flipping through his own CDs. He puts one in and presses PLAY while grabbing the plastic bin for dirty dishes. He opens the door and . . .

  Cole trains his deep-set blue-green eyes on a foursome at the counter who are obviously on their way to the Pasadena Playhouse down the block. I pass the blond her hot toddy, and she tips us a nice fat quarter. We’ll all eat like kings tonight. Domenic Brown floats by and shoots me that crooked grin of his. Damn, that boy has mastered breezy.

  “What can I get you?” Cole is speaking to no one in particular. Everyone in the coffeehouse infers he is speaking to the foursome, as they are first in line.

  “Just one second, please.” The leader of the foursome speaks to Cole in a way that you shouldn’t speak to Cole.

  Cole leans back on the counter and slowly picks up his espresso mug.

  “She’s not tearing it down,” Cole says through sips.

  “What?” I am imagining biting off flips of perfect dark hair and whispering Domenico.

  “She’s not really tearing it down.” Cole raises his voice and turns his body so that he is squaring me off. I almost look to the uptight foursome for help. Do I digress and agree that Cole is now an expert in landlady pathology?

  “And where is this coming from?” I ask.

  “I just know. She’s just batty enough to make up some crazy shit like that.”

  “And you know this because . . .”

  “I’m just saying,” Cole interrupts.

  “Sir? I’d like
. . .” The leader of the foursome starts in when there is a perceived lull.

  “Why do you care anyway?” I ask. Knowing when to stop talking about something has never been one of my strengths.

  “Sir?” the leader of the stylish foursome interjects.

  Cole picks up his espresso mug, which looks like a child’s tea set piece in his mitt of a hand, makes eye contact with the man, and turns his back on my question and me.

  “I think we’re ready over here,” the man stutters.

  Cole has won. The man is now half the man he was when he walked in. Cole sets down his espresso mug and once again lifts his eyebrows, opens his mouth just enough, and crosses his arms across his wide chest, washrag dangling. I count five “sorrys,” three “if you don’t minds” and a whopping six “when you get the chances.”

  The foursome tips Cole an extra five dollars. All I can think about is my question hanging in the air. Unanswered and deafening.

  “D. Brown, get your scrawny ass out here.” Cole acts like we’re all in the locker room right before the big game and we’ve all got fancy nicknames.

  Domenic walks out of the back room with a plastic bin under one arm, head tilted up, questioning. There is nothing extraordinary about him. He is not someone people would label as beautiful. But as Cole sets down his espresso teacup, Domenic Brown never picks up his pace or apologizes for being ten minutes later than I was. I am smitten.

  “Did you see that album I left for you?” Cole asks.

  Cole is one of these guys who still calls CDs albums. On a good day, when feeling particularly hip, he’ll call them LPs. Those are days of wonder.

  “I liked the hit in song five, the obscure Won-G the Haiti Boy song was unexpected, and I really liked the bridge on the hidden track,” Domenic says, busying himself refilling the many sugars that a California coffeehouse offers: Raw, Bagged, Fake, Cubed Raw, Cubed White . . . the mind reels.

  “Hidden track?” I ask. I know damn well what a hidden track is, but I have to get in on this conversation. Now, Haiti Boy, I have no idea.

  “Sometimes bands will put a song at the end of their CD and won’t tell anyone, or let it be programmed in. It’s actually nice if you don’t know about it.” Domenic’s pants are pooching out in the back as he bends over to grab the larger sugar boxes from underneath the condiment stand. I am not breathing. This is my favorite time of day. I call it my Guess Which Boxers Domenic Brown, My Future Husband, Is Wearing game. I’m working on shortening the name, but for right now let’s just stick with that. The audience is quiet. The drumroll . . . the suspense is killing me. The bend. The squat. Light blue with a Scottish plaid waist. Nice. Very nice. Worth the wait.

  “I live by that shit,” Cole says into his mug, hitting the t in shit with particular vigor.

  “It’s equivalent to the B sides of the twentieth century, you know,” Domenic says. It is difficult to keep my head cocked at just the right angle and still be mindful of my reflection in the mirror behind me as Domenic talks.

  I tend to wear shirts that fall over my apron, even though I secretly know this makes me look bigger than I am. That way there is no illegal tucking involved. Not only is my Area the problem, but also now a whole extra piece of thick fabric is added to the mix. The logic is that maybe people will think it’s all apron. Of course, there are no Ass Aprons on the market, and therefore this is left to the eye of the beholder.

  “Give me an example.” I am going to draw this conversation out until the very bones of it lie decomposing at my feet.

  “Okay, I’ll tailor one for you.” Cole thwarts my plan by interrupting.

  “I hate to intrude, but is there someone here who can clean off one of those tables out front?” A much-too-old man stands before us in a full, tight . . . oh so tight . . . bicycle outfit.

  “Hey, Domenic, you’re the busboy, go bus.” Cole lifts his eyebrow.

  “Yeah, I guess I am.” Domenic puts the canisters of sugars back under the condiment stand, slams the small door, picks up his bin, and follows the man out front, not turning around once.

  “Why do you have to talk to him like that?” I say.

  “Like what?”

  “You’re the busboy. Go bus?” I mimic his voice in the most patronizing, bossy way possible.

  “Jesus, Maggie. This is a business. And when you’re in a business you have to talk fancy business talk . . . not puppies and kittens.”

  “At no point did I want you to refer to a goddamn puppy or a kitten.” I am set on protecting my man.

  “Why don’t we try not to have a sailor mouth in this family establishment, young lady,” Cole says.

  “Oh, and Scrawny Ass is sweeping kindergarten classrooms across the nation? Remember? Scrawny Ass? Ass?”

  “We’re not doin’ this.” Cole bangs the espresso out of the coffee handle and turns his back on me a second time.

  I stand there one second too long with my mouth open, anticipating Cole’s next move. There isn’t one. His next move turns out to be ignoring me.

  I storm into the back room in search of chocolate syrup and to get away from Cole and my hanging, belligerent questioning.

  “Did you get my invite for Movie Night next week? I left it in your cubbie,” Peregrine says as she sits in the employee smoking section, which consists of three plastic white chairs and an upturned milk crate just outside the door to the back room. She extinguishes her cigarette on her boot and flicks it as far into the night as it can go. The word cubbie sounds ridiculous coming out of her mouth. Her dyed blue-black hair is twirled around in twenty buns all over her head. She is wearing a small, Japanese-style silk shirt with a black leather skirt.

  Peregrine was born Leila Williams in a penthouse in Manhattan. She grew up among the fashion elite, her mother being a celebrated designer. When it was her turn to take her place next to her mother’s fur-clad throne, Leila moved to LA and renamed herself Peregrine, like the falcon. Peregrine says she transplanted herself here from New York to pursue a fashion career. No one ever questions this move, even though moving away from New York and her mother’s connections to pursue a fashion career seems a bit backward. After ten years, all she has to show for her dream is a mannequin in her living room sporting the same pinned Eisenhower jacket she’s had on display since she took it out of the moving van. She never talks about her deferred dream in a negative way, and no one dares to ask her what’s taking so long.

  Over the years, Peregrine and I have become friends. Her Movie Nights, Poker Nights, Trivia Parties, and holiday get-togethers are legendary. She designs her own invitations and makes all of us feel like the party wouldn’t be the same without us. Peregrine is that person who brings everyone together. But after the cards are dealt and the beers are cracked open, you’ve got to be willing to listen. Peregrine will spin yarn after yarn about herself and never once look up and notice that you’ve slit your wrists and scrawled I AM NOT HAPPY in your own blood on the wall behind you. Still, within minutes you’re back to laughing and having a great time. After the night is through, you walk away remembering the night as the most fun you’ve had in a long time. I guess a night with Peregrine is what I’ve been told childbirth is like—you forget the pain and just remember the beauty of it all.

  “Yeah, thanks. Can I let you know later if I can make it? What are you still doing here?” I ask, trying to change the subject. The memory of the last event still has some remnants of pain. The splendor of selective memory hasn’t kicked in yet.

  “Getting a smoke in before the drive home. What was going on out there?”

  “Nothing,” I say, searching for the chocolate syrup. The last thing I want to do is tell Peregrine about Cole being an asshole to Domenic and have him walk through the back door.

  “Talked about nothing for a good long while.”

  “I just don’t like how Cole talks to people sometimes,” I say on tippy-toes, reaching for the chocolate syrup.

  “That’s just Cole. He’s a cranky son of a bitch. You
can’t keep taking it personally, lamb. You know, when I first met Cole he was just coming off his big knee injury that cost him his scholarship. It’s talks like that where I know he’s just an embittered little old man who is pissed off about everything. It’s not just you.” I know Peregrine is right. This isn’t about who’s right or wrong. And I know this conversation will continue until I agree with her.

  “I think he thinks he means it.” I pull down the syrup and begin to wipe the dust from the top of the can. I try to make my comment sound as offhanded as possible.

  “Once again, he’s an asshole. You just can’t take it personally,” Peregrine says, taking her apron off and going into the back room, where the smoking employees leave the mouthwash.

  “I’m not taking it personally. I just don’t like it,” I say over Peregrine’s gargles. She spits.

  Peregrine stares at me from the bathroom. Silent. I know this look and I usually don’t like the sermon that inevitably follows.

  “What?” I blurt, clutching my chocolate syrup to my bosom. The sooner we start this lesson, the sooner it’ll be over.

  “You’ve always been so sensitive. I think it’s getting to the point where you’ve got to grow up a little. I mean Cole is Cole. I think you’re being a little self-centered.” I can’t fathom how I’m being called self-centered while the person telling me about this character flaw is staring at herself in the bathroom mirror. Peregrine tears herself away for one second to shoot me that matronly smirk of hers.

  “For shit’s sake, Maggie, get back behind the counter.” Cole’s voice oozes into the back room.

  I stare at Peregrine, not even turning around to see Cole. I can feel the back door swinging wildly from his entrance and exit. My eyebrows are so high they are now touching my hairline. I wait.