Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  Don’t I?

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Channeling Mae West

  I begin the process of looking for a new place by circling FOR RENT ads I might have a shot at. It’s only six days until the bulldozer crumples my life and belongings in one afternoon. The balled-up paper Kate gave me about the Getty internship now rests on my kitchen counter. I find myself staring at it. I fold it and unfold it but never open it to reveal Ms. Beverly Urban and her fancy direct line.

  “Hi, I’m calling about the ad?” I say.

  “Yeah?” the voice responds.

  “The one-bedroom on Michigan Avenue?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Could . . . could . . . do you think you could maybe tell me a little something about it?”

  “It’s one bedroom. Seven fifty a month. Utilities included.”

  “I have a dog.”

  “Oh, God, no . . . no dogs.” And then dial tone.

  It’s as if I had said, Well, I’ve been known to spray in the corners of my dwellings as a sort of territorial thing—do you mind?

  Looking into the half-packed kitchen, I rub my forehead until it feels good. I have to pack this entire house. Alone. One object at a time. This is going to take a while. Maybe I’ll grab some dinner and then take Solo for a walk.

  It is common practice during my dog walks that I openly talk to myself. I figure no one really cares or notices, and if they do I can act like I’m talking to the dog, because that would somehow make me less crazy. Usually on my walks with Solo, I think about relationships. I know—a dog named Solo. I thought it would be so cool. Now she’s just this little self-fulfilling prophecy who I pick up after twice a day. But I digress.

  For Peregrine’s birthday one year, she threw one of those sex-toy parties. As I sat there among the lotions, lubes, and various other marital aids, I felt nothing except embarrassment. My few brushes with sex have been these uneventful fumblings where there was never any time to reach for edible glitter or a feather tickler, let alone try any other position besides “fully clothed and humiliated.” The notion that there would be time and even the proper lighting to utilize such tools is completely mind boggling.

  During my first year at Cal I lived on the same floor as Mason Phelps, a math major who studied nonstop. Whether in the library, the student lounge, or the cafeteria, Mason was rarely without a textbook, graph paper, and his calculator. His brownish hair was cut poorly and seemed to only play up his massive cowlick, which stuck straight up in back. His eyes were this beautiful yellow-brown color, which is what I finally decided made me like him. Well, that and he seemed to like me. Even during his twenty-four-hour study sessions, he would find time to knock on my dorm room door and sit on my bed, talking about class and the campus. I found myself laughing at jokes that were wholly unfunny while working harder than ever to just keep the conversation going. Why did he come over if he didn’t want to talk? And why did I keep talking to him if he bordered on mind-numbingly boring?

  I eventually discovered the purpose of Mason’s visits. While the dorm erupted in Saint Patrick’s Day festivities, Mason knocked once again at my dorm room door. We immediately got into a heated conversation about the choice of cereals in the cafeteria. As I extolled the virtues of Cap’n Crunch, Mason leaned over and kissed me. I remember very little after that, as everything seemed to move in fast forward. The lights were off, his pants were down, and before I had time to ask myself if I even liked this person, I had pulled him on top of me. I could hear bursts of laughter from other students just outside my door. The pure adrenaline of what was happening pushed me through the fears of that first time. But as Mason got up after a magical ten seconds had elapsed, he leaned down and pinched my thigh, commenting that I wasn’t wearing green. He didn’t close the door all the way as he left, and a small shaft of light from the hallway allowed me to see what he had seen: me naked. I vowed I would never feel that vulnerable again.

  I was steadfast in my promise to myself, giving in only once—at a Halloween party in San Francisco, where I slept with a guy in an alien outfit. I learned later his name was Bobby Bol and he was an electrician in Daly City. I was drunk at the time, and I’ve never forgiven myself for that.

  During my first months at Joe’s, I met Steven MacKenzie, a slow, drawling Texan who could never commit to anything stable, not even friendship. I spent night after night in his apartment with my head on his lap, lazily watching art-house movies in the dark. Unlike Mason, Steven never leaned down and kissed me.

  Steven and I went so far as to take trips with each other. My earliest definition of lust was the feeling I got when Texas Steven got out of his kayak with his wet suit unzipped about halfway down his chest during one particularly frustrating jaunt to Catalina Island. A beam of light from the heavens illuminated his golden skin, and the blond hairs covering his chest . . . wait, a moment of silence for the chest. Okay . . . the blond hairs, which covered his chest. He had hooded hazel eyes that made him look boyishly ravishing. His golden hair was always cut short. Of course, if you swing the camera around you’ll find me: sitting in the water while hurling myself out of my kayak, which is now hermetically sealed to my ass.

  I spend the rest of the day packing, being rejected by prospective landlords and avoiding The Paper, which now rests on the top of the television. I have to be at work early, so I decide to turn in. I check my messages for a call from Olivia letting me know she is in town, but there are only messages from Mom and Kate about leads they have on possible apartments. I get caught up in not hearing from Olivia. I can’t get past why she hasn’t called. We’re best friends. Her wedding is in a matter of weeks. I’m her maid of honor. How do you not call your maid of honor when you’re in town? Lately, I’m beginning to think Olivia is just a figment of my imagination and that I’ve dreamed up the whole friendship. You’d think I’d develop a more reliable Dream Friend.

  Mom says she has a lead on a house for rent and I write down the phone number of the management company. I will have to tell her about the internship sooner or later. As if she doesn’t already know. I bring the phone into my bedroom and sleep fitfully, thinking I hear the phone every two hours. I awake watery-eyed the next morning and dress quickly for work. I refuse to be late again.

  “Hey there, latey, there’s something clipped to the bulletin board for you,” Cole says.

  “I’m not late. What is it?” I ask, noting that I am, in fact, eight minutes late. How can that be?

  “You are late, but I’ll humor you. And I don’t know what’s clipped to the bulletin board because I didn’t open it up. I’m in a good mood, so I will give you two minutes to find out what it is, and then you may come to work officially unlate.”

  Is it a note from the owner of Joe’s? That fucking Cole has tattled on my chronic lateness. I fucking know it. I don’t know why I’m late. I just look at the clock and keep pushing it. Five more minutes. What an asshole. I’ve done this to myself. Stupid. Here I am, moving and all the moving costs and I lose my . . . wait a minute.

  “Is this mine?” I point to the package.

  “Huh? Yeah—what?” One of the backup staff, Christina Dahl, an aspiring model-actress, is washing dishes in the back room.

  “Who left it?” I am flipping the package around, trying to not disturb the mechanics.

  “I’m not sure. I just got here about an hour ago, and it was already, like, up there. I don’t even know what it is . . . it’s like wrapped up, huh?” Christina is still washing dishes.

  I’m not paying any attention to her, which is a foreign concept for Christina. And yet, I’m female, so maybe not, unless she’s trying to steal my man. I’m sure she gets plenty of female attention in that arena. Christina walks out with her plastic bin for dirty dishes and leaves me alone with the package.

  I pull the pushpin and make sure it goes right back where it was. It’s wrapped in today’s Calendar section of the newspaper. I unfold the newspaper to find a blank CD case. There are four words scrawled
in black marker on the gold surface of the burned disc:

  To Maggie

  From Domenic

  “Oh . . . my . . . God . . .” I hear myself say the three words out loud.

  To Maggie

  From Domenic

  My first thought is, He wrote my name. That’s what my name would look like on a scribbled note he left on my pillowcase the morning he had to leave early for work: Maggie: Thank you for last night. YOU WERE AMAZING!—Domenico.

  I go back to the CD case for some answers as to what could have possibly motivated Domenic to do this, as he isn’t at work today. On the inside flap of the CD cover is a note. Once again, I stare at the writing. This is to me from him. He was thinking about me. Domenic Brown was thinking about me. Wait. Domenico. Brown. Was. Thinking. About. Me.

  “Maggie—Here’s a few hidden tracks I think you’ll like.—Domenic.” I can’t feel my legs.

  The back room door swings open, and I instinctively try to hide the CD.

  “It’s been two minutes. So . . . what is it?” Cole has a taster spoon from the ice cream case in his mouth.

  “What’s what?” I obviously missed my calling as an international spy.

  “I can’t even pretend I’m not annoyed with you right now.” Cole has now bitten the taster spoon in half and is flossing his teeth with the jagged edges.

  “It’s just a CD.” I show it to him, flipping it around like it doesn’t mean a thing to me, even though I secretly know this CD is going to be treasured by our firstborn daughter as the first gift her daddy ever gave me.

  “Who gave it to you?” he asks.

  I am in physical pain. What if he makes fun of me? What if he makes fun of Domenic? I know he doesn’t see me as a woman in any shape or form. So what is he going to think about Domenic giving me a gift? Am I overthinking this? Am I breathing right now? Am I talking out loud?

  “Well, uh . . . remember when you guys were talking about some hidden tracks on that album and I said, ‘Hey, what’s a hidden track?’ you know . . . and so, Domenic was there, and he tried to explain it to me, you know, you were there, too. But you know me . . . I . . . I didn’t understand.”

  At this point in my retard monologue, I am inspired to nonchalantly toss Domenic’s CD on the metal rack next to the sink as proof it means nothing to me. As it sails through the air I fight every urge to dive after it. But I continue my explanation.

  “So Domenic made me this . . . I mean that CD, and I guess it’s got some hidden tracks on it, or something. I really don’t know,” I breathe. By now, Christina is peeking her head behind Cole and waiting for him to move from the doorway.

  “Excuse me, Manager.” Christina holds the plastic bin at her hip, causing her pants to go even farther down her ass.

  “Oh, Christina. Sorry.” Cole looks over his shoulder and right down Christina’s shirt. Then he moves in closer, letting Christina into the back room so she can wash the newly bused dishes. He is silent for a good five seconds.

  I am standing there in joy, fear, and excitement, waiting for Cole to check out Christina’s model-actress ass. I am hopeful this ass will aid me in my plan to get the CD once more. Cole reaches for the CD on the counter; I can’t believe I let it out of my hands for one second.

  “Oh. Oh yeah. It’s burned. That’s cool. Domenic makes some good mixes. Does he say what’s on here?” Cole is now investigating the inner workings of our firstborn daughter’s sixteenth-birthday present.

  “Nope.” I am now in full cardiac arrest. Must. Get. CD. Back.

  I snatch the CD from Cole and hide it in the folds of my long black sweater, which I put on a shelf in the staff bathroom. Peregrine comes back from the smoking section, putting her cigarette out on her boot. This time, however, she is coming on shift.

  “Hey, what’s up?” I preemptively blurt as Cole heads back out front, tossing the broken taster spoon in the trash as he walks past. Peregrine waits.

  “It’s nothing. It’s just a CD,” I continue as Peregrine passes. I am oddly embarrassed. I’ve never seen myself as someone who has boyfriends or gets gifts—and to be standing here with a gift from a man is so foreign. My face is hot and I feel like I just got caught making out on the couch by my mom.

  “Just a CD? Honey, it’s never just a CD. Who’s it from?” Peregrine hides the soul of an eighty-year-old truck-stop waitress within her thirty-three-year-old tattooed body.

  “Domenic.” I hear myself say his name. Inside my head, I am saying Domenico.

  “He totally likes you, doll,” Peregrine exclaims.

  “I don’t think it means anything. We were just talking about hidden tracks. So what?” I say.

  “So you’ve got a little admirer, button. Cute, don’t you think? If that doesn’t work out, I’ve got a line on another guy for you. A real looker, too. Okay, so he’s the guy who picks up our recycling, but he did ask after you the other day—said you had a ‘nice rack.’ A little crude, but you don’t have to marry the guy. Remember Movie Night—don’t bring anything. I’ve got popcorn, beer, and I rented A Star Is Born—both versions—Garland and Streisand!” Peregrine whirls into the front of the coffeehouse to start her shift, leaving me alone in the back room with my CD.

  I’m afraid this gift will be like all of the others. Texas Steven’s Blade Runner DVD I got for my birthday. Bobby Bol’s single rose wrapped in copper wire. Mason Phelps even gave me his meal card with an unlimited amount one month. Is this CD yet another token of friendship or fleeting desire? What if for once this is the real thing? What then? Domenic isn’t working today, so I have no idea.

  We close early on weekday nights, so I get home before 8 pm. I clutch the CD in my hand and walk into my packed-up house. I check my machine. I have two new messages. Both are from people I called about an apartment. Olivia has been in town for a whole day and hasn’t called. Maybe she was just a voice in my head—a very tangible well-dressed psychotic episode. I call her cell phone and leave another message. In the back of my mind, I am excited to tell someone about Domenic. But I stop myself. Here she is getting married to a cardiologist from Washington, DC. While I roll up with my “cute crush”: a twenty-eight-year-old busboy who lives in a loft with four roommates. I begin to hyperventilate. I will be undone by my own second-guessing. I call the two prospective landlords back. Once again, I am practically drawn and quartered for owning such a wild beast as a seventy-pound dog.

  I try not to analyze the CD like the other gifts. No listening to each lyric as if it were a declaration of love. I can’t do that with this one. I have to remind myself that this CD is probably what all the other gifts have turned out to be: an affirmation of friendship. Nothing more.

  As I listen to the CD, I smile when I know the song. A couple are new to me. Most aren’t that meaningful, and some are so underground punk rock they’re barely enjoyable. I am packing up the bathroom when I hear it, the hidden track of the hidden-track compilation. It’s a whispery ballad. I stop, my face in the depths of the cabinet. I know this band. I don’t know this song. Should I read into this? Is this just another friendly misunderstanding? Or is this Domenic metaphorically leaning over and kissing me?

  I walk toward the CD player; the number on the digital face is 99. I don’t want to touch anything, afraid I will never be able to hear this beautiful song again.

  if I were to one time

  ask for what I want

  maybe I would receive it

  as the days go

  by and by and by

  I learn not to ask

  So I will never get

  Shown anything

  . . . or at least anything

  that will hurt me . . .

  I stare at the CD player, toilet brush in one hand, my heart in the other.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Oh, Dr. Farrell, You Are Too Much

  When I was a junior in high school, I missed having a boyfriend by five minutes.

  Olivia and I made our usual daily stop at the local ice cream store. Ol
ivia went in without me, because I couldn’t find my wallet. While I searched the depths of my 1984 Chevy Chevette, Olivia went inside to begin the detailed process of ordering. Unbeknownst to me, Owen Lynch, my new high school crush after The John Sheridan had been unmasked that fateful night, was talking to Shannon Shimasaki, our perpetual nemesis. She worked behind the counter at the ice cream store. When Olivia walked in, Shannon began, for some unknown reason, grilling her about who I liked. Olivia, always the weak one, gave up that I had a crush on the one and only Owen Lynch. Shannon howled with laughter and turned to ask Owen if he would ever consider dating me. Owen Lynch said, “Maybe.” That’s the closest I’ve ever come to having a real boyfriend.

  As I stand with the toilet brush in one hand and Domenic’s lyrics echoing in my head, the phone rings. “Hello?” I’m breathless as I answer. I can’t believe the lyrics I just heard.

  “Hey, girl. Where have you been?” It’s Olivia. I can hear clinks and laughter behind her.

  “At work,” I say.

  “Come meet us for a late dinner.” Olivia takes an audible, but genteel sip of her drink.

  “Sure.” I look down at myself. I am wearing my “favorite outfit,” still holding the brush. Cleaning up to go for drinks seems an impossible feat.

  “Okay then, hurry up, and can you bring over that list we made when I was out there about a year ago. Remember? We wrote locations for my wedding on the back of that napkin from El Coyote. I put little hearts and stars around city hall. I want to show Adam how it came true.” She puts her hand over the receiver while she retells the story to Adam as I hold . . . panicking. I haven’t seen that napkin in months.

  After we hang up, I pull out the shoe boxes of pictures from the day before. Thank God, there is the crumpled napkin among our old school photos. Olivia and I went out to dinner at El Coyote in Los Angeles the night she told me Adam proposed. That was the night she asked me to be her maid of honor. I must have kept the napkin as a token of the occasion.