by D. M. Barr
“This again. I know you want to make Trend more ‘serious.’ But are you serious? Or just infatuated?”
Fletcher stared at the blond Dutchman and tried to feign innocence. “You’re crazy. She’s young enough to be my—”
“First sexual harassment lawsuit? Yes, Lyle, she certainly is. Fuck, I’ve known you how many years?”
“Too many.”
“Right. Through Cassie Manos. Through Brenda Baez. And, of course, through Margaret. So yeah, to me, your infatuation is pretty obvious.”
Fletcher sighed, annoyed at how easily his close friend could see through him, especially since he’d almost convinced himself of his lack of romantic interest toward Camarin. “Think she knows?”
“She’s not old enough to know that McCartney was in a band before Wings. So, no, probably not. But still, you’ve got a lot on your plate right now, don’t you think?”
“Yeah.”
“So maybe it’s not the best time to start learning Snapchat and shopping at Vineyard Vines just to be able to relate.”
He half-admired and half-resented Hans’s unflinching clarity, the way he targeted the essence of an issue without allowing himself to be muddied by empathy or emotion. “She’s not like that, she’s—”
“One step past jailbait?”
“I was going to say an old soul. There’s this uncanny wisdom about her. Very goal-oriented and resolute. But guided by some deep sadness I can’t put my finger on yet.”
“Maybe a safer bet not to put a finger on any part of her until we sort out our editorial and budget problems. If ever. In the meantime, let’s keep her busy with the copyedits until Perla comes back from Iowa.”
Fletcher cleared his throat as he changed the topic. “In terms of budget, everyone I spoke to yesterday is on board. We’re solvent for another six months at a minimum. I need you to give Camarin some space. Leave her alone for part of each day to do some research on her own stories. It will keep her happy. Meanwhile, I’ll drum up a few choice assignments to keep her busy, more on target with our plans. Who knows? Maybe she’ll attract an entirely new crop of advertisers.”
Hans’s expression was a mixture of relief and skepticism. “That’s encouraging, at least about the advertisers staying on. We’re going to have trouble finding enough competent editorial to support all these ad pages. You’re clearly as persuasive as ever. I’ll go tell the guys to tone down the Ellington angle. And if you want to talk about this more over dinner…”
“Not tonight, but thanks, Hans. I knew I didn’t make a mistake when I brought you aboard.”
“Brought me aboard? You fucking begged me to help save you from yourself when you bought this rag.”
“Hey, we can’t all be Business Day.”
“Uh-huh. But at least when I was over there, I didn’t have to lower my voice in shame when people asked me where I worked.”
“No, but you also wore less expensive suits than you can afford now, didn’t you?”
Wynan stuck up his middle finger and walked out of the office as Fletcher sat back in his chair, reveling in verbal triumph. Then, turning his mind to more serious matters, he unlocked his top desk drawer and pulled out a thick booklet with Lehming Brothers Annual Report printed on its cover.
He flipped through the worn pages yet again, looking for the profile of Blubber Be Gone. And there it was, on page twenty-six, just one of the conglomerate’s thousands of businesses promoting weight loss and personal improvement. He grabbed a magic marker and drew a giant X on the page.
Chapter 10
The man at the bar raised his voice to be heard over the din. “Miss, I asked for a gin and tonic five minutes ago. Did you forget about me?”
Camarin considered countering with how could anyone forget someone wearing a suit two sizes too tight? but then realized that kind of comment would make her as bad as the magazine she worked for. Fuck, Trend is already wearing off on me. Instead, she apologized and reached for a bottle of Tanqueray.
Benji’s was midtown’s only dueling-piano bar, and it was located off the lobby of the Laidlaw, one of the city’s largest convention hotels. Which meant that unlike most city nightspots on a Monday night, the place was packed. The patrons were mostly out-of-town businessmen, from less exotic climes like Omaha and Pensacola, attending medical symposiums, banking conferences, insurance seminars. Annalise called them the bridge and toll brigade, all feigning that innate ‘Manhattan cool,’ as they attempted to outspend each other on filet mignon, surf-and-turf—whatever overpriced menu item might best impress their dinner companions. Camarin witnessed the same posturing at the bar. If only these poseurs tried half as hard to impress the waitstaff and bartenders with the size of their tips, the roommates could have afforded a less dingy apartment.
“Cover for me, okay?” Camarin yelled over to Viviana, her fellow bartender, as she headed to the ladies’ room.
There, she bumped into Annalise, looking like a fairy dominatrix in her sparkly pink-and-silver cat suit, applying a deep crimson to her pale cheeks and ample lips.
“Bet your tips are through the roof tonight, wearing that thing.” Cam shook her head in mock disbelief at the outrageous looks her roommate managed to pull off.
“Same old, same old. I could be standing there stark naked, and they’d still blow their money on the shrimp and skimp on the server. Whatever. As long as they keep tossing twenties on the piano for DeAndre, at least one of us can cover the rent.”
“Yeah, as if he wasn’t going to play Living on a Prayer, with or without their requests.”
Both girls shared a knowing laugh.
“Anyway, girl, you’d better be on your best behavior. I know your first day at the magazine was hard—and from the sound of it, your boss was too—but tourists are three deep at the bar, and Benji keeps throwing you dirty looks. We can’t afford for you to get fired for daydreaming about Mr. Publisher.”
Camarin rolled her eyes and made a mental note not to confide in her roomie if she didn’t want the details reshuffled and later flung back in her face.
“Oh, please. He’s probably just flirty with everyone. And I still don’t have any proof that he’s going to switch his editorial. But point taken. I’ll spend the evening focusing on martinis, not men.”
Annalise squeezed Camarin’s upper arm, a show of solidarity, before heading back into the fray. Camarin entered the stall and closed her eyes. What her roommate had said was true. She had been preoccupied, trying to analyze every moment of her encounter with Fletcher, or Lyle, as he’d insisted she call him. Was he interested in her? Monaeka would say no, but Cam needed to look at this clearly, rationally, unmuddied by the ghosts of the past. If she misread the cues and acted inappropriately, it could spell professional disaster.
She had a flashback to her childhood, her mother reading her a cautionary passage from a native poem, which she did whenever Cam was overeager about an upcoming event. It was called Tåno’ na Dåkkon, which literally meant A Deceitful World.
“A tree behind the house looks strong and healthy. We wait, and yet it bears no fruit. The sea looks calm. But lives perish that same ‘calm’ day when some unseen swell tips the boat over. We swear we saw something. It turns out to be a mirage.”
Someone banged on the stall door, wrenching Camarin back into the present.
“Are you done in there? There’s a line waiting.”
Concentrate on investigating the BBG story, she told herself as she exited the stall. The rest would unfold as it should, if there really was anything there to unfold. Only time would tell what was truth and what really was just a mirage.
Chapter 11
Camarin spent most of her second day at Trend editing two thrilling features: How the Right Breed of Dog Can Attract a Man with a Stellar Pedigree and The Best Wedding Dresses to Hide That Baby Bulge. Sheesh, they couldn’t even let a pregnant mother feel proud about gaining weight.
Despite an invitation from Rachel, she skipped lunch, hanging instead with
her best friend, Google. In an hour, she’d clandestinely plowed through every link she could find concerning the Blubber Be Gone victim, Leticia Regan.
Whenever Wynan left the bullpen, she alternated between editing and placing phone calls to anyone interviewed in the newspaper accounts who had phone numbers she could locate online. Cam had initially feared that when she identified herself as calling from Trend, they’d just hang up. To her astonishment, her self-affixed title of ‘senior investigative and features reporter’ seemed to carry some heft.
She had prepared what she considered to be a well-thought-out series of questions for anyone who answered her call: Had Ms. Regan received any death threats that you are aware of? Had any of the franchise’s clients expressed dissatisfaction with the body-shaming nature of the business? Do you have any theories about the reason behind the attacks that the police and other reporters might have overlooked? The result: nothing, nada, seru.
She was about to give up for the day when her last call, to a BBG client named Michael Milligan, turned up pay dirt. Milligan mentioned how attendance at the last few weekly meetings had been spotty, what with Terry Mangel coming to town.
“Terry who?” she asked, keeping a wary eye out for Wynan.
“Terry Mangel. You know, the guy who runs the revival meetings.”
“Revival, like a religious gathering?” Camarin tilted her head to her shoulder to cradle the receiver while she used both hands to type Terry Mangel into Google.
“It may just be my opinion, ma’am, but the only thing Mangel does religiously is hoodwink folks. He goes around the country, telling people who are trying to eat right and exercise that they’re wasting their time. Then he sets up his tents and invites them to come in and listen while he spends hours assuring them they’re okay just the way they are.”
“So, what’s wrong with that?” asked Camarin, amazed to hear that someone, anyone, was out there, espousing her personal doctrine. She struggled to simultaneously interview Milligan, type notes into Word, and search the internet for details. Second day on the job and she already needed an assistant.
“To the naked eye, nothing,” he responded. “His dogma is valid. The problem is Mangel charges them a ton to attend his meetings and then bilks them for even more once they get inside. Books, DVDs, Feel Good About Yourself clothing, you name it. He’s taking advantage of them, worse than all the Blubber Be Gone–type places put together. I guess when it comes to hope, us fatties are easy pickings. Hustlers get us coming and going.”
“I agree, this is awful. Would you happen to have the names and numbers of any of the fellow BBGers who attended? I mean, in case they can shed any information on the case?” Camarin figured she was probably grasping at straws, but even a single straw was better than sipping from an empty glass.
“Tell you what. Mangel’s packing up his circus and leaving town tomorrow. Those members will be back at BBG next week, I’m guessing, as long as someone new comes in to run the place. I’ll tell ’em about you and your story, and if they’re interested, I’ll give them your number. That fair enough?”
“More than fair, Mr. Milligan. I really appreciate the help. Do you have a pen? I’m at Trend magazine, 212-555-0777.”
“Sure, I got it. I wish you luck with your story. Someone’s gotta put a stop to folks like Mangel. We shouldn’t have to decide between hating ourselves or going broke, you know?”
“I know. Better than you can imagine. I’ll get to the bottom of it. Thanks again.”
Camarin hung up, Milligan’s words having ignited imaginary firecrackers inside her brain like it was a neurological 4th of July. Her first real lead! She quickly looked behind her. Thankfully, still no sign of Wynan.
She returned her attention to Google and the first 250,000 results from her Terry Mangel search. The home page of his website contained nothing but a large photo of an obese woman in a bikini with the legend YOU HAVE NOTHING TO APOLOGIZE FOR. She clicked on the pic, and the obligatory sales spiel popped up.
Tired of people telling you you’re nothing if you are not skinny?
Weary of hating yourself for not conforming to society’s ‘norms’?
Stop. Because you have nothing to apologize for.
Terry Mangel sees you for the beautiful person you are, inside and out.
Buy Terry’s book and 10 CD or DVD Series: Self-Esteem is a Terrible Thing to Waste—Stop Swallowing Society’s View of Legitimacy.
Better yet, come renew and regenerate!
Spend a full week with Terry at his Ohio lakeside retreat.
Don’t have a week? No problem! Come attend Terry’s two-day traveling seminar: Feel Good About Yourself!
Camarin clicked on the price links for each purchase. The book and CD or DVD series ran $249. The week with Terry—$1,999, plus hotel and airfare. The seminar price wasn’t even listed; those interested were encouraged to email or call for more information.
She grew hot with anger as she pondered how a typical overweight person could save up that kind of money, especially when her research showed they typically earned ten thousand dollars less per year than a thin person. Unless they were desperate enough to go into debt, using credit cards at nineteen percent interest, never once considering how they’d ever get past the monthly minimum payments to eventually pay off the principal.
“You finished with that editing yet, Cam?” Wynan had managed to sneak up behind her without making a sound.
“Almost,” she said, unapologetically minimizing the search engine and bringing Word back up onto the screen.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Only if you can reverse all of human behavior so that the world can actually accept people who are a little different than themselves.”
Camarin realized, in horror, that she’d spoken those private thoughts aloud, snidely attacking her immediate supervisor for posing a simple question. She froze, furious at her inability to keep her big mouth shut and unsure of how to proceed.
Wynan’s expression switched from surprised to bemused. “Um, I was thinking more along the lines of getting you a cup of coffee. Something to speed up the process.”
“I’m sorry. Really. Just because people out there are jerks, there’s no excuse for taking it out on you. Coffee would be great. I take it black.”
“Like your outlook?”
She smirked and shook her head. “I’m usually pretty optimistic. You’ll see. Something like this won’t happen again.”
“Lyle sees something in you, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt, Cam. But if you miss deadlines, I can’t substantiate keeping you on the team. I’ll be back in five.” He harrumphed as he headed out the door.
Well, that was pleasant. She’d had nasty coworkers and bosses before, at summer jobs and at Benji’s, but this one certainly had it out for her. She wondered why. Still, he was bringing her coffee. Maybe there was a glimmer of hope?
In any case, there was no time for speculation about her editor’s likes and dislikes. She needed to focus if she wanted to uncover more information before Wynan’s return.
Maximizing the Google window, Camarin typed Terry Mangel reviews into the search bar and was again rewarded by an extensive list of entries. She clicked on a consumer-alert link about halfway down the screen that listed 444 Reviews and Complaints About Terry Mangel. An overall four out of five stars. Impressive. She started reading, cutting, and pasting the most interesting details into her digital notes.
5 Stars! The meeting changed my world, wrote RebornandHappy3017. Thank you, Terry, for being the one person out there who understands that I am a living, breathing, feeling person, not just a number on a scale!
More like numbers on a check, Camarin thought. She clicked on the next review, four stars from someone named Never_apologize_again.
The room listened in silence as I told my story, and at the end, I saw the crowd clapping, but all I could hear was the applause in my own head. It’s like I came out, when I never should have been in
. Terry helped me realize that I’m a person of worth, even if the Thin Police out there don’t agree.
The words touched Camarin somewhere deep inside, and any cynicism she might have harbored started dissipating.
FinallyWhole1959: I’m almost sixty, and for the first time in my life, I’ve found a place where I fit in. I was surrounded by thousands of people who, like me, wasted their entire lives drowning in self-doubt, trying to find a place of peace and acceptance. In that crowd, we weren’t constantly urged to fix ourselves, to make our bodies as pretty as our faces. I may not have much time left, but I plan to spend it listening to Terry and not the haters out there.
Camarin felt the tears brimming in her eyes. The quote resonated. All that lost time.
She thought of her mother and aunt, Navy brides transplanted from their native Guam, unwavering in their resolve to adapt to the Los Angeles landscape. Aunt Sirena, once a follower of tribal religion, fell in with a fundamentalist Christian group and recreated her community there. Her mother Ana, less religious but equally eager to assimilate, found refuge in her nursing career but devoted every spare moment to her true calling: cautioning her family to do whatever it took to fit in, fit in, fit in.
Whereas Guam culture had been easygoing and tolerant, even of rounder bodies, Ana insisted that LA was the heartland of judgment. She pointed to its actresses and models, bone thin and anorexic, and to the restaurants and health food stores that lent the city its reputation as the epicenter of everything holistic and organic. When the pediatrician diagnosed childhood epilepsy? “Don’t tell anyone. They might not be accepting.” The weight gained because of the drugs? “Lose it or die a virgin.” Ana’s message to her family had always been very clear: don’t stand out or you’ll stand alone.
The sisters had reacted differently to their mother’s doomsday directive. Monaeka had swallowed the warning whole, hating herself along with every morsel she consumed. But whenever weight crept on, Camarin had found an alternate way to expel her mother’s disdain. After every misbegotten meal, she’d excuse herself from the table, head to the bathroom, and thrust one finger down her throat.
