Once There Was a Fat Girl

by Cynthia Baxter

  “Honestly, I’m really getting fed up at the bank,” Lisa moaned over an impromptu lunch of cottage cheese. “This manual is driving me crazy. I think I’m being underutilized. I’ve got to get into something that’ll prove my capabilities. God, I took all those finance courses at night school, and all for nothing.” She dramatically swept back her smooth blond Veronica Lake pageboy, and pushed her tortoiseshell glasses back from the tip of her nose. “Besides, they’re changing the promotion system, and I might not be promoted for months.”

  “Well, I won’t be an editor for years!” Betsy complained. “I run around like crazy at that office, and it gets me nowhere. Maybe I should look for another job, something that pays a little better.”

  “But you love publishing!” Martha gasped.

  “I know. I’ll probably stay where I am.” Betsy sighed. “I just like complaining. Good for the soul, you know?”

  “How about you, Martha?” Lisa asked coolly. “Are you going to sit behind that typewriter forever?”

  “No. I did try out for that public relations job ...”

  “Honestly, I don’t know why you don’t get out of that sweatshop and do something with your brains. At least I’m taking courses, and Betsy’s doing that extra project. But you don’t seem to care.”

  “Lisa!” Betsy said sharply. “That’s none of your business. Leave Martha alone.”

  Lisa shrugged and focused her attention on her cottage cheese. Betsy smiled sympathetically, then deliberately steered the conversation toward less controversial topics. Within seconds, the three were discussing the pros and cons of cottage cheese versus yogurt.

  * * * *

  By Sunday morning the sun was out. Betsy was off playing tennis, trying out a cute new sports outfit. Lisa hadn’t yet returned from her Saturday night date with a surly Wall Street lawyer. Martha felt restless from staying in all weekend, watching Russian women gymnasts on television and trying not to be irritated by the mountain of dirty dishes slowly growing on the kitchen counter. It was Betsy’s week to clean.

  She decided to go out for brunch. She tried calling Shirley, but kept getting a busy signal. Shirl must have taken the phone off the hook so she could sleep late, Martha thought. “Well, at least someone had some fun last night.”

  As it became apparent that it was going to be a perfect day, with a warm golden sun and a soft May breeze, Martha put on her jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. She decided to go to her favorite restaurant, Sylvester’s, only a few blocks away.

  Sylvester’s was crowded, as usual. Martha waited on line, patiently enjoying the gentle aroma of quiche as red-coated waiters swept by, and she listened, amused, to the conversations of the jean-and-designer-T-shirt crowd. “Not a pimple or roll of fat in the place,” she observed.

  Finally she was summoned by a red-coat. She found herself seated by the window. Window tables were small, but afforded a view of Second Avenue second to none. It was barely noon, yet the street already offered a free show of dog walkers, couples of every possible combination, and solitary wanderers carrying the Sunday Times and bags of hot bagels and bialies. Almost all the by-passers walked with their faces tipped up toward the welcome sun. “A perfect day,” Martha noted again.

  The menu was cute at Sylvester’s. Everything had a nickname, so it was necessary to read the descriptions to know just what was being offered at these exorbitant prices. Martha read about baconburgers and tuna plates with objective interest, then picked out the only permissible selection. She ordered a chef’s salad, no dressing, and black coffee with Sweet ‘n Low. She felt like saying, “I’ll just have the usual.”

  Martha was prepared to return to the street theater when someone bumped against her table. She looked up, surprised, as a young man sat down across from her, inches away on the other side of the little table with the red-and-white checkered tablecloth.

  “Do you mind if I sit here?” the stranger asked. “I told the waiter you were a friend of mine.”

  “What?” Martha was not accustomed to sharing tables with strangers, particularly at a place like Sylvester’s where a cup of coffee exceeded the price of subway fare.

  “The line was so long, and I noticed you were sitting alone... is it okay? I mean, I’ll leave if it bothers you.”

  “No, no, you can sit here.” This place is becoming another Automat, Martha thought, staring out the window, embarrassed and uncomfortable. Was she expected to converse with this stranger? What would Emily Post say?

  It didn’t matter; he was probably waiting for some skinny thing in a lavender Cacharel T-shirt.

  The man rifled through the Sunday Times that he had balanced on his lap, muttering, “Damn,” in a way that meant he was seeking attention. Martha obliged politely.

  “What’s wrong? Have you lost something?” she asked, putting on her “interested” face.

  “I can’t find the Magazine section. I wonder if it slipped out.”

  Martha had never in her twenty years of Greater Metropolitan Area living come across a Sunday Times with no Magazine section. She could think of nothing consoling to say, so she merely stared dumbly at the stranger. Fortunately, Roger Red-coat loomed close by, playing with pink packets of Sweet ‘n Low. He interrupted the silence and put Martha at her ease by providing a prop to absorb her attention. She stirred her coffee and rearranged the strips of Swiss cheese and turkey sitting precariously atop a lettuce volcano.

  After it had been determined that, indeed, there was no Magazine section to be found, and the stranger had hidden behind his menu, Martha was able to enjoy the crisp combination of chicory and ham and turkey and all the wonders of her dietetically legal brunch.

  “Excuse me,” the stranger began apologetically, Tm really sorry to bother you like this, but is that salad any good? I can’t decide between the salad and an omelet,”

  Martha was beginning to wonder what was going on. No one in New York was this friendly without a reason.

  “It’s all right, if you like lettuce.” She had decided that in such a situation, curt was cautious.

  ‘Tm sorry. I guess lettuce is lettuce. I won’t bother you again.” He returned to his menu.

  Martha chomped in silence, and the strange one ordered a baconburger. She was glad to have the opportunity just to smell bacon again, to be near it, to be able to see it at close range.

  When only a few soggy lettuce leaves sat in a puddle of cheesy water, Martha looked around for the waiter.

  “Why don’t you have more coffee?” the stranger interjected suddenly.

  “What?” Martha looked at him suspiciously. Each outburst was more surprising than the last.

  “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee. I mean, it probably costs extra nowadays, the second cup. It used to be free.”

  Martha just stared. Was he making fun of her? Had it actually come to this? New Yorkers were perverted and cold and shifty, but now cruel as well? Had they begun seeking out the homely and the misshapen to ridicule them on a one-to-one basis?

  Martha began to search frantically for the waiter.

  “I’m sorry. I guess I’m not very good at this.” And the stranger with the bacon bits in his blond beard looked sorry indeed.

  Martha looked at him with more interest. He was rather good-looking, she thought. She generally didn’t bother to notice these things, but then again, she rarely sat across sixteen-inch tables from blond bearded men with crumbs on their chins and genuine embarrassment in their eyes. He had twinkling eyes, she noticed, deep brown, like chocolate chips.

  “I guess I’m just not very good at picking up attractive women. I’m kind of new at this,” he apologized.

  “What are you talking about? Were you just let out of jail or something?” Martha still wasn’t sure what was going on.

  The stranger, who had by now become the handsome blond stranger, sighed deeply. He looked as if he were ready to pour out the mournful story of his life.

  “You see, I started going to this psychologist a few weeks ago. I was,
you know, kind of depressed, lonely, I guess. I didn’t know if I should leave New York or what it was that was bothering me. And he, this guy, this psychologist, told me that, among others things, I’m not assertive enough. He gave me this assertive-ness training book to read. One of the things it says to do, as an exercise, is to practice speaking to strangers. First I had to practice going into a coffee shop to ask for a glass of water. No coffee or anything, just a glass of water. That was tough enough. Then he gave me a week to ask three different people for directions on the subway. Can you imagine that? And now, for this week, I’m supposed to start talking to a stranger, a woman, and get her to give me her phone number. Isn’t that something? In New York, yet? I don’t have to actually call her, just get her number. Well, I told him it was impossible, that even if I could get a girl to talk to me, on the street or something, she’d never give me her number. She’d think I was a masher or something.”

  “You don’t look like a masher,” Martha volunteered sympathetically. She felt like Dorothy talking to the Cowardly Lion.

  “Well, even so.”

  “So how come you picked me?” Here it comes, she thought. It’s because he figured I’d be so desperate that I’d give my phone number to anyone, even a masher. I’m always a ready target. First for ridicule, now for convenience. The fat girl’s cross to bear.

  The bearded one sighed again. “Well, I’ll tell you what happened. At first I really dreaded this assignment. I mean, the water was bad enough and I was sure I’d get stabbed in the subway—well, not exactly, but you know what I mean. Actually, I cheated. One of the people I asked was a guard. The second was the token seller. And the third, well, she was this old lady from Queens. You know, the kind with the shopping bag?”

  Martha nodded, half smiling.

  “Anyway, I was really dreading this, and I walked around for days looking for someone approachable. I tried restaurants, even a singles bar, the Park... and I couldn’t do it. All the women I saw looked really, I don’t know, scary, somehow, with all this make-up and these T-shirts with other people’s names on them. They all looked so forbidding. I just couldn’t do it. But then I came in here, ready to just give up and make up another lie or never go back to this guy, the shrink, I mean. And I saw you sitting here, and, I don’t know, you looked so... so nice. You looked friendly, and un-forbidding, and real. You looked like the kind of woman I’d like to go out with.”

  “Because I don’t look like all those other women?”

  “No, because you look pretty in a natural way. Not from make-up and expensive clothes, but just pretty. I could picture myself with you, you know? Walking in the park and all that stuff.” He suddenly turned red and laughed nervously. “I guess I shouldn’t be telling you all this.”

  Martha’s first reaction was embarrassment. But then she caught the impish look in this stranger’s eyes, and she laughed.

  “See, I was right about you,” he went on. “And you know, I probably would have come over here and sat down even if Dr. Rubin hadn’t told me to do something like this.” He said it as though he were challenging her, daring her to protest against his interest in her.

  “You mean you really are trying to pick me up, then, and it’s because you want to, and not because you’re supposed to?” He nodded. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  “Well, don’t, then.” He paused. “But maybe if you did believe me, I could talk you into giving me your phone number.”

  They both laughed. “So you can bring it to your shrink as proof?”

  “Maybe, maybe not.”

  Martha thought for a moment. “Well, listen, I’m not a bad sort, and I don’t want to get you into trouble or anything, so... okay.”

  She scribbled her name and phone number on a paper napkin.

  The stranger stood up and scrutinized the napkin. “Well, okay, Martha, thanks a lot. Oh, yes, my name is Larry. Lawrence Fisher.”

  “Okay, Larry, fine. It’s been nice talking to you. Bye!”

  After he had gone, Martha did have a second cup of coffee. She found herself smiling at it. She looked across at the remains of a baconburger and a few scraggly French fries, and couldn’t help feeling giddy.

  I wonder if I’ll ever hear from that crazy guy, she thought, still smiling. And because she really didn’t expect to, she tried to put the entire incident out of her mind.

  Chapter 6

  The week was quiet and uneventful. Things at work were calm, and no decisions had been made about the futures of either Aimee Ludlow or the Public Relations Assistant position. Martha lost two more pounds, just as Judy had promised, and she dutifully sat through another meeting of Thin, Incorporated. Betsy and Lisa were busy with their own jobs and the men in their lives. Even Mrs. Nowicki seemed to be too busy to call Martha.

  Martha was bored.

  Sunday night was the worst. No one was at home, there was nothing to do, and even if there were, there would be no money to do it with until payday. Martha puttered around the apartment aimlessly.

  “Ordinarily, this would be the perfect evening to whip up some divinity fudge,” Martha muttered. Then she realized that she was talking to herself, and quickly switched on the radio. I hope it hasn’t come to this already, she thought.

  She wandered from room to room, listlessly picking up books and magazines, searching for something to do.

  Here I am, young, single, living in New York City, and there’s absolutely nothing to do. What do other people in the city do? she wondered. I find it hard to believe that Andy Warhol is sitting in his apartment all alone, waiting for the prime-time television shows to come on.

  Her nervous energy was making her restless. She decided to try channeling it constructively. She washed the dishes, even though it was Lisa’s turn; emptied all the trash cans into the incinerator; and washed three T-shirts in Woolite. Still the hands of the clock acted as if they were coated with honey.

  She decided to try her last resource, the telephone.

  First, she dialed Eddie’s home number. She let it ring ten times, then hung up. Next she tried his office number, in case he was working over the weekend. It rang twelve times. He’s either in the bathroom or on his way home, she concluded. Oh well, at least I’m not riding the subways tonight. That’s one consolation.

  She dialed Shirley. The line was busy.

  When she called Judy, the phone rang six times, then a sleepy voice answered.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, Judy? It’s Martha. Did I wake you? It’s only seven o’clock.”

  “Uh. I was up all last night.”

  “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “Oh, I was sick. The flu, I guess. I still don’t feel terrific. Look, I’m really tired. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Martha hung up, trying desperately to fend off the mild case of depression that was rapidly descending upon her. Is there no one to love me in this great city of New York? she thought, half joking, half morose. She contemplated the fat Manhattan White pages, which acted as a bookend for a shelfful of trashy paperback novels, all of which Martha had already read. She tried to think of someone else to call.

  And then the phone rang.

  That will probably be Mom, thought Martha. I knew she’d get around to calling me eventually. With dread, she lifted the black receiver off its hook one more time. The depression was now coming fast and furiously.

  “Hello,” she said, slowly and quietly, as if to say, if I sound as though I don’t want to talk to you, maybe you’ll go away.

  “Hi, is Martha there?”

  Aha. A male voice. Not Mom at all. Martha sat up a bit straighter.

  “Yes, this is Martha.”

  “Hi! You probably don’t remember me. This is Larry. Remember, the guy from the restaurant? From, uh, Sylvester’s? Last Sunday?”

  Martha paused dramatically.

  “Oh, yes, Larry. With the New York Times.” And the chocolate chip eyes.

  He laughed. It was a nervous laugh. He’s scared,
Martha realized gleefully. Someone is nervous over the prospect of calling me. My voice inspires trepidation in someone.

  “So you do remember.” He sounded relieved.

  “Sure. How’s your psychologist? Was he proud of you?”

  “Well, that worked out kind of funny, actually. I found out he’s not really a psychologist. I mean, he’s a doctor, but he’s a medical doctor. He was just kind of playing shrink, to see if he could do it.”

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “I don’t know. Probably. But the ironic part is, when I found out, I fulfilled the ultimate assertive fantasy. I walked out on him. Right in the middle of the session! I didn’t even pay.” He laughed again, but this time it was not out of nervousness. “I think I’m cured.”

  “That’s terrific. I’m really happy for you. I bet the fact that I didn’t call the police when you sat down at my table didn’t hurt, either,” she teased. Why was it so easy to converse with, to tease, to flirt with, this complete stranger?

  “No, you’re right.” Larry hesitated. “In fact, I’m calling to invite you to a celebration.”

  “Terrific. Are you giving a party?” Martha hated parties. Parties meant strangers and party clothes she never owned and food that was always fattening, and was now forbidden.

  “Uh, no. I thought just you and I could, um, I don’t know, have dinner or something. We could even go to Sylvester’s.”

  A date. Someone was calling Martha Nowicki for a date. A male person, with beautiful eyes and a blond beard. Someone who had been tense about dialing the phone, someone who laughed nervously because he was afraid of rejection, someone who wanted Martha to like him. He was willing to spend a free evening with her, to take a shower, to change his underwear and socks. That meant doing laundry a whole day earlier. A date. It didn’t matter that Martha’s stomach was in knots. Knots of fear, knots of excitement. Do stomachs know the difference?