Fat Bald Jeff

by Leslie Stella

Mr. Chung had set up a makeshift bar in the kitchen, where a constantly whirring blender and five hundred liquor bottles sat on top of a giant butcher’s block. The Lemming stumbled forth, arms outstretched like a sleepwalker, toward the bar. I made myself busy inspecting my neighbors’ things.

  Limoges china, old Wedgwood vases, Venetian goblets, and chunky Baccarat reposed in the hutch. A magnificent Hepplewhite chest stood in the bedroom. A large Sheraton settee covered in seafoam damask held three exceedingly handsome gentlemen in the far corner of the living room. I wept softly for a few minutes.

  Val, adorned in his purple velvet frock coat, flared beige slacks, and Beatle boots, exuding animal magnetism, joined Fat Bald Jeff and Alma on the dance floor. The women naturally gravitated toward him. His mustache, with the help of the sable eyeliner, again looked full and lustrous and tempting. It was almost as lush as Yanni’s, lucky Val!

  I sat on a divine chaise in the lounge, waiting for the Lemming to bring me my drink. Mr. Chung was telling amusing stories about his trip many years ago to Andalusia, where he enjoyed some homemade sangria with a vivacious shepherdess, only to be interrupted by her husband, who was thought to be at the fishmonger’s. Stefan seemed annoyed with this tale and walked out of the room.

  I followed him into the kitchen, where he was slogging down crème de cassis straight from the bottle. I asked him if he was all right.

  He wiped his mouth angrily on an antique linen tea towel. “I am sick of that tedious story about the Andalusian shepherdess! It was a long time ago, and it still brings up unpleasant memories.”

  “I know what you mean,” I said. “That’s just how I feel whenever Val recounts the 1988 Van Halen concert at Soldier Field when Sammy Hagar fell off the stage and injured himself with a bottle of tequila that had been stuck in his spandex.”

  Stefan slammed down the liqueur and said, “What the hell does that mean? It’s not the same thing at all.”

  “Yes, it is. It was the same night my grandfather died, May eighth, but Val always forgets that. Grandfather was sick in the hospital for a long time, but we were too busy trolling the country in a minibus to go visit him before he died. Which brings up, as you say, unpleasant memories.”

  Stefan blinked at me a few times, then handed me the bottle. Then he said, “Sometimes you’re all right.”

  First, party admittance, then grudging regard! The progress I have made with 2F astounds me.

  “Let’s move it outside!” shouted Chung from the lounge. Somehow I found the Lemming and he handed me a Kir Royale. Unfortunately, I lost him in the throng as the fifty of us trooped down the stairs to the backyard.

  Stefan set up a portable stereo on the picnic table and tiki torches on the lawn. Many of our garden flowers had begun to bloom over the last month and made a pretty setting for the party. I sat with Paco in a plastic deck chair at the edge of the patio (the giantess was doing the bus stop by the peonies with the lonely drifter from 1R). The Lemming pushed his way through the crowd and sat with us.

  “What a bore,” he sighed, lapping pettishly at his Kir Royale.

  Val Wayne came over and pulled me up, enticing me to dance with him. He churned his hips around and circled me, Paco clapped his hands in time with the music, and I frugged like there was no tomorrow. The Lemming looked like he was going to be ill.

  “You dance like Bruce Springsteen,” he said. Hooray! Modern hipness is something that usually evades me.

  At the back of the patio, I saw Fat Bald Jeff talking with Francis. Instead of the grandpa sweater and soiled jeans, Francis wore an extremely snug vest and cleanish trousers. His silky shirt gaped open and the flyaway collars draped over his shoulders. A magnetic force drew me in, like the slutty girls who were drawn to Val. I floated over to Francis, staring at the wild chest hair struggling to break free from the confines of buttons and cloth.

  I interrupted their conversation, but no amount of etiquette training could have saved me; my reaction was primal and savage. I reached out and touched the tip of the flapping collar.

  I rasped, “This is what Yanni wore when he played his concert in the Acropolis and made his mother cry.” I may have drooled, but savagery such as mine cannot be controlled where Yanni is concerned.

  Francis replied, “Uh … yes.” He nervously smoothed down his shirt and pushed his black hair out of his face. Jeff rolled his eyes to the heavens.

  “Care to dance?” asked Francis.

  I removed my spectacles. The previous bout of frugging taught me I am apt to lose my balance midprance, and I did not want to squash them.

  “No,” he said, putting them back on the bridge of my nose. “Keep them on. They’re kind of sexy.”

  We danced together. Really close. I got a fluttery, anxious feeling in my stomach, just like when I found a real Kate Spade pencil pouch in the dollar bin at the thrift.

  After the song, Val walked by and nudged me, whispering, “Nice going! You know what it means when a man can dance well.”

  Of course I do. It means his parents had the good sense to enroll him in dancing class in junior high, and that he probably has decent manners as well. Score!

  Fat Bald Jeff had started to move away from us when he stopped abruptly, inclining his head toward the apartments next door. He strained, listening for something. “There it is again,” said Jeff suddenly. “Listen.” Down the gangway between my building and the next came a high squealing cry. Jeff told Francis all about the beheading and subsequent nightmares the whining white pup had evoked.

  I said, “The fence over there is broken.” We all looked at the chain-link fence separating the alley from the back of the neighboring building. Part of it had been pulled away, revealing a means of entrance.

  A moment of expectant silence, then Jeff said, “Oh, no.”

  Francis said, “Right. I’ll bring my car around.”

  Ten minutes later, Francis and I sat waiting in the car two blocks away. We parked on a dark side street underneath a burned-out street lamp.

  Why, just three months ago I was boiling up simple beige foods for supper without a thought to my fellow man or beast, and the next thing I knew, I was inciting rebellion in coworkers and participating in an animal liberation plot. Somehow a sullen bloated computer geek had inspired me to revolution—I, formerly one of the hordes of complacent, gullible fools at work, have become somewhat brave, a little daring, and sort of productive. Sure, Jeff may live in a shanty and eat canned goods by the boatload; he may bathe, however infrequently, in a metal apple-bobbing tub; he may slaughter attacking pets; he may have a ribbon of misanthropy running through his soul; but he has a good heart underneath all the flesh, however clogged with cholesterol its arteries may be.

  “Here he comes,” said Francis, and sure enough, Fat Bald Jeff emerged from the dark alley. One could scarcely notice the extra bulge under his jean jacket, though we saw a small fuzzy white head peek out between the buttons of his coat.

  We dropped Jeff and the puppy off at the hovel while we went to the store for dog food and squeaky toys. When we returned, Jeff had fallen asleep on the crusty futon, the pup snoozing peacefully atop his mammoth belly. He stirred in his sleep, opened an eye groggily, and muttered, “I’m calling him Zero.”

  He claimed it was because he had finally made something out of the “nothing” of his life. But I think it’s from the Zero candy bar that started our whole adventure.

  Francis and I drove back to the party. Realized I had completely forgotten about the Lemming, leaving him there without any explanation; also realized I didn’t care. At the intersection of Damen and Fullerton, a street vendor lurched into traffic, wielding a white bucket, and stumbled from car to car. Francis rolled down his window and motioned to him. He handed the vendor a bill, and the vendor withdrew one of those electric red roses from the bucket.

  Driving away, Francis handed me the thing and said, “I wish it were real, but at least this one will last longer.”

  A tiny tear escaped my eye as I clutche
d the simulated, neon blossom. Who needs The Language of Flowers? Everybody knows what a red rose means.