‘It’s almost noon and you’re still in your pajamas! You’re a grown thirty-one-year-old man!’ I swear if I didn’t say it, no one else would. I’ve known him too long; it’s almost my job.
‘It’s my day off.’ He always thinks he has a valid comeback but I was not buying it.
‘I’m going to the gym!’ I shouted defensively, letting him know I take care of myself, that I put my health first. When I’m feeling momentarily insecure, an emotion usually lost on me, telling people I’m going to work out makes me feel like a woman in control.
‘Yeah, yeah,’ he said, ‘you’ve been saying that for years.’ He never believes me. One day I’m going to go to the gym everyday. Starting tomorrow.
Pumped and vexed, I turned to the house and noticed some mail sticking out of Margot’s mailbox and I imagined the type of mail she gets. It was probably all about her breasts. I bet her breasts have no idea they were getting fan mail because she most likely forgets to tell them because she thinks it’s all about her, anyway. Maybe I’ve been getting fan mail, too, just like her breasts, but I had no idea because it was getting intercepted.
I did receive a love letter once. It was from a wiggly boy named Barry in fourth grade. I spent the entire summer memorizing what he wrote, twisting the letters backwards so they could even be read from the inside out, you know, so my heart could read them. I knew not just every line but every word and rhythm, the way the vowels tipped and dragged on my tongue when I spoke them. The way they tasted together and apart.
We spent that summer making our Barbies have sex with each other, not really understanding what was going on but feeling like it somehow made us closer because that’s what Brenda told me adults do when they love each other. Now Barry’s gay and I’ve lost the letter and the dolls but it’s okay, it wasn’t the best letter anyway: ‘Hello, Tabby. Your hair is nice. You look like my hamster. His name is Steve. He poops a lot. Love, Barry.’ I found out later Steve was so fat he died shortly after. That was the only love letter I’ve ever received (of course, not counting the ones I don’t know about).
Margot’s boyfriend works at Whole Foods, where all the good-looking men work. His name is Richard and he is in the prepared-foods section, dicing, slicing, mixing, serving. A part of his left ear is missing. Just the tip. I heard it was cut off in a street fight with a butcher’s knife, ironically. Needless to say, he is extremely sexy.
All I’ve ever dreamed about was being kissed in a supermarket. It’s quite possibly the most romantic place to kiss because it’s romance where it doesn’t usually exist; it’s being loved during the mundane errands we have to do. I sometimes just walk around the aisles and imagine shopping with my husband, and as I’m blabbering on about ingredients for a meal he’d grab me and kiss me, right there in front of the world. We would be that couple.
I steadied myself at the entrance before going through, letting the automatic doors sense my readiness. They opened and I walked through casually, as if to just pick up some eggs on my way to work. I’ve had jobs before so I knew how to play this up, the whole ‘excuse me, I’m on my way to work because I’m a real adult’ vibe. I didn’t have to act too much because I nanny, and nannying requires protein, too, just like any other job.
My first stop was the fresh fruit and vegetables section, directly across from the prepared foods. I slid from mound to mound, pretending to assess the ripeness of avocados and the amount of green on the lemons while I looked around stealthily for Richard.
From my periphery, I saw him. I could admit I’d like to climb him like a koala but I don’t believe in adultery, tempting as it is, so I didn’t. I did, however, need him to notice me so I stood up tall to make myself look as slim as possible, turning my hips to the side as if someone were about to take a photo. I learned this trick from my mother. She always crosses her legs in pictures and has her arms on her hips with a side twist to make her figure look svelte. She lives by the motto that if you think you’re the best, everyone else will, too. Oh, and to never point out your faults; no one likes an insecure woman. ‘If you’ve got a big butt,’ she’d say, ‘never, ever, ask a man if it looks big. Just wear a tight belt and he’ll never notice because all he’ll be able to see is how small your waist is.’
Growing up, my mother had a palpable hatred of insecurity. One time she slapped me when I said no boys would ever like me because of my gapped tooth. ‘You’re different!’ she yelled. ‘And thank God for that or else you’d be a real bore! Someone’s going to love the shit out of that little gap.’ I pondered this as I let my tongue slip through the space in my teeth with the tentativeness of an eel gathering its confidence to surface from a cave. I thought of my mother, of her current suffering self-esteem – she was just dumped by another lover, whom she referred to as Timbo; oh, how she oscillates with ease! I thought of how she needs me to be strong as she inexorably slips back into one of her depressions. I didn’t mind looking after her when she was in between men, though, because it gave me an excuse to help her and be needed.
I gave up posing for a moment because it was really hard work (I have no idea how street performers do it), so I started juggling avocados for a minute or two. I dropped one inevitably each attempt, but that was only because I was out of practice. I thought it might startle Richard, the noise the avocados made as they fell, but he was not looking my way. If Richard would have only seen me juggling atrociously, he might have offered to help me get better. He might then even have asked to start meeting me after his shifts to practice and that’s how we’d fall for each other (of course, my neighbor would be out of the picture by then). That’s another lesson from my mother: Men love a project, something to fix. Sometimes, and I know this from experience, you need to give a man a way to feel needed. You have to create space for someone to come into your life and you do that through need. That’s why I cleared room in my closet for a man’s clothes. I didn’t know what man would need to put his clothes in there but the point was that the room had been created for him for whenever he decided to show up. The moment was nearing and it could even have been that moment, which was quite thrilling. Just like how my mother gives me a reason to be needed, I was giving Richard one. I wanted to write Post-it notes with the words ‘It could be now!’ on them and stick them all over the city to inspire and remind humans that the best is around the corner. Hope is addictive.
‘Wow,’ someone said, catching me off guard because no one ever talks to me first, ‘you’re quite coordinated.’ I turned and found a man and he was smiling at me. I wasn’t sure if he was playing a game or being real but I would rather assume the best so I relaxed and let myself feel flattered. My cheeks were swelling and I was getting red and it felt good to be alive again.
‘I’m juggling,’ I said in a fake English accent, trying to invoke the Margot in me, but it came out a little like Dick Van Dyke from Mary Poppins. ‘But I am doing so terribly, aren’t I?’ I added, giving him an in. Between him thinking I was British and having a flaw he could fix, I was definitely irresistible. He wasn’t Richard, but sometimes we are brought down certain paths and we don’t know why until we look at them in retrospect. I thought I was coming to Whole Foods for Richard, but maybe I wasn’t. Maybe it was for this guy with the pithy observations. Not knowing was what kept me going.
He didn’t tell me I was good at juggling or that I had a cute accent but that was okay because at least he was not an empty flatterer. I’d much rather be patient and let him compliment me when he wanted to, when he was ready.
‘Where’s that accent from?’ he asked.
‘London,’ I said quickly, effortlessly. ‘I’m from Chiswick.’ I actually had no idea where Chiswick was but I knew a girl once who said she was from there, and I had to think on my feet.
‘No shit. I actually lived in Chiswick for two years. What street?’
I desperately picked up a handful of raspberries and forced them onto each of my fingers so that I could re-enact that moment in Curly Sue when the little girl
picks off each raspberry and manages to shove them all into her mouth in one go. Almost as soon as they were on my fingers they were in my mouth because I was panicking and needed a few seconds to strategize. I looked like I was storing nuts in my cheeks at this point, all squirrel faced, full of raspberries. I peeked over to see Richard but he must have been in the back room, washing and sorting.
‘Oh,’ I said, quite pained, trying to keep up my English accent while my mouth was still full. ‘You know, just off the main road. The one with the shops. Lovely area!’ I had never even been to England before but I was praying there was a main road in Chiswick. He looked at me with a hint of confusion but I stuck my tits out and arched my back because the sweetness of his face made him look like a man who might be distracted by the suppleness and shape of natural breasts.
‘What’s your name?’ he asked.
‘Tabitha,’ I said. ‘And yours?’ I couldn’t believe this accent was working.
‘James. Nice to meet you.’ His arm was extended to shake mine so I wiped off the berry juice on my jeans and latched on.
I was looking at this man in front of me and I almost forgot that I was there to stand up for my breasts because I could see James and I together. I could see us cutting wood outside a cabin. Well, I could see him chopping wood outside while I had a fire going inside, cooking some roast dinner, drinking a glass of Prosecco. Good Prosecco, too. I imagined calling out to him from the cabin doors, rusty and in need of WD40 like the Tin Man. And then I realized he was like my lion in need of a heart. ‘You can have my heart,’ I imagined saying, gladly. Exuberantly. Proudly. Wildly, until I realized I was saying it out loud.
‘Wow . . .’ he said, chuckling. ‘You move fast, don’t you.’ I thought at first that he was still charmed but then it hit me: Something must be wrong. He was just too cute and nice, and he was talking to me . . . there had to be a catch. Something must be off. I was so used to men not being interested that when they were, well, I assumed the worst.
‘Are you sober?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘How big is your willy?’ I went on, searching for the kicker because he was sounding way too perfect. Inhuman almost. There must have been a catch. ‘I just mean roughly.’
‘Excuse me?’ He was starting to back away from me in small, measured steps, as if I were now the lion and he was walking backwards to keep me calm but really, you knew, he wanted to run.
‘Or maybe it’s a weird fetish? You like midget porn, don’t you? Wait! You have a terrible mother?’ I paused for a moment, collecting myself, then said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m not used to dating.’
He still looked perplexed but I didn’t blame him because it felt like we were in a parallel dimension, one that was cloudy and humid, one wherein you couldn’t feel your body but somehow you knew it was tingling. Maybe that was what love felt like.
James was basically around the corner at this point, halfway down the next aisle, when I heard another guy say, ‘Excuse me.’ When I turned around, it was Richard. He was right up next to me and I couldn’t stop looking at his ear.
‘Excuse me,’ he repeated. He was carrying what appeared to be an enormous tray of chicken salad. It looked heavy and I forgot to move out of the way because I was so distracted by his half-ear. He was sweating and nervous, probably because I looked so good up close.
‘Hey, can you please step over a bit. I just need to put this tray down,’ he said. I looked over and there was a gap where the chicken salad was supposed to go. While James and I were talking, we must have floated upstream towards the self-serve salad area where you can make your own lunch.
‘I’m just here to buy some eggs!’ I shouted because I didn’t want him to suspect anything.
‘Cool,’ he said. ‘But can you move over a bit so I can slide this in?’
‘I thought you’d never ask!’ I said, stepping to the side, laughing a little, all of a sudden quite timid. Quite self-conscious that I was coming in too hot, too strong, messing it up before it had begun. Sometimes I hear myself talk and wonder where the words come from. I get embarrassed but figure they’re already out, so go with it.
‘I know your girlfriend,’ I said.
‘Margot?’ he asked. I watched as his eyebrows engaged in their own version of Downward Dog.
‘Well, yes, unless you have another one.’ Philanderers! ‘Basically,’ I paused. ‘The point is, Margot’s, you know. They’re so . . . perfect and—’
I was puffing my chest out again, like the penguin Margot said I was, trying to reinvigorate the confidence of my breasts around The Breast Man but he was ignoring me, trying to place the tray into the slot but it wouldn’t fit right because some food was lodged in the hole. I had to get him to talk to me, to tell me what I needed to hear so my boobs didn’t slip into their own depression.
‘Can you hold this for a sec?’ he asked, because he couldn’t dislodge and hold at the same time. Clearly he wasn’t a multitasker and I wondered how that affected his moves in the bedroom.
‘Sure,’ I said, holding out my hands, taking the tray. It actually was really heavy so I balanced it on the corner while his fingers fished out remnants of a past dish in the crevices between metal trays.
‘So who are you?’ he asked, looking at me sideways. Checking me out. Oh, Richard!
‘I’m Margot’s neighbor,’ I said, unsure of how to continue. ‘I see why you like her. Her breasts are perfect.’
‘Uh, that’s a weird thing to say but . . .’ he stopped. ‘But yeah, they’re pretty great.’
‘Are they hard when you touch them?’ I asked. ‘I mean, sure, they look great but are they just as nice as the soft puppies on a natural girl?’ I lifted my hands out widely to gesture my boobs but, as soon as I did, the tray abruptly fell off the counter before I could compute what was happening.
‘Fuck!’ he screamed as salad with nuts flew everywhere, sliding across Whole Foods, landing on shoes. Chunks of chicken sprayed across the floor, mayonnaise everywhere. Cream. Guts. Gross. The vibe was tense, jumpy. Whole Foods employees swarmed the area like flies on shit, and to my dismay, I was being pushed out of the private cleanup party that shortly after ensued.
‘It’s okay,’ I said to no one. ‘I’ve been pushed out by the best of them!’ Richard was shouting, hands flailing, as the others screamed at him, berating. Shoppers looked on, rubbernecking, annoyed because they wanted that salad. I noticed my hands sinking in my pant pockets, searching. I found an avocado from earlier that I must have accidentally, distractedly, put in my pocket when James was after me. I guess I really was nervous.
I looked at the avocado and I wanted to join the pit in its cocoon of warmth and soft green but I was not sure how I was going to get there. I wanted to have a strong core, to be constantly, unconditionally cradled by velvet. I wanted to know what it was like to expire and be past my best-before date only to taste even better because I was so ripe. I squeezed the avocado as hard as I could until the fat started to seep through my fastened fingers. I was thinking I was never going to stop squeezing, even when I hit the pit, hit rock bottom; I was going to keep squeezing as hard as I could, getting every last bit, because once it stopped I’d have to live in the world again. I’d have to face Richard, chicken breasts, Margot and her perky breasts. And of course, I’d have to deal with my own, less pronounced, less aggressive, less offensive breasts, sweet as they were.
I kept my fists tight as people continued to fuss around me, as if I was not even there. I felt myself perspire and my hands tremble. I had this feeling that if I didn’t release my clasp soon, I’d die from sheer exhaustion. I thought then that I was dying but when I looked down, all the green was on the floor, alongside the broken pit, and there was nothing left in my hand to squeeze. Somehow, though, I was still alive.
Richard looked up and asked me if I was going to pay for that avocado and it crystallized at once the whole situation. Instantly I became very aware of my value, how mature I really was (I thou
ght maybe being in a natural foods store, without a processed item in sight, also made me feel better). And so I grabbed my boobs and yelled out, ‘See these melons? They’re real and they’re beautiful! They’re just as good as jaunty breasts because they have their own unique disposition and personality. They might not be hard, but they rock!’ When I looked down, I saw I’d stained my shirt with the remains of avocado green on my fingers. Two painted hands on my boobs; too bad they were my own.
James must have been close enough to witness me drop the accent because I could faintly hear him telling someone, ‘Hey, wait, she said she was British,’ but it was okay because I just didn’t care. It was so exhilarating to be proud of my breasts again that, all of a sudden, I could feel them lifting. Expanding. Growing not just bigger than they’ve ever been but bigger than all the biggest breasts in the world. Bigger than Pamela Anderson’s. More bouncy than Jennifer Love Hewitt’s. And most importantly, more fabulous than Margot’s miraculous breasts, real or fake, because they were mine. I didn’t find love but I did learn to love myself even a little bit more. If only my mother could see me now, she’d be so proud.
The Dancer
The charity event my sister invited me to was looming and I had less than an hour to get ready. My mom was screaming out obscenities because she couldn’t find anything to wear as my sister drowned out her moaning with a hair dryer. I put on some bright red lipstick because I know red lips lure in eyes and it’s a perfect way to draw attention when you’re not on a date and know that no one is going to kiss you. I put on my wedges but they’re too high for me to walk comfortably in and I had to hold on to the sides of the walls and anyone around me to keep me from falling, but hey, the extra height always helps.
‘Hey, Randall,’ I said, steadying myself as I bent down to give him a hug.
‘Spin me!’ he said, to which Mary of course added, ‘Me too! Spin me too!’
The Optimist Page 12