The Makedown

by Gitty Daneshvari

  “I love Carl’s Jr.,” I mutter.

  “I used to eat two Western Bacon Cheeseburgers, onion rings, and french fries for lunch. Trust me, I understand the appeal. Where are you from?”

  “How do you know I am not from here?”

  “You’re wearing white socks with a navy suit and black shoes.”

  “I guess I’m not very stylish.” She doesn’t disagree. I wipe my face, feeling outrageously self-conscious and exhausted after the crying marathon.

  “I was born and raised in Ohio,” I say quietly.

  “Okay, Anna, here’s the deal. I need an assistant, someone to pick up stuff, chop, and basically help me do what I do. I specified someone with a college degree, because after eight assistants, I know that a base level of intelligence is needed to follow my instructions precisely.”

  I stare at her, unsure if she expects me to say something. I graduated from Penn with a degree in molecular biology. I am sure I can comprehend her directions.

  “So if I write out directions, you would feel comfortable taking a short walk to pick up a few items?”

  Two weeks, I think. “Yes, I can handle that.”

  “Excellent,” Janice says softly as she grabs for a pen. “Let’s begin.”

  Chapter Six

  J anice is a liar. A big, massive liar. Perhaps even the largest liar in the five boroughs. Plus she has the geography skills of a blind man. I have stained my pits yellow following these directions. Fortunately, you can’t tell because my suit is navy, but I can feel it. I’m a mess of perspiration from traipsing around Manhattan, walking in a series of interlocking circles as I faithfully follow her maps. It’s almost as if she’s trying to confuse me. These directions took me around Tompkins Square Park three times, each time in a wider circle, before heading to the West Village, then back to the Lower East Side. All the while, these damn plastic bags cut into my arm, stopping the circulation. I wouldn’t be surprised if my arms were the color of eggplant by the time I finish. Two weeks, I chant as my mantra, two weeks.

  The bags of venison, Polynesian basil, and Napa Valley wines fall to the floor of the elevator as I slump heavily against the wall. I stare longingly at the control panel, salivating over the large red stop button. I would gladly spend the night in here so I could cool down and take a nap. The doors open, setting me free to trudge down the hall with my arms full, stopping only to throw my body against Janice’s front door. “Uhhhh,” I grunt at Janice as she opens the door, wearing a pristine white apron. What kind of a chef keeps an apron clean while cooking?

  “Oh, Anna, you must be exhausted. Drop the bags. Come sit down; I’ve made you a snack.”

  The wine clinks against the cement floor, miraculously remaining intact as I collapse on a wooden chair with hair pasted to my forehead. Janice places a chilled bottle of water and a bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt in front of me. I guzzle the water untidily, droplets flowing out both sides of my mouth. She watches me with the love of a concerned parent, which weirds me out, especially considering how harsh she was earlier.

  “Great job, Anna! Water is good for your digestive system. You know, people often eat when they’re really just dehydrated.”

  “Good to know,” I pant. “By the way . . . your directions . . . fucking sucked! When did you move here?” I ask.

  “Must be fifteen years now.”

  “And you still haven’t figured out your way around the city? I was walking in circles, attempting to decipher your convoluted directions.”

  “Listen, Anna, I’m going to level with you.”

  I recoil in terror, squinting my eyes and hunching my shoulders in preparation.

  “Don’t worry, I am not going to call you fat . . . again. However, if you’re working for me, I see it as my job to . . . well . . . to improve you. Smooth out the edges. And I say this as a Former Fatty— someone who’s walked in those size-eighteen pants. I’ve been turned down for jobs because my ass was too big. They didn’t say it, but I knew it, so if you’re working for me, I see it as a disservice to let you stay this way. The world can be pretty mean.”

  Technically, this is what I’ve always wanted— a beautiful woman to take me under her wing and make me over in her image— but something about it makes me uneasy.

  “I know you can’t believe me right now, but this is for your own good— and mine— since it doesn’t really look good for caterers to have . . . you know . . . bigger employees. It makes people think the food is fattening.”

  “But really, you’re doing this for my good?” I say to Janice, unsure what to make of this Betty Crocker crackhead.

  “I used to be at least one and a half times your size. Trust me; I know what I am talking about. The world is a hell of a lot meaner to people with weight issues, and I’m not talking about simply calling you the f word to your face. I’m talking about all the stuff they say behind your back. I want to rescue you from all that, Anna. Now then; take another liter of water, and I’ll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp.”

  I allow her to push me toward the door, wondering what all this water is supposed to do, other than make me uncomfortable on the way home. I’m too tired to care. I don’t even bother saying good-bye; I just wave from the hallway.

  My legs are sore. With each step, I remember that building muscle is achieved through tearing tissue. Red and stringy masses of flesh, from my heels to my groin, pound under the pressure of minuscule fissures. Most notably painful are the soles of my feet, covered in quarter-sized blisters. Running a close second are the red sores caused by the rubbing together of my thighs. These raw spots sting as they scratch against the rough polyester of my pants. I hobble toward my front door, lusting for the opportunity to lie down and take off my clothes. My muscles, skin, and mind desperately crave stillness. Slamming the door behind me, I remove my clothes and collapse facedown on the futon. Without moving the rest of my body, I extend my left arm, grab the phone, and hit redial.

  “Hello, Wong’s Garden.”

  “I need egg rolls, about fifteen . . . no, make it twenty . . . and some ribs. This is an emergency, so make it snappy,” I say, lying naked, spread-eagle on the bed.

  All life-changing plans have been abandoned, allowing me to gorge without any guilt. In a sense, I am on vacation for the next two weeks. A respite before I return to my humble origins. As any good travel magazine will tell you, sampling the local fare is half the fun. Plus, I won’t be able to partake in any Chinese cuisine once back with Mother. Post Dad leaving Mother for Ming, Chinese food is frowned upon heavily in the Norton house. Any consumption of kung pao chicken, Szechuan beef, or hot and sour soup is considered fraternizing with the enemy.

  I wake the next morning and begin my preparations to avoid the agonies of the day before. I treat the sores on my upper thighs with Neosporin before pulling on a pair of black stretch pants and a baggy sweatshirt. Band-Aids are applied liberally before I place my never-before-worn running shoes on my feet. Much to my surprise, the shoes still fit. I bought them during a bout of optimism at the mall freshman year at Penn. By the time I returned to my dorm room, all interest in running had died, and the shoes remained in my closet for the next four years. They will definitely come in handy now.

  After exiting the subway near Janice’s Lower East Side kitchen, I pause to allow strangers to scrutinize me. I welcome their judgment of me as a poorly dressed tourist because that’s exactly what I am. I no longer strive for more; I was born a fatty in the Midwest and I will die a fatty in the Midwest. I have seen the light, and it is sending me back to the dark, because that’s where I belong.

  “Wow,” Janice says as she opens the door, “are you going to the gym, ’cause I think you’re late for the step class— in 1985. This outfit is . . . awful. It’s worse than yesterday’s suit.”

  “Nice to see you again, too. And yes, I am sporting a casual look today, but I felt it more appropriate considering all the running around you made me do yesterday. My body is not quite . . . used to it, so
—”

  “Fair enough. This level of movement is new to you. I understand that,” Janice says matter-of-factly. “But stretch pants?”

  “Well, they’re comfortable,” I say as my cheeks darken dramatically with shame. I can’t bear the idea of crying in front of this woman again, yet I can’t stop the water from welling beneath my eyelids. I am so tired of the indignity of being me. This is why I must leave New York; I need to go where fat asses in stretch pants don’t surprise people. I need to be allowed to hate myself quietly without people bringing my inadequacies to my attention.

  “Oh, no. Why are you crying?” Janice asks with a wrinkled forehead.

  “I’m not,” I protest before realizing that I am. The tears I tried valiantly to hold in have exploded onto my face. I am powerless. Powerless to control my tears. Powerless to control my weight and body. Powerless to fit into, let alone afford, appropriate clothes.

  “Anna? Anna! You’re freaking me out. What is it?”

  I can only point to my pants and speak unclearly, “They’re all I have. The other stuff gives me blisters. I’m so ashamed . . .”

  Janice looks simultaneously annoyed and heartbroken. “Never, ever, cry over stretch pants. Actually, never cry over clothes. Come on, I’m going to teach you a trick,” Janice says, grabbing her quilted handbag off the counter.

  “Please, don’t make me go out in public,” I whine. “Everyone will point at me.”

  “Okay, you need a reality check. You are not Michael Jackson or one of his freaky kids with the veils on their heads; people aren’t going to stare at you. They may look and wonder where you’re visiting from, but that’s it. Trust me, whatever happens, I will handle all interaction with the outside world. Here, put on my sunglasses. Let’s go,” Janice commands.

  I follow Janice out of the building, staring at the nearby Williamsburg Bridge through her expensive glasses, wondering if she’d be so kind as to push me off it. Unfortunately, we head in the other direction.

  “You’re not taking me to Jenny Craig, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Weight Watchers?”

  “No.”

  “Anywhere with a scale? I don’t think I could handle that.”

  “No scales,” Janice says firmly.

  If she’s lying, so help me God, I’ll smother her smooth face in my flabby stomach. Rage boils within me as I imagine Janice smiling patronizingly as she points to the group scale at Fatty Fucks. She will beg for air, but I won’t stop until her body falls limp, suffocated to death by my fat rolls. Janice abruptly turns onto East Broadway, intersecting throngs of iPod-listening, chicly dressed people before detouring into the Gap. Immediately, remorse over my plan to kill her takes hold. I hover on the verge of a breakdown, both physically and mentally. This is how I live my life.

  “Regardless of whether you’re heavy or not, everyone should stick to solid, basic colors: black, white, gray, beige, and navy. However, given your body type,” Janice says delicately, “white and beige should only be used as accents, understand?”

  I nod my head, still reeling with disgrace from my previous thoughts. Janice absorbs my nod, then takes off, pulling dark-colored items off the racks like a sniper. My eyes trained to the floor, I follow Janice’s black flats around the room. I simply cannot handle making eye contact with any of the other patrons. Recognizing their stifled laughter or curiosity over my dated outfit would break me.

  “Anna?” Janice asks nicely. “Are you ready?”

  I pull my head up slowly, noting we’re in the dressing room. My heart drops to my stomach, landing in a nasty bath of bile. I don’t want to take my clothes off, even if I’m alone in the room. All those mirrors allow me to see what others do when walking behind me.

  “I don’t think I can do it. I just, I—”

  “Yes, you can. I purposely chose items with some give,” Janice says sternly, handing me the first outfit. Unable to fight her, I agree and enter the dressing room. My eyes stay focused on the dirty gray carpet as I remove my clothes. Not once do I lift my gaze to see my reflection in the mirror. I merely pull on the black, low-waisted trousers, white T-shirts, and plain black sweater. Exiting the room, I hear Janice gasp.

  “Yes, now we’re talking,” she says happily.

  I look up, gaining encouragement from her voice and turning toward the mirror. I am still fat with bad skin, but I admit, I appear more dignified. “Wow,” I say stupidly.

  “It’s a simple trick. Never try to hide the flaw, just dress it better. Even after I started dieting, I had months and months of fat left on me. It became more painful as I started really looking at my body, so I decided if I was going to be fat, I would be well dressed and fat.”

  “Yeah, you’re right,” I say with a grin before something dawns on me: money. I can’t afford these clothes, never mind how much better I look. To the best of my knowledge, Gap doesn’t offer scholarships for the weight-and financially challenged.

  “Stop, stop worrying. I’m buying. Consider it a signing bonus.”

  “Oh, no . . . I was—” I begin to lie.

  “Stop. It was all over your face. Just say thank you.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  I’ve decided to give Janice and New York another chance.

  Chapter Seven

  T he Janice regime consists of walking everywhere, from the newly gentrified Battery Park to the stuffy Upper East Side in search of spices, organic produce, and occasionally her laundry. Mostly, I contemplate ways to ask Janice for a raise while trudging through the streets in all-black ensembles of trousers, loafers, cotton T-shirts, and cardigans. Shockingly, the job is much easier now that I have appropriate clothes for blending into the monochromatic city. Janice has also introduced me to the mind-blowing line of Spanx tights and body shapers. They make my fat smooth, ironing out the unsightly lumps. I remain an overweight girl, but an improved one. Every day, I roll my eyes as Janice monitors my snacks, insisting that I follow her protein and vegetable regimen. I follow it when I am with her because frankly, it’s easier than handling the guilt she piles on. Janice behaves like a highly involved parent, which is simultaneously comforting and annoying. As long as I can recall, I have been solely responsible for the monstrosity I have made out of my body. It’s a relief to have another name on the deed to my distended ass. On the other hand, I profoundly resent being told what to do by someone who doles out paychecks like an allowance.

  My desire to be a self-sufficient grown-up often bumps into Janice’s controlling generosity. She genuinely enjoys having me around as a project, pal, and employee all in one. However, I see another self-serving motive beneath her perfectly microdermabrasioned skin. She needs me. No one else with my education, or even half my education, would do this job for minimum wage. I often picture Janice at home in her apartment in a chic West Village prewar brownstone, translating my salary into Indian rupees. Surely she sleeps better knowing that my salary could support a family of twenty in rural India. It’s not to say that Janice is cheap, because she’s not. She’s supplied me with multiple outfits from the Gap, all her choice, of course, and many accessories. She feeds me healthy foods and unlimited supplies of bottled water, all of which I appreciate. The bottom line is that Janice is a taskmaster who sticks to her ways, even outdated ones, such as paying people minimum wage to toughen them up and suss out their interests. The reality is that my ability to survive at the job has more to do with my cheap rent than anything else.

  Feeling virtuous after eating a grilled chicken breast prepared by the health food Nazi, I board the L train with throngs of funky yet successful-looking Brooklynites. Most of them get off the L in Williamsburg, giving me room to regret drinking that last liter of water. Janice constantly pushes water on me, marking a chart every time I finish a bottle. “Do you really need to write down how much water I drink?” I ask in my “you’re so lame” tone of voice.

  “You are an investment. I keep track of all my investments. Stocks, bonds, art, and An
na.”

  “I feel so—”

  “Important?”

  “Not exactly,” I respond honestly. “More like com- modified.”

  “Come on, Anna, you’re part of my team now. You reflect on me and I reflect on you. Plus, you’ll be happier. I cry a lot less now that I’m thin,” Janice says with a wink of the eye.

  Clearly, she realizes how asinine her “investment” conversation sounds, yet she says it. Part of me thinks I have wandered upon someone as lonely as I am, regardless of the fact that she’s married to some supposedly fantastic guy. She enjoys me, and the focus I bring to her life, a little too much. Janice has found a safe and productive manner in which to channel her control issues. And I have found an FG and mother figure.

  My own mother, it should be noted, always elicited a certain rebellion in me. Small things such as calling her the formal “Mother” were intended to irk her, although they didn’t. Numerous times, I pointed out the uselessness of her glasses in front of strangers, but again she paid me no mind. In Janice, I have an involved guardian, one who my rebellions would deeply upset. Therefore, when falling off the wagon, I go to great lengths to cover it up. An estimated two times a week, I indulge my love of junk. Today as I charge up the subway stairs, a strong aroma dazzles my olfactory glands. I breathe out sharply, trying to regain a semblance of composure. Now that I am staying in New York for an extended period, I have made the decision to at least try to be a bit healthier. When I thought I was leaving in two weeks, it was a free-for-all of fried foods, but after the introduction to inexpensive style at the Gap, I’m pushing myself to lighten the burden of self-loathing. It’s much more exhausting to hate myself and my body when my job forces me out in the world on a daily basis.

  After hopping up the stairs from the subway, I stop in front of my favorite pizzeria. I have come to know many of the junk food dealers on the street personally, and as I peer through the plate glass window, I spot my man with the mole. He’s the one who adds extra cheese to the pizza. Don’t, I tell myself, picturing how remorseful I will feel after stuffing my face. On the other hand, this is a special occasion; the man with the mole is here. This doesn’t happen every day. It’s better than a sale. And no one passes on their favorite items when they’re on sale, do they? If I don’t eat the mole man’s pizza, I will regret it. Maybe I’ll only eat half the slice. Yes, that is a fabulous compromise. I won’t feel quite as guilty, but I will still get to enjoy mole man’s extra cheese. Of course, I will have to buy the whole slice, since they don’t sell halvsies. “A slice of pepperoni,” I tell the mole man, my mouth dripping with anticipation. “What days are you here?”