Hunger Point

by Jillian Medoff

  “In an ideal world, that could happen. But what am I supposed to do about Frannie? Throw her out on the street? I don’t think she is capable of taking care of herself. She’s…”

  DON’T SAY THAT! I can so. I’ve only been here two months. I practically just moved in. I open my mouth as wide as I can and bite into the apple. I chew loudly and belligerently, smacking my lips like a cow.

  “Who’s there?” she hisses. Then I hear a whisper and the sound of the phone being gently hung up.

  In the kitchen, I hike myself on the counter. Covering her breasts with her arm, my mother walks quickly to the refrigerator. She stands with her back to me, gulps juice from the carton, and swallows a Valium. Peeking out from her nightgown, her underwear hangs like a diaper.

  I reach into the cabinet. “Glass?”

  She shakes her head and I want to smack her. I can’t imagine what any man could see in her. Her legs are soft and rippled with cellulite, her stomach is distended behind her sheer gown, and her breasts sag like cones. I hop off the counter and arch my back, making sure she can see the entirety of my body through my gauzy dress; the muscles in my legs, the way my breasts stand out like small, perky headlights. She glances at me and stiffens.

  “Who was that on the phone?” I ask.

  “Grandpa. He can’t sleep. Just lonely, I guess.” She takes another drink of juice. “How was your date?”

  I shrug. “He’s really rich. His family was on the Mayflower. He wants to marry me, but I don’t know. It seems a little soon.” My head pounds. I take a deep breath and count the tiles above the stove. My mother studies me in the warm kitchen light. As she watches me, I feel powerful. “I hope…” I say slowly. Her brown eyes dart around the room, flirting, it seems, with telling me. “…that Grandpa feels better. Maybe we should plan a trip to Florida.”

  She nods, relieved. “That’s a good idea. We should go on a trip. You can invite your new boyfriend.” She walks out of the kitchen and snaps off the light, leaving me alone in the dark.

  “I’m moving out, Mom. As soon as I find a job.”

  “It’s okay, Frannie,” she says from the next room. “Having you around makes me feel young.” She giggles and utters a self-conscious “Oh,” covering her mouth as if she burped. She hides a smile behind her hand, which infuriates me. She’s not supposed to be this way! She’s supposed to be guilty and nervous and begging me not to tell anyone!

  “Hey, Mom!” I call sharply. “Next time you get the urge to talk on the phone in the middle of the night, especially when I’m here, don’t, okay?”

  “This is my house.” She inches up the stairs. “I’ll speak to whomever I want. Maybe you shouldn’t be sneaking around, listening to my calls.”

  Maybe, Mom, but I live here too, and it will take a crane to get me out now. You, as they say, have just made your bed.

  5

  My father has a novelty sign Velcroed to the dashboard of his precious Mercedes. The sign has a picture of a frog flat on its back. Kermit’s head is hidden in a puff of smoke and the words I’ll croak if you smoke are across the top. Every time I flick my ash, my hand knocks the sign. By the time I finish my cigarette, the sign is on the floor.

  I look at my watch. Even though I’m late, I drive slowly and smoke another cigarette. I hate maneuvering this big boat, but I needed cash when I moved home so I sold my Honda Civic. Shelly’s car is available, but it doesn’t have air conditioning and it’s so humid outside, it feels like we live in Vietnam.

  By the time I reach Rascals, I’m all agitated. Every time I get here, I feel like a Waffle House woman, white-haired and road-hard with leathery skin and grapefruit calves. It is my destiny, I’m afraid, after four years of high school and four more of college, to work the graveyard shift, wear thick-ribbed support hose, and flirt with the fry chef.

  “You’re late,” Paulie says as I rush past him.

  “I know. I’m sorry. My sister’s in the hospital. She just had a baby.” I smile sheepishly at him. Even though he’s good-looking, tall, with black hair and olive skin, I can’t take him seriously because he believes all my lies and always lets me slide. I wonder if that’s why he never made it in the real world. Maybe no one else takes him seriously either.

  “Frannie, you don’t even have your uniform on.”

  “I just got it from the cleaner’s.” I rush into the ladies’ room and pull my crumpled uniform from my gym bag. I put on black pants and a white shirt and my duck apron with its strings that hang behind me like a tail. They should tell you in college that even if you get A’s, even if you take classes like “Deconstructing Mass Communications: Survival on the Information Highway,” you’re still going to ask “You want fries with that?” when you get out.

  I pull my knotted tie over my head, throw some pens in my apron, and console myself that I don’t have to work at Limited Express, or worse, dishing out frozen yogurt, places often frequented by people I know. When I see people from high school eating dinner off the Happy Hour buffet, I always steer clear of the area. The last thing I need is to witness a Lindsey High reunion while I’m trotting by with a tray of nachos.

  The dinner shift is in full swing by the time I make it to my first table. I breeze past Paulie and pick up a handful of checks from the hostess stand. “Frannie,” the hostess says, looking at my name tag. “I mean Wanda. The people at table two have been waiting for a while.”

  I grab four menus. “Why didn’t someone else pick them up?”

  “They look like big tippers. We saved them for you.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate it.” I whip through the dining room, sidestepping a busboy carrying a tray of soup bowls. I take the order and walk into the waitress station. As I key in my server number, I feel someone brush his cheek against my hair.

  “You’re late,” Artie says, nuzzling my neck. “I missed you at line-up. Paulie said if you were late one more time, he’d fire you. Did you see Shelly today?”

  I nod. Bile rises in my throat as I feel his warm breath on my ear. I met Artie when I started working at Rascals. Like me, he’s looking for a real job and waiting tables at night to pay his bills. He had a really good job once in real estate, but was fired when he made a pass at a client’s wife. He claims she wanted him to, but I’m not so sure. He’s always rubbing against me, tickling my back, trying to give me neck massages. I can’t stand it when he touches me. He’s got spindly arms, skinny chicken legs, and bloodshot eyes because he’s allergic to contact lens solution but too vain to wear glasses.

  I nudge him away. “Shelly’s fine. I’ll tell you about it later.” He lifts my hair with his hand and traces my ear with his finger. I feel my skin itch, but I’m paralyzed. He is so sleazy and I am so stupid. I never should have slept with him.

  “Frannie,” someone calls. “The hostess just double-seated you. Do you want me to pick up one of your tables?”

  “No, thanks.” I grab a tray. “I’ll get both. I need the money.” I walk quickly through the restaurant. As I approach the table, I smile and introduce myself.

  “I’ll have the Captain’s Salad with vinaigrette dressing on the side,” the woman tells me, pointing at the menu. She speaks loud and slowly, as if I’m a foreigner. “Is your chicken fresh?”

  I nod. “Yes,” I lie.

  “Okay, I’ll have that, but I don’t want any water chestnuts. Actually, forget that. I’ll just have the dinner salad.” She looks up. “Can you throw some chicken in that?”

  “It’ll be $1.50 extra.”

  “I don’t care. Whatever it is.”

  The man orders the fish. “Can you broil it with no butter? I can’t have any oil. I’m on a low-cholesterol diet.” I’m your waitress, I tell him silently, not your nutritionist. “And can I have rice instead of potatoes?”

  Shit, another special order. “We’re out of fish.” I smile. “How about roast chicken?”

  He looks up. “Chicken’s okay. Can you skin it?” Can I do what? I snarl at him.

 
“Oh, that sounds good,” the woman says. “I need another minute.”

  “Marlene, I’m hungry. Just eat the damn salad.” He’s right, Marlene. I don’t have time for this. Eat the fucking salad.

  Marlene smiles. “I guess I’ll have the dinner salad. But please throw some chicken in. You haven’t forgotten the chicken, have you?”

  Yes, I forgot the chicken you mentioned two seconds ago. That’s right, lady. I’m an idiot. I look at her and blink. “What chicken?”

  I’ve got to get a real job. At least tonight I can look forward to meeting Abby for a drink. She’s staying at her parents’ house and we’re getting up early to see Shelly. I haven’t told Abby about my mother’s affair. Not that Abby’s in any position to judge. She’s been sleeping with a married man for three months, although she’s also a compulsive liar, so I’m not sure exactly when it started.

  Someone tugs on my apron. I smell Artie’s aftershave and whirl around. “Can you take these waters to table six?” he asks, spewing saliva. His face is flushed and he’s sweating like a beast. “I’m in the weeds, Frannie,” he begs. “Please?”

  I grab the waters and watch him rush away. He is so pathetic. The time I fucked him, I woke up with a vicious hangover. My tongue felt like it was covered in a sock. That was one margarita too many. Not to mention the Valium I had as an appetizer. Miserable, I was really quiet, and he kept asking what was wrong. I didn’t think fast enough and told him about Shelly. Now he asks about her all the time, like he’s a member of my friends and family calling circle.

  What I really want is a guy who puts on a suit, not a name tag and an apron when he dresses for work. Is that so much to ask? Artie wouldn’t be so bad, but he whines all the time, and smacks his lips really loud when he eats. He should meet my dad. They could form a band.

  When I walk into the dining room, I stop short. One of my tables is filled with girls I knew in high school. “Frannie!” Melanie, the fattest one, screams my name, the way she’d yell “Go, Lindsey!” during football games, her ass, not so fat then, in a red and white cheerleader’s skirt. “How are you?” Her eyes glisten from too many martinis. Melanie is a short girl with frizzy hair that hangs around her face like a weeping willow. In high school, Abby and I called her The Troll. “What are you doing here?” I look at her stuffed into a bright red suit, a fat ripe tomato on toothpicks, and wish I could throw a glass of wine in her lap.

  I look around. “I’m starting law school in the fall. I was gonna go to Israel and Egypt this summer, but you know, it’s not the best time to travel.” I smile. “And you?” Still on probation at Weight Watchers?

  Melanie sips her wine, her little finger crooked like a small, pink worm. “I’m working for MTV. In publicity. I love it.” She squints. “Who’s Wanda?”

  “I’m just filling in for someone.”

  Melanie turns to her friends. “Frannie and I went to high school together. She and her best friend almost got thrown out for getting stoned in the bathroom. How is Abby, by the way?”

  “She just made partner at her law firm. And she’s dating the drummer from R.E.M. You should know him, right? Since you work for MTV? Everyone’s great.” I start to walk away, but Melanie asks me to have a drink with her when I’m done.

  “Sounds grand.” I adjust my apron, and try to wipe a smudge of ketchup off the duck’s beak. “Well, good to see you.” I turn away. “Call me if you need any legal advice.”

  Back in the kitchen, I stand over the garbage can and with my fingers eat leftover Caesar salad from a customer’s plate. I work for MTV. I love it. Stupid, fucking cheerleader.

  One of the waiters calls into the kitchen. “There’s a table out here that’s really pissed off. The lady says she’s been looking for her waitress for ten minutes.”

  Paulie looks up. “Which waitress?”

  “Wanda.”

  I hear them talking, but I don’t look up. I gulp Diet Coke from the soda fountain. When I turn around, Paulie’s standing right next to me. Startled, I almost drop my glass. “Wanda? You’re Wanda tonight, aren’t you? We’d all like to sit around and drink sodas, but YOU HAVE TABLES WAITING!”

  “I’m coming, Paulie. Give me a minute here.” I smile. “Don’t get all crazy, Paulie. Stress is really bad for your heart.”

  “Frannie, don’t do this to me. You have customers waiting for their food.” Paulie points to the pass-out bar where plates of food sit, congealing under the heat lamps that don’t work. “Get this shit out of here.”

  “I’m coming. Why are you so anxious? You remind me of my mother.” I grab the plates and flinch as I burn my hand. “Shit, shit, shit. Since when do these work?” I reach for a napkin, stack the plates on my arm, and rush out of the kitchen.

  “Hey, Artie,” I yell, “there’s a girl on table seven who says she wants to meet you. I went to high school with her. She’s wearing a red suit. Sort of Rubenesque. She’s been eyeing you all night. Go say something to her, but don’t tell her I told you.”

  The first thing Abby tells me at O’Reilly’s is that she doesn’t want to stay out late because she’s having breakfast with her boyfriend Everett at her apartment in the city.

  “You were supposed to drive me to see Shelly. I don’t have a car.”

  “I’m sorry, Frannie. I want to see Shelly, too, but I made a commitment.”

  “Abby, I can’t believe you. Sometimes you are so fucking selfish.” I stare at her in the bar light. Even though I’ve known her forever, I’m always amazed by how pretty she is. She has chocolate-brown eyes, thick auburn hair, flawless skin, and a shelf of round, firm breasts that she accentuates with tight blouses. She also has very white teeth that make her look like a girl-next-door Playboy Bunny, and she’s perfected this smile where she bites on her bottom lip as if to say “Oh? You want to fuck me, too?”

  “Look, I’ll have breakfast with Everett then come get you out here. I won’t be late. I promise.” She signals for the bartender. Although she hikes herself up to make sure he gets a gander at her chest, she’ll huff in indignation if he says anything. “Guys have no idea how heavy these are,” she whines in mock disgust, cradling her breasts delicately as if they are eggs. I look down at my underdeveloped chest. “You’ve certainly been dealt a hard deck, Abby.”

  I’ve known Abby since the third grade, before she had any breasts to speak of. In the sixth grade, when a Slam Book went around and someone wrote, “Steals, lies, and talks behind everyone’s back” about her, I scratched it out and wrote, “Plans to be the first woman president. Best place to sleep over.” Then in the seventh grade, I got my period in P.E. and accidentally left a stained wad of toilet paper on a bench. When I got back from my shower, a bunch of girls were pointing at it and laughing. Abby picked it up and said it was hers. We’ve been best friends ever since.

  She hands me a margarita and sips her own, looking around at what’s available. Lindsey Point doesn’t have much of a singles’ scene, since most people out here are married. But this is where Abby met Everett so she considers it a good-luck place.

  “Do these pants make my ass look fat?” she asks, whirling around.

  “No,” I say dryly. “Your ass looks fat without the pants.”

  “Thanks for the ringing endorsement,” she says, laughing. Abby knows she has a powerhouse body. She works out every day. She’s even left work at four-thirty to ensure herself a spot in aerobics, God forbid she should miss an hour of grapevining and step-kicking. “I’m serious. Do I look fat? I couldn’t find anything to wear. All I have are suits.”

  I roll my eyes. She always manages to remind me that she’s a lawyer, and I’m a nothing. “Abby, please. Stop fishing.”

  A guy swivels around on his bar stool and makes believe he’s looking at the door, but I can feel him trying to look at us. I stare at him, then turn away, and in that three-second interval, I can tell he’s not our type. It’s a skill I perfected in college. Some people learn to speak Mandarin Chinese, I developed a radar for men. W
ho’s to say what’s more important?

  The guy bends over like he’s dropped something. When he sits up, he’s facing us. “You girls sound like sisters.”

  Not knowing who he’s after, Abby and I ignore him. I ask her if she wants another drink, but she shakes her head. “I’ll buy,” the guy chimes in. “I’m Pat, by the way.”

  Abby looks up. “Okay, Pat by the way. Two margaritas and a round of shots.” She smirks at me. “Tequila, Señorita Frannita?” I shrug.

  “Two margaritas and two shots coming up,” Pat says. “Hey,” he asks Abby, “has anyone ever told you that you look like Audrey Hepburn?”

  “All the time,” she says and lights a cigarette as Pat turns to pay for the drinks. Sometimes I get jealous when guys crawl all over her. But I admit that I get attention, too. Especially when I’m in a dark bar at one-thirty in the morning. The argument exists that at one-thirty in the morning, any girl, even a 350-pound transvestite, is attractive to men, but I have to go with what works for me.

  We suck down our shots, thank Pat, and move farther down the bar.

  “Pat by the way is annoyed,” Abby whispers.

  “I know.” I sip my drink and stare at him over the top of the glass.

  “He’s just so cheesy.” Abby rolls her eyes. “Audrey Hepburn. Right. I mean, I hardly look like her. Although we do have the same coloring. Do you think I look like her? I mean, just in the face.” She glances at me. “Frannie, I’m talking to you.”

  “I feel sorry for him. He doesn’t look so bad. I mean, he’s kinda cute.”

  “Oh please. He’s a Rat Boy.” She pushes me slightly. “But go…go talk to him.”

  “He is not!” Rat Boy was a guy I slept with in college who treated me like shit. At first, we used the term Rat Boy to describe any guy who blew us off, but over the years, it morphed into a reference to a guy who’s so undesirable, we wouldn’t even consider talking to him. “Besides,” I add, “he said you looked like Audrey Hepburn, not me.”