by Africa Fine
“Want to go to a boring faculty party with me?”
Jack cleared his throat. “You make it sound so attractive.”
“I’m an English professor. I have a way with words.”
He laughed. “Tonight? I’m supposed to be going to my own boring faculty party, but with engineers, so it’s bound to be at least three times as dull.”
“But you don’t have to go.” Jack was a wunderkind who had been the object of a bidding war when he decided to teach. He already had tenure even though he was a couple of years younger than I was. Only people trying to get tenure felt obligated to go to these things.
“Well, I hear I’m up for department chair when Wong leaves.” His voice was both nonchalant and serious.
“Do you even want to be department chair?”
He paused for effect. “Nope. So what time should I pick you up?”
* * *
Dean Sid Goldman was the kind of man who didn’t think it was funny that he was an imposing, dark-skinned black man who was raised as a Muslim, but who had the name of a Jewish accountant. He had no sense of irony whatsoever, so talking to him was always a minefield of inevitable disaster. English teachers only survive through sarcasm and irony.
The party was at his house, so my strategy was to speak to him briefly, then hide for the rest of the night. Jack made the perfect buffer—he was tall and studious, the kind of man who only drew attention when he was speaking about his passions, or swimming in a YMCA pool.
To call the Goldman home a house would be to do it a disservice. Although Dean Goldman’s parents were Muslims, he embraced capitalism as a religion. For many years he ran a company that conducted those touchy-feely seminars at companies during the 90s: diversity training, sexual harassment workshops, job-advancement training. The company offered off-site workshops as well, retreats and team-building trips. He made a fortune. He came to Mizner University when the administration decided it needed someone with more of a business sense to run the arts and sciences division. That translates into, “How can we make more money and produce graduates who make money and provide free publicity for the university?”
Most faculty members hated him. There was a definite sense of us (the faculty) and them (administration) at the university, and that feeling was exacerbated by someone like Goldman, because he was not only not one of us (faculty), but he didn’t even have a solid academic background. He was a businessman, and many people saw his business as dubious at best. Anyone who had ever been to one of those teamwork retreats or attended a training session on diversity knew they were a waste of time. You couldn’t teach people to work together better by making them complete ropes courses. You can’t create trust by asking people to close their eyes and fall back onto their coworkers’ outstretched hands. And there was no way to “teach” diversity—the only way people learned to accept each other was by forcing them to work together in normal circumstances.
But administration types loved these kinds of exercises. It made them feel as if they were doing something, and so opportunists like Goldman made millions peddling these seminars and retreats. He had made a name for himself, not only in the local community but also on the national scene, and his name alone made him valuable to Mizner University. They stuck him in arts and sciences because he had a master’s degree in English, and they figured that was where he could do the least amount of academic damage.
None of the black professors knew him very well. He made it clear that he did not believe in affirmative action; thus, to show how fair-minded he was, he had to pretend he didn’t even see black faculty. I wondered what his Black Muslim mother thought about that.
The Goldman home was located on the river in Fort Lauderdale in a gated community, where several former football and basketball stars were rumored to own homes. The mansion, one in a block of mansions, dwarfed the homes next to it and featured absurd gothic spires everywhere. The message was clear: Goldman was not upwardly mobile. He was at the top. I was like a serf visiting the king. I was out of my element, and I knew it.
As Jack and I pulled up to the driveway, I had a flash of panic. Is this a date? I looked at him. He was dressed in dark jeans, a crisp white dress shirt, and a black linen blazer. Date clothes? Did he think I was asking him out when I called about this party? Or was he just a colleague helping out a friend? I felt like an idiot for not considering all of this before I called him.
My weight was up again, and I began to feel compressed in my simple black pants and V-neck sweater. It was a bit warm for the sweater but it was the only top I could find that didn’t make me look like a grilled bratwurst. When I was fat, I could always hear my aunt’s voice in my head as I looked in the mirror, criticizing, wondering why I couldn’t just control myself and eat less. Her sharp eye noticed every roll of fat, every bulge, and it made me feel like staying home and eating a quart of Breyer’s vanilla with chocolate chips sprinkled on top.
The knot in my stomach kept me from talking as we walked to the door. Two other couples arrived at the same time as we did, so when Goldman opened the door with a false hearty welcome, I was able to quickly greet him and drag Jack away before we got stuck in one of those casual/work conversations that never seem to go anywhere or end. We crossed the marble floor of the foyer, and I pulled Jack toward a large entertainment room where there were the sounds of voices and music, and, I hoped, the food.
“You’re hurting my hand,” he informed me when we got to the bar. I decided that a drink was more important than food to help me get through the night. Between being at the dean’s manse and the possibility of being on my second date with Jack, I felt nauseated.
“Toughen up. This is no place for wimps.”
He snorted and ordered a glass of red wine. I rolled my eyes and got a vodka sour.
We found an empty spot on a love seat across from a giant-screen television. It was displayed on the wall like expensive art. We were forced to sit close, and I was so conscious of his shoulder against mine that I caught only isolated snapshots of my surroundings. Two Spanish professors were already on their way to getting drunk and were standing closer than they should, considering they were both married to other people. A communications graduate student spilled wine on the Persian rug, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and then rubbed it in with her foot. The walls were painted a deep chocolate, and its decoration was one immense watercolor, probably done by someone famous. We sat there long enough for the panic to rise again.
“It’s okay, Tina.”
“What is?”
“Being here. With me. It’s all okay.”
I took a gulp of my drink and realized the glass was empty. I wasn’t sure what he meant by okay.
Jack glanced at my glass. “I’ll go get you another.”
When he came back, the entire side of his body brushed against mine.
“Is this a date?” I blurted.
Jack looked at me and smiled. “Do you want it to be?”
“Do you?”
Before he could answer, Dean Goldman appeared in front of the love seat. We both rose. He and Jack shook hands and exchanged greetings, then he turned to me.
“Tina, I was hoping to introduce you to some faculty members I don’t believe you know. It’s important to mingle.” He gave a laugh that was meant to be congenial but sounded diabolical. This was the most he had ever spoken to me.
“Of course.” I glanced over at Jack and let the dean take my arm. I stifled a giggle when Jack mouthed “mingle” and wiggled his fingers at me.
Dean Goldman alternated between introducing me to people I already knew or didn’t care to know and showing off his home. He pointed out the art on the walls, letting the artists’ names slide off his tongue as if he not only bought their wares but was close friends with each of them. His hand remained on my arm the entire time, and if I hadn’t been so distracted, I might have wondered if he was flirting with me. But even though there wasn’t a Mrs. Goldman, the rumors were that he only dat
ed skinny white women, so I was safe.
We passed by the bar again and I longed for another drink. During pauses in the dean’s narrative tour, I tried to find Jack in the crowd. I passed him once and he wiggled his eyebrows at me. I mouthed “help,” but he just shrugged and took a sip from his drink.
It was thirty minutes before I escaped from Dean Goldman’s introductions and made my way back to Jack. He was standing in a corner facing the room while the grad student who spilled the wine was pushing her cleavage at him. She also tossed her blonde hair and threw her head back when she laughed. When I approached, she looked me up and down before returning her attention to Jack.
I was used to being ignored by girls like her—fat girls always were. If I were sixteen, I would have slunk away, embarrassed and ashamed that I wasn’t thin enough or pretty enough to compete with women like this. But I was thirty and an English professor. She was twenty-three and studying communications. Age offered some advantages over youth, including the realization that she wasn’t nearly smart enough for someone like Jack. And I was old enough to pretend her looks didn’t intimidate me. I waited for Jack to finish his fascinating story, a tight smile on my face.
But when he saw me, he stopped in midsentence.
“Tina. How did it go?”
I shrugged and looked over at the girl. “It went.”
The girl flipped her hair a couple more times before flouncing off, offended that Jack had the nerve to choose me over her. Score one for the fat girl.
My smile widened and I relaxed. “Actually, Goldman seems to like me.”
Jack nodded. ‘Of course he likes you. You’re great.”
We looked at each other for a long moment before looking away. I remembered the question that had gone unanswered. Was this a date?
The blonde girl strolled by and I saw Jack’s eyes flicker toward her. It was a small movement, and maybe only someone who felt as out of place and unattractive as I did would have noticed it. But I did. This wasn’t a date. I was fat again. Why would he want to date me?
“I’m tired. Let’s just go.”
Jack looked surprised but nodded and followed me to the door.
* * *
That night I went over the night in my head. I wished I had spent less time with Goldman and more time with Jack. I wished he had answered my question. Was it a date? In one way, I wished it was, because I wanted a second chance with Jack. In another way, I hoped it wasn’t because if it was a date, it had to be worse than the first. Changing into my pajamas, I examined the familiar fat around my waist, the double chin that had returned like an old friend. I hated what I saw, so I moved away from the mirror, went into the kitchen and grabbed an unopened package of Oreos. I ignored the voice in my head telling me not to rip open the plastic, not to pour a tall glass of milk, not to set it all on the tray and sit on the living room couch. I turned on the television, sat in the dark and pressed the remote until I found the History Channel. They were showing something on the British royal family lineage. It was a comforting escape from my life.
Chapter 6
“Fat girls aren’t supposed to be happy”
After the party at Dean Goldman’s house, I went on a binge. A moderate day included the following:
• Breakfast: Sesame bagel with a thick layer of cream cheese; grande mocha Frappucino from Starbucks; cranberry-orange scone, also from Starbucks; orange juice
• Morning snack: Fritos from the vending machine outside my morning composition classroom
• Lunch: Quarter-pound hamburger with cheese, super-sized fries, apple pie, cookies, all from the McDonald’s drive-through
• Afternoon snack: More Fritos, two vend packs of Oreos, Coke
• Dinner: Microwave popcorn and diet soda
• After-dinner snack: Frozen French-bread pizza, chocolate-chunk ice cream, peanut butter cookie (large)
I hated myself with every bite. But I didn’t stop eating until Jack spoke up.
“I’m worried about you.”
“Being fat is not that big a deal.” I wondered how I could tell the lie with a straight face. We were sitting at lunch near the end of a spring semester. We were celebrating our impending freedom from classes. I wanted to eat at a steak joint, but Jack said steak was too heavy for lunch. He suggested a health-food restaurant across the street from campus. I only agreed because I had plenty of change to load up at the vending machine later in the afternoon.
“I don’t care about your weight. I care that you seem so unhappy.”
* * *
I dug into my sandwich, which had bean sprouts but also massive amounts of cheese. Even in a healthy place I could find something that would satisfy my cravings.
“Fat girls aren’t supposed to be happy.” I snickered and took a large bite.
I had gained twenty-five pounds in the last two months. It was a personal record.
Jack just shook his head.
“Why are you doing this to yourself?”
I shrugged. I didn’t want to think about why. I just knew that the food tasted good, and it made me feel good, at least for a while. And when I stopped feeling good, I just ate more. I hadn’t found anything else that gave me the high food did. The fat was the price I had to pay for that feeling.
I finished chewing and took a sip of my extra-large piña colada smoothie. Jack watched me, his eyes squinted and sad.
“I want to help you. What can I do to help?”
I swallowed. The wad of food settled in my stomach with a thud. I felt full. I felt sick. Love me, I thought. Love me and I’ll never eat again.
“You can’t help, Jack.”
* * *
He did not give up. Jack never talked to me about food, just suggested outings that always involved some kind of physical exertion. There was an unspoken ultimatum: If I wanted to see Jack that summer, I had to sweat for it.
First, he tried to get me to keep swimming with him, but I wasn’t interested. I didn’t have the same drive I’d had before, and I was much more self-conscious about being in a swimsuit in front of Jack. It was different before we knew each other, when he was just a nameless stranger. Now that we had dated, however briefly, now that we were friends, I couldn’t bear for him to see me nearly naked in all my roly-poly glory.
“But you love swimming,” he cajoled.
“Love is such a strong word. I love pound cake. I love Pringles. I love cheesecake, French fries, doughnuts…”
“Okay, I get it.”
But he didn’t stop trying. When I suggested we go out to brunch, he suggested we go for a run beforehand.
“I don’t have the right shoes.”
When I suggested we have a cookout, he suggested we go bike riding instead.
“My bike is in storage.”
He tried to take me to the gym with him and I suggested we bake cookies instead.
“I hate gyms. Everyone’s too skinny.” I told him my story about the people in matching outfits, with matching iPods. He laughed but was undeterred from his mission.
We argued, but since most of my excuses were lies (I did hate the gym), Jack won in the end. One Sunday morning, he invited me to his country club, where I thought we would lounge around eating made-to-order omelets and drinking mimosas. I met him at his house, as we planned to go to the club in his car. He met me at the door with a large box. It was wrapped in silver paper and a perfect white satin bow.
“A gift.”
The girth of the box was so intriguing I didn’t recognize the trap. Inside the box there was a brand-new tennis racket, a t-shirt, and tennis shorts. He had also included sneakers and a sun visor.
“There’s sunscreen in there too,” he said, watching my face and smiling.
I had to laugh. “You’ve thought of everything, haven’t you?”
He nodded. “So? How about a match?”
I sighed. I hadn’t played tennis since I was a kid and Aunt Gillian made me take lessons.
“If I agree to tennis will you get
off my case?”
“Only if you agree to play with me twice a week this summer.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Do you want me to sign a contract?”
He pretended to consider this. “No, I think I can trust you.”
I punched him in the arm. “You’re on.”
* * *
Riding to the country club, Jack put in a mix CD.
“I just made this last night,” he said.
The music kicked in and I recognized the song right away. Jack and Diane, circa 1982.
I looked at Jack.
“John Mellencamp?”
“John Cougar. He was still John Cougar back then.”
I smirked at him. “Are you sure you’re black?”
Jack waved a hand at me. “You know you love this song.”
He started to sing, changing the words, inserting my name for Diane’s and adding extra emphasis: “Jack and TINA.” His voice was too loud and way off-key. I looked around to make sure there were no cars driving near us. If there were, I would have been obliged to roll down the window and apologize.
I shook my head. Jack kept singing, looking over at me, urging me to join in. It was like Stockholm syndrome—I started to sympathize with my captor. We sang the chorus together, our voices wavering. We collapsed into giggles, and anyone pulling up beside us would have thought we were two teenagers. Just like Jack and Diane.
* * *
The first hour of tennis with Jack was a disaster. I was fairly coordinated, but I was handicapped by the fact that I hadn’t held a racquet in twenty years. After hitting the ball and practicing shots (Jack practiced his backhand; I just tried not to miss the ball completely), we played a match. I expected Jack to let me win a few games to encourage me to keep playing. He didn’t. Instead, he blasted the ball past me to the corners when I hugged the center baseline. His returns mocked my soft serves, rarely even giving me a chance to play the ball.