Conversations with the Fat Girl

by Liza Palmer

  “Sooooo, what’s this internship about?” I set my Diet Coke in the cup holder of the movie chair.

  “Screenwriting.” Steven crosses one leg over the other—the manly way, not the effeminate European way. I can kind of see up his shorts.

  “An internship is how you get started in any business. It’s money in the bank,” I say, not seeing the obvious irony in this statement at all.

  “I don’t really see myself pursuing it. What it’s supposed to be . . . I mean, whatever I’m supposed to be gettin’ out of it, I’m not. There are some cool people there, though.”

  Steven has this habit where he licks his bottom lip during speaking. Just a quick dab, but I wait for that shit like Old Faithful.

  “Try something else.” My voice is getting louder, and I’m sitting on the edge of my chair. The tongue thing is driving me crazy. I believe I am now panting.

  “I guess.” Dab.

  “Well, this is what this time in your life is about, searching for something that you will get something out of.” I will myself to calm down. Act cool. Why am I being so tolerant of Steven’s explorations and not my own?

  “Don’t you worry about me, Maggie May.” Dab. Dab.

  “Have you really—”

  “Are those seats taken?” a woman asks as she stands at the beginning of our row of seats.

  “No, ma’am, go ahead,” Steven answers. They think we are a couple right now. Technically, everyone in this theater does. I want to throw my arms up in the air touchdown style and yell, He’s with me! But I control myself.

  “Thank you,” the woman’s husband says as he squeezes past me. The lights dim further, and the movie begins.

  Steven is someone who’s fun to be around. Why ask more of him than that? Why ask him to be committed and consistent? He will never be those things. But I cling to the idea that I’ll be the one who tames him—who makes him committed and consistent. He’s the ultimate Big Game—lions, elephants, and unavailable Texans. If Olivia and Domenic are not being who I want them to be, is it their fault? Or is it mine?

  The lights finally come up and I’m pretty sure I have given myself some form of palsy from the contortions I have put my body through during the past two hours of trying to “look breezy.” The couple to our right says, “Excuse me,” and Steven and I stand. Steven unfolds himself from his chair and quickly exits the theater. I follow.

  “So, what did you think?” he says over his shoulder as he walks out.

  “Great. Great locations,” I yell, as I’m tossed and turned in the thrusting exodus of hopped-up foreign-film viewers.

  “You up for a coffee or something?” Steven asks, calmly waiting by the door to the theater.

  “Sure.”

  I have to be at work by seven thirty the next morning. I can barely keep my eyes open. Coffee at 1 a.m. is the last thing I want, but Steven is close to the top of the list of things I do want.

  We decide to meet at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in Old Town Pasadena. He waves good-bye and says something about meeting me there. Steven is already halfway to his car. Couldn’t he have walked me to my car? It’s one o’clock in the morning and I parked in a lot that is not that well lit.

  I suddenly realize I’m tired of taking care of myself all the time. If something breaks in my house, I fix it. If the dog needs washing, I do it. If my car is in a poorly lit parking lot, I’d better buy pepper spray or learn kung fu. I always thought I’d be married by now and have kids. Instead I’m someone’s fat maid of honor walking alone to her car in the dark of the night. I’m clutching my keys between my fingers just like they say you should, so you can poke out the eye of an intruder. You know what would really work? A six-foot-two Texan. That could poke out any eye.

  Texas Steven is exactly on a par with Dr. Adam Farrell. He’s a fantasy. He remains golden because I’ve never demanded that he be real. He gets to saunter in every six months, call everyone “ma’am,” dab his beautiful lips, and then leave. I feel like I’m in junior high school again always playing those boyfriend games with fictional characters and never real people. I truly believed if I played my cards right I could marry, live in a mansion, and have five kids with Ponyboy from The Outsiders.

  How could Texas Steven know what I need? Why didn’t I ask him to walk me to my car? Why didn’t I just say no to his invitation? Is it that I don’t want to be seen as the needy girl? If I want Olivia to be the kind of best friend that I need, why don’t I just talk to her about it? If I want that internship at the Getty, why don’t I just call and set up an interview? If I want to go on a date with Domenic, why don’t I just ask him? I have to stop waiting for people to come to me. It’s time I started putting myself out there. Tonight is where it starts. I pull up to the coffee shop and find Steven’s car. He is just getting out of his car as I pull up next to him.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “There’s a parking space back behind the building next to that dark alley. I’ll get us a table.” Steven walks past my car and is halfway to the door of the coffee shop.

  “Steven?” I call to him through my car window. He turns around in the light of the awning.

  “I’m going to head on home. I’m tired and I have to get to work early in the morning.” My heart is racing. I can see him mentally erasing me from every phone book he has.

  “Oh, okay. Well. . . ,” Steven says, shuffling in place. “Okay, well. Get a good night’s sleep, then. Talk to you soon?” I take my foot off the brake and coast a bit forward.

  “I have two tickets to Steve Earle at Royce Hall at the end of summer, if you want to go?” Steven is approaching the car. The Royce Hall in never land? I think not, cowboy.

  “Maybe, let me check my calendar.” I sail away from the parking lot. Steven goes into the coffee shop anyway. I knew he would.

  I get home around 1:30 a.m. and drop my keys on one of the many packing boxes that fill the room. Solo follows me around the house while I shut off lights and close windows. I pull back the covers on my bed and crawl in. I’m proud of myself. Solo hops up on the end of the bed, circles, and finally lies down. I say good night to her as I turn over and set my alarm for 7 a.m. I toss and turn as my mind races. I went tonight thinking Steven would be the answer to all of my problems. Now all I’ve got is more questions. If Steven is this ultimate male, do all males have clay feet? Why can’t anyone remain golden?

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Blue Buckets

  When Olivia left for Washington, DC, to move in with Adam, I walked to the humane society in San Francisco and asked to adopt the dog next in line to be euthanized. Without hesitating, the dreadlocked girl behind the counter called for Cage Ten. A shiver went through the entire building as the occupant of Cage Ten was readied for its imminent release on the public. The door opened and a big-pawed, auburn puppy with the biggest, brownest eyes I had ever seen stepped out. She barked, whimpered, and yelped at the slightest noises or movements. I connected with her instantly. I filled out the necessary papers as Cage Ten pulled and tugged at the makeshift leash. She was strong for her size and skittered away from anyone who approached. Except me. She hid behind my legs even on that first day. That was close to four years ago, and she’s been the first member of my own family ever since.

  Lately, I’ve become concerned about Solo. Throughout our four years together, I’ve tried socializing her to no avail. There is a small part of me that likes to watch how the world deals with a force like her. She’s unable to budge outside of her comfort zone, and when she’s threatened, the pure unaffectedness of her reaction makes me envious. But now I see that this comfort zone she’s set up has become stultifying for her and me. Parades of dog-sitters would rather starve than watch Solo. People are afraid to come to my house for fear their jugulars will be ripped out any second. So after work today we’re going to be “evaluated” for obedience classes. I buckle Solo into her doggy seat belt and we set off. I’m nervous. We don’t do well in “evaluations.”

  As we walk i
nto the huge dog emporium, I talk Solo down. Her tail is between her legs, and she continually tries to bolt for the front door. The constant barking and whimpering coming from the Doggy Day Care catacombs agitates us both. The shelves of the dog emporium are lined with different dog foods, doggy bowls, doggy beds—you name it, there are five different kinds somewhere in this lobby. Solo is now in full retreat. I wind her leash around my hand and pull her close. She is terrified.

  The trainer comes out to meet us. Her name is Tori. She’s far too tiny to control Solo. I’ll tell her I’ve changed my mind. Let’s face it: We’ll fail this evaluation, and Tori will send us on our way in no time. She’s already clutching her jugular in fear. She sits down and goes over the questionnaire I’ve filled out. I hold Solo’s leash tight to calm us both down.

  “What commands have you taught her?” Tori asks as she reviews my answers.

  “Oh, um . . . just the one,” I say, pointing at the form as Solo’s low growl builds in volume.

  “Move your body?” Tori looks over her clipboard at me and my socially inept dog.

  “Yeah, well, I use it when she’s in the way. You know, move your body. Funny story, I said that once when my niece, Bella, was at my house, and she thought it meant to dance.” I demonstrate Bella dancing to everyone’s horror. It’s so quiet, I believe I hear crickets, but I continue. “So there’s Bella dancing and Solo is just trying to, you know . . . move out of the way.” Tori is silent. Well, it was fucking funny when it happened.

  “So you’ve never really challenged her?” Tori makes some notes on the back page. I hang my head in shame.

  “Okay, why don’t we go to the training room and take her off the leash,” Tori continues as she flips the clipboard closed and stands.

  I feel like the worst mother in the world.

  Tori, Solo, and I walk back into the catacombs of the obedience school. The sound of barking gets louder and louder. Tori opens a chain-link gate and motions for us to go inside. It’s a big warehouse-style space with old couches lining the walls and commercial drains in the middle of the dark cement floor. I feel like a prisoner of war. As I unleash Solo, Tori takes a link of plastic-covered meat out of her pocket. It looks like some type of sausage casing, but with beef or some dark-colored alternative inside. Solo paces the cement floor sniffing at the new smells. She completely ignores both Tori and me.

  “So I’d like to start with the language you use to communicate with her. Besides move your body, how else do you get her to do the things you want her to do?” Tori is watching Solo as she moves away from me and closer to her.

  “Well, I just talk to her. Like a normal person, I guess. I don’t really ask her to sit, because really, how often is that necessary? So it’s mostly, you know, come here by me or dinnertime . . . that kind of thing.” I might as well just spell out how lonely I am. Oh wait, I already have.

  “Well, why don’t we just start with sit.” Tori stands back.

  I stare at my dog. She’s smelling her own ass over in a corner that couldn’t be farther away from me.

  “Come here, girl. Solo?” Solo comes running over to me. Tears spring to my eyes.

  “Okay, now tell her to sit.” Does Tori want us to fail?

  “Go ahead and sit, Solo.”

  She does. She sits. A tear rolls down my face.

  Tori approaches Solo with the liquid meat sausage and kneels down. Solo skitters away but slowly comes back. Tori tells her to sit and she does. She offers some of the meat to Solo, who takes it from her hand. Tori moves a couple of feet over and repeats the same maneuver. Solo follows her and once again sits. Tori offers her the meat standing, but Solo toddles off distractedly.

  “She can be pretty willful,” I say, a little more confident since we’re obviously doing better than little Tori thought we’d be doing.

  “She’s not willful. She’s racked with fear.” Tori walks over to a corner of the room and kneels. Solo follows. Fear?

  “Fear?” I ask. I put my hands in my pockets and walk toward Tori. She stops me.

  “Just stay there. She’s obviously smart and understands everything we’re saying. But she won’t trust anyone new. She’s ruled by her fear of the unknown.” So are you a fucking psychologist now? Huh?

  “And you know that because . . .”

  “I’m a dog trainer.” Tori should go into stand-up.

  “Yeah, I get that you’re the dog trainer and I’m the client here. But I’m just curious, how can you break down someone like that in less than ten seconds based on a couple of tricks and a weird sausage in a roll thing?”

  Tori looks like she’s fighting the impulse to throw a choke chain around my neck. Instead, she ignores me and walks into another corner of the training room. There are blue buckets on either side of the wall. Tori kneels between the buckets. Solo walks over to the wall, looks back and forth at the blue buckets, and walks away.

  “Hm.” Tori stands and walks to another corner.

  “Hm, what?” I ask.

  “It’s just interesting. The buckets. She checked them out and then walked away. It’s just interesting.” Tori kneels. Solo follows and sits. Tori gives her some meat.

  “Interesting, how? Like she may have been beaten with blue buckets?”

  “No, Ms. Thompson, because she won’t trust me enough to walk by an unfamiliar object. The bucket. She’s not sure what it is and she doesn’t trust me not to betray her.” Maybe Solo’s afraid the bucket doesn’t like her “like that” and if she grabs the blue bucket by the collar it’ll just laugh and tell all of his dollmaker friends that some fat girl has a crush on him. Huh? Ever think of that, Dr. Freud? I stand back watching my dog pace nervously around the cement floor. What happens if Solo fails? What happens if we’re untrainable?

  Solo’s so smart, she knows what Tori is going to do before she does it. She comes when Tori calls. She leaves the treat when Tori asks her to. She even lies down when Tori says, “Down.”

  That’s when it happens.

  Tori sits next to Solo. Solo doesn’t move. Tori slowly moves her hand toward the crown of Solo’s head. Solo watches every move Tori makes. Tori places her hand on Solo and begins scratching her ears. Her favorite thing. She knew exactly how to make Solo calm. Solo leans into Tori and flips over on her back. Tori rubs her belly as Solo’s tail wags with joy.

  I finally see myself in the harsh light of that training room. I’ve convinced myself that I’m unlovable, untouchable, and invisible. But is the reality that there is someone out there for me who will know exactly what it takes to comfort me? That all I need to do is allow it?

  Kate and I used to play the Xanadu soundtrack and dance until Mom came home from the law library. I specialized in all the ELO songs, while Kate preferred all things Olivia Newton-John. When Kate had homework or was playing with another friend, I retreated into my room, where I had built a make-believe time machine. I played for hours—pushing buttons, giving orders, and feeling safe and comforted in my imagination. I want that feeling of safety and freedom that came with those memories back. I don’t want the new feelings of momentary happiness followed by insurmountable guilt that comes from reaching for food for comfort. I need to go back to the person I was at eight years old. She had it all figured out. Maybe I’ll build another time machine.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Urban Life

  I do not fear the unknown. I do not even fear death—in the event that I’ve lived a good life. What I fear is a life of mediocrity.

  We’re sold this script for life with lovers like Romeo and heroes like Jack London, but we’ve got an hourlong commute to a job we hate and a utility bill to pay every month. I crave a life of freedom and passion—but I’ve sentenced myself to a life of quiet desperation and prime-time sitcoms. I’ve numbed myself and it’s going to hurt like a motherfucker when I wake up.

  I crawl into bed and sleep fitfully. I have to work the night shift tomorrow, so I can sleep in. I have my massage with Sam in the morning, so I�
�ll be all relaxed when I see Domenic. How am I going to do this? No more. I’m just going to walk past that fucking blue bucket and ask him out. It’s all fun and games until he figures out I want to be more than just his friend.

  I sleep until eight thirty and wake up staring at the clothes I have laid out on the chair. I swing my feet out of the bed and get up. My body aches. I should have recovered from the move by now. I’m a young woman, why do I ache so much? Should I be worried about this? I start brewing my morning coffee and get ready for my shower.

  While toweling off my hair, I think about the past couple of days. I’m tired of being the girl who waits. I pad over to the mantel and pick up the creased piece of paper. I am rejuvenated and excited as I unfold the paper. I pick up the phone and dial the number. The phone is wet and slippery.

  “This is Beverly Urban.” Her voice is affected in a Bette Davis kind of way—not quite British, but not really American, either.

  “Hello, Ms. Urban, this is Maggie Thompson. My sister, Kate di Matteo, spoke with you regarding an internship restoring the Marcus Aurelius.” Surprisingly, I am calm and speak with confidence.

  “Yes . . . yes. I was wondering what happened to you.” She stops. Is it my turn? Do I need to make an excuse? Should I explain my thought process? Should I tell her about the blue buckets?

  “I apologize, Ms. Urban. I have finally finished moving and I’m ready to give you and the Getty my full attention.” Good. Professional. Honest.

  “The position is still open and I am still interviewing. You are a lucky woman, Ms. Thompson. How does this Monday look for you?”

  “Monday is perfect. Thank you for this opportunity, Ms. Urban.” Solo starts licking my wet legs.

  “We’ll see you then, Ms. Thompson.” We finalize the details and hang up.

  I call Mom to give her the news. While I’m on a roll, I make the necessary arrangements with the Bellagio for Olivia’s wedding shower: three suites for the last weekend in July. I put one suite in Kate’s name, one in Hannah’s, and the third in Olivia’s. Then I call Prime, Bellagio’s steak house, and make reservations for seven. I let the hostess know this is a bridal shower, and she assures me they will make the night special. I also arrange for a high tea at the Petrossian Bar. Callie, the hostess, will have a tiara waiting for Olivia at the table. She asks me about the bride’s colors, which of course, I know by heart. She assures me she will set up the entire tea. I needn’t worry. I hang up and get ready for the spa.