Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single

by Heather McElhatton

  Me? The jumbo loser girl?

  I sit and think every vile thought I can about myself. I beat myself up. While the lights are flashing I am tearing through an inner dialogue that would make Mommie Dearest frightened. I am stupid, fat, lazy, ugly, unlucky, bad at card games, bad at math, a terrible driver, a worse tennis player, I snore, I get gas when I eat ice cream, I’m utterly tone deaf. I’m stuck in this job in this city in this life and nothing will ever be different because I will never be different. I will always be the same flaky, undependable, untalented, overlooked girl.

  Brad turns around and smiles at me. A hard jolt of electricity flashes down my right arm and I almost fall off my bucket. I smile and blush without meaning or wanting to. I have my arms clamped so hard to my sides it hurts. I take out my phone and surreptitiously text-message Christopher, begging him to bring me deodorant.

  The strobes keep flashing and the girls strike different poses. In a way, it’s easier to shoot plus-size models; it goes more quickly because there are fewer pose options. There’s no jumping in the air or squatting for these girls. There’s no hugging each other or crossing their arms, nothing that squishes arm fat. There are no serious expressions. No staring in the distance or pursing their lips. Big girls are happy girls, period. They can smile, put one hand on their hip, or pivot. That’s about it.

  I shouldn’t be so mean. I don’t mean to be mean—after all, a lot of these girls are just like me. They’ll go to prom with their girlfriends, telling each other it doesn’t matter that they don’t have dates, that they have each other, which is all a girl really needs. And they’ll all laugh and sneak a bottle of champagne into the rented limo and they’ll all be very careful not to look too deeply into each other’s eyes, because behind the fun and festivity, the smiles and the laughing, is a growing pool of panic. If they don’t have dates now, will they ever? If they haven’t found the man they’re going to marry, will they ever?

  And if I was there with them, so many years older and wiser, what could I tell them? If I told them the truth, I would say something I never dreamt of believing back then. I would tell them to grab a nice guy and make it work no matter what. I’d tell them to consider arranged marriages, that their parents will be able to pick a better mate than they will. I would tell them no one is perfect and no Prince Charming is coming. I would tell them there aren’t any white horses or knights in shining armor to save them. They have to save themselves. I would tell them they have every reason to feel panic, and to hurry.

  The shoot finally, mercifully ends and the lights are shut off one by one, cooling the room by degrees. Just as people start leaving, Christopher finally appears.

  “Great timing,” I hiss. “I’ve been sitting under these hot lights for hours, smelling like blue cheese, with Brad Keller standing two feet away from me and now that it’s over, you show up. What the hell is that?”

  “All I could find was baking soda.” Christopher hands me the little yellow box.

  “Are you kidding me? What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Just put some under your armpits. Baking soda soaks up any smell.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “Employee break room.”

  “Great. That’s where that guy keeps his diabetes syringes.”

  I stomp off to the bathroom, which has two people in it already, so I lock myself in a stall and try to put baking soda under my arms. I end up doing this half-swami double helix thing with one foot on the toilet and poof! up goes a mushroom cloud of baking soda, right into my eyes and mouth, making me cough and choke. “Are you all right in there?” someone asks, and I say yes and quickly go to flush the toilet, like that’s going to explain anything, when kerplunk! my foot goes right in the water. I return squishing across the studio floor, slightly limping. Brad is nowhere in sight.

  “What the hell happened to you?” Christopher asks. “You look like an angry powdered sugar doughnut.”

  I spin around right into—who else?—Brad Keller, who’s walking back from the snack table. I try to say something but my heart speeds up and my mouth goes dry. I twist my hands together. He’s holding a muffin. For some reason I focus on this. “Got a muffin there?” I ask him. Is this the stupidest thing anyone ever said to anyone else in the history of the human language? Why yes, I believe it is. Got a muffin there?

  “Um, yep,” Brad says, looking at the muffin in his hand.

  Then, rather than drop the subject and/or excuse myself and/or cease being utterly retarded I say, “Poppy seed?”

  Brad looks at the muffin. “I believe it is,” he says. “Do you want it?”

  I stare at him and Christopher clears his throat.

  He holds the muffin out. “It isn’t poisoned or anything.”

  I remain mute.

  “Are you afraid of the muffin?” he asks. “Did someone torture you once with a muffin or something?”

  “Yes, they did!” I blurt. “I did two years’ hard time with the Keebler elves, and let me tell you, the shower scene was not pretty.”

  “Oh, dear Lord,” Christopher says behind me.

  Brad hands me the muffin. “Let’s start again,” he says. “Hi! I’m Bradford Keller. You can call me Brad.”

  “Nice to meet you,” I croak. “I’m Jennifer Johnson. You can call me Jen.”

  We shake hands and I think I might be trembling as our palms touch. I feel like I just got plugged into an electrical outlet. “Sorry about the parking lot thing,” I whisper.

  “Don’t worry about it.” He shrugs. “I sort of like women who yell.”

  Somebody shouts Brad’s name.

  “Okay, then,” Brad says, “see you later.”

  Everything in the room seems set to slow motion. Like we’re all moving through a clear, viscous tar. My face is burning, my mouth dry. He gives me a funny look and walks away, leaving me there holding his muffin. I turn around slowly to face Christopher.

  “I don’t even want to know what that was about,” he says, covering his face with his hand. “I really don’t.”

  Back in the office I promise myself I will not visualize what it would be like to be married to Brad Keller.

  I will not.

  It’ll only make me miserable, because I bet his wife would be the happiest girl in the world. I bet she’d have titanium-gold-zinc credit cards and they’d live in a huge house on a lake, even though I don’t need a huge house on a lake; a huge house anywhere would be fine, because I’d probably be out doing my charitable works and giving speeches at junior high schools to young girls who are considering their career opportunities, and I would tell them to always stay true to themselves no matter what, and afterward one or two of the girls would probably even write me letters saying I changed their lives, which I would show Brad and he’d kiss my forehead and say I was the most amazing woman he’d ever met, and then he would show me the two tickets he bought for us to Tahiti.

  But I’m not going to visualize all that.

  After work, I drive to my mother’s with Brad’s untouched lemon poppy-seed muffin on my dashboard. I stare at it at stoplights. That muffin represents everything I cannot have. A life of ease and luxury, of prestige and quality bakery items. Who knew there was a son to the Keller dynasty that was my age? Listen to me, “dynasty.” That’s why I don’t have a dynasty, because I use words like “dynasty.” That and because the Cinnabon counter girl knows my name.

  I take my time getting to the house, which is a sweet and tidy brick Tudor with wooden crossbeams and a steep slate roof. In summer, the automatic sprinklers come on every evening at five, just in time for Mr. Anderson, the cranky neighbor, to come home from work and yell about his car getting wet. My mother reset the timer after he cut down a crabapple tree that was partially on their property. My mother loved that tree. She arranged pink blossom bouquets in the spring and made crabapple centerpieces in the fall. Ever since he claimed it was in the way of his satellite dish and thwacked it with a chainsaw, my mother has passive-
aggressively tortured him with ill-timed sprinkler systems, early morning broadcasts of the Royal Danish Orchestra, and convincing his wife every home ought to have copper gutters.

  My mother opens the door frowning.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Just don’t start,” she says.

  This is a typical greeting.

  I go inside. My mother’s house is very comfortable, warm, and cheerful and perfectly decorated like a Pottery Barn catalogue. I’ve always wanted my house to look like this, but it’s hard to get a crappy apartment to look like anything but a crappy apartment.

  I shout hello to my father, who’s watching the news in his den, and he grunts hello back. He probably won’t come out all night and I don’t blame him. The estrogen level in this house is reaching all-time-high levels and the best thing to do is strap yourself down and hang on. I, of course, have to dive into the disaster and I really don’t know if there’s enough liquor in the world to get me through this.

  I hear girl-cackle in the kitchen.

  “Did you bring the salsa?” Hailey snaps.

  I close my eyes. Super. I forgot the freaking salsa.

  “Mom!” she whines. “Jen forgot the salsa!”

  “Don’t make a fuss,” my mother says, opening the pantry door. “I bought some just in case.”

  “Why do you even need salsa?” I ask. “Look at this spread! Mom, did you do all this?”

  She shoots me a look. Of course she did all this.

  I turn my attention to the herd of sturdy Norwegian girls flanking Hailey, who have all been her BFFs since high school. They all look like inbred cousins, they’re so similar, with their wheat-blond hair and ice blue eyes. They’re like Children of the Corn or something, and I’ve always suspected that if they were smarter, they might actually have some super power, but things standing as they are, I don’t foresee any trouble.

  “Hi, Lexi!” I say. “Hey, did you lose weight?”

  “Me?” Lexi screeches. “No! I’m like a cow.”

  “Really? Dairy or beef? Beef probably, huh?”

  She’s confused.

  “Is this champagne?” I pick up a glass.

  “Have a date for your sister’s wedding yet?” someone asks me. They don’t mean any harm by this, they’re just trying to be nice, and since every single tan, tawny one of them is already married, they don’t know the question is like salt in my eyeball.

  “Well, I met Ed Keller’s son today,” I tell them. “Brad.”

  “Really?” my mom brightens. “He sounds nice.”

  “Oh yeah, as if,” Hailey says, rolling her eyes.

  My eyes narrow and I take a sip of pink champagne. “Hey, Mom, where’s the pickle dish?”

  “What pickle dish?”

  “The pickle dish. Your heirloom pickle dish.”

  “Where it always is, I guess. The sideboard.”

  I study the little bubbles in my drink and say, “I don’t think so.”

  Hailey glares at me.

  My mother stops reloading chips into the ceramic Mexican hat bowl.

  Nobody says anything and you can hear the stove fan whirring.

  My mother rushes into the dining room, and when she comes back into the kitchen she has a bright red face, but very calmly, like Clint Eastwood, she asks, “Girls, where is my pickle dish?”

  Silence.

  I examine a fingernail. “Ask Hailey, Mom.”

  “Hailey”—she turns around—“where is my pickle dish?”

  “Mom, I was going to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Lenny sort of bumped into the table at Christmas.”

  “Bumped it?”

  “He just bumped the table and the pickle dish fell. It broke.”

  My mother closes her eyes and slowly puts one hand on her forehead and the other one over her heart, and the yellow duck stitched on her sweater, as though she’s just been told one of us has cancer. “Leonard broke the pickle dish?” Before Hailey can answer, Mom reaches for the counter as if for support, as if she might fall down. “HAROLD!” she yells. “Harold, your daughter broke the pickle dish!”

  “No, I didn’t,” Hailey whines. “Lenny did!”

  Ha. She’s already turning him in. Some marriage.

  “What now?” My father comes into the kitchen holding his newspaper.

  “Leonard broke the pickle dish,” my mother says.

  “You got any ham sandwiches?” he asks.

  “Harold, the pickle dish your mother came across the Atlantic Ocean with is gone.”

  “That’s the one!” I chirp. “Smashed.”

  “That thing?” he says. “Who needs a pickle dish? You want a pickle you get a pickle. Use a jar like everybody else.” Then he leaves. I love my dad.

  Hailey explodes at me. “You just want Mom to hate Lenny! Well, guess what? Mom loves Lenny. I love Lenny! Everybody loves Lenny! The guys at the factory love Lenny so much they gave him a freaking world’s-best-boss lifesaver ring for his fishing boat!”

  “Well, Hailey,” I say calmly, “I don’t think Mom’s pickle dish loves Lenny.”

  Hailey throws her special edition of Cape Cod Weddings on the floor.

  “Enough!” my mother says. “Your grandmother managed to cross an ocean with that pickle dish and yet now it is broken.” She nods grimly. “You girls have to learn.”

  You girls?

  “And you knew about this, Jennifer Anne?” she asks.

  Crap. Crap. Crap. The barrel of the gun has repositioned. When middle names are used, punishments are imminent. This is what always freaking happens. No matter who does what, it will be my fault. If Hailey roasted my mother’s Wedgwood figurines on the propane grill, my mother would ask me what I did to upset my sister. I employ evasive tactics. “Didn’t you say Grandma saved that pickle dish from the Nazis?” I ask, knowing full well Grandma Hannah saved the pickle dish from the Nazis by hiding it in her very ample bosom.

  “Yes,” she says. “Your grandma left Denmark during the war. She got on one of the last boats leaving Copenhagen when Hitler invaded and all she brought was a few things, and one of them was that pickle dish.”

  “I loved Grandma,” I say. “I miss her.”

  “Faker!” Hailey shouts.

  “Well,” my mother says, “that’s a loss for the whole family. An irreplaceable heirloom lost to carelessness.” Everyone in the kitchen is silent. “All right,” she sighs, “let’s try on the dresses. I’ll visit Grandma’s grave tomorrow to explain.”

  We all wash our hands before trundling out to the sun porch where our dresses are hanging. I find the white garment bag that says JENNIFER and unzip it. There it is. The infamous kimono. I hate this dress. I actually did drive all the way to the mall to try it on, but I wouldn’t let the seamstress take it out or fix the hem or even look at me, for that matter. I never came out of the little fitting room. It was hideous and I told her to just send an extra-large and I was done with it.

  I take the dress to the upstairs bathroom so I can change in private. I have to lose weight. It’s not funny anymore. It’s no longer just a few pounds. I can’t take this off in two weeks. I look in the mirror. Oh my God. I am not wearing this dress in public. The backs of my legs look like tree stumps. How could the breasts be too high and the waist too low? It puckers. It puckers everywhere.

  “Jennifer?” I hear my mother call up the stairs. “Come down! We want to see everyone together!”

  No way. Not going down. No. Those girls will laugh at me. Not to my face, but behind my back. They’ve always done that. They don’t know what it’s like to be called Jenny Jelly Belly or Jen-Jen Messy Pigpen. David said I should lose weight. Every man I ever dated probably thought it, even if he didn’t say it out loud. I wish I’d never been born. Not if I had to be a fat, metabolism-challenged failure my entire life.

  I hear someone knocking on the door and I panic. I can already see this play out. It doesn’t matter what I say about the dress. It doesn’t matt
er if I tell them I’m too uncomfortable and self-conscious to wear it in the ceremony, they’ll tell me I look fine and they’ll make me wear it. The knocking gets louder.

  “Jennifer, for goodness’ sake, come out already.” It’s my mother. “I don’t know why you’re changing in there anyway. There’s antibacterial soap and Windex in there. They could ruin your dress. Jennifer!” My eyes snap to the sink and I make a dash for the cabinet. I’m not really even thinking now, I’m panicking, wild like an animal that’s caught in a snare. I will do anything to free myself.

  The next thing I know, I hear, “What have you done?!” and my mother is standing over me with her hands on her head. The bridesmaids in their perfect powder-blue dresses crowd around behind her. Hailey pushes past them and stares at me with her mouth open.

  “You didn’t!” she whispers.

  “I didn’t what?” I look down and there it is, an open bottle of Drano on my lap, clear viscous gel pooling on the shiny light-blue silk.

  “What are you doing?” my mother cries and that’s when I snap out of my fog. I can’t exactly explain what happened but it’s amazing how fast Drano bleaches fabric.

  Faster than bleach.

  In the morning I rush to the Panty Jubilee meeting. Panty Jubilee is part of the targeted inventory that goes on sale before Valentine’s Day. All ladies’ hosiery (underwear) and men’s accessories (underwear) is discounted, along with select jewelry and chocolates, and sometimes we put stuffed animals on sale, too, but we’ve never figured out how to comfortably market Valentine’s Day in the children’s section without looking like pedophiles.

  Ted and I hate the name Panty Jubilee. “I’d rather try to market the Taliban Jubilee,” he says, “or the Gyne-Lotrimin Jubilee.”

  We’ve tried to explain to Carl that the words “panty” and “jubilee” just don’t go together, but he’s not having it. “We’ve called it Panty Jubilee since before any of you worked here,” he barks, “and we’ll be calling it that after you’re all gone.” So Panty Jubilee it is. It’s a jubilee of panties. Hearken to the drummers and let loose the doves, all underwear in the store is twenty-five percent off.