Fat Bald Jeff

by Leslie Stella

  “Oh, well, I won’t stay long,” he said, pushing his way in and sitting down in the Edith Bunker chair. I stared in dismay at the wet footprints that followed him. He caught my gaze and hurriedly dropped to his knees to sop up the puddles with his sleeve. I took the flowers from him so he could utilize the full advantage of both sleeves.

  “Carnations,” I said, beaming appreciatively. “A most economical choice.”

  He looked up. “The florist said all flowers have meanings, and she suggested these when I described you to her.”

  I went to the kitchen to put them in water and stole a quick glance at an old book of mine on the Victorian meanings of flowers: Red carnation—Alas! my poor heart. The florist must have a different translation.

  We chatted for a while. Never had a conversation before whilst wearing pumpkin-farmer pants—I suppose I can be as shocking and audacious as the next girl! Felt like a devil-may-care beat poet. The doorbell sounded again, and I jumped up to buzz Jeff in. Unfortunately, opening the door revealed a damp and peevish Lemming. He, too, held a small bouquet of flowers—anemones and filler sprigs of barberry.

  “Raining,” he grouched. He stepped in, glanced at Francis sitting placidly in the corner, and turned to me with a look as black as thunder.

  “Sick, are you?”

  “Convalescing,” I said.

  Francis stood up and introduced himself while I ran to look for another vase. I’d already used the good one for the red carnations, so I had to use the hideous clay one fashioned by my father. Roaches and fingernail clippings were sealed in the glaze. I skimmed The Language of Flowers for the meaning of the Lemming’s nosegay. It said sickness and sourness of temper. Grabbed a roll of paper towels and ran back to the living room, where I thrust the vase at Martin and moodily wiped up the wet trail that led from door to disco couch.

  “Oh, shall I help?” Martin offered weakly, rising a half inch from the couch.

  “No, no. It’s nothing. Just talk amongst yourselves while I mop this up and wax the floor.”

  I was crouched on all fours, scrubbing, when the door suddenly swung open and bonked me on the head.

  “Oops!” said Val Wayne. I sat rubbing my head while Val hung up his coat and quietly studied the scene around him: I, attired in perverse pumpkin pants, slavishly mopping the floor with inferior towelettes; the Lemming, moistly glowering on the disco couch; Francis, nervously pulling at his rampant brows; and two vases of calumny sitting on the coffee table.

  A smile slowly eased itself under his penciled ’stache, which was smeared somewhat from the rain. “I was going to meet a friend for coffee, but I think I’ll stay home after all.”

  He whistled as he went in the kitchen to mix us all some drinks.

  By the time the buzzer sounded again, I had finished the second coat of wax and crawled feebly to the intercom.

  “Who is it?” I asked warily.

  “It’s Fat Bald Jeff.”

  Never thought I’d thank God for the arrival of Fat Bald Jeff.

  He carried my bicycle up to the third floor and seemed put out when I told him it belonged in the basement. He needs the exercise, and anyway, my health is far too delicate at present to be carting bicycles up and down stairs like a common laborer. Well, we were all quite chummy, the five of us, after a round of drinks in the living room. Francis sat stiffly in the Edith Bunker chair, taking minuscule sips of Ouzo out of a hollowed-out coconut. The Lemming sat like a fop, feet tucked underneath him on the disco couch, and drank vodka with pink lemonade from the chipped-rim Miami Dolphins tumbler. Val and I sat on the couch too, with G&Ts in sordid ceramic vessels (fired by Father) in the shape of obscene orchids. Fat Bald Jeff sat on the floor and drank beer out of an I ♥ GRANDPA mug. Val offered to pull a folding chair out of our storage closet for Jeff, but the stout man said not to bother. I imagine he’s used to sitting on floors.

  Went in the kitchen to top off my drink. Val followed.

  “I, for one, am interested in seeing what comes of this freakish gathering,” he said.

  I peeked down the hall into the living room. “No one dares move,” I whispered.

  “Why is the fat, bald one here?”

  “He’s bringing me something from work. Didn’t you see the manila envelope he’s clutching in his lap?”

  “Oh, yeah,” said Val, “he growled at me when I reached down to refill his mug.”

  We walked back in with our drinks, and then Val Wayne Newton made an utterly wicked suggestion.

  “Say, let’s get out of here. We can all go in my car.” I looked apprehensively from one face to another. Francis’s features tightened and his Adam’s apple convulsed frighteningly; the Lemming squared his weak jaw and a white dent appeared on either side of his nose; Fat Bald Jeff made spasmodic movements with his eyebrows and darted his eyes repeatedly from me to the manila envelope. A grin as wide as Jeff’s midriff stretched across Val’s smug face. I gulped the contents of my orchid.

  We trudged after Val, single file, to the garage. He opened his London Fog umbrella, as he needed to protect his mustache from further running. He barely made room for me under it, but I forced my way in. The Lemming squealed and complained about the weather, but the other two silently tramped in the rain. I expect they’re accustomed to inconvenience and discomfort. Val and Jeff sat in the front seat, while I sat between Francis and Martin in the back. Thankfully, there was no need for conversation, as Val had Metallica playing full volume in the CD player. Francis began to bobble his head wildly to the music, while the Lemming flinched with each boom of the kick drum. Jeff seemed unaware that there was even any music on. No one asked where we were going.

  We pulled up outside Myopic Books, a used bookstore and café. Val got a cup of coffee and immediately disappeared to a table in the back, where one of his tarts sat brooding, with crossed arms and pouting lips. So he kept his coffee date after all and merely brought the men along to torment me!

  As the Lemming ordered himself an espresso, Francis took advantage and pulled me over to the activists’ bulletin board. He pointed to a flyer with a picture and a caption that read FREE MUMIA ABU-JAMAL, and recited the facts of an exciting conspiracy to me. I remarked that in the seventies my mother’s hair looked just like Mumia’s.

  Fat Bald Jeff tugged at my sleeve, shook the manila envelope violently, and whispered, “We have our own conspiracy here, if you don’t mind.”

  The Lemming suddenly appeared at our side, sipping his espresso waspishly.

  “Guilty,” said the Lemming.

  Francis whirled about. “How can you say that? He was framed!”

  “Isn’t it suspicious that he was driving his cab by the exact location, at the exact time, where a cop was beating up his brother?”

  “The cop’s brother?” I asked.

  “Mumia’s brother,” the Lemming answered.

  “And someone shot him,” continued Francis.

  “Mumia?” I asked.

  “The cop’s brother?” questioned Jeff, now getting in on the act.

  “There is no cop’s brother!”

  “So someone shot him—” repeated Francis.

  “Mumia,” I explained to Jeff.

  “No one shot Mumia. Mumia killed the cop,” said the Lemming.

  “Mumia did get shot, but Mumia did not kill the cop,” retorted Francis.

  “Is Mumia okay?” asked Jeff.

  Francis scoffed, “If you call a death sentence okay!”

  “Well, the cop’s dead,” said the Lemming.

  “Who shot the cop?” I asked.

  “Exactly!” they both shouted, glaring at each other.

  I screamed out, “Third base!” No one laughed.

  I disappeared into the mystery section to escape further rancor. I picked up a paperback of Ten Little Indians. It’s one of Gran’s favorite books, but I’ve never read it. It always seemed common, having been made into a movie with Fabian and so on. I handed over the money and asked for a glass of cold water.
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  The clerk tried to charge me a quarter, but I refused to pay. Comments were made. What kind of nut pays for water? Walking away from the counter, I thumbed through the book and realized whole pages were torn out from the end of the book.

  “Hey, look at this! The last chapter’s missing! What kind of bookstore is this?” I said loudly. People turned to look while the clerk turned red.

  I demanded a different copy. The clerk rummaged around in the stacks for a while, muttering obscenities, no doubt, then came back and shoved another paperback at me.

  “Are you sure this is a different copy?” I asked doubtfully. “Because I can’t stand—”

  The floor began to quake as Jeff came stomping up behind me, sneaky as a Pamplona bull, and tapped me on the shoulder. “Addie, you’ve got to see what I have here. National Association of Libraries scandal and smut.”

  “I’m in the middle of—did you say ‘smut’?”

  But just then Francis came up and ordered a coffee, so Jeff grimaced and walked away.

  Francis stirred sugar into his mug and cast an unfriendly glance in the Lemming’s direction. “Phew! Who is that guy?”

  It isn’t easy explaining my relationship with Martin, as I am not sure of it myself.

  Francis listened and looked both shocked and amused. “That despot is your boyfriend?”

  “Well, one man’s despot is another man’s boyfriend,” I said limply, but it didn’t convey quite the right meaning. We went over to Val and his vixen’s table. She was sitting on his lap, so I took her chair. Francis, encouraged by our discussion on Mumia, gave tongue to his favorite issues: political prisoners and the death penalty.

  “You see,” he began, “Mumia symbolizes our society’s mass criminalization of black males and the bipartisan program for quicker executions with fewer appeals. He’s on death row and we’re fighting for his appeal, not only for his own sake but for the sake of human rights.”

  I said, “But if he’s on death row, isn’t he guilty?”

  Francis just looked at me sadly. He explained our rotten criminal justice system and how often the innocent languish in jail cells. He said, “Consider Leonard Peltier. Fred Hampton, Junior. Rolando Cruz. Victims of a corrupt police state.”

  After reflecting on my impasse with the animal official, I felt I understood how an innocent creature could slip though the cracks. Vowed to become more revolutionary. Francis went on about his other political concerns: hemp, PVC, Dow Chemical, the drug war, dry cleaning.

  “I like animals. I am into animal rights,” I said.

  Like a butler wearing wrestling shoes, the Lemming materialized out of nowhere. “Oh, you like animals, do you, Addie? What kind? Or should I say, how do you like them prepared?”

  Visions of sole Véronique and beef tenderloin danced before me. My mouth watered guiltily. “Martin, I adore animals! Dogs and cats are especially, er … nice and good.”

  Francis confided that he ate meat too. Val and the trollop disappeared under the table and Martin took their chair.

  “So, Francis, tell me,” he said with a crabbed little smile, “what do you do?”

  Francis looked uncomfortable and began to pull at his eyebrows. “I’m a graphic designer.”

  I’d never noticed before how tight the Lemming’s collars were, or how his face flushed a disgusting shade whenever he approached some pet subject with dreary passion.

  “A graphic delinquent! How nice.” The men sized up each other like economists at a collegiate debate. I chewed my nails down to bleeding stubs. Francis coughed dryly and corrected him.

  “Oh, that’s right,” replied the Lemming. “You’re an artist.” He invested the word with its full quota of sinister significance.

  I escaped to the front of the store, where I found Fat Bald Jeff perusing the Star Trek section. I sat on the stepladder in the aisle, trembling.

  “I think I’m having a digestive disturbance,” I said. “My prescribed dinner hour was thirty minutes ago.”

  “Speaking of disturbances,” said Jeff, “take a look here.” He removed a photograph from his precious envelope and showed it to me.

  I frowned at the picture. “All I can see are two Santa hats.”

  “So the picture’s a little dark. I can fix that. The Santa hats are attached to Gladys, the marketing VP, and Carlson in accounting.”

  Oh. Oh! Zombies in flagrante delicto!

  I groaned. “Jeff, I don’t feel so good.”

  “I know,” he sympathized. “It made me sick too.” I put my head between my knees as he whispered his plans for the picture. Could hardly process his words as my stomach lurched and tiny Enterprises flew round my head. I heard Francis and Martin approaching and groaned again.

  “Too much gin,” I croaked. “Need … fiber …” Someone ran to the counter, and the next thing I knew, a bran muffin was stuffed in my mouth.

  “Maybe she’s hypoglycemic,” I heard Francis say.

  Val appeared in the haze, snorting. “Maybe she’s a hypochondriac.”

  Val torments me even as I hover between life and death.

  Rode home in the Buick Electra, stretched out in the backseat. I wanted to stay at the bookstore, but my agony annoyed the other customers. In the car I tried to be brave, but groaning was so much easier. I peeked at the back of Ten Little Indians. Again, pages were missing! It was the exact same book! But this time the clerk had written on the inside back cover: It was the judge. The end.

  Groaned more. I rested my feet on Francis and my head in Martin’s lap. Reminded me of something awful involving Andrew Lloyd Webber and lobster thermidor at the Pump Room, but luckily passed out before remembering what. Vaguely recalled the boys lifting me up the three flights of our apartment building. Vaguely recalled a lot of grumbling and complaining. I weigh only 107 pounds, so it can’t be that.

  Passed 2F, who opened their door to watch the parade. I smiled bravely at them, but they shut the door in the midst of my suffering.

  “Just put her anywhere,” said Val as we entered our home. They dumped me on the disco couch. Fat Bald Jeff pressed the stinking manila envelope to my chest.

  “We start tomorrow,” he whispered and waddled out the door with the others.

  Finally looked through the contents of the envelope. All I can say is, Oh mama!

  Chapter 7

  Coddles caught me playing solitaire this morning. He was tipped off by the gray behemoth in the cubicle next door. As he scolded me, I saw steel-wool bangs gopher over the top of the partition and heard a crude, screeching laugh, much like a wolverine devouring a litter of baby mice. Coddles should be glad I even showed up today. My digestion is completely off and my morale is at an all-time low after being carried up the stairs to my apartment twice in two nights.

  “Your work level has been slow and unsatisfactory lately, Miss Prewitt,” Coddles said, eyeing my bosom. “The Web project is moving along nicely, but that doesn’t give you the right to shirk off your other duties.”

  He tramped out, and I turned to a dull manuscript on the productivity of teamwork in library management. A sentence in one of the articles read, “The highest level of success is achieved by workers who don’t insist on being individuals, but rather teammates.” I changed “teammates” to “zombies,” printed out the final copy, and sent it off to the printer. What have I done? I suppose my unthinking obeisance has reached the breaking point. Perhaps Fat Bald Jeff’s manila envelope of filth has destroyed what willingness I had to belong to the Place and complete my meaningless tasks on time. Perhaps work-centered society is to blame for not appreciating us peons. Perhaps my parents have ruined me for plebeian life with their flouting of convention. At any rate, I am now a useless member of the work force.

  At 12:04, Fat Bald Jeff appeared at my cubicle opening and said, “Let’s eat lunch outside. It’s sunny.” True, it was one of those glorious April days that usually sent me running for my trowel and blue gingham gauchos, but I’d lost my enthusiasm for the earth as well
as for spring fashions. Why not trudge about in sackcloth and ashes like the parents wanted? I suppose the yucko pumpkin pants will be my uniform from now on.

  He dragged me out to the industrial park across the street. Big squares of cement were lined up formally around a dead fountain, representing trees and other foreign objects. I sighed and opened up my bag. My lunch was completely beige: wheat bread with sliced tofurkey and mayo, butter beans, two stale sandwich cookies. Jeff’s lunch, on the other hand, looked like the turnout from a successful food drive: pizza, steak and cheese sandwich, Mello Yello, bananas, Bun and Zero, fudge-covered granola bars, grapes, and a hot dog in a thermos. I tried to initiate a conversation, but he silenced me by holding up one fat finger, indicating digestion before discussion. I indicated by example that one should chew each mouthful thirty-two times, not twice. He disregarded my advice.

  Finally, he brought out a copy of the disgusting material he had given me yesterday.

  “What should we do with it?” I asked. “Notify the authorities?”

  “The authorities?” he scoffed. “We are the authorities. We have the evidence, after all. That puts us in a position of authority, or power, anyway. What do you say to a secret, untraceable website detailing their activities?”

  Suddenly, the sun broke through my miserable haze. Birds chirped on the cement blocks. The homeless men snoozing in the dead fountain became nomadic warriors. Dandelions pushing up through the cracks in the sidewalk appeared as prize-winning dahlias, searching for light. This plan of Jeff’s could start me on my way to becoming revolutionary. My place at the Place all at once had some meaning.

  “Like a scandal sheet? A gossip column? Grist for the rumor mill?” I asked.

  “Yes”—he smiled happily—“except it’s all true.”

  I looked again at the material: high-ranking zombies in various states of compromise. It seemed like everyone at last year’s Christmas party had, at some point, stolen down to the dungeon and violated themselves on the floor. Grainy photos proved it. There were computer printouts of questionable charges on the corporate credit card, and heading the list was dear old Coddles.