Fat Bald Jeff

by Leslie Stella

  “When is it time for me?” she whined. She had the right attitude for the eighties, except we were stuck in the inhuman conditions of nature instead of industrialized civilization, like normal people.

  She pushed me into my bunk and said maybe if my father ever helped her with me, she’d be a lot easier to get along with. She stalked out of the cabin, treading on Father’s homeopathic remedies strewn about the floor. I sobbed—like I had so many other times—into my indestructible hemp pillow. Ventured out of the cabin shortly thereafter, with only my pillow and Bob Marley quilt to protect me against marauding brown bears. I wanted to punish the parents for leaving me in the cabin, yet I didn’t want to expose myself to woodland bugs creeping around under the evergreens. So I laid down in the grass at the perimeter of the bonfire. It wasn’t long before I heard the grunting and heaving particular to indecent relations in the nearby underbrush. I stood up to move away and saw that the grunting came from a hippie girl called Sundance and a frustrated potter called Father.

  Mother stumbled upon them right after I did, and the next day we were packed and headed for home in the VW microbus.

  I said, “Well, Ruth and Harvey, I expect it’s all for the best.”

  Father turned around from the steering wheel and screamed, “Don’t talk to us that way! For the time being, we’re still your parents.” At which point he nearly drove us over the highway median, but I felt my point was made.

  Mother sat in the backseat, staring out the window and crying for hours on end while Father drove, stone-faced and silent. When it was her turn to drive, Father sat in the backseat playing his guitar and singing Phil Ochs’s “I Ain’t Marchin’ Anymore.” I sat on the wheel well, assembling homemade sanitary napkins.

  This was how things ended for us on the road. Father spent a long time making it up to Mother, who forgave him eventually. The way she put it to me years afterward was that he was not such a great husband, but he was a good man.

  I picked my head up off Val Wayne’s shoulder. “Can I say something now?”

  He sighed. “Oh, hell. What is it?”

  “I’m sorry for being such a … such a … pill. I am grateful for my adventures in sabotage with Fat Bald Jeff, and you know I would be nothing without you around. I’m just disappointed in Mother. Why couldn’t she have found happiness with a nice rich egghead instead of a Swedish powerlifter?”

  “Why is this so difficult for you?” asked Val, exasperated. “She’s in love and wants to be married. It’s not like you’re going to be living with them.” A sudden hopeful expression transformed his features. “Are you?”

  “No! But that—that lumbering Swede! He’s like a barbarian, always eating giant turkey legs and not reading good books and so on. He’s so … unintellectual.”

  Val said, “He’s not your dad, that’s for sure.”

  “That’s not the problem,” I said.

  “I think,” he said gently, “it is.”

  “That’s preposterous,” I snapped weakly, then went into my bedroom and closed the door. Flung myself on the hideous pom-pom bedspread. Would I have to call Jann “Papa?” I won’t. Just because Mother’s marrying him doesn’t mean we will be any kind of family unit. I opened the drawer of my nightstand and retrieved my drink-recipe book. Right between Simpleton’s Glogg and Suffering Bastard I kept a photograph of my father and me. We’re at a pony ride, and I’m in the saddle wearing jeans (ugh), a striped T-shirt, and a small cowboy hat tipped at a rakish angle. Mother didn’t want me to go on the pony ride (enslaving livestock, etc.), but Father convinced her.

  “Come on, Ruth,” he said. “Addie wants a ride. And the ponies look well fed and happy.” He patted the little animal on the neck and boosted me up.

  After a few turns around the ring, the ride was over. Father asked if I liked it, and I nodded yes enthusiastically. I’ve always been a very simple girl at heart.

  “Wait,” called Mother before I dismounted. “Let’s get a picture of Priss on the pony.” Father and I were amazed that Mother wanted to document the livestock enslavement, but we smiled gladly for the camera. He steadied me, one hand on my arm, the other behind my head, forming rabbit ears with his fingers.

  Put the photo and book back in the nightstand. Then I went to the mirror by my dresser to freshen up my face with powder and lipstick. No need for Val to see what kind of emotions had been dripping down my cheeks. Flicked on the Arts and Crafts pottery lamp, which bathed the room in warm amber light on the first try, no cord jiggling required.

  I went back in the living room. Val was packing the bowl of a three-foot bong. He said, “See what you’ve driven me to? I’ve started a new campaign to smoke a mile. Maybe by then I will be so brain-dead you won’t bother me anymore.” He took a huge hit. “Ah, only 5,277 feet to go.”

  “I think I’d like to go to the wedding,” I said.

  He looked at me in astonishment.

  “Can we go shopping this weekend to choose a new frock?” Even though the wedding was going to be at Jann’s mama’s house—which stank of curing chubs and sewage from the neighboring Cal-Sag drainage ditch—I still wanted to look nice.

  “Sure. Sure, of course,” he said.

  “Marvelous,” I said, flopping down on the couch next to him. “Can you lend me some money?”

  He narrowed his eyes at me but grinned in spite of himself. He was about to fire up again when I reached for the bong and said, “Could I … do you think I could have a little sip?”

  “A sip? You mean a toke? You? My God! What is the world coming to?” He slapped his forehead in mock amazement, but handed it over to me.

  I shrugged and lit the bowl. I’ve read it’s good for the digestion.

  Someone came knocking on our door that night. It took Val forever to get out of the shower and open it. I would have opened it myself, but I had been under a great deal of stress that day and was resting on the couch.

  Mr. Chung walked in holding a sheet of paper.

  “I received this from Lionakis, along with a copy of a letter I had supposedly sent him complaining about Jadwiga,” he said, sitting rigidly in the Edith Bunker chair. Val sighed and went into the kitchen to make up some G&Ts.

  I slid down under the afghan and asked if he could possibly come back another time, as I was convalescing and my condition could presently go either way.

  “Let’s hope so,” he replied, handing me the landlord’s letter.

  Dear Mr. Chung,

  Enclosing herewith your letter of last week, as leaving it on my desk at home sends my wife, Jadwiga, into hysterics. We’ve owned the apartment building you reside in for twenty years and regret that you find fault with our managerial style. Luckily, your lease comes up for renewal next month, at which point you may exercise the option to cancel. As for the lunch-meat issue in the laundry room, Jadwiga suggests you ask the skinny, irritable person in 3R about the sandwiches she brings downstairs while doing her wash.

  Sincerely,

  G. Lionakis

  “George, no doubt,” I said, handing back the letter. “All the Greeks are named George.”

  Chung stared at me, waiting, apparently, for something else. I coughed a little and smoothed down the afghan. I moved my G&T over an inch. I folded my hands across my lap. I smiled ingratiatingly. The ticking of Val’s driftwood Jesus clock began to reverberate in my head. My vision clouded.

  “All right!” I exploded. “It was me, I wrote it!” Covered my face with my hands but couldn’t get the damn waterworks going. Dehydrated from my current ordeals, I think.

  “That didn’t take long,” remarked Val.

  “No, indeed,” agreed Chung, “not long at all.” They continued in this fashion as I wailed and gnashed my teeth.

  Finally I stopped. I was dead tired of tantrum-ing.

  “Sorry,” I said, bottom lip quivering, “I just thought it would sound better coming from you. And who knew he was married to the janitoress?”

  He said nothing. I felt very uncomfor
table abasing myself in front of this bland, taciturn Asian. Suddenly, without meaning to, it all came spilling out: losing the job, my Crook-Eye partnership, the decapitated mongrel, dead Coddles, bossy Alma and her stinking tweeds. Anyone could see I had been suffering as of late.

  Mr. Chung sat on the couch next to me. He looked at Val, gave him a curt nod, then turned to me and said, “You are an annoying little xenophobe; however, you seem to mean well, and for some reason Val Wayne likes you. You have a way with words and may possibly be clever. If you are interested, my brother—the owner of the nursery we went to—needs someone to put together his summer and fall plant catalogs. He will not pay well, but at least it’s a job. I’ll write out his phone number here.” He did so, handed it to me, and left. Xenophobe! Leave it to the Koreans to start name-calling.

  An incomprehensible look of gratitude washed over Val’s face.

  “Do you think this means I’m invited to their party this Friday?” I asked. Val ignored my question in favor of a more plebeian train of thought.

  “What a relief.” He grinned easily and dropped onto the couch with a gigantic sigh. “You could have a job. Start contributing to rent and food again. No more lying around here. No more whining like an invalid for buttered Club crackers and chicken soup. You can get out of those dirty pajamas and start treating your bedsores.”

  “We’ll see.” I sniffed. Val whipped around, tore off my afghan, and rolled me off the couch! Fell with a thump and a cry, but Val went into his bedroom and shut the door. Where was my supper of brown rice and wilted spinach? Of course, all of my recent traumas have drained my strength, physically and emotionally, and I lay on the floor for some time, trying to rally.

  Got up before noon the next day, rather proud of myself. I made my own tea. Tomorrow was the big party in 2F, but I still had not received a personal invitation. Francis called me from work to tell me that he’d received his invitation via Val.

  “Oh, really,” I said.

  “Yeah. Should I stop up at your apartment before, or—”

  “No, no,” I said. “I’ll just see you there.” Francis sounded vexed, but I did not want to be turned away at the door in front of him. 2F would probably enjoy publicly shunning me!

  Fat Bald Jeff also phoned and wanted to drop by after work and bring dinner. He showed up at six o’clock with two cans of baked beans and a Bun.

  He said the Place had been much subdued by our website. The worst of the bigwigs had been fired, had quit, or had died. The interim executive director, less haggish than her predecessor and possessing a streak of humanity, offered Big Lou an enviable senior maintenance position with a sizeable pay increase, but he turned it down. He had taken a job with the city as an adviser to Mayor Daley, and he liked it rather well. More temps had been hired to construct new staff name-plates—no one could remove the slogan stickers.

  “I brought you this,” said Jeff, reaching into his olive-drab backpack. He handed me my old signage. It still read DIE PREWITT after the sticker. He helped me put it up over the doorway to my bedroom. We stepped back to appraise our work.

  “It’s a little gruesome,” I said.

  He shrugged. “Other Jeff put up a sign that reads ARBEIT MACHT FREI over the entrance to the Hole. That’s much more gruesome.”

  Nothing impairs my digestion more than staring at a sign that says DIE PREWITT as I eat baked beans out of a can with a spork. Jeff devoured his with gusto and hummed a little tune as he cut the Bun in half. All around, he seemed pleased with himself and the path down which he was headed.

  Immediately after the beheading, the owner of the dead mongrel—terrified of Fat Bald Jeff—moved all his belongings out of the building, and Jeff hadn’t seen him since. The creep was so scared of Jeff that he didn’t even tell his mama (the ghastly Nibbett) what had happened to his dog. Mrs. Nibbett complained a little about the mysterious red stain she saw on Jeff’s floor, but he told her it just appeared one day out of the blue, like a stigmata. I asked him if he made a deal about his rent.

  He shifted in his chair and attacked the Bun. “We came to an agreement.”

  “What agreement?” I asked.

  “Chicken Kiev once a week in her apartment, followed by cake and …” He trailed off and stuffed his mouth.

  I finished the thought for him. “And unnatural caresses?”

  He chewed his Bun ruminatively. After a full minute’s silence, he curled up one side of his mouth, lifted his eyebrows, and nodded. I stared at him in horror. He couldn’t mean it. Mrs. Nibbett is practically a cadaver, though less flexible.

  He shrugged carelessly. “Addie, I take my opportunities as they present themselves. And the cake is really excellent.”

  Called Chung’s Nursery about the job. The proprietor was brisk and businesslike on the phone, unlike his languorous, opulent brother. He asked me to stop by and pick up an inventory list so that I might write a few sample descriptions for his catalog. Rode my bicycle there, although the tires were wobbly after the catapult down the basement steps.

  It was one of those glorious early June days. Sat outside at the picnic table with the plant list, enjoying the sunshine and light breeze. Paco grubbed around in the garden with the giantess, hoeing clods of earth. They asked for a little help, but I pointed out that I was wearing darling lilac-colored capri pants, a white cotton eyelet blouse, and lilac Prada-lookalike Mary Janes—most unsuitable for hoeing.

  “Play hooker again?” asked Paco. His wife turned and gave me a look of profound disapproval.

  “Er … yes,” I replied hesitantly, as the giantess advanced.

  “Good,” said Paco, as I made for the door, “I like when you are around.”

  Worked for hours on the catalog. Discovered that it’s easier to write mean things about my boss than to write informative details about ornamental kale. But I’m not complaining. I just compare the plants to people I know, and the words flow quickly. For example, the lanky rose called “White Dawn” reminds me of the Lemming, as it is pale, fussy, and not much good for bedding. Though to be fair, I wrote that it was fine up against a wall.

  Called Gran to chat. She didn’t know a thing about the Crook-Eye website, and although she was always supportive of me, I didn’t think she would understand it or appreciate my new vocation in rebellion. Thank God she’s not on the Internet and only reads the Chicago Tribune. All she knows is that I’ve got a new job writing catalog copy about plants. She thinks it’s grand and that I’ll be a great success in the field. Perhaps the passage of time since my dismissal has objectified my outlook, but I now think I made rather a success out of my old job as well.

  “Did you receive your invitation to the wedding?” I asked.

  “To eat herring with the Norwegians on the dirty South Side? Yes.”

  I said, “I think Mother will be happy. That’s something, isn’t it?”

  Grandmother paused, then said, “Ruth deserves some happiness, yes. It can’t have been easy with Harvey not working and making strange pots all the time. Though God knows he never showed a sign of idleness before he met your mother. Not that I pass any kind of judgment.”

  “Jann said we should think of him not just as a new family member, but as a skilled craftsman who will offer us design advice and architectural anecdotes for free.”

  “Daft boy,” she said. But she sounded pleased.

  Can it be that Jann possesses a sense of humor? Am now trying to reinterpret his past grunts for other meanings.

  When seven-thirty on Friday struck, the Lemming rang my doorbell. He presented to me a pot specimen of French hydrangea, also known as hortensia. Pretended to fix my lipstick in the bathroom, but really went to check my Language of Flowers book. The secret message of hortensia? “You are cold.”

  For the party, Val suggested my pale blue vintage frock of shantung silk with embroidered orchids. I swept my bob behind my ears for a winning, youthful look, and tried without luck to arrange my bangs in a less International-Man-of-Mystery style. When
I presented myself to the Lemming, he said I would not look good bald. What is that supposed to mean? Between his veiled insults and Val’s cryptic comments, it’s a wonder I have any ego left at all.

  Would 2F let me in or not? A bit nervous as we knocked on 2F’s door, but I reasoned that being humiliated in front of the Lemming was nothing new for me. Stefan opened the door, smiled at the Lemming, and gave me the once-over.

  “Addie’s my date,” said the Lemming quickly.

  Stefan’s eyes drifted down my thrift-store outfit, taking in its full quota of dangling hem threads, too-loose bodice, and tiny stain near the neckline. I looked down at the dress, my face burning with embarrassment. What does Val know about fashion? There was a cheap smartness about my dress that told its own tale.

  “Come in,” he sighed.

  Admittance! The party was already in full swing. There must have been at least fifty guests there already, dancing, eating, courting indiscretion. This was what I had been dreaming of, longing for, lusting over all these months. How many times I had heard their parties throbbing below, alone in my apartment, abandoned by Val, who was always an invited guest.

  Gyrating in the living room to a thrilling bossa nova beat was Fat Bald Jeff. He wore a black T-shirt and jeans, as usual. Sweat flew from his glistening head in greasy beads. He punctuated the bass line by thrusting his fists into the air, biting his lower lip, and stomping both boots at once on the floor. For a massive fellow, he was surprisingly light on his feet. His dancing partner twisted mightily beside him—it was Alma, whose wretched tweed skirt flared out obscenely.