Conversations With the Fat Girl (20 page)

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.

163 Conversations with the Fat Girl157

"Come here, girl. Solo?" Solo comes running over to me. Fears 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

164 158Liza Palmer

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 doll-maker 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 in-

165 visible. 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.

166

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

167 Conversations with the Fat Girl161

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

168 162Liza Palmer

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.

Unwind is the hippest salon to open in Pasadena in years. The staff wear

all-black and offer you everything from cappuccinos to mojitos as you

enter. Peregrine turned me on to this place as sort of a backhanded

compliment. She gave me an eyebrow wax and a pedicure for my birthday

last year. The pedicure was the compliment part; the eyebrow wax was her

way of telling me I was starting to look like Frida Kahlo. I still don't

feel like I belong in such an atmosphere, but I keep going. Hoping. One day.

The girl behind the counter welcomes me with a grunt. This is the

hipster method of greeting. Her piercings are distracting. I'm trying to

connect the chains as I tell her I'm here to see Sam for my massage. She

clicks the mouse a few times and announces that I can follow her. She

walks away, never looking back.

I go through the beaded curtain past the Indian god Ganesha and enter

the inner sanctum of the spa. Bustling, black-clad employees walk back

and forth from closed door to closed door. My pierced guide leads me

into the bathroom and points to a shelf of terry-cloth robes. She tells

me to pick one out, then wait in the seating area with the fountain. Sam

will pick me up from there. She adds this last bit as the door closes

behind her. I say thank you to the closing door as I stand in the

bathroom completely alone.

169 I sort through the robes and finally settle on an oversize, hot pink

number with UNWIND in thug-style writing across the back. I look like

I'm entering the ring in a battle to defend my heavyweight boxing title.

I decide to keep my bra and panties on until I reach the massage room,

just in case. Just in case there's a tornado or some other natural

disaster where I suddenly have to run from the building without being

able to re-dress. I cinch the belt tight and find a seat by the

fountain. I pick up a random magazine and wait.

"Maggie? Are you Maggie Thompson?" I look up from the magazine and my

mouth falls open.

"Hi, I'm Sam." He is over six feet tall. His curly blond hair falls in

perfect ringlets around his impossibly beautiful face. He has the bluest

eyes I've ever seen. He extends his hand, and I can see that his arms

are sleeved in tattoos. He wears his khaki work pants low-slung and a

white Unwind polo shirt.

I cannot speak. I cannot move. I certainly cannot take this robe off in

front of this perfect cherub. I can, however, throttle Peregrine and

proceed to kill her with my bare hands.

"Hi, you're Sam?" I manage, shaking hands with him. His hands are so

strong. I'm not going to make it. I'm not going to live through this day

"Yeah, why don't you come on back?" Sam pulls me up as I anxiously tug

my robe closed.

"So what are we working on this morning? Where are you feeling tight?"

Sam walks with his hands linked behind his back. I cannot look at him.

"Mostly, my neck. You know, around my shoulders-that kind of thing.