Conversations With the Fat Girl (5 page)

you to refer to a goddamn puppy or a kitten.?I am set on protecting my

man. ?Why don't we try not to have a sailor mouth in this family

establishment, young lady,? Cole says. ?Oh, and Scrawny Ass is sweeping

kindergarten classrooms across the nation? Remember? Scrawny Ass? Ass??

?We're not doin' this.?Cole bangs the espresso out of the coffee handle

and turns his back on me a second time.

34 28 Liza Palmer

I stand there one second too long with my mouth open, anticipating

Cole's next move. There isn't one. His next move turns out to be

ignoring me. I storm into the back room in search of chocolate syrup and

to get away from Cole and my hanging, belligerent questioning. ?Did you

get my invite for Movie Night next week? I left it in your cubbie,?

Peregrine says as she sits in the employee smoking section, which

consists of three plastic white chairs and an upturned milk crate just

outside the door to the back room. She extinguishes her cigarette on her

boot and flicks it as far into the night as it can go. The word cubbie

sounds ridiculous coming out of her mouth. Her dyed blue-black hair is

twirled around in twenty buns all over her head. She is wearing a small,

Japanese-style silk shirt with a black leather skirt. Peregrine was born

Leila Williams in a penthouse in Manhattan. She grew up among the

fashion elite, her mother being a celebrated designer. When it was her

turn to take her place next to her mother's fur-clad throne, Leila moved

to LA and renamed herself Peregrine, like the falcon. Peregrine says she

transplanted herself here from New York to pursue a fashion career. No

one ever questions this move, even though moving away from New York and

her mother's connections to pursue a fashion career seems a bit

backward. After ten years, all she has to show for her dream is a

mannequin in her living room sporting the same pinned Eisenhower jacket

she's had on display since she took it out of the moving van. She never

talks about her deferred dream in a negative way, and no one dares to

ask her what's taking so long. Over the years, Peregrine and I have

become friends. Her Movie Nights, Poker Nights, Trivia Parties, and

holiday gettogethers are legendary. She designs her own invitations and

makes all of us feel like the party wouldn't be the same without us.

Peregrine is that person who brings everyone together. But

35 Conversations with the Fat Girl 29

after the cards are dealt and the beers are cracked open, you've got to

be willing to listen. Peregrine will spin yarn after yarn about herself

and never once look up and notice that you've slit your wrists and

scrawled I AM NOT HAPPY in your own blood on the wall behind you. Still,

within minutes you're back to laughing and having a great time. After

the night is through, you walk away remembering the night as the most

fun you've had in a long time. I guess a night with Peregrine is what

I've been told childbirth is like-you forget the pain and just remember

the beauty of it all. ?Yeah, thanks. Can I let you know later if I can

make it? What are you still doing here??I ask, trying to change the

subject. The memory of the last event still has some remnants of pain.

The splendor of selective memory hasn't kicked in yet. ?Getting a smoke

in before the drive home. What was going on out there?? ?Nothing,?I say,

searching for the chocolate syrup. The last thing I want to do is tell

Peregrine about Cole being an asshole to Domenic and have him walk

through the back door. ?Talked about nothing for a good long while.? ?I

just don't like how Cole talks to people sometimes,?I say on tippy-toes.

reaching for the chocolate syrup. ?That's just Cole. He's a cranky son

of a bitch. You can't keep taking it personally lamb. You know, when I

first met Cole he was I t coming off his big knee injury that cost him

his scholarship. Ii talks like that where I know he's just an embittered

little old ?in who is pissed off about everything. It's not just you.?I

know Peregrine is right. This isn't about who's right or wrong. And I

know this conversation will continue until I agree with her. ?I think he

thinks he means it.?I pull down the syrup and ?n to wipe the dust from

the top of the can. I try to make my comment sound as offhanded as

possible.

36 30 Liza Palmer

?Once again, he's an asshole. You just can't take it

personally,?Peregrine says, taking her apron off and going into the back

room, where the smoking employees leave the mouthwash. ?I'm not taking

it personally I just don't like it,?I say over Peregrine's gargles. She

spits. Peregrine stares at me from the bathroom. Silent. I know this

look and I usually don't like the sermon that inevitably follows.

?What?? I blurt, clutching my chocolate syrup to my bosom The sooner we

start this lesson, the sooner it'll be over. ?You've always been so

sensitive. I think it's getting to the point where you've got to grow up

a little. I mean Cole is Cole. I think you're being a little

self-centered.?I can't fathom how I'm being called self-centered while

the person telling me about this character flaw is staring at herself in

the bathroom mirror. Peregrine tears herself away [or one second to

shoot me that matronly smirk of hers. ?For slit's sake, Maggie, get back

behind the counter.?Cole's voice oozes into the back room. I stare at

Peregrine, not even turning around to see Cole. I can feel the back door

swinging wildly from his entrance and exit. My eyebrows are so high they

are now touching my hairline I wait. Peregrine steps out of the bathroom

and straightens her shirt I am holding on to that can of chocolate syrup

like it is my firstborn. And yet I'm a little cocky. How could I not

take that personally? I await her epiphany She purses her lips and looks

off into the distance. ?I'd better get back,?I say, turning. ?Ahhhh,

sweet pea, he's an asshole - you're just so sensitive. Just think about

what I said.?Peregrine sighs. Unbelievable.

37

Me and Marcus Aurelius

After Cal, I was accepted at San Francisco State University's museum

studies program. I'd majored in art history at Cal and was so dedicated

to the restoration and preservation of great art that I decided to make

that my career. I was good at it. My obsessive attention to detail and

ability to work long hours, without interruption, put me at the top of

my class. I went back to Pasadena after those years excited and ready to

take my place in the working world. I found the job at Joe's a few weeks

after my return from the Bay Area. I told myself I would apply to jobs

in my field throughout that summer and be out of there by fall. I

applied over and over again and was rejected. I kept going to Interviews

and sending resumes, but I was still working at Joe's as I celebrated

Thanksgiving with my family I gave up easily and far too soon. Joe's was

just easier. The coffeemaker begins brewing as I wake up the next

morning. I feel relieved that it's my day off, but dread that it will be

spent sifting, cleaning, and readying for the big move. 1 start n the

kitchen, the room with the most things I can live without

38 32 Liza Palmer

for the next few weeks. I decide to pick up a paper this afternoon and

start the phone calls to prospective landlords. I pack various cabinets

of pots, pans, cookie sheets, and most of the dishes. I am beginning to

get into the deeper recesses of the cabinets. 1 find old tape recorders,

videotapes, and other knickknacks 1 can't remember having. After finding

enough stuff I haven't seen in forever, I go outside, drag in a plastic

trash can, and begin to maniacally toss everything I haven't used in the

past year. I feel lighter but sad for a bygone era that is now being

dragged out trash can by trash can. In another cabinet, I find shoe

boxes of pictures that tumble out at my feet I have apparently been

stuffing them in the cabinet and not in the shoe boxes for some time

now. To open or not to open? That is the question. A shoe box filled to

the rim with old pictures and memorabilia is an invitation to open

Pandora's box. I pull off my head the old baby hat that I've been

wearing since I packed the ?hat drawer?earlier this morning and settle

in. Old school pictures and candid photographs take me back to a time I

don't want to relive, just as I knew they would. Flipping through them,

I feel teleported to that world: Olivia and I the day she got her first

car, our college graduation from Cal, and the day Olivia, my sister, and

I went up to the mountains when we saw it snowing on the news-we just

packed up and started driving. Pictures of Olivia and I in our early

twenties in San Francisco and Washington, DC, take up most of this shoe

box: Olivia and I at one of our many outings at the Golden Gate Bridge.

Olivia and I lunching in Tiburon. Olivia and I toasting with Blue

Hawaiians at a Georgetown bar. I remember that night-the Blue Hawaiian

night-the first time I stayed with Olivia and Adam in their apartment.

39 Conversations with the Fat Girl 33

I was deep into my third year of the master's program at San Francisco

State and trying to get used to a San Francisco without Olivia. I met

Olivia and Adam at a Spanish tapas bar in DC for dinner after flying in

that afternoon. As I walked into the restaurant, I couldn't miss the two

of them. She was stunning in her white pantsuit with bright yellow

pointy heels, but she paled in comparison to how impossibly beautiful

Adam was. That night, he was wearing a black suit with a brilliant blue

buttondown shirt, which opened to reveal his perfect chest. His golden

hair was cut short and moussed to perfection. Upon my arrival, Adam

stood to greet me. I remember my breath catching. I'd forgotten how tall

he was. When I gathered my wits again, I ordered a sautéed mushroom

appetizer. I remember thinking that if I just ate the mushrooms, I would

not officially be going off whatever diet I was on that night. The

mushrooms tasted great, and I felt even better for sticking to this new

mysterious mushroom diet I'd discovered. After dinner, Olivia, Adam, and

I moved to a bar in the Foggy Bottom district. I bought drinks we heard

other people ordering and then we saw them. Two girls, who looked like

they were having the best time, had beautiful neon-blue drinks in huge,

oversize hurricane glasses in front of them. Olivia and I got the

bartender's attention, pointed to the girls, and babbled something like,

?Gimme, gimme, them blue drinkies.? He presented us with two of our very

own Blue Hawaiians. We toasted, giggled like schoolgirls again, and I

drank. And drank. They tasted like candy, so I ordered more. And more.

The only thing I really remember is getting up early the next morning to

the undeniable gurglings of a hangover. I was in Olivia and Adam's tiny

apartment sleeping in the living room on a camping mattress Adam had

loaned me. Olivia and Adam slept in the only bedroom, which I had to

quietly pass through to get to the only

40

bathroom. As the hangover found its legs, I found I was losing any

control over holding anything down. In a panic, I decided to take a

shower, figuring I could throw up all I wanted and they wouldn't hear. I

creaked open the bedroom door to find Olivia sleeping in a queen-size

bed all by herself and her brand-new fiancé, Dr. Adam Farrell, sleeping

in another queen-size bed right next to it. There was a large sleeping

bag clipped to the window blocking all natural light. Adam lay there

with blankets pulled to his perfectly chiseled chin, bright orange

earplugs tucked tight, and a black sleeping mask. I was paralyzed, hut I

feared that throwing up while staring at the sleeping couple might be a

little unnerving for all of us. I padded through the bedroom toward the

bathroom, where I vowed never to drink again. At breakfast that morning

at a local coffee shop, Adam left Olivia and me at the table in search

of a Washington Post. 1 stirred my coffee, pushed up my glasses, and

never made eye contact with Olivia. My head was killing me. I felt

almost too nauseous to drink coffee, which has never since happened,

thank God. Olivia smirked across the table and busted me about my ?rough

morning.?I smiled. It hurt. She showed no signs of our previous night.

Thinking back, I was the only one ordering the blue drinkies. That would

explain this morning. I apologized for bothering their sleep, even

though they had not awakened. I thought she might offer some explanation

for their bizarre sleeping arrangement if she knew I'd seen them. I

could hear my spoon hitting the sides of the coffee mug as we sat in

silence. ?He needs his sleep, you know,?Olivia said, cutting her muffin

into eighths. ?Oh. Is that what the. ?The beds? Yeah. He can't waste one

night sleep, you

know. It's so rare that he gets a full night, he just needs to make the