The Makedown (4 page)
Harry ignored me and grinned. “I’m so excited to do it.”
I smiled back gamely, but I can’t say that I shared his enthusiasm for sex. It was more that I was about to turn twenty-three and I was embarrassed by my virgin status. Women are more like men than they realize, or at least dorky women are.
“Should I turn off the TV?” Harry asked as he popped an Altoid.
“No, leave it on,” I said strategically, knowing a little eye candy in the form of Tom Paris would be helpful. Five minutes later, it was over. It was surprisingly painless and inconsequential. I didn’t feel like a woman. I didn’t have an orgasm. I didn’t even take my bra off. However, on the bright side, I didn’t graduate a virgin. Perhaps I did have an FG after all. Technically, she had delivered a boyfriend and sex. Maybe she just needed her meds increased or her glasses fixed. A farsighted FG— it kind of made sense, in a pathetic sort of way.
Within a few weeks of graduation, both Harry and I returned to our parents’ homes in Ohio. Harry still hadn’t found a job to his liking, while I was lucky enough to have been offered an apprenticeship in the lab at Werner Research Institute analyzing human and primate DNA. Harry wasn’t at all bothered by his lack of employment; he was far too preoccupied with trying to have sex with me. He mentioned at least twice a day that he could borrow his mother’s car any time the mood hit me. Not surprisingly, in the two weeks leading up to my birthday dinner, that mood never made an appearance.
Mother chose Benihana for my birthday dinner. She loved “exotic” cuisine, and for Ohio, Benihana is as exotic as it gets. The evening began with Mother’s standard cocktails of strawberry wine coolers and a Costco vegetable platter at the house. After licking ranch dressing off celery sticks, Mother, Dad, Barney, Harry, and I piled into the brown Chrysler station wagon and headed for the “Hana.” Once seated around the sizzling tabletop grill, our chef chopped, diced, and fried as we “oohed” and “ahhed.” We didn’t bother talking, as that was half the treat of the Hana; the chef’s presence allowed us to comfortably ignore one another. Unfortunately, Mother broke the cardinal Hana rule of silence and tapped her glass to make a toast. She wobbled slightly while standing, mostly due to the vodka tonics she had consumed. Mother wasn’t an alcoholic, but about three times a year she would induce the madness. My most vivid memory of her alcohol-induced insanity occurred when I was sixteen. Dispatched to pick up my parents from the airport after two weeks in Mexico, I discovered Mother drunk in a wheelchair. Dad followed silently behind her as the steward from Mexicana Airline requested that she never fly “Air Beano,” as she referred to them, again. Alcohol tended to bring out the bigoted facets of her personality. Actually, any form of human contact did; alcohol simply provided a convenient scapegoat.
Smiling in a way that only drunk people can, Mother began the toast, ignoring the copious amounts of liquid swishing out of the tumbler and onto the sizzling grill below. “My daughter, a University of Pennsylvania graduate. I couldn’t be more proud. I am so excited to have you back home in your old room with a real job. It’s wonderful.” Mother paused, allowing her joyful air to morph into a harsh expression. “Of course, as we celebrate, we must also prepare for the destruction that is coming.” Mother sipped her vodka tonic loudly and then continued, “A quiet plague is sweeping this country; an epidemic so vicious that it could destroy the very fabric of the American family.”
We stared at her, wondering if this was to be another say-no-to-drugs conversation. Mother was a staunch Republican who truly listened when Nancy Reagan told the country to “D.A.R.E. to say no.” Mother even coined her own antidrug phrase: “Stay clean; try soap, not dope.” She thought it was ingenious since it advertised both good hygiene and the antidrug sentiment. She was dumbfounded when Ivory, Jergens, Irish Spring, and Dove failed to respond to her queries about adopting this marketing campaign.
Mother prepared to continue her speech, pulling her fake glasses to the edge of her nose. Then, in a dramatic gesture we had not seen before, she took off her glasses.
“All across this beautiful bastion of democracy there are middle-aged, overweight, balding men who understand that their glory days are over. Up until now, they have been satisfied with their wives, their families, their suburban existence.”
At this point, we realized that even for Mother, the toast was bizarre. Barney, who rarely showed emotion away from his computer screen, looked genuinely concerned.
“Tiny, little, flexible Orientals are descending upon this country, stealing our middle-aged men. We are in the throes of a geisha invasion. They don’t want the young ones. They want the ones with retirement funds. So you can look the other way, but believe me, they are coming and they are armed!”
The first question that came to mind was “Armed with what?” I imagined an infantry of sexy Asian (I have told Mother many times that
Oriental
is only used to describe carpets) women landing at Cleveland International with garter belts, heels, and maybe a dildo or two. Before I could even finish the perverted thought, Dad interrupted in his usual monotone voice. “I’m leaving Mother for Sarah.”
“Who’s Sarah?” Barney screeched. “Did you meet her online? It’s all my fault! I shouldn’t have brought DSL into our lives,” he cried as he banged his fists on the table.
Ignoring Barney’s flair for the dramatic, I mumbled, “Ming. He’s talking about Ming.” Sarah was Dad’s secretary at Allstate Insurance. She was Filipina, but Mother believed her to be Chinese and, therefore, called her Ming. Mother thought it was particularly funny to tell Ming that life should be taken with “a grain of rice” every time she called the office.
There wasn’t enough rice in the world to make the situation any better. Barney asked for the check. Harry, who had continued eating throughout the speech, asked for a doggy bag. He hated to waste food, especially when someone else was paying. As we walked to the car, a family destroyed, Harry whispered in my ear, “I’ve got Mom’s minivan for the night.”
“That really isn’t . . . ,” I started to respond before giving up. I couldn’t articulate a response for such an insensitive and inappropriate invitation.
“I’m talking removable seats,” Harry continued.
I wanted to scream in his face, but I couldn’t. A profound sense of loss had settled over me since Dad’s announcement. This was it. This was my life, and no fantasies or dreams could change it. For the first time in over a decade, I looked at my reflection in the car window. I expected to see a stranger. After years of avoiding mirrors, surely my face must have changed and matured, but it hadn’t. I was the same. The round contours, saggy skin, and acne remained. I was still Weird Fat Bear, and it was clear that I always would be.
Hello Fatty,
FG isn’t coming. I have no faith in me, in my parents, in Harry, and certainly not in FG. If FG hasn’t stepped in by now, she must not exist. I am alone.
— Anna
Silently weeping on the crushed velvet seat cover of my parents’ car, I knew I had to change or die. I couldn’t allow myself to rot away in Ohio. I needed to reinvent myself as best I could. I didn’t have a list of places to go, but I had seen enough movies to know that New York was the Mecca of reinvention. Even if I failed, it had to be better to fail in New York than in Norfolk, Ohio.
That night, Dad packed his stuff while Mother screamed and Barney cried. Barney had never been good with change, which explained his inability to move out of the house. Harry and I sat on the curb in front of my house, pretending not to hear the implosion of my family. The fact that it was my birthday had completely slipped my mind in light of the current situation.
“You know, I haven’t given you your gift yet.”
“That’s okay, I’m not really in the mood,” I sighed.
“Are you in the mood for anything else?” Harry asked with particular emphasis on the word
anything.
“I don’t think so,” I mumbled, staring at the concrete beneath my ugly brown shoes.
“The third row pulls right out, makes it feel like a real bed back there.”
He simply could not comprehend my lack of interest in seven minutes of screwing in the back of his mom’s minivan. He didn’t care that my birthday had been ruined by my parents. He didn’t care that I was emotionally destitute. He wanted to get his needs met. A quiet rage bubbled in me, directed at Harry, my family, and all of Ohio.
“Harry, we’re breaking up, effective immediately.”
“What? I don’t understand!” Harry exclaimed. “We’re perfect for each other, Anna.” That was the sad part. Harry really thought this was the whole me, a pliable, easygoing girl who enjoyed eating, studying, sex, and little else. To Harry, this was the good life. To me, it was a one-way road to obesity and suicide. Looking into his large and incredibly vapid eyes, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I hated him. I hated him for being a mirror, showing me exactly what I had become.
“I’m moving, Harry. I can’t bear to be here.”
“Where are you going?”
“New York,” I answered, knowing that voicing it aloud would make it so. I watched his mind work overtime to comprehend the situation. I noticed a flicker of hope in his eyes and immediately felt the need to snuff it out. “I can’t do the long-distance thing. It’s too hard . . . too painful,” I lied.
“
Oh, Mr. Fred, more plum sauce
,” Mother hollered from inside the house in a horrendous Chinese accent.
“What about your job?” Harry asked, ignoring Mother’s screams.
“There are research facilities in New York, too.”
“Okay,” Harry said quietly.
“Okay,” I nervously reciprocated, unsure if Harry was hurt, angry, or ambivalent.
“
Do you have rice in your ears? Hello? Can you hear me?
”
“Thank you for taking my virginity.”
“You’re welcome,” I replied, embarrassed.
“Can I still keep the doggy bag?”
“Of course.”
“
I bet your penis is already yellow!
”
Harry hugged me tightly before giving me a spastic kiss good-bye that felt like he was having an epileptic seizure in my mouth. I wanted to pull away and tell him he tasted like teriyaki sauce, but I didn’t. He deserved this “romantic” good-bye. He deserved to think that he had really known me, even if the person he knew was merely a stand-in for the vibrant soul hidden beneath thirty layers of lard. If this was the best FG had to offer, then I would simply have to be my own FG.
Finding FG
T
hree days, eight slices of pizza, fourteen egg rolls, and one epiphany have passed since moving into my one-room studio in the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn. With its communal bathroom down the hall, it isn’t even as nice as my dorm room. Nothing says home like wearing flip-flops in the shower and using seat covers on the toilet. It is, however, cheap, and for an unemployed recent college graduate, cheap trumps all other considerations. Fortunately or unfortunately, I am on a block laden with junk food: six Chinese dives, four pizzerias, and two Spanish bodegas. I have ordered more delivery in the last three days than I have in my entire life combined. At home, Mother always worried that the deliverymen would return to ransack the house or sexually assault her. Even in my late teens, Mother didn’t deem me worthy of being sexually assaulted by burglars. But I digress. The point is, I have holed up in my one-room snack parlor with saturated fats. This behavior is counterproductive to the whole change-my-life thing. However, the brutality of my epiphany necessitated a few days of emotional eating.
After securing my studio apartment, I wandered the streets of Manhattan, eyes wide, brimming with optimism. I walked under the arch in Washington Square Park, remembering all the times I had seen it in films. I salivated over cupcakes in Magnolia Bakery’s window, ate a very expensive salad at Cafe Cluny, which I was disappointed to hear had nothing to do with the actor, and perused reading material at McNally Jackson books before exiting to continue pretending to be a New Yorker. A few blocks down, at the corner of Chunky and Lard Ass, I paused to look up and assess the civilians. Within three seconds, it hit me: I was never going to fit in because I was fat. F.A.T. Obviously, I have long been aware of my status as a fatty. The fact that my stomach acts as an awning for my lower body is hardly news. The epiphany was not that I was fat but rather how incredibly fat I was. By Midwestern standards, I am fat, but by Manhattan standards, I am a card-carrying member of the Obese Ladies Who Make Richard Simmons Cry Club. The female population of Manhattan is so thin that they have raised my body mass index level by 50 percent. And to make matters worse, they are a great deal more sophisticated and better dressed. How could such rampant skinniness be possible? After a day of looking at apartments and periodic window-shopping, the only rational conclusion I could come to was that women must forgo food in this city for rent and clothes. While digesting the information, I realized the only rational reaction was to drown my inadequacies in a three-day food bender.
Hello Fatty,
If you see FG, if she exists, tell her to go fuck herself!
— Anna
P.S. Sorry for the profanity. It’s the junk talking. And if FG does actually exist, tell her I am
sorry and that I love her—and need her.
On the second day of my junk food bender, I woke to a gurgling stomach, one of many ramifications of digesting my body weight in processed foods with artificial colors and unpronounceable chemicals. Somewhere between kung pao pork topped with Funyuns and pizza dipped in ranch dressing, I sent a half-coherent e-mail to my former statistics professor, Tom Steterson. Having been his TA for two years, he knew me personally, but more important, he too struggled with lard. Cruelly, students often referred to him as Professor Cantseehisownfeeterson. Clearly, I did not participate in such taunting. Anyway, with my newfound understanding of Manhattan’s strict weight and fashion requirements, I was in dire need of professional guidance. As a hefty man with an impressive career, I assumed he was well versed in navigating the business world as a fatty. In an effort to keep Steterson on my good side, I smartly removed the “fatty” reference from my e-mail.
