The Makedown (6 page)

“Yes, I came back to meet you. What did you just call me? FG?” she asks suspiciously.

“It’s an abbreviation for . . . fute grane. It means ‘interview’ in Dutch,” I lie poorly.

“Are you Dutch?”

“No . . . I thought you were Dutch . . .”

“My name is Janice Delviddio. Does that sound Dutch to you?”

“Must have been the woman’s accent at the temp agency . . . sounded very Flemish . . .”

“Where’s your résumé?”

I hand her the photocopy of my “résumé.”

“Is this some kind of a joke? I get it, they’re punishing me for having high standards.” Exasperated, Janice opens the door wider and motions for me to come in. A strange calm settles over me as I accept the presence of FG. I can’t shake the image of her bathed in warm light and carrying a wand.

“So you went to Penn?” Janice says, inspecting the scrawled document before her.

“Yeah. I don’t usually handwrite my résumé, but you see . . . ,” I say before pausing to inspect the woman’s expression. My FG suddenly looks decidedly disappointed in me, as if she deserves better. What is going on? My FG is rejecting me.

“Is everything okay?” I stutter under her harsh glare.

“Not really, but I don’t have much of a choice.”

Behind Janice is a professional kitchen with stainless steel appliances and miles of counter space. There is a small sitting area set up between two framed vintage posters. The large loft space looks remarkably similar to a set for a cable TV cooking show.

“Nice place. I, um, well, I don’t know a lot about cooking,” I manage to get out, hoping that Janice will stop dissecting me with her emerald green eyes. “But I eat a lot, if that helps. Actually, not a lot, I may have a metabolism issue,” I burble maniacally, “or maybe something with my thyroid.”

“A thyroid condition, you say?” Janice asks warily.

“Or a slow metabolism.”

“Interesting. And your doctor told you this?”

“Well,” I swallow hard, wondering how much worse my day could possibly get, “um, not exactly.”

“What exactly does ‘not exactly’ mean?”

“It varies, but in this case it means . . . no.”

“Do you have a problem with lying?”

“Not at all. I didn’t technically lie. I said that I may have an issue with my metabolism or thyroid—”

“And you came to this assessment because you’re fat.”

I don’t think I want an FG anymore. At least not one who calls me fat.

“She said you wouldn’t call me fat. She promised.”

“Sweetie,” Janice says with sudden compassion, “I’m an FF.”

“A what?” I ask, astonished. Is she owning up to being my FG but disguising it with a different letter?

“A Former Fatty. I’ve been there. Please don’t cry.”

“It’s just that this is the second time today I’ve been called fat. First the guys at Goldman Sachs, and now you.”

“Anna, I used to be fat, so I can call you that. Making fun of your own kind is an exception to the rules. I promise.”

I gape at the stylish woman before me, unable to process her remarks. Did she just tell me she used to be fat?

“This is America; eating is the national pastime,” she continues, smiling at my confusion as if to say “yes, I know, hard to believe someone as stunning as I once looked like you.” She says, of course, nothing of the kind, merely continues her sociological discourse. “We think the land of plenty refers to eating Carl’s Jr. and McDonald’s in our cars.”

“I love Carl’s Jr.,” I mutter.

“I used to eat two Western Bacon Cheeseburgers, onion rings, and french fries for lunch. Trust me, I understand the appeal. Where are you from?”

“How do you know I am not from here?”

“You’re wearing white socks with a navy suit and black shoes.”

“I guess I’m not very stylish.” She doesn’t disagree. I wipe my face, feeling outrageously self-conscious and exhausted after the crying marathon.

“I was born and raised in Ohio,” I say quietly.

“Okay, Anna, here’s the deal. I need an assistant, someone to pick up stuff, chop, and basically help me do what I do. I specified someone with a college degree, because after eight assistants, I know that a base level of intelligence is needed to follow my instructions precisely.”

I stare at her, unsure if she expects me to say something. I graduated from Penn with a degree in molecular biology. I am sure I can comprehend her directions.

“So if I write out directions, you would feel comfortable taking a short walk to pick up a few items?”

Two weeks, I think. “Yes, I can handle that.”

“Excellent,” Janice says softly as she grabs for a pen. “Let’s begin.”

Chapter Six

J
anice is a liar. A big, massive liar. Perhaps even the largest liar in the five boroughs. Plus she has the geography skills of a blind man. I have stained my pits yellow following these directions. Fortunately, you can’t tell because my suit is navy, but I can feel it. I’m a mess of perspiration from traipsing around Manhattan, walking in a series of interlocking circles as I faithfully follow her maps. It’s almost as if she’s trying to confuse me. These directions took me around Tompkins Square Park three times, each time in a wider circle, before heading to the West Village, then back to the Lower East Side. All the while, these damn plastic bags cut into my arm, stopping the circulation. I wouldn’t be surprised if my arms were the color of eggplant by the time I finish.
Two weeks,
I chant as my mantra,
two weeks.

The bags of venison, Polynesian basil, and Napa Valley wines fall to the floor of the elevator as I slump heavily against the wall. I stare longingly at the control panel, salivating over the large red stop button. I would gladly spend the night in here so I could cool down and take a nap. The doors open, setting me free to trudge down the hall with my arms full, stopping only to throw my body against Janice’s front door. “Uhhhh,” I grunt at Janice as she opens the door, wearing a pristine white apron. What kind of a chef keeps an apron clean while cooking?

“Oh, Anna, you must be exhausted. Drop the bags. Come sit down; I’ve made you a snack.”

The wine clinks against the cement floor, miraculously remaining intact as I collapse on a wooden chair with hair pasted to my forehead. Janice places a chilled bottle of water and a bowl of fresh fruit and yogurt in front of me. I guzzle the water untidily, droplets flowing out both sides of my mouth. She watches me with the love of a concerned parent, which weirds me out, especially considering how harsh she was earlier.

“Great job, Anna! Water is good for your digestive system. You know, people often eat when they’re really just dehydrated.”

“Good to know,” I pant. “By the way . . . your directions . . . fucking sucked! When did you move here?” I ask.

“Must be fifteen years now.”

“And you still haven’t figured out your way around the city? I was walking in circles, attempting to decipher your convoluted directions.”

“Listen, Anna, I’m going to level with you.”

I recoil in terror, squinting my eyes and hunching my shoulders in preparation.

“Don’t worry, I am not going to call you fat . . . again. However, if you’re working for me, I see it as my job to . . . well . . . to improve you. Smooth out the edges. And I say this as a Former Fatty— someone who’s walked in those size-eighteen pants. I’ve been turned down for jobs because my ass was too big. They didn’t say it, but I knew it, so if you’re working for me, I see it as a disservice to let you stay this way. The world can be pretty mean.”

Technically, this is what I’ve always wanted— a beautiful woman to take me under her wing and make me over in her image— but something about it makes me uneasy.

“I know you can’t believe me right now, but this is for your own good— and mine— since it doesn’t really look good for caterers to have . . . you know . . . bigger employees. It makes people think the food is fattening.”

“But really, you’re doing this for
my
good?” I say to Janice, unsure what to make of this Betty Crocker crackhead.

“I used to be at least one and a half times your size. Trust me; I know what I am talking about. The world is a hell of a lot meaner to people with weight issues, and I’m not talking about simply calling you the
f
word to your face. I’m talking about all the stuff they say behind your back. I want to rescue you from all that, Anna. Now then; take another liter of water, and I’ll see you tomorrow at nine a.m. sharp.”

I allow her to push me toward the door, wondering what all this water is supposed to do, other than make me uncomfortable on the way home. I’m too tired to care. I don’t even bother saying good-bye; I just wave from the hallway.

My legs are sore. With each step, I remember that building muscle is achieved through tearing tissue. Red and stringy masses of flesh, from my heels to my groin, pound under the pressure of minuscule fissures. Most notably painful are the soles of my feet, covered in quarter-sized blisters. Running a close second are the red sores caused by the rubbing together of my thighs. These raw spots sting as they scratch against the rough polyester of my pants. I hobble toward my front door, lusting for the opportunity to lie down and take off my clothes. My muscles, skin, and mind desperately crave stillness. Slamming the door behind me, I remove my clothes and collapse facedown on the futon. Without moving the rest of my body, I extend my left arm, grab the phone, and hit redial.

“Hello, Wong’s Garden.”

“I need egg rolls, about fifteen . . . no, make it twenty . . .
and some ribs. This is an emergency, so make it snappy,” I say, lying naked, spread-eagle on the bed.

All life-changing plans have been abandoned, allowing me to gorge without any guilt. In a sense, I am on vacation for the next two weeks. A respite before I return to my humble origins. As any good travel magazine will tell you, sampling the local fare is half the fun. Plus, I won’t be able to partake in any Chinese cuisine once back with Mother. Post Dad leaving Mother for Ming, Chinese food is frowned upon heavily in the Norton house. Any consumption of kung pao chicken, Szechuan beef, or hot and sour soup is considered fraternizing with the enemy.

I wake the next morning and begin my preparations to avoid the agonies of the day before. I treat the sores on my upper thighs with Neosporin before pulling on a pair of black stretch pants and a baggy sweatshirt. Band-Aids are applied liberally before I place my never-before-worn running shoes on my feet. Much to my surprise, the shoes still fit. I bought them during a bout of optimism at the mall freshman year at Penn. By the time I returned to my dorm room, all interest in running had died, and the shoes remained in my closet for the next four years. They will definitely come in handy now.

After exiting the subway near Janice’s Lower East Side kitchen, I pause to allow strangers to scrutinize me. I welcome their judgment of me as a poorly dressed tourist because that’s exactly what I am. I no longer strive for more; I was born a fatty in the Midwest and I will die a fatty in the Midwest. I have seen the light, and it is sending me back to the dark, because that’s where I belong.

“Wow,” Janice says as she opens the door, “are you going to the gym, ’cause I think you’re late for the step class— in 1985. This outfit is . . . awful. It’s worse than yesterday’s suit.”

“Nice to see you again, too. And yes, I am sporting a casual look today, but I felt it more appropriate considering all the running around you made me do yesterday. My body is not quite . . . used to it, so—”

“Fair enough. This level of movement is new to you. I understand that,” Janice says matter-of-factly. “But stretch pants?”

“Well, they’re comfortable,” I say as my cheeks darken dramatically with shame. I can’t bear the idea of crying in front of this woman again, yet I can’t stop the water from welling beneath my eyelids. I am so tired of the indignity of being me. This is why I must leave New York; I need to go where fat asses in stretch pants don’t surprise people. I need to be allowed to hate myself quietly without people bringing my inadequacies to my attention.

“Oh, no. Why are you crying?” Janice asks with a wrinkled forehead.

“I’m not,” I protest before realizing that I am. The tears I tried valiantly to hold in have exploded onto my face. I am powerless. Powerless to control my tears. Powerless to control my weight and body. Powerless to fit into, let alone afford, appropriate clothes.

“Anna? Anna! You’re freaking me out. What is it?”

I can only point to my pants and speak unclearly, “They’re all I have. The other stuff gives me blisters. I’m so ashamed . . .”

Janice looks simultaneously annoyed and heartbroken. “Never, ever, cry over stretch pants. Actually, never cry over clothes. Come on, I’m going to teach you a trick,” Janice says, grabbing her quilted handbag off the counter.

“Please, don’t make me go out in public,” I whine. “Everyone will point at me.”

“Okay, you need a reality check. You are not Michael Jackson or one of his freaky kids with the veils on their heads; people aren’t going to stare at you. They may look and wonder where you’re visiting from, but that’s it. Trust me, whatever happens, I will handle all interaction with the outside world. Here, put on my sunglasses. Let’s go,” Janice commands.

I follow Janice out of the building, staring at the nearby Williamsburg Bridge through her expensive glasses, wondering if she’d be so kind as to push me off it. Unfortunately, we head in the other direction.

“You’re not taking me to Jenny Craig, are you?”

“No.”

“Weight Watchers?”

“No.”

“Anywhere with a scale? I don’t think I could handle that.”

“No scales,” Janice says firmly.

If she’s lying, so help me God, I’ll smother her smooth face in my flabby stomach. Rage boils within me as I imagine Janice smiling patronizingly as she points to the group scale at Fatty Fucks. She will beg for air, but I won’t stop until her body falls limp, suffocated to death by my fat rolls. Janice abruptly turns onto East Broadway, intersecting throngs of iPod-listening, chicly dressed people before detouring into the Gap. Immediately, remorse over my plan to kill her takes hold. I hover on the verge of a breakdown, both physically and mentally. This is how I live my life.