The Makedown (9 page)
I
always imagined it as winning the lottery. First, I would crumble in shock, repeating, “I can’t believe it!” over and over again. Then with a burst of adrenaline, I would spring to my feet, dancing around the room, high-fiving myself. Never in any of these fantasies did I think it would fly beneath the radar, bringing forth no response whatsoever. Yet that is exactly what happened. Walking down Broome Street at a rapid pace, I ran ChapStick over my sore lips. Something about this reminded me of the pain I endured when I first arrived, my legs swollen from rubbing against one another.
And that’s when I noticed it. My legs no longer touch when I walk. They didn’t touch yesterday or the day before, yet beyond that I am unsure when this blessed event actually occurred. Odd, given how preoccupied I have been with envisioning myself thin, that such a colossal accomplishment transpired without my conscious knowledge. Yet somewhere along the seven and a half months since I handed Janice my handwritten and photocopied résumé, I have lost fifty-nine pounds. I estimate that to be the body of a six-year-old girl. Mind you,
I
far exceeded that weight at six. Naked or clothed, I am now a different person. Well, not entirely. My face remains ravaged with acne, but my ass no longer falls below my knees.
Hello Fatty,
Even in the dark, the rough texture of your skin is visible. It’s tough and crunchy with large red sores and small white pustules. People focus on your brown eyes just to stop themselves from barfing.
xoxo Anna
Even with my body on track, insecurity plagues me. My face greets me every morning with red bumps and maroon scars that even the heaviest makeup fails to conceal. Unless people agree to talk through a screen or remain five feet away from me, I cannot bear to make them continue engaging with such a face. When I was fat, people assumed my acne was because I ate pizza and fried food. Now that I am skinny(ish), people presume it’s due to poor hygiene. Why does no one ascribe it to bad genetics or exposure to toxic chemicals? Tired of the quiet expressions of repulsion, I approach Janice about this sensitive matter. She pays me minimum wage and doesn’t offer health benefits, which is horrendous. Conversely, she buys me clothes, feeds me, and generally improves my exterior, so I might have to call it a wash.
Standing across the island in D&D’s kitchen, I watch Janice chop celery with the precision of a surgeon. There is no second-guessing or fear in her movements. She is preparing a celery root soup with horseradish crème fraîche for a women’s luncheon. And even though the combination sounds peculiar to my unrefined palette, I am sure it will be scrumptious. Nervous, I inhale deeply before speaking.
“Ever wonder what you would do if you cut off a finger?” I ask, realizing only after the fact that the words send a strange serial killer vibe.
Janice immediately stops chopping and looks at me warily. “What did you say?”
“You know, let’s say you cut off the tip of your finger, thinking it was celery. What would you do?”
“I would probably scream and dial 911.”
“What a luxury that must be!”
“Excuse me?”
“You know, to have health insurance,” I say melodra-
matically.
“What is this? You rent
Sicko
last night and now you’re going all Michael Moore on me?”
“Well, you have to admit, it’s sad for people like me.”
“If you cut off your finger while working here, I promise to take you to the hospital, or at least drop you at the Canadian border,” Janice says snarkily.
“It’s about more than the big stuff,” I continue.
“What? What is it? You’re killing me. Do you want health insurance? Is that it?”
“Well, yes, that is it. How do you expect me to go through life knowing that if I get hit by a taxi or beaten to a pulp on the subway, I will be receiving worse medical care than the guys in Attica? Plus, I have really bad acne and need to see a dermatologist.”
“Finally tired of looking like a thirteen-year-old boy on the verge of getting his first boner?” Janice asks with a wry smile. “I’ll help you, but if you want insurance, you’re going to have to step it up. Maybe learn to cook?”
I nod in assent. I don’t really care what I have to do, I just need help taking the next step here, and Janice is only too glad to provide it, offering me her dermatologist’s private number within minutes of my pronouncement.
Skin care in New York is an institution with a protocol all its own. For instance, if you want to bypass the four-week-long waiting list to see a good doctor, you need either a rapidly growing mole or a referral. Janice puts in a call to her dermatologist, a man she sees once a month, allowing me to jump the list. By the look of Janice’s skin, I suspect she paid for her pores to be sewn shut, but if I can look half as good, I’ll be ecstatic.
Arriving at Dr. Gunda’s Upper East Side office, I am decidedly nervous. I worry he will tell me that I am beyond help. My hands sweat as he enters the sanitary office. He’s nearing sixty, with glasses and a bald spot.
“Hello, Anna.”
“Hi,” I offer meekly as he approaches.
He pulls a hanging light in my direction and begins inspecting. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.”
Not to be critical, but his skin isn’t that impressive. A few feet away and I see blackheads on his nose. Isn’t he supposed to be a professional?
“Anna, how long has your skin looked this way?”
“Um, you know, I’m not exactly sure.”
“An estimate. Six months? A year? Two?”
“Um, more like fifteen.”
“Fifteen years? Have you sought help before?”
“I bought a lot of different stuff at Rite Aid: Neutrogena, Stridex, Oxy Pads— stuff like that.”
“Most of that dries out your skin with alcohol, and that won’t help you since you have serious cystic acne. The only viable option is Accutane. But it is an incredibly strong drug that can cause birth defects. By law, you’ve got to use two forms of birth control. Is that an issue for you?”
Oh my God, Dr. Gunda thinks I am sexually active. No one has ever made that assumption before. God bless him.
“No, that won’t be a problem at all, Dr. Gunda,” I say happily. “When can I start?”
“We’ll need to check your liver before we start. I’m going to send Martin in to draw some blood.”
Martin is a male nurse dressed head to toe in white, including weird geriatric shoes with lifts. Watching him prep the needle and tying my arm off with a plastic band leaves me feeling strangely aroused. Not by the needle, but the man holding it. While not empirically attractive, he exudes confidence and authority in his white uniform. And it turns me on. Staring at him with dreamy girl eyes, my cheeks blush. The more I try to halt the blushing, the hotter I get. Martin returns my intense gaze, inserts the needle, and winks. Am I light-headed? Did that really happen? Or did I imagine it?
“Are you feeling okay?”
“Yeah,” I mumble, dizzy from the wink and loss of blood.
“You probably hear this all the time, but you’ve got gorgeous veins,” Martin says reverently.
“Really?”
“They’re easy to find. Nice and big, like straws.”
“Gee, thanks,” I respond, thoroughly enjoying the compliment. My cheeks are now cherry red with excitement. After he removes the plastic band, I plunge into depression knowing Martin will soon depart. With dangerously low blood sugar, I whimper to express my gloom. And yes, I whimper out loud. It sounds similar to a dog in heat. Humiliated, I pretend the last minute never happened. I never whimpered in Martin’s face. Rubbing my sweaty palms together, I pray that Martin will wait until I leave the office before mocking me cruelly to the staff. Worst of all, I will now need to find a new dermatologist. Martin watches me, but I refuse to turn my pockmarked face.
“Would you mind if I asked you out sometime?”
This is a small miracle.
“Oh, that would be . . . great.”
“Excellent. I’ll get your number from your file,” Martin says, holding my vials of blood.
The beauty of meeting a man at the doctor’s office is he already knows my condition, not that I could do much to hide the topography of my face. Martin is aware of the measures I am taking to eradicate them. If he weren’t already aware of this fact, I would find it necessary to bring it up. “Hey, I know my face is covered in pimples. Don’t worry, I’m seeing a doctor.”
Thankfully, I don’t need to explain a thing as I sit across from him in a small Nolita restaurant named after one of my favorite things, bread. He’s in dark jeans and a black dress shirt.
I’m nervous, but not for the reasons one would expect from an “almost virgin” on her first date in months. I am not worried about what will happen later. I actually look forward to the physical stuff; it seems much easier than talking. Conversation magnifies my weirdness. Come to think of it, sex probably does as well.
We order, then sit in silence for almost sixteen seconds. I count to distract myself from the little voice telling me to scream.
I want to scream. I want to holler at the top of my lungs to relieve the pressure in my chest. After wiping off my sweat ’stache, I prepare to act normal.
“So what got you into medicine?” I ask quietly.
“I had bad acne— the worst— almost ruined my life. Ended my first marriage, and after that I knew I had to get involved, help those less fortunate.”
Wow, I’ve never thought of the plight of the pimple as such a significant societal issue. Clearly, I was wrong. I knew that pimples stopped relationships from starting, but I had no idea they had the power to kill them.
“You’re really beautiful. You remind me a lot of Parker Posey.”
“Thanks,” I say as my cheeks blush twelve shades of red.
“I really admire the fact that you don’t cover up the acne with foundation, because a lot of beautiful women try to do that. It’s a force greater than they are. Sometimes it’s as simple as denial. They can’t admit what’s really happening because they don’t know how to fix it. They need tools. We provide those tools. I wish I could help every woman who needs it, but it’s hard. Some of them don’t have insurance, and seeing a doctor, especially a dermatologist, is a luxury they can’t afford.”
“That happened to me. I had to beg my boss for insurance,” I say animatedly, enjoying the fact that I can relate to the downtrodden. I want Martin to like me, to respect me. He is a man of morals, ethics, and civil duty.
“No one should have to beg for help. That’s why I want to start a free clinic for the underprivileged.”
“You’re incredible,” I breathe, honestly moved by his speech.
His confidence is mesmerizing, and he seduces me with his compassion for those born with overactive sebaceous glands. I follow this Gandhi-like figure through the streets of New York, listening raptly to every word, only occasionally bursting out with “Yes!” when overcome by one of his comments. We wind up on his couch, two feet apart, staring into each other’s eyes.
For the first time in my life, I want to engage in sexual intercourse with the man I sit before. No need to watch Tom Paris on a rerun of
Star Trek
.
Martin leans over, placing his soft hand on my bumpy cheek.
“You’re a great candidate for Accutane.”
“Thank you,” I awkwardly respond before he places his lips on mine. His soft lips brush against mine sensually, awakening urges I didn’t know I had. I want to sleep with this man. He touches my breasts over my sweater, and I actually shiver with anticipation. This level of sexual excitement surpasses anything I have ever known. I want to scream, “Take me!” as they do on tawdry soap operas. “Have your way with me!”
Excitement without release equals pain. I am in the throes of female blue balls. I may actually die from an impacted libido. Martin has been engaging in over-the-clothes petting and dry humping for almost two hours now. Emboldened by pure horniness, I lead Martin’s hand under my clothes, but he retreats. Anger builds under my sweaty clothes as he continues his dry-humping crusade. Martin’s face twitches with ecstasy. I stare, anger morphing into disgust as I realize what’s happened.
“Um, did you finish?” I ask clumsily.
“That was amazing.”
“Wouldn’t you rather, you know, do it?”
“I don’t think so,” Martin says with a shrug.
Admittedly, I am in uncharted waters, but what the hell does a shrug mean in this context?
“Why?”
“It’s been my experience that women expect a lot if you sleep with them. This seems like a far kinder compromise. I have my needs met, and you don’t get hurt,” Martin says condescendingly.
I’ve been had by a pimple prophet on par with Jim Jones. This man is a fraud. He lured me to his apartment with talk of compassion for those with patchy skin, but really he just wanted to get off on an easy target. I feel rejected, as if I am not good enough to fuck, only pretend fuck.
I stand, fully clothed, and walk out. As if to add insult to injury, that pig’s light stubble chafed my face, making me even more hideous than before.
As I enter my apartment, I feel the vibration of my cell phone ringing in my handbag. For a brief second, I wonder if it’s the pimple prophet calling to apologize and offering to engage in actual sex.
“Mother, I’ m—”
“Don’t tell me, you’re upset.”
I was going to say tired, but since she guessed, “Well, kind of.”
“About the Szechuan Slut and your father?”
“Um, no.” I should have known this was a ruse to complain about my father. “It’s about a guy I’ve been seeing.”
“Jesus?” Mother interrupted.
“What?”
“Are you dating Jesus?”
“I don’t think you understand what I’m trying to tell you.”
“No, I do, believe me. You want to be a nun and marry God. This is your courtship period. Barney’s thought this was a possibility for a while now, you know, ever since you suddenly dumped Harry and ran off to New York.”
“Barney is in no position to pass judgment on anyone’s dating life. He lives at home with you and is a virgin.”
“
Alleged
virgin.”
“Mother, I have to go,” I spit out with frustration.
