Conversations With the Fat Girl (19 page)

linen pants and a white T-shirt. I grab a wine-colored cardigan as

camouflage. I plan on feigning cold spells like I'm a fifty-year-old

woman embarking on The Change throughout the night.

I pull up to the theater parking lot and check the rearview mirror. I

apply a little pink lip gloss, suck in my gut, and crawl out of my Fancy

New Car. Steven is standing in front of the theater waiting. He stands

out from the crowd. His golden hair has grown a bit shaggy since the

last time I saw him. His eyes are squinty, and his smile makes them

almost disappear. He is wearing cargo shorts, flip-flops, and a

navy-blue, pocket T-shirt. Steven is the kind of guy every woman wants

to have waiting for her outside a movie theater. He is naturally

good-looking and has every bit of that Southern Charm. He smiles at

passersby and holds doors open for women of all ages, whom he later

addresses as "ma'am."

"Hey," I say.

"Hey, yourself," Steven says.

We hug, and I feel his arm nestle into my Area. At the midpoint of the

hug, Steven's arm has officially nestled. I can't bear one more second

and break the hug, smiling and checking my

155 Conversations with the Fat Girl149

Area to get some kind of idea what Steven has just felt. Steven holds

the back of my arm and leads me over to the theater line.

"I bought your ticket. You ready to go on in?" Steven asks.

His twang is barely there. If he could hold his vowels a little longer,

deepen those R's a little more like good Texas Boys love to do. I think

I might not be able to breathe while watching such regional mouth

contortions. Texas Steven motions for me to go through the turnstile

first while he gives our tickets to the waiting theater worker. I panic.

Walking in front of anyone is against my code. I walk quickly while

maniacally making small talk to throw him off looking at my ass. Steven

barely touches the small of my back as I pass through. Tingles?

I buy a large diet soda. Steven passes on the concession stand. We walk

to the theater and I already feel different. Texas Steven is exactly

equivalent to Dr. Adam Farrell. He even has grown-up man hands. I think

he mentioned he reads some kind of newspaper every morning. I think it's

the New York Times-which trumps the Washington Post, I'm sure. Proof

enough. We're early for the movie, so we have time to talk in the dimly

lit theater.

"S00000, what's this internship about?" I set my Diet Coke in the cup

holder of the movie chair.

"Screenwriting." Steven crosses one leg over the other-the manly way,

not the effeminate European way I can kind of see up his shorts.

"An internship is how you get started in any business. It's money in the

bank," I say, not seeing the obvious irony in this statement at all.

"I don't really see myself pursuing it. What it's supposed to be ... I

mean, whatever I'm supposed to be gettin' out of it, I'm not. There are

some cool people there, though."

Steven has this habit where he licks his bottom lip during speaking.

Just a quick dab, but I wait for that shit like Old Faithful.

156 150Liza Palmer

"Try something else." My voice is getting louder, and I'm sitting on the

edge of my chair. The tongue thing is driving me crazy. I believe I am

now panting.

"I guess." Dab.

"Well, this is what this time in your life is about, searching for

something that you will get something out of." I will myself to calm

down. Act cool. Why am I being so tolerant of Steven's explorations and

not my own?

"Don't you worry about me, Maggie May" Dab. Dab. "Have you really-"

"Are those seats taken?" a woman asks as she stands at the beginning of

our row of seats.

"No, ma'am, go ahead," Steven answers. They think we are a couple right

now. Technically, everyone in this theater does. I want to throw my arms

up in the air touchdown style and yell, He's with me! But I control myself.

"Thank you," the woman's husband says as he squeezes past me. The lights

dim further, and the movie begins.

Steven is someone who's fun to be around. Why ask more of him than that?

Why ask him to be committed and consistent? He will never be those

things. But I cling to the idea that I'll be the one who tames him-who

makes him committed and consistent. He's the ultimate Big Game-lions,

elephants, and unavailable Texans. If Olivia and Domenic are not being

who I want them to be, is it their fault? Or is it mine?

The lights finally come up and I'm pretty sure I have given myself some

form of palsy from the contortions I have put my body through during the

past two hours of trying to "look breezy" The couple to our right says,

"Excuse me," and Steven and I stand. Steven unfolds himself from his

chair and quickly exits the theater. I follow.

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"So, what did you think?" he says over his shoulder as he walks out.

"Great. Great locations," I yell, as I'm tossed and turned in

the thrusting exodus of hopped-up foreign-film viewers.

"You up for a coffee or something?" Steven asks, calmly

waiting by the door to the theater.

"Sure."

I have to be at work by seven thirty the next morning. I can barely keep

my eyes open. Coffee at 1 a.m. is the last thing I want, but Steven is

close to the top of the list of things I do want.

We decide to meet at a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop in Old Town

Pasadena. He waves good-bye and says something about meeting me there.

Steven is already halfway to his car. Couldn't he have walked me to my

car? It's one o'clock in the morning and I parked in a lot that is not

that well lit.

I suddenly realize I'm tired of taking care of myself all the time. If

something breaks in my house, I fix it. If the dog needs washing, I do

it. If my car is in a poorly lit parking lot, I'd better buy pepper

spray or learn kung fu. I always thought I'd be married by now and have

kids. Instead I'm someone's fat maid of honor walking alone to her car

in the dark of the night. I'm I clutching my keys between my fingers

just like they say you should, so you can poke out the eye of an

intruder. You know what would really work? A six-foot-two Texan. That

could poke out any eye.

Texas Steven is exactly on a par with Dr. Adam Farrell. He's a fantasy.

He remains golden because I've never demanded that he be real. He gets

to saunter in every six months, call everyone ma'am," dab his beautiful

lips, and then leave. I feel like I'm in Junior high school again always

playing those boyfriend games with fictional characters and never real

people. I truly believed

158 152Liza Palmer

if I played my cards right I could marry, live in a mansion, and have

five kids with Ponyboy from The Outsiders.

How could Texas Steven know what I need? Why didn't I ask him to walk me

to my car? Why didn't I just say no to his invitation? Is it that I

don't want to be seen as the needy girl? If I want Olivia to be the kind

of best friend that I need, why don't I just talk to her about it? If I

want that internship at the Getty, why don't I just call and set up an

interview? If I want to go on a date with Domenic, why don't I just ask

him? I have to stop waiting for people to come to me. It's time I

started putting myself out there. Tonight is where it starts. I pull up

to the coffee shop and find Steven's car. He is just getting out of his

car as I pull up next to him.

"Hey," I say.

"There's a parking space back behind the building next to that dark

alley I'll get us a table." Steven walks past my car and is halfway to

the door of the coffee shop.

"Steven?" I call to him through my car window. He turns around in the

light of the awning.

"I'm going to head on home. I'm tired and I have to get to work early in

the morning." My heart is racing. I can see him mentally erasing me from

every phone book he has.

"Oh, okay. Well. . . ," Steven says, shuffling in place. "Okay, well.

Get a good night's sleep, then. Talk to you soon?" I take my foot off

the brake and coast a bit forward.

"I have two tickets to Steve Earle at Royce Hall at the end of summer,

if you want to go?" Steven is approaching the car. The Royce Hall in

never land? I think not, cowboy

"Maybe, let me check my calendar." I sail away from the parking lot.

Steven goes into the coffee shop anyway I knew he would.

I get home around 1:30 a.m. and drop my keys on one of

159 the many packing boxes that fill the room. Solo follows me around

the house while I shut off lights and close windows. I pull back the

covers on my bed and crawl in. I'm proud of myself. Solo hops up on the

end of the bed, circles, and finally lies down. I say good night to her

as I turn over and set my alarm for 7 a.m. I toss and turn as my mind

races. I went tonight thinking Steven would be the answer to all of my

problems. Now all I've got is more questions. If Steven is this ultimate

male, do all males have clay feet? Why can't anyone remain golden?

160

Blue Buckets

W hen Olivia left for Washington, DC, to move in with Adam, I walked to

the humane society in San Francisco and asked to adopt the dog next in

line to be euthanized. Without hesitating, the dreadlocked girl behind

the counter called for Cage Ten. A shiver went through the entire

building as the occupant of Cage Ten was readied for its imminent

release on the public. The door opened and a big-pawed, auburn puppy

with the biggest, brownest eyes I had ever seen stepped out. She barked,

whimpered, and yelped at the slightest noises or movements. I connected

with her instantly. I filled out the necessary papers as Cage Ten pulled

and tugged at the makeshift leash. She was strong for her size and

skittered away from anyone who approached. Except me. She hid behind my

legs even on that first day. That was close to four years ago, and she's

been the first member of my own family ever since.

Lately, I've become concerned about Solo. throughout our four years

together, I've tried socializing her to no avail. There is a small part

of me that likes to watch how the world deals with a force like her.

She's unable to budge outside of her comfort zone,

161 Conversations with the Fat Girl155

and when she's threatened, the pure unaffectedness of her reac-

tion makes me envious. But now I see that this comfort zone she's set up

has become stultifying for her and me. Parades of dog-sitters would

rather starve than watch Solo. People are afraid to come to my house for

fear their jugulars will be ripped out any second. So after work today

we're going to be "evaluated" for obedience classes. I buckle Solo into

her doggy seat belt and we set off. I'm nervous. We don't do well in

"evaluations."

As we walk into the huge dog emporium, I talk Solo down. Her tail is

between her legs, and she continually tries to bolt for the front door.

The constant barking and whimpering coming from the Doggy Day Care

catacombs agitates us both. The shelves of the dog emporium are lined

with different dog foods, doggy bowls, doggy beds-you name it, there are

five different kinds somewhere in this lobby Solo is now in full

retreat. I wind her leash around my hand and pull her close. She is

terrified.

The trainer comes out to meet us. Her name is Tori. She's far too tiny

to control Solo. I'll tell her I've changed my mind. Let's face it:

We'll fail this evaluation, and Tori will send us on our way in no time.

She's already clutching her jugular in fear. She sits down and goes over

the questionnaire I've filled out. I hold Solo's leash tight to calm us

both down.

"What commands have you taught her?" Tori asks as she reviews my answers.

"Oh, urn . . . just the one," I say, pointing at the form as Solo's low

growl builds in volume.

"Move your body?" Tori looks over her clipboard at me and my socially

inept dog.

"Yeah, well, I use it when she's in the way. You know, move your body.

Funny story, I said that once when my niece, Bella, was at my house, and

she thought it meant to dance." I demonstrate Bella dancing to

everyone's horror. It's so quiet, I believe I

162 156Liza Palmer

hear crickets, but I continue. "So there's Bella dancing and Solo is

just trying to, you know . . . move out of the way" Tori is silent.