Conversations With the Fat Girl (4 page)

26 20 Liza Palmer

She still has the sign she held at the airport with the words DR.

FARRELL. I hear it will be on display at the wedding. She will probably

have armed guards surrounding it. They were engaged a few years later,

and not too long after, Olivia packed up her West Coast life and moved

three thousand miles away ?I'm coming out to Pasadena this weekend.

We're looking at the wedding site and meeting with the event planner one

more time. She keeps saying she can't do Italian café lights, but I know

she can. Remember that wedding we saw the summer before college? They

had Italian cafélights, so she can go fuck herself. I'll hang them

myself if I have to.,, Olivia has been studying the Pasadena City Hall

gardens since she was fifteen years old, and she has always counted on

the fabled Italian café lights. Usually upscale Pasadena brides choose

the venerable Ritz Carlton for their wedding festivities, but for some

reason Olivia has always set her sights on the Pasadena City Hall

gardens. It's as if she wants some kind of public exhibition of her

success. Everyone in town can witness a wedding at the gardens. Everyone

in town can see Olivia in her tiny dress, with her perfect man and the

fucking Italian cafélights. ?You're flying??l ask, remembering the last

time she flew here from her new home in Washington, DC, she needed a

cocktail of Valium and anti-anxiety pills, chased with two shots of

straight vodka, just to get on the plane. ?Yes, I'm flying.? ?We won't

dwell on it. I'm sure you'll be fine,?I say knowing she will crash and

die in a fiery explosion and that she'll have several long minutes to

think while plummeting to her death. I, too, am a little shaky about the

whole flying thing. Olivia and I finalize the details of her weekend

visit as I park behind the coffeehouse and ready myself for the

explanation of a lifetime.

27 CHAPTER THREE ?Choose a Man from Among You to Come Fight Me? Joe's

Joe for the Average Joe is in the newly gentrified Playhouse District of

Pasadena. The coffeehouse was refurbished about eight years ago. Most of

the architecture and decor were kept the same as in the early 1960s,

when it was a local greasy spoon. The vinyl booths exhale as the

clientele slide themselves across, and the smell of fifty-year-old

grease is an accepted part of the ambience. The counter area was redone

so people could order then seat themselves. Better for them, better for

us. I started working here the summer after I got my master's in museum

studies from San Francisco State University. This was supposed to be a

summer job. After two years, I still begin every shift by questioning

what I really want to do when I grow up. Instead I lust keep asking

whether that four-dollar coffee will be for here or to go. ?I'm sorry

I'm sorry,?I say walking past the counter not making eye contact with

anyone. ?That's three nights in a row you've been late. I don't want to

give you The Talk. But The Talk is what you shall have if it happens

again.?Cole has his hands on the counter, a washrag

28 22 Liza Palmer

pinned underneath as though I have caught him midclean. His voice raises

every hair on the back of my neck. As I turn to begin my excuses, Cole

is ready. His arms are now across his wide chest, washrag dangling,

eyebrows raised, mouth slightly open. Cole in a nutshell. Cole Trosclair

seemingly had it all in high school. Now he is just an ex-football-jock

with old jerseys dotting his daily wardrobe. But I still feel I'm

intruding on him in some sexless, work-colleague kind of way after two

long years. If I were skinnier, he'd be nicer. If I were quicker with

the jokes, he'd be my friend. I have visions of him defending me in the

glow of his television late at night at one of his sports parties, a

bunch of guys sitting around talking about titties. Cole defending me,

saying, ?If you just got to know her,? and the other guys nodding. Do I

have to wait until I am officially in the right to toss yet another rock

at this Goliath? At some point, isn't that rock supposed to catch him

between the eyes and I am free? Is there some other version of the story

where Goliath is champion? ?Wasn't that technically The Talk??I say, my

tiny pebble hurtling through the air. ?Yes, it was. Now, lets never have

it happen again, young lady?Cole picks up his espresso and leans back on

the counter, my tiny pebble landing at his feet. ?I got kicked out of my

house,? I say, emerging from the back room as I tie my apron around my

waist. ?You're still fifteen minutes late.?Cole yawns. ?Can you lay off

for one second? Huh? I ... got kicked . . . out. And 1 have one week to

find a new place.?I pause but Cole says nothing. I continue. ?Anything??

?Fine. Why did you get kicked out??Cole acquiesces. ?She says she's

putting in a lap pool,?I pushing my chest out in some desperate

knee-jerk reaction.

29

Conversations with the Fat Girl 23

?Do you believe her?? ?What's not to believe? There's a bulldozer in

front of my door,?I say, diving chest-first into a pot of fresh coffee.

?Poor, stupid, little Maggie He called me little. ?She's trying to get

you out with no argument,?Cole continues. I look over the coffeepot in

time to see Domenic Brown amble into the empty coffeehouse, his black

hair flipping just right. Little flips right by the ears. Little flips I

just want to bite off, they're so perfect. His pale skin only

accentuates those dark features. His pants are low-slung, and I can see

that brown leather belt just peeking out where his thrift store,

secondhand T-shirt is hitched up in the back. I cock my head a little to

the right. I've found, through hours of practice in the privacy of my

own bathroom, this makes me look skinnier. The mirror on the back

wall-that's what makes me look fat. No practice necessary for that

little revelation. I try to smile as offhandedly as I can. No big deal,

just saying hi. Just being breezy, brother. ?Could I get a hot lemon

toddy, please??A tiny blond woman stands before me. Did I miss Domenic's

smile back? Did he even smile back? ?For here or to go??I stammer to

this blond saboteur as I get my last glimpse of Domenic walking through

the swinging back door. ?Here, please.? I move away from the counter and

stare at Domenic doing his usual routine before he comes on shift. His

real name is Domenico. I was in the office late one night and caught a

glance at (okay, ransacked) his file, and found his W-2 form. Later, I

30 24 Liza Palmer

offhandedly asked him where his name came from. He explained that his

grandmother is a sculptor and suggested they name him Domenico, after

Michelangelo's teacher. I remember sighing and maybe fainting. It's all

such a blur. I would love to call him Domenico. To be the only one who

could. For now I'll call him Domenic. He grabs an apron as he eyes the

radio and judges the previous busboy's taste in music, usually ending

with an eye roll. He finishes tying his apron while flipping through his

own CDs. He puts one in and presses PLAY while grabbing the plastic bin

for dirty dishes. He opens the door and. Cole trains his deep-set

blue-green eyes on a foursome at the counter who are obviously on their

way to the Pasadena Playhouse down the block. I pass the blond her hot

toddy, and she tips us a nice fat quarter. We'll all eat like kings

tonight. Domenic Brown floats by and shoots me that crooked grin of his.

Damn, that boy has mastered breezy. 'What can I get you?? Cole is

speaking to no one in particular. Everyone in the coffeehouse infers he

is speaking to the foursome, as they are first in line. ?Just one

second, please.?The leader of the foursome speaks to Cole in a way that

you shouldn't speak to Cole. Cole leans back on the counter and slowly

picks up his espresso mug. ?She's not tearing it down,?Cole says through

sips. ?What? I am imagining biting off flips of perfect dark hair and

whispering Domenico. ?She's not really tearing it down.? Cole raises his

voice and turns his body so that he is squaring me off. I almost look to

the uptight foursome for help. Do I digress and agree that Cole is now

an expert in landlady pathology? ?And where is this coming from??I ask.

31 Conversations with the Fat Girl 25

?I just know She's just batty enough to make up some crazy shit like

that.? ?And you know this because. ?I'm just saying,?Cole interrupts.

?Sir? I'd like The leader of the foursome starts in when there is a

perceived lull. ?Why do you care anyway??I ask. Knowing when to stop

talking about something has never been one of my strengths. ?Sir?? the

leader of the stylish foursome interjects. Cole picks up his espresso

mug, which looks like a child's tea set piece in his mitt of a hand,

makes eye contact with the man, and turns his back on my question and

me. ?I think we're ready over here,?the man stutters. Cole has won. The

man is now half the man he was when he walked in. Cole sets down his

espresso mug and once again lifts his eyebrows, opens his mouth just

enough, and crosses his arms across his wide chest, washrag dangling. I

count five ?sorrys,?three ?if you don't minds?and a whopping six ?when

you get the chances.? The foursome tips Cole an extra five dollars. All

I can think about is my question hanging in the air. Unanswered and

deafening. ?D. Brown, get your scrawny ass out here.?Cole acts like

we're all in the locker room right before the big game and we've all got

fancy nicknames. Domenic walks out of the back room with a plastic bin

under one arm, head tilted up, questioning. There is nothing

extraordinary about him. He is not someone people would label as

beautiful. But as Cole sets down his espresso teacup, Domenic Brown

never picks up his pace or apologizes for being ten minutes later than I

was. I am smitten. ?Did you see that album I left for you??Cole asks.

32 26 Liza Palmer

Cole is one of these guys who still calls CDs albums. On a good day,

when feeling particularly hip, he'll call them LPs. Those are days of

wonder. ?1 liked the hit in song five, the obscure Won-G the Haiti Boy

song was unexpected, and I really liked the bridge on the hidden track,?

Domenic says, busying himself refilling the many sugars that a

California coffeehouse offers: Raw, Bagged, Fake, Cubed Raw, Cubed

White. . . the mind reels. ?Hidden track?? I ask. I know damn well what

a hidden track is, but I have to get in on this conversation. Now, Haiti

Boy I have no idea. 'Sometimes hands will put a song at the end of their

CD and won't tell anyone, or let it be programmed in. It's actually nice

if you don't know about it.?Domenic's pants are pooching out in the back

as he bends over to grab the larger sugar boxes from underneath the

condiment stand. I am not breathing. This is my favorite time of day I

call it my Guess Which Boxers Domenic Brown, My Future Husband, Is

Wearing game. I'm working on shortening the name, hut for right now

let's just stick with that. The audience is quiet. The drumroll . . .

the suspense is killing me. The bend. The squat. Light blue with a

Scottish plaid waist. Nice. Very nice. Worth the wait. ?I live by that

shit,?Cole says into his mug, hitting the I in slid with particular

vigor. ?It's equivalent to the B sides of the twentieth century, you

know,?Domenic says. It is difficult to keep my head cocked at just the

right angle and still be mindful of my reflection in the mirror behind

me as Domenic talks. I tend to wear shirts that fall over my apron, even

though I secretly know this makes me look bigger than I am. That way

there is no illegal tucking involved. Not only is my Area the

33 Conversations with the Fat Girl 27

problem, but also now a whole extra piece of thick fabric is added to

the mix. The logic is that maybe people will think it's all apron. Of

course, there are no Ass Aprons on the market, and therefore this is

left to the eye of the beholder. ?Give me an example.?I am going to draw

this conversation out until the very bones of it lie decomposing at my

feet. ?Okay, I'll tailor one for you.?Cole thwarts my plan by

interrupting. ?I hate to intrude, but is there someone here who can

clean off one of those tables out front??A much-too-old man stands

before us in a full, tight . . . oh so tight . . . bicycle outfit. ?Hey,

Domenic, you're the busboy, go bus.?Cole lifts his eyebrow. ?Yeah, I

guess I am.?Domenic puts the canisters of sugars hack under the

condiment stand, slams the small door, picks up his bin, and follows the

man out front, not turning around once. ?Why do you have to talk to him

like that??I say ?Like what?? ?You're the busboy. Go bus??I mimic his

voice in the most patronizing, bossy way possible. ?Jesus, Maggie. This

is a business. And when you're in a business you have to talk fancy

business talk . . . not puppies and kittens.? ?At no point did I want