Nothing To Lose (A fat girl novel) (17 page)

The carpeting was at least three inches deep. It would hoard dirt like crazy. It would be difficult to walk on. Nobody would buy it to do the things carpets were supposed to do – cover floors and add coziness to a room. This carpet was purchased as a Dun and Bradstreet on your life. We’ve got so much we feel like wasting some of it.

She stared across the aisle to the window wall and contemplated the gray September morning as if Newark’s nouveaux riches would form themselves out of the ether and reveal their weaknesses to her. The sample square of carpeting had a bald spot in the center where Frank DiMaio, the carpet buyer, had put a match to it to show its resistance to fire. “It’s right behind wool in flame retardancy,” Frank had said smugly. “You should play that up.”

Erica had put her hand on her hip, reminding April of Alice Kramden on The Honeymooners. “You mean it doesn’t burn?”

“Of course, it burns. Everything burns sometime.” He held a lighted match to the fiber and it began to turn into a black gooey mess. “It melts,” he said, astonished.

“And throws off toxic fumes that kill instantly,” said Selma.

“What are you? A friend of the earth?” Frank was once again the buyer. “Any synthetic melts. This one melts slower.”

“So what should we say?” asked Erica. “Buy this carpeting, it melts slower.”

“Awh come on. This is luxury carpeting.”

April inspected the tall, squiggly fibers surrounding the melted spot. “You could lose your shoe in it.”

“Hey. Maybe that’s what we should say,” Erica stared into the distance. “Carpeting so thick…so plush…you could lose your shoe in it.”

“No, you can’t say that. These are down to earth people who want a little luxury. They won’t understand.”

“It’s all yours.” Erica handed the sample to April

She decided to go with Your Friends Will Think You Struck It Rich! Anybody could understand that. She was about to begin the body copy when Missy came down the aisle alerting them of an impromptu meeting on the tenth floor. The president wanted to see them – the entire copy and art department, some thirty-odd people.

The president had never spoken to them before. He usually spoke to the vice president in charge of advertising and sales promotion, who then spoke to Missy, who then spoke to the art and copy chiefs, who then spoke to the artists and writers. But this time, there was a new president and wanted to talk directly to them.

“Something big is up,” said Erica.

“Or something small,” said Selma, who, among all of them, had been there the longest.

As she rose to leave, April tripped on an open drawer, bumping her knee smartly and tearing her stockings. She joined the others as they trudged up to the tenth floor in a straggly, balky line. It was ten-o’clock in the morning and they wanted to have their coffee and read the paper. April particularly didn’t want to go. Her knee was throbbing and Patrick Linn had snuck a late ad into the schedule that meant she had to finish the Plustron ad and then do a quarter-page on Supp-Hose that Patrick had decided to put on sale before the end of summer.

She wasn’t even looking when he came in. She was thinking of how best to punch up Supp-Hose’s unique assets. A thousand little hardworking fingers…supporting you. Supp-Hose, it’s like having a mother for your legs. Too long. Too complicated. She could feel a hard lump beginning to form on her knee. Maybe it was a blood clot? She would have to be rushed out of the meeting on a stretcher and taken to….? Newark General Hospital? Was there a hospital in Newark? A thousand magic fingers put your legs on easy street. Now…20% off. The lump had burst through the hole in her stocking and bulged out angrily. She should get up and put some ice on it but a man had come in. 20% off on your favorite support hose. All the fashion shades. Stock up now, fool.

She was surprised to see him. Everyone was. You thought of a president, you thought of gray at the temples, maybe horn-rimmed glasses, a pinstriped suit. But here was this…kid! Not a kid exactly but this – guy!

My god, she knew this guy – from the airport. She opened her wallet and looked at the paper with his name on it, as if that would confirm it. It was weird – one of her daydreams had gone too far. She felt lightheaded and happy and couldn’t look at him hard enough.

His suit wasn’t pinstriped. It was oatmeal “crash” linen, that, she had learned last week, was the most desirable linen and came from Italy. Erica had assumed she meant crushed linen and rejected the ad. “No,” April had insisted, ‘the buyer says those who can afford it know what ‘crash’ linen is. There are certain things that are best in their category. Santa Clara prunes are the best prunes. Kadota is the premier name in figs. Beluga caviar, Sèvres china. And now ‘crash’ linen. Crash as in fashion POW. At one time only the pope’s summer vestments were made of this treasured fabric.”

Is this true? About the pope?” Erica had asked.

“I don’t know.”

“We can’t say it’s true if it’s not true.”

“What do you think,” said the buyer, “there’s a Vatican consumer advocate in Newark?”

The guy – president – introduced himself quickly and said he was glad for this opportunity to meet them. He turned deliberately and nodded to Susan Scott who had on an outfit from mainland China. A silk turquoise wrap with a wide sash that made her look delicate and mysterious. He had already found the best-looking woman in the store.

He was so attractive; it was difficult to listen to what he was saying. His hair was parted in the middle and brushed back diagonally in a slight roll that seemed impossible to maintain, yet it fell into memory layers that moved in concert as he turned his head. He exuded health. He was health. She could see his heart pumping rich, nutrient –laden blood throughout his body. There would be no plaque on his teeth; his small and large intestines were in perfect order, his eyes were clear, the white almost blue and the blue, very blue. A small vein at his temple, throbbing gently, bore testimony to his super-charged metabolism. He was at the peak of his power and April felt it was a reproach. Her stomach sent its signals wide and desolate. As if it had taste buds. As if it had tasted cold metal. She slunk in her seat, wanting to become invisible.

He was pinning two small ads to a bulletin board, taking his time and pushing the pins in securely. “I want to read these two headlines to you,” he said, turning to the ads. “The one on the right is for a foundation cream and it says, ‘He’ll boast to his friends that you never wear makeup.’” He paused and looked around the room. “Would you like to comment? What is this saying to you?” He nodded to Selma.

“The foundation is so sheer and light, as far as the guy’s concerned, she’s not wearing makeup at all.”

“And you think that’s a plus for her? That she’s fooled him?”

“Let me put it this way. The ad did very well.”

He smiled as if her answer was exactly the one he wanted. He turned to the other ad, for a perfume, and read the headline in a flat voice. “’Finale. Very expensive. But then so is being single.’” This time he nodded to Erica, who became defensive.

“We all know what it implies.”

“What does it imply?” he asked quickly.

“The perfume is going to mesmerize the man into committing a rash act.”

“You mean marriage?”

There was general laughter.

“There’s no guarantee, of course. It’s only a provocative line. It’s a little tough. A little ironic. And a little funny. Just like Finale itself.” Erica spoke in headlines. Instead of answering his question, she had written another Finale ad. He saw it, too.

“I wish you’d written that instead.”

“Why?” Erica was really surprised. “That ad did fine. Better than fine. Besides, it was a co-op ad. We only paid for half of it.”

“We’re going to pay again,” he said ruefully. He was powerful but vulnerable. He had regrets, which doubled his appeal. “Both headlines work on the idea that the women who are buying these products are out to pull a fast one on the men they love most in the world.” He let his words sink in. “In the first ad, the man is led to believe he has Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm on his arm when, in reality, he has a normal person who needs foundation cover-up to look her best. In the second ad, a man is bewitched by a smell – and it must be quite a smell – into thinking he’s found the only possible mother for his children, when he might just have a so-so lady who’s been priced out of the apartment market.”

A few people laughed – but not the president, who, while not exactly grim, was not smiling. “I’m not the only one who’s caught the underlying message in these ads,” he added solemnly. “One of them is being reproduced in Ms. Magazine as an example of advertising that humiliates women. I don’t think it does much for men, either.” He took down the ads and replaced the pushpins in the board. His voice was conciliatory. “The ads did well. Pulled in customers and sold their products…but we’ve got to change our emphasis. Women are what Burdie’s is all about. We don’t want to alienate anyone or perpetuate old stereotypes.”

“What’s all the fuss about?” said Selma with the emphasis only she could give it. “Women are doing what they always did. Whatever it takes to get what they want.”

The president smiled good-naturedly, “You know more about that than I do.”

“I sure do,” said Selma.

He was gone even before Selma had stopped laughing. They were left staring at the spot he had occupied so vigorously just seconds before.

“
Quel
hunk-o,” said Selma, jabbing April in the ribs.

“He’s all right.”

“What’s the matter, you don’t like perfect?”

April smiled. Her knee had stopped hurting.

One day, Missy told April that her work was being noticed in a good way. As a reward, they let her write an institutional ad – one of two or three poetic ads that ran each year. Burdie’s cares about you and your dreams; Burdie’s salutes the first woman Supreme Court Justice; Burdie’s wishes the troops a Merry Christmas. When her ad appeared, Luis O’Neill called her on the telephone to tell her he liked it. After she hung up she had to go to the ladies’ room and hold her wrists under the cold water. Suppose he had called her to his office and she had to walk straight toward him wearing this poly/cotton-blend bibbed tent in the fake patchwork print, size 18-1/2?

She had an abject fear of being seen, really seen, by someone she admired. Sitting down was okay. Dim light was better than bright. Outdoors was better than in. A frontal view was better than a back view. Waist up was better than waist down. But the absolute worst, and she could remember this since high school when she had to go up the center aisle to get her diploma, was walking alone in empty space while others had nothing to do but watch her.

However, the phone call was fine. She had been natural and thanked him in an offhand way. “I’m glad you liked it and thanks for calling to say so.” One run-on sentence in an unalarmed voice.

That night she walked home via 37th Street, which had three brownstones she particularly liked. The window boxes were spilling over with the last blooms of red and pink geraniums. The knockers on the doors were polished, the windows washed. A beautiful girl in jeans was walking a large dog. The dog was pulling her along and the girl was laughing as if this were the happiest moment of her life. She had tied her shirt above her waist, showing an inch or two of downy concave stomach. April stared in admiration. She felt happy, too, and filled with hope.

When she got home, she washed her hair, watered her three plants and cleaned the burners on the range. She wanted to see how long she could go without eating. At quarter to nine, she had three peaches and a bunch of grapes. At nine, she added a peanut butter sandwich and a milk shake made with vanilla ice cream, nutmeg, milk, frozen strawberries and seltzer. After eating the peanut butter sandwich, she saw there were eggs and cottage cheese in the refrigerator. She could have eaten an omelet, which would have been better and not made her so thirsty.

At quarter to ten, while watching a rerun of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs,’ she had no recollection of having made the milk shake or deciding to make it or even drinking it. But there was the glass with half an inch of liquid left and she felt very full.

The episode of ‘Upstairs, Downstairs,’ was a sad one. Hazel, the commoner, who had married James, the blue blood, dies. Even though she had seen it before, and knew it was coming, April cried. Hazel had been treated badly by James. She had been treated very badly by the butler. Nobody cared much when she died. She probably died of a broken heart.

Besides Hazel’s death, April was upset that she had made up her mind not to eat and then ended up eating mindlessly, without really being hungry, without even being desperate to eat.

She turned off the television, went to the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. Maybe she should try to throw up? She had read that models did that regularly to keep thin. They ate everything they wanted and then quickly went and threw it up before it began to digest. One had described it graphically: run cold water over your tallest finger – Mr. Tall Man they called it in kindergarten – then stick it down your throat as far as it will go. Keep sort of tickling around the area and pretty soon, it’s barf city. The model was gorgeous, with milky skin and no sign of shadows under her eyes.

April ran cold water over Mr. Tall man and knelt over the toilet. She put her finger down her throat twice but nothing happened. She didn’t feel like throwing up but she did manage to raise some acid secretion that made her throat burn. She brushed her teeth, washed and went to bed.