The Makedown (8 page)

On this particular morning, Janice radiates an angelic beauty, with her golden brown locks falling neatly to her shoulders. In a black cashmere cardigan and a pencil skirt, she emanates kindness, but I know it is a front; Janice is searching for a small fissure to crack open and expose my food register. A tight knot forms in my stomach, but I force myself to stay calm. I breathe deeply through my nose, concentrating on my “truth.” I read that sociopaths pass lie-detector tests by believing their own lie. I’m not a sociopath, simply a strong believer in method acting.

“Good morning, Anna,” Janice says coldly.

Stay calm, I tell myself. Act normal. What do I usually do when she says hello? Greet her. Speak slowly. Keep my voice even. Remember, she can’t prove I’m lying without a stomach pump.

“How are—” I begin to inquire, but Janice cuts me off.

“Dinner?”

This is it. The moment I have been waiting for, time to speak my “truth.”

“Angel hair pasta. I diced some fresh tomatoes and added a drop of olive oil. Really delicious . . . and healthy. I didn’t put any garlic in . . . because . . . I didn’t want my breath to smell,” I babble.

Silence. More silence. And even more silence. Does the silence speak to her disbelief or belief in my lie? Has my lying improved? Has all the practice paid off? A miniscule wave of relief passes over me as she crinkles her nose and beams caringly at me. She is going to congratulate me. Remember, don’t act too surprised or grateful.

“Anna, sweet, lovely, Anna, your nose.”

“My nose?” I ask curiously.

“Your nose is growing,” Janice says firmly.

Janice’s comment causes a sweat ’stache to form on my upper lip. With each passing second, her eyebrows rise a little more. I am at a crossroads; I can either continue the lie or admit my deception. I question whether I have what it takes to maintain the angel hair pasta position. Of course, facing Janice’s wrath is hardly appetizing either.

“Fettuccine Alfredo,” I mumble with shame. Why do I even bother? It’s futile.

“Did you eat the whole thing?”

“Yes,” I say guiltily.

I feel quite full as I swallow chunks of self-respect.

“Are you mad at me?” Janice asks with genuine concern.

“No, why would you say that?”

“We made it past the fifteen-pound mark, and now to go out and do this. It feels personal.”

“Not at all. But Janice, losing fifteen pounds depressed me. I look exactly the same. Do you realize how fat you have to be to look the same after losing fifteen pounds?”

“I know, I know, but people are noticing. At the Adelman benefit, Juan told me you were starting to look like a heavier Janeane Garofalo. Now if that’s not progress, what is?”

“Who is Juan? And how is being a fat Janeane Garofalo good?”

“He’s the dishwasher, and he’s about the height of your breasts, so he has a pretty good vantage point. For someone with no friends, you sure don’t make much of an effort to learn anyone’s names.”

“I’m sorry, I thought his name was . . . okay, I never knew his name. Sorry.”

“I understand, I do. However, you’re still going to drink an extra liter of water and jump rope for as long as it takes me to prep the enchiladas.”

“Okay, Janice,” I say contritely.

Janice’s obsession with my eating habits ceases while cooking, as she encourages me to taste everything. Of course, jump rope is mandatory on food-prep days. Only where pastries are concerned does Janice enforce a hard-line policy of no tasting. Moreover, if a tray of baked goods is out, she watches it like a hawk, often re-counting the items several times an hour. It’s silly, since I would never eat anything naughty while she is in a five-mile radius. I don’t even want to
think
of what cruel and unusual punishment she would send my way.

Janice’s uncanny ability to tell when I’m lying has forced me to contain all binge eating to Friday nights. The weekend is required to practice my “truth” before Monday morning’s inquisition. The remorse of junk food and lying overwhelms me, filling pages in Hello Fatty on Saturday and Sunday.

Hello Fatty,

It’s been exactly seven days since my last grotesque bender of nachos with extra cheese, sour cream, and guacamole plus two strawberry milkshakes and a side of fries. I stare down at my stomach, imagining all the lumps of lard clogging my arteries and destroying my chances of ever having sex again. I worry that they will need a garbage can to contain my ashes after I am gone. I am thinking of specifying saving only a tiny amount of ashes in a small urn. I may not fit into much in life, but I sure as hell am not letting that happen in death.

Sincerely,

Anna, the Fattest Girl in the Tristate Area

It’s a sad state of affairs, but unfortunately, I can’t stop. Sometimes late into the Friday feast, it actually hurts to cram food into my shrinking stomach, but I continue. Like an addict using to maintain, I balloon one night a week as part of a recurring exercise in masochism. Even the threat of Janice’s examination doesn’t stop the shove fest.

“Friday night dinner?” Janice asks, eyeing my lower body closely.

“Salad bar at Whole Foods,” I say without any affec-
tation.

“Which one?”

“Union Square,” I respond without skipping a beat. Having the weekend to digest my crimes makes all the difference in the world.

“Paper or plastic?” Janice asks quickly, hoping to catch me off guard.

“Paper. Better for the planet.”

Janice nods and rubs her chin like a character in a cartoon, perplexed by the situation. “Saturday breakfast?”

I passed the Friday night test! Onto Saturday! Stay calm. Show no emotion, or I will blow my cover.

After enduring an elaborate inquisition on my eating and drinking habits over the weekend, I begin my daily errands. I pass through the Village, before making my first stop at Balducci’s, in Chelsea, then stopping at the organic produce mart, then onto a small butcher next to MSG, then Zabar’s on the Upper West Side, and finally back to the Lower East Side. Janice wants me to exercise. All the time. Well, except when I’m drinking water. By the following Friday night, I’m salivating at the thought of my junk food bender. Seven days without junk is hard. By day four, I’ve got cramps; by day six, cold sweats; and by day seven, all of the above. I realize my weight loss would increase if I stopped binging, but I can’t. Beyond the physical repercussions such as delirium tremens, total junk food eradication would leave me with a bleak mental reality. Without the promise of pizza, donuts, Doritos, and Oreos, what would I have to look forward to? As it is, I have trouble making it to Friday evening, often twitching with anticipation all afternoon. By 4:30 or 5:00, the tantalizing proximity of the drug makes it near impossible to concentrate.

“Um, hey, I’m going to leave a little early today. You know, beat the Friday traffic,” I mutter quietly.

“Is everything okay?” Janice asks skeptically.

“Yeah, of course.”

“You seem a bit nervous. Paranoid, almost.”

“Paranoid? Nervous? Me? Not at all. I don’t want to be sandwiched between two smelly emos on the L train. Nothing paranoid about that. I’m protecting myself. I mean, really, who wants to rub elbows with stinkers.”

“Okay,” Janice says distrustfully. “Enjoy the roomy ride home. See you Monday.”

Janice is onto me, I’m sure of it. My palms sweat intensely, causing my hand to slip off the subway’s metal pole. Passengers crash into me as the car rocks along the tracks before stopping in the dark tunnel. Hundreds of feet below the East River, we wait, dripping all over one another. People moan with frustration and simmering panic as seconds turn to minutes. I remain lost in my own world, even as the train starts up again and my fellow riders cheer; I am unable to think of much beside Janice’s peculiar expression when I left the office.

Once in my apartment, I think of all the different options available: pizza, eggplant parmigiana, donuts, egg rolls, and more. My fingers ache to dial, but something stops me. I am torn between two mes— the one who’s emerging and the one I’ve always been. Even though I vowed to give up on the transformation, I can’t deny that the tiny improvements I have seen have lit the torch of faith again. Maybe not a torch, but at the very least a match of faith is burning. I still yearn to be a regular girl eating cake on her birthday but declining the rest of the year. To be this girl, I must break up with junk food. However, I wonder if breaking up with food warrants one last night of sex before moving on. A farewell dinner, if you will, to signify the end of an era. I must share this monumental moment with someone. A close friend would be appropriate; unfortunately I only have one. It’s moments like this that I wish I hadn’t lost contact with Nut; then I wouldn’t have to force my brother into the role of friend. Honestly, he’s not very good at being an older brother, let alone a friend, but he’s my only option for “sharing this moment.”

“Hello?”

“Barney? It’s Anna.”

“Anna who?” Barney asks doubtfully.

“Anna your sister, Barney.”

“What month is your birthday?”

“Why?” I respond with frustration. This is exactly why I don’t call home more often; my family is far too weird.

“This is a security question; if you want to talk to me, you’ll have to answer it.”

“May.”

“Hey Anna, what’s happening?” Barney says warmly, immediately changing his tone.

“What’s with the security question?”

“I had to abort a relationship with a lady, and she’s been pretty desperate to get her man back,” Barney says proudly.

“You were seeing someone?” I ask jealously.

“I’ve been seeing a lot of people, if you know what I mean.”

“Wait, you mean you’ve been dating people? Did you get a standing reservation at Olive Garden for this parade of women?” I ask bitchily, suffocating on a mixture of shock and envy.

I guess all those years of practicing by himself have really paid off. It doesn’t say much for me that a porn-obsessed fat dude living with his mother in suburban Ohio dates more than I do.

“I’m taking my time; don’t want to rush into anything. Lots of talking and typing,” Barney says cockily.

“Barn, have you
met
any of the women you’re dating?”

“Anna, don’t get bogged down by semantics. I’m a playah now; I gotta roll.”

“Barney, don’t talk like that, please. I’m embarrassed for you.”

“I gotta go. Mother and I have a date at the cineplex.”

“Wait, don’t you want to know why I called?”

“Anna, I can’t miss the coming attractions. It throws off the whole experience.”

“Barney, I’m quitting junk food tomorrow,” I proudly declare.

“ 10-4, Anna. Over and out.”

My brother shouldn’t be allowed to use the phone, as he is utterly incapable of communication. He cannot disengage from his own world of madness long enough to take in the magnitude of what I said: I, Anna Norton, have quit the junk! Well, I will be quitting the junk as soon as I finish my farewell dinner. Since Chinese food always leaves me craving more, I deem this the perfect first course.

“Wong’s Garden,” a man hollers on the other end. His accent reminds me of Mother’s heinous Chinese impersonation. “What’s your address?” After I give my address, he pauses, then chirps, “No take your order. Sorry, I know you on diet.” Click.

I am tempted to call back and berate the man, but I decide it’s a waste of time. Obviously, the man is a prankster. I don’t have time for such people; I have a good-bye party to throw.

“Ray’s Pizza.”

“Hi, I’d like to order two medium cheese pizzas and three large sides of ranch dressing.”

“Address?”

I state my building number and street name before he interrupts me, calling out to someone, “Junior, get me that lady’s address.” A few seconds pass before he returns. “What apartment?”

“Fourteen.”

“Sorry, girl, I’m under strict orders not to deliver to you,” the man offers amiably.

“What? By who?” I screech with a mixture of indignation and alarm.

“Some lady hit the block about an hour ago, explained your liver can’t process fat. The whole neighborhood is in on this; we’re going to make sure you stick to your diet.”

I slam the phone down, my vision clouding with anger. I am barely able to dial the numbers, I am so irate. As soon as the ringing ceases, I start screaming,
“My fucking liver can’t process fat!!!”

“Okay . . . I think you want Janice,” Janice’s husband, Gary, says uncomfortably.

“Sorry,” I mutter between huffs of rage.

“Hello?” Janice says perkily, exacerbating my frustration.

“My
fucking liver
can’t process fat?”

“Drastic times call for drastic measures,” Janice replies.

“Who do you think you are? Stopping the entire neighborhood from delivering to me. It’s outrageous! Inappropriate! Unethical! Creepy!” I scream.

“I’ve invested a lot in you, and watching you waste an entire week of healthy eating on these Friday-night binges is simply unacceptable,” Janice explains flatly.

She has drawn a line. If I continue to yell, this will surely result in my firing. I sense Janice is at her limit with me, college degree or not. I stop. I look down at the black tights, A-line skirt, and ballet flats Janice bought me.

“How long have you known?” I ask, choking on embarrassment.

“Please,” she says with a sigh. “The whole time. Running off every Friday afternoon like you just got a new vibrator.”

“Eww.”

“I’m getting you ready for the world; stop being so damn ungrateful!”

“Ungrateful? Look in the mirror— you act like I’m lucky to run errands for minimum wage! I’m an Ivy League graduate, you know. This shit is way beneath me!”

“I admit that finding someone I can stand to be around for crap pay isn’t easy, but the bottom line is I am helping you, so shut up and say thank you!”

“Thank you,” I say weakly before continuing, “You’re the Fairy Godmother I always wanted, only a whole lot meaner.”

“I take that as a compliment. Oh and Anna, I wouldn’t even try walking in to get takeout. I gave them your picture.”