Fat Chance (8 page)

“They work! THEY'RE BAD!” Tamara says.

I hang up. I can't laugh anymore, my face is too sore.

 

Minus a chin, and plus a new palette of earth-toned makeup applied with techniques I've culled from a
Vogue
beauty book, I make my grand entrance into the office.

“Maggie,” the receptionist shrieks. “You are sumpt'n else.”

I blow her a kiss. After intentionally threading my way through the newsroom and generating a buzz of whispering, I sidle into my office.
“Buon giorno.”

Tamara looks. Her look alone is worth it all. “Lord have mercy. Bless that surgeon.”

I pat the underside of my chin, and smile. “What surgeon?”

Justine eyes me strutting through the newsroom and freezes. She comes running.

“How did you do it? How? How?” she says before she's crossed the threshold. She crosses herself. “What diet did you go on, tell me.”

The health-food gestapo asking moi about
my
diet. This is great.

“I guess we all just have our natural set points,” I say, tossing a green and then a yellow M&M up into the air and catching them in my mouth. “The weight at which our bodies feel most comfy. So I just let nature take its course. I grazed—had a little of this, a little of that, some German potato salad, teeny slivers of brat, a pinch or two of terra chips, and it just happened. Just like that.” I hold out my hands, as if in wonder. “You know me. I don't believe in dieting.”

Connors isn't buying it. “You had your stomach stapled, didn't you? Who did it? Was it that guy from Baden Baden who's at Mount Sinai?”

“WHAT?”

“Did you take Leptin? Or was it Fen-phen? I know it kills your valves, but it works, for God's sake. We've got more than
we need anyway, haven't we? I mean, planes run on one engine, why can't a heart get by— So what did you use? You didn't go to Switzerland for the sleep cure, did you?”

My hand goes up around my throat. “Justine, you are truly making me nauseous. Other than my new DK contouring body stocking…there's nothing terribly different that I'm doing.”

She shoots me a dirty look. “Fine, Maggie,” she says, pivoting. She starts to walk off and then pivots once again. Is this a routine she learned from Martha Graham? “Just don't come running to me when you want the inside track on sample sales. I'll give you a map pointing you to Bergdorf's.” I scrunch up my nose and rock back on my heels.

“The last sample sale she told me about was for Kalso Earth Shoes. I was literally off my rocker.” I grab a handful of M&M's and throw them at her as she leaves.

Wharton is the next drop-in. News travels fast in the newsroom. He stares in disbelief.

“How was your vacation?”

“Great, fine.”

“Go anyplace special?”

“Nah, just hung out at home. Did some sprucing up…”

Wharton sits silently for a moment like a husband knowing full well he has been cuckolded, but fearful of the consequences of acknowledging it. “Maggie…is there anything you want to tell me?”

“Yeah, I caught
Monster in a Box
on HBO last night. Did you see it? That Spalding Gray is a scream, I swear.” Silence.

“Maggie,” he says, resigned. “I guess I'll just come right out and say it. You don't look like our fat columnist anymore. I mean, you're just not fat anymore. I…I don't know what to say. I'm concerned. I'm worried—”

“Bill, I—”

“Your column is the most popular one in the history of this newspaper. We want to continue with it, build on your success. But what's going on with you? I mean, can you keep writing a column like
that
if you look like
this?
”

“So I lost a few pounds. I'm into exercise these days that's all. I still have the same beliefs, the same goodwill message to everyone else who's overweight. I—”

“Okay, if you say so. I hope you're not changing. You'll keep doing what you've been doing all along, right?”

“Of course, of course, Bill.”

“Okay, okay,” he says, getting up and leaving. “Okay.” He keeps parroting it like a mantra. The next thing I know, a messenger is delivering two dozen Italian pastries to me from Ferraras in Little Italy. I take the box and put it out on the Metro desk for the staff. Half an hour later, the piranhas have devoured every crumb.

I lean back in my chair. For the first time there is more wiggle room in it now. Six weeks have gone by since I started dieting and working out. I've dropped thirty pounds and am down almost three sizes. Two more weeks to count-down. Still ahead: Body wraps to smooth the skin, capillary zapping to banish the pesky red threadlike streaks that cropped up on my cheeks, sclerotherapy to get rid of leg veins, a manicure, leg waxing, eyebrow shaping, bleaching to whiten my teeth, a hair trim, highlights to add mock sunshine to hair that barely sees the sun, and about one hundred more miles to run. Natural beauty? An oxymoron. This makeover was draining me physically and financially. I even considered taking out a second mortgage on my apartment. Well, priorities. In Brazil, where women make a career of looking gorgeous, there are more Avon ladies than soldiers.

I scan the medical journals to catch up on the latest find
ings about weight control. By now, someone should have given me an honorary degree, an M.D. No one would know that it really stood for a Master's in deceit.

I'
ve spoken to Mike Taylor several times since his initial call.

“We're still on, right?” he asks, and I want to laugh out loud.

Instead I answer, demurely, “I'll be there.”

“Need anything special? A private phone line, a DVD player?”

“I'm easy,” I say.
Am I ever
. “Just my laptop.”
God,
e
ven
that
sounds…What is happening to me?

“Any special foods?” he asks. Is he nervous? I'm loving this more by the minute. Just a few pounds of Beluga, I'm thinking, but I bite my tongue. “Nothing special at all.”

 

Before heading to my apartment to pack up, I clean out my desk. Mike Taylor should only know the effect that his calls have had on my life. I'm lightening up everywhere. There are two piles: save and toss. It reminds me of the fashion columns that offer a column of what's
passé
and
au courant.

An unexpected advantage of losing weight, I've discov
ered, is that a smaller wardrobe takes up less room in a suitcase. And for once, I'm not embarrassed to wear clothes made of stretchy fabrics that don't wrinkle. A master of packing, I roll each garment tightly and find that I've room to spare. I'm now humming—“Pack up your troubles in your old kit bag and smile, smile, smile…” Songs fall into your head that way. The mind acts like a giant Kazaa that stores this huge inventory and then pulls out the appropriate song that gives quick feedback on what you're thinking before you even know it.

I zip the bag and sit on the edge of the bed like a kid contemplating running away from home. I want to go, I do, but I'm afraid to cross the street.

Everything's ready and I watch the red digital numbers change, second by second, on the clock radio like a little electronic guillotine, killing time before I fly from one zone and one kind of life to another. An hour until the cab comes.

I haven't seen Tex in weeks. Ever since the dinner at Rosa Mexicano, things have been strained. I never told him about the makeover, or the trip, but he knows. Even though he's just a friend, I don't need him holding up a magnifying glass and examining my motives. And certainly no guy needs to hear about how infatuated you are with another guy and the lengths you'd go to snare him. That was inside baseball—something best shared with another neurotic girlfriend, or better still, kept to yourself. The results would speak for themselves. Anyway, I know how I feel when a guy starts raving about some fabulous broad. SHUT UP.

I dial Texas's number and am surprised when he picks it up himself, on the first ring.

“Hey.”

“Hey back, where are you?”

“Home, I'm flying to L.A. later today.”

“Panning for gold,” Tex says. “Don't turn into one of them.”

“One of them?”

“Stay Maggie.”

“Whoever she is.”

“Quit the shrink talk.”

“Not easy. It's been a lifetime,” I remind Tex.

“Your life ain't over, sugar. Anyway, I'll buy you a steak when you're back.”

“Well, maybe some sole.”

“Why, did you sell yours?”

“No, I didn't go that far…. Well, I'll miss you, Texan.”

“Damn right you will. Take care, kid.”

“Yeah.” I cradle the phone in my lap before hanging up.

 

As the plane takes off from JFK, I listen to my scolding conscience lash out like a genie that escaped from the bottle.
What the hell have you done?
How could I have been deaf to it? Why am I all dolled up in shoes I can hardly walk in, wearing a dress that barely fits my butt, and underwear that has its own way and needs a good slap? Two weeks later I'll be back, hit with bills for a second wardrobe that I'll outgrow before I have time to save up and pay for it.

What do I hope will happen anyway? Is Mr. Movie Star going to fall deeply in love with me? Is the divine Miss Maggie O'Leary going to open his eyes to the fact that chubby broads can be as sexy as skinny ones? More likely I'm going to bat my Lancôme-sheathed lashes at the hunk and appear a pathetically sorry sight. A sinking fear begins to spread through my gut.

I have a respectable job back home, a column to write, readers who need me, believe in me, and here I am in LaLa land, deluded by fantasies from a grade B movie. What a stupendously stupid move.

Why didn't it occur to me to just e-mail him a contact in L.A. and be done with it? Was my life so bereft that I had to embark on this makeover charade? I‘ve never really felt my age, didn't think I looked it, but playing the role of a groupie? The stage door matron, more likely, waving a play-bill in the face of a departing actor. It's clear that I'm spiritually bankrupt, clueless about fulfillment and psychic rewards.
What in the world am I searching for?

What I should have done was book a room at a spiritual retreat, or gone trekking in Nepal. Make a spiritual connection to the
universe,
not DreamWorks.

He called and I flipped, slimming down to a weight that in a million years I'll never maintain. One hour of abandonment—a plate of ribs or fried chicken (with garlic mashed potatoes, please)—and I'll unravel, pig out and slap it back on. Was there a parachute?

To calm myself, I breathe in, count to ten, and then blow it out. It's too late for regrets.
For the next two weeks, chin up, shoulders back, tummy tucked in. I am CONFIDENT, SELF-ASSURED, EASY, BREEZY, THIN AND GORGEOUS.
I repeat the words as if I'm parroting a self-improvement tape. If you assume a role for long enough, you eventually become that person. Someone said that, anyway, inane as it sounds. If that were the case, I would now be Kate Moss.

I pull a magnifying mirror out of my makeup bag and stare hard into it. I put on a light layer of lipstick, blot it, then dust my face with powder. I examine my teeth, and regret neglecting to bond my two front teeth. The hint of uneven color…. I begin combing my hair, then stop and pull the mirror closer, noticing for the first time what I think is a gray hair in the line of my part. Already? And not there at the beginning of the flight. Where was I going, back into the future? I search through my bag frantically and extract the
tweezers. Narrowing my eyes, I trap the wiry rogue between the sharp tips and pull.

Then to distract myself, I open my laptop and begin writing:

• Brush your teeth after every meal. That means you're finished. Don't go back. Want something to do with your hands? Knit. Sew. Black out winning numbers on your lottery tickets. Want to keep your mouth busy? Keep a thermos of hot tea within reach.
  
• Remember white space. On the printed page that means a rest for the weary eye. On your dinner plate it means smaller portions or islands of food. Think St. Kitts and Nevis, not Australia.
  
• Where do you put leftovers? Not near the TV. Not on your night table. Not on your kitchen table. In the freezer—where it's too cold and hard to enjoy any more today….
  

I close the laptop when the attendant comes around to serve lunch. “Hamburger or fishwich,” she asks.

“Fishwich?” my seatmate says. “Who's catering the food these days, McDonald's?”

“It would be an improvement.”

The flight attendant turns to the woman, a cherubic blonde in her early thirties who fills out her pleated skirt.

“I'll have both,” she says, laughing.

My kind of girl.

“No, just kidding. I'll have the fish too.” She turns to me. “Perpetually dieting.”

“It's the American way. You traveling on business?”

“I'm going home to see my parents.” She stares off for a moment, her eyes vacant. “I left my husband.”

I barely nod.
Should I say I'm sorry? Maybe he was a bastard and she was doing the right thing. Unfair to assume it was him, but wasn't it usually?

“It must be hard.”

“Not as hard as staying.” She brushes a lock of hair off her face and shrugs. “The cheerleader grew up and let herself go.” She pats her hips. “So I was replaced with a better-looking clone.” She stares at the fingers of her left hand, studying the one that now has no wedding band encircling it.

“Maybe eating was your escape route out of the marriage,” I suggest.

“Yeah, sometimes I think I should thank Ben & Jerry's.” She starts to laugh, but the laugh gets stifled in her throat and escapes as a pained cry. She turns her head and looks out the window. The plane dips, as though the gods are admonishing her, and her salad tilts into her lap.

“Damn, now I'm a mess,” she says, brushing furiously at her skirt.

I wet a napkin with club soda and help blot up the stain. “No, you're not,” I say, touching her arm. “It'll be just fine. You'll see.”

 

As we approach L.A. I stop writing to prepare for landing, and turn off the laptop so that the pilot doesn't lose con
tact with the control tower and mistakenly land in Libya. My seatmate is asleep now, and I can't help looking over at her now and wondering how her life will turn out. Maybe something or someone will come along, and like me, she'll do everything in her power to become the best of herself. Or maybe she won't. Maybe she'll give up, or just do nothing and go on for the rest of her life reexamining the past and being ruled by it, convinced that somehow she's failed and that she's now powerless to change that.

Out of the window, I see the unwelcome cloud of smog that hangs over the city like the exhalation of a wrathful automotive deity. I've never noticed the same dirty schmatte of smog over New York.

As the plane circles lower, I search for the legendary homes, and notice the tiny squares of turquoise swimming pools that dot the landscape like shimmering mosaic tiles. What would Taylor's house look like, the Getty Center?

Finally, the plane bumps down, and I feel like applauding. I can't help it. Sure plane travel is the safest way to go and all that—assuming no one from over
there
takes over the cockpit, but what a relief to hit terra firma. After all the work I've done, I'm sure as hell not about to be vaporized in a goddamn 747.

I pull down my ballistic nylon bag from the overhead storage bin and edge my way toward the front of the plane. Not a particularly challenging walk ordinarily, but in this case the forty-pound bag doesn't help me balance in four-inch high heels no thicker than #2 pencils, particularly when they have been off my feet for the entire flight, and my little piggies have expanded, inexplicably, and wee wee wee, I want to run all the way home and come back with my fat, wide, thick-as-a-mattress, unsightly Nike cross-trainers.

The L.A. sunshine embraces me like a lover's arms, hot,
encompassing. Gray New York is now worlds behind. Nonexistent. Irrelevant really. My dour New York demeanor that I've long blamed on sun deprivation is a thing of the past. I can almost feel my vitamin D level rebound. INSANE, but HERE I AM. I feel like singing in a loud Ethel Merman voice.

I walk toward the exit, unconsciously going slower and slower, about to step off the gangplank. A few more feet… He's out there, somewhere. I walk closer and closer, remembering the child's game of hide-and-seek. You're getting warm, warmer, hot, HOTTER, HOTTEST, ROASTING!

 

A bloodred Ferrari Testarosa heads the line of waiting cars. I put my bag down, searching. I want to see him before he sees me. Sneak preview. I want to study him. I search the parking lot, and then, there he is, and I just stare.

The arms first. Tanned, strong, folded over the black vinyl roof of the Porsche. Then I stare at his body, which is muscular beneath a snug black T-shirt. Dark sunglasses, and a pulled-down red baseball cap that shadows the face. An insignia on the cap, but too far away to make it out. He stands out as if in bold relief, three-dimensional among a flat, blurred backdrop of moving cars, towering palm trees and passengers coming and going, like a movie clip that is played and replayed to make some existential point about rootlessness.

Involuntarily, I smooth my hair, pushing it back away from my face. I reach behind me and tug slightly at the black spandex dress to reverse its upward crawl. I step toward him and smile. At that moment, I feel blessed. Hundreds of thousands of women around the world would trade places with me right now. That's a situation that I've never ever been in before and that I'll probably never be in again, so I hold that thought. Bask in it.

He seems to look in my direction, but he doesn't move. No sign of recognition. I wave, but he hesitates. Then he quickly moves toward me, realizing that no, it's probably not a fan after all.

“Maggie?” he calls, a questioning look on his face. “O'Leary? Maggie O'Leary?”

“C'est moi.”

“Oh, hey, I'm sorry, I didn't know for sure… I…” He doesn't finish the sentence for a minute. He's tongue-tied. Irresistible. He pushes his sunglasses down and looks over them. Who taught him that?
The eyes
. I feel a rush, as though I'm watching him strip.

“I thought you looked different,” he tries, holding himself in check so he doesn't stumble over his explanation. He's self-conscious, almost embarrassed. I smile, looking down to stifle a laugh. I'm not helping him out of this one.

“Well, hey, it's great to have you here. Let me toss your bag in the trunk, and we'll take off pronto.” I open the door and slide back into the soft black bucket seat, canvassing the car like a detective to find out whatever I can about him. An open wallet tossed into the leather compartment between the two seats, loose change, matches, folded slips of pink paper, the scent of cowhide, a faint whiff of smoke. No breath spray, thank God, or Tic Tacs. He slides in on his side, and slams the door. I'm now a part of his intimate world, and for the length of the ride, it will be just the two of us, just inches apart. He looks over, smiling awkwardly.