Skinny (2 page)
Authors: Diana Spechler
Mostly, I was not a dishonest person. I had never shoplifted or copied answers on a test. Back in New York, when I felt like breaking plans, I told friends, “I’m staying in tonight,” instead of doing what most people did, which was pretend to have a catastrophic disease. And I had been with Mikey for five years without cheating, ever since I met him outside Big Apple Comedy Club.
I was different then, fifteen pounds lighter, a girl with a father, a girl with a stupid office job. And I was so militantly in love with New York City, I once spent a Sunday on the double-decker tourist bus. Mikey was different then, too—a “new jack,” fresh out of the box, selling tickets for his own shows in the street.
I noticed him before he noticed me. I was walking aimlessly through the West Village, alone, because I loved Manhattan and its infinite channels. A guy in a red Big Apple Comedy Club T-shirt stood blocking the sidewalk. He was remarkably large, but not large like my father. My father was the fattest person I knew. I’d
seen
fatter people—on television, and in the
Guinness Book of World Records
, like the man who could get through a doorway only if he was buttered; and in person, too, but they were usually confined to wheelchairs.
By contrast, my father was active. He was no triathlete, but he cannonballed into swimming pools; and at weddings, he did the twist so low, his knees would crack audibly. When he waltzed my mother around the living room, she vanished—tiny and insignificant—against his great belly, his sweating round head, his mammoth hands. This guy in the street wasn’t fat; he was a relatively healthy-looking giant. And his presence was more assailable than my father’s. He looked overgrown—a vegetable that should have been picked and was now too ripe.
“You like stand-up comedy?” he asked me. It was what he was asking everyone. He sounded distracted. I couldn’t possibly have appreciated the weight of his question. Had he asked me something more direct, like, “Would you like me to change the course of your life?” I would have whacked him with my purse, shouted, “No!” and run.
But I said, “I love stand-up comedy.” I could see in his brown eyes that he knew how to flirt. That was all it was: I wanted to be flirted with. I wanted to pat his wild black hair. I was twenty-two and I didn’t know anything.
In those first months with Mikey, I always ran the last few blocks to his apartment because I couldn’t get to him quickly enough. I spent hours in Saint Mark’s Bookshop, poring over books he had mentioned—books about Taoism and Steve Martin and disasters that might end the world.
In the years that followed, I was a faithful girlfriend, guilty of only the most minor transgressions: a kiss in the back of a comedy club, for example, a few months before I left for camp. Mikey was onstage when it happened, the spotlight in his eyes. He was doing a bit he’d been working out for weeks—a joke about his girlfriend’s father dying. It wasn’t funny yet. Sometimes jokes took months to smooth out. This one still had wrinkles.
I was sitting beside an older comic who had just been on
Conan O’Brien
and always wore a fedora onstage; a guy full of a bravado particular to men with above-average access to sex. He leaned into me and tipped his hat. He whispered, “If you don’t mind my saying so, your boyfriend’s a douche.”
I whispered, “I mind your saying so,” but when he pressed his mouth to mine, I let him. I was sick of Mikey’s dead father joke.
And there were those months of correspondence with my high school crush. We exchanged e-mails day after day, spilling words into each other like bodily fluids, until he finally proposed a visit and I had to admit that I lived with my boyfriend. For weeks after that, my heart pounded whenever I checked my e-mail, but my in-box stayed sadly empty of him.
And there were many men in many bars—
Can I buy you a drink? So what’s your story?
—men in suits and loosened ties, exhausted bankers sipping single malts; men from whom I would slip away while they checked the score or flagged the bartender; men who touched my necklaces, their knuckles brushing my collarbones. I loved tired men with needy hands.
And who’s to say Mikey was the perfect boyfriend? I knew how things went in the comedy clubs. After shows, girls stood outside smoking and fixing their bangs, or they ordered vodka sodas and lingered at their tables. They told Mikey, “You were
so funny
.” They thought they’d found the key to happiness—a boyfriend who could make them laugh. They said, “I loved your joke about traffic. I loved your joke about the president. I loved when you said that thing to that person in the audience about his ugly sweater.” They got up close to him and thrust out their chests. They smoothed their shiny hair over their hopeful shoulders.
But none of that matters. I know that. I do. What Mikey might have or might not have done—that doesn’t matter at all.
What mattered was this: Before my father died, I spent most of my life dieting, spent most days knowing, at every moment, how many calories I had thus far consumed. As a child, I sat through school days distracted, squeezing my stomach beneath the desk, counting calories in my head as the clock hands made their circles. I did sit-ups instead of homework, my feet trapped beneath the couch.
Each day, I ate my way to sixteen hundred, then stopped, brushed my teeth, and silently recited my dieting mantra in a firm voice unlike my own, the voice of a referee: “You’re done.”
Before my father died, my answer to, “Would you like to see the dessert menu?” was always, unequivocally “No.” I avoided croissants. I avoided white pasta. If I craved pasta, I imagined a loaf of Wonder Bread smothered in tomato sauce, thought, e
mpty carbs, nutritional zero
, and pictured my stomach rising like dough. I rarely missed a day at the gym. Every couple of months, I’d lose control, eat three slices of pizza, binge on peanut M&M’s; but the next day, I’d be right back at it—counting, measuring, lacing up my sneakers.
And then my father died and I inherited his hunger.
At first, I was confused, so I believed what I was told. “Such a stressful time,” people said, touching my hair, rubbing slow circles on my back. I believed them that stress was pulling me loose from myself, making me drift up and hover above things, so that all of life looked surreal. It was stress that made me detach enough to eat and eat without stopping.
Shivah felt like an amateur production of an absurd play. My mother and I, like set designers, covered the mirrors with linens. My uncles left their faces unshaven, as if the drama teacher had told them, “In this scene, you must appear grief-stricken.” And then there were the actors with bit parts—the chorus, the townspeople, the shopkeepers. The people came in droves. The people loved my father. The people came with food as though they planned to resurrect him.
So there were things to bite into: the edges of casseroles—burnt, black, crumbly, scraped from the glass with spatulas. The sweet insides of blintzes. The cool thickness of cream cheese, a pillowy bite from a bagel, the light smokiness of lox. As I chewed, I let my eyelids drop, like curtains over an unpleasant scene.
Each time I found my plate empty, I wanted one more thing. Perhaps a piece of pie would fill me. When it didn’t, I appealed to the spinach and artichoke dip. Once I’d finished that off, I realized I’d been misguided all day; all I needed, in fact, was a dish of mint chocolate chip ice cream. Even when the nausea came, I kept scrounging for the food that would save me.
Then someone made my mother a sandwich. She whispered to me, “I can’t taste a thing, Gray. It’s sawdust.”
Her words weren’t out of character. She often waved away food: “It’s not worth the calories!” “Who needs pastries?” “I’m stuffed; I couldn’t possibly.” This was the woman who had taught me to weigh my vegetables on an antique food scale.
But in the wake of my father’s death, I wondered:
In what, if not food, was she finding relief? How was she managing these days, these minutes, if not by sinking her teeth into things, filling her stomach, and then waiting, exhausted, as digestion made space for more?
“I feel like Dad,” I told her, as I wolfed a warm slice of cake, covering my mouth with my fingers, ashamed of my feverish chewing.
“Honey,” she said, watching me, “if cake’s going to get you through this, then go ahead. Eat cake.” But the crinkling of her forehead said otherwise. We were not cake-eating women.
This was how my father had chosen to haunt his daughter.
Not by appearing to me in my dreams. Not by brushing the back of my hand with invisible, ghostly fingers. Not by speaking through silence to me, or smiting my enemies, or slamming doors, or making framed family pictures fall mysteriously from shelves and shatter. My vengeful father, in the afterlife, stole my self-control.
The people kept explaining: “Death makes people hungry. Funerals make people hungry.” So during shivah, we feasted together—a social, manic, boisterous binge. And then they said the dumbest things:
“We’re celebrating his life!”
“He would just love this!”
“I can picture Alan now. Can’t you see him laughing at us?”
We ate and ate until we had to lie down, undo buttons, breathe through our mouths. But when everyone left, I kept eating. When I returned to New York, I kept eating. The first time Mikey saw me do it, he stared. “I’ve never seen you so . . . hungry.”
“You’re not allowed to say that,” I told him. “It’s like calling me fat.”
“I didn’t call you fat. There’s a long road between hungry and fat. Want to go out for wings?”
I shook the nearly empty cereal box I was holding. “Okay,” I said.
“Holy shit, are you serious? I get to take my girl out for wings? Can we go to a Yankees game?”
“No.”
“Want to watch porn?”
“I want . . .”
“What? Tell me. This is awesome!”
“I don’t know,” I said. My head was filled with noise. I held it between my palms. “I guess I just want chicken.”
We went to an all-you-can-eat buffalo wings joint on Avenue B. Mikey finished long before I did, and then watched me intently as I gnawed chicken meat off bone after bone, the spicy sauce searing my lips. He finally set his beer mug down and said, “Am I allowed to ask if you’re pregnant?”
This was one of many firsts we would have in the ensuing months: the first time I ate more than he did, the first time he didn’t get to finish my dinner, the first time I told him not to touch me, the first time he noticed I’d gone a week without laughing, the first time he watched me clutch my hair in my fists and scream, “I just want to shut off my brain!”
Soon after the day we ate wings, I began to hide my eating from Mikey. As far as he knew, I was the old Gray again—counting calories, steaming my green beans. As far as he knew, I was still the girl he’d met outside Big Apple Comedy Club.
All of this led to another first: I began to detest my boyfriend. How could he let this happen to me? After all I’d done for him, couldn’t he wire my jaw shut, or lock me up and feed me nothing but water? Couldn’t he scoop me up into his arms and carry me to safety?
I did not want to live with this hunger. Quite plainly, I wanted to die.
Before I stuffed my body into my bathing suit, walked to the canteen, presented myself to my colleagues, and committed to a two-month diet, I drove through the Carolina Academy entrance, past the engraved wooden sign that said
CAROLINA ACADEMY
and the construction paper sign taped to it that said
CAMP CAROLINA, LEWIS TELLER’S BRAND-NEW, REVOLUTIONARY WEIGHT-LOSS CAMP FOR CHILDREN
. I saw a boarding school reminiscent of a farm—green fields, lush trees, and white wooden buildings.
Lewis flagged me down from the dirt path that looped through campus and directed me to the girls’ dorm, where I would spend the next two months on the third floor with the oldest girls (one floor above the intermediate girls, two floors above the youngest girls; the boys would stay in another dorm on the other side of campus). I hauled my belongings up to my dorm room, plugged in my window fan, and lay on the pin-striped mattress.
Someone knocked, and then pushed the door open. The girl who stood on the threshold was as tall as a man, with hips that filled the door frame. She had the face of a baby, her skin smooth and pale, her eyes wide and black, and a mass of red hair sprouting, thriving, from her part. Although she was dressed in gym clothes—spandex shorts, a loose tank top over a sports bra—she shimmered like a showgirl. When she smiled, a dainty stitching of white scars spread beneath her lower lip. She said that her name was Sheena, like the Ramones song “Sheena Is a Punk Rocker,” and did I know who the Ramones were?
“Yes,” I said, “I know the Ramones.” I didn’t give her more than that. I hadn’t come here to make friends.
She said that she was my co-counselor, that she was such a mature nineteen, Lewis hadn’t minded putting her in charge of seventeen-year-old campers. “I’m going to lose one hundred pounds,” she said. I believed everything she told me. But when she said, “You’re skinny,” I looked down at my body and saw all of the imperfect pieces of it.
I wasn’t skinny—not compared to what I’d been a year earlier, and even then . . . no. No, I had never been skinny. Not compared to the models who wandered around SoHo, their legs like drinking straws from the tops of their boots to the short hems of their shorts. Not compared to my mother, who, when ordering in restaurants, always asked for half of her meal to be boxed up before it left the kitchen; who sometimes ate a quarter of a block of low-fat tofu (uncooked, unseasoned) for dinner, carving slimy bites off with the edge of her fork.
Mikey liked to tell me that untying my bathrobe was like opening a present on Christmas morning, but Mikey was always my most fervent cheerleader. I was average, really, with a face that could have belonged to anyone—a slight bump on the bridge of my nose, raised cheekbones that let me get away with “exotic” (although people more often said I looked “foreign”).
My father’s eyes had been as dark as secrets. Mine had my mother’s green mixed in. My hair was brown and wispy like his. My smile was protracted by dimples like his. My skin, like his, tanned before it burned. When I walked, my toes cracked like his. When I lay in bed reading, my feet rocked like his. In the past year, I had gained fifteen pounds, adding a roll to my stomach, a quiver to my thighs.
I told Sheena, “I’m not skinny.”
“Compared to me. I’m spread out like a cold supper.” Sheena grabbed a handful of her own ass. Then she held one of her ankles, folding her leg in half, stretching her quad muscles. She wore flip-flops and orange toenail polish. A tattoo on her wide right thigh said
Beautiful
in purple script. “It’s fine. I know I’m beautiful. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“I do.”
“Is he rich?”
“No. He’s a comedian.”
“Are you rich?”
I laughed.
She dropped her foot and leaned in the door frame. “People from New York are usually rich. Everyone tells me I should be a comedian. But I’m not really funny. I just have a lot of presence.” She looked around my empty room. “I broke up with my boyfriend a few months ago. He was abusive.”
This made me sit up. I liked when strangers turned their hearts inside out, proudly presenting their auricles.
“It sucks because I’ll never love anyone that much ever again.” Sheena examined the fiery split ends of her hair.
I felt her words in my stomach, like food I might get sick on. “Sure you will.”
“Probably not.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder.
“There are plenty of people to love.”
“Wouldn’t be the same. Nothing’s the same as your first love. We used to sneak into swimming pools together. In a rich neighborhood. We swam in eleven pools one night. We figured out how to get in without splashing. I don’t care. At the end of the summer, when I’m, like, a hundred sixty pounds—a hundred sixty’s not bad for me; I don’t want to lose my ass or anything—when I’m a hundred sixty pounds, I’ll go find him.” Sheena looked past my head and smiled vaguely, conjuring an image in the bright, hot air. Her eyes were so young. A child’s eyes. Here was a person who still saw reason to shape her life around proving something. She would lose weight for the man she loved.
“You don’t have to do that,” I said.
“Do what?”
“Well, who am I to say, but . . .”
“Are you going to tell me some girl power shit?”
“You seem so interesting. And you’re pretty. I would kill for hair like yours. Why hang your life on one hook, you know?”
“I’m my own hook,” Sheena said, knotting her arms over her chest.
“Right. Good. Because it’s just . . . he could move away.”
“He’s already moved away. He’s in jail.”
“He could go blind,” I said. “He could die.” I pressed both hands to my lips to close them.
“I hope he shits razor blades,” Sheena said. “But if he’s out of jail by the end of the summer, I’ll run into him on purpose. And he’ll be like, ‘I can’t believe I screwed that up.’ You know? Like, ‘How could I have let her go?’ ”
“Good idea,” I said. “He’ll kick himself.”
Sheena tipped her head to one side and squinted her black eyes at me. But I wasn’t patronizing her. No one would have dreamt of condescending to Sheena.
“You’ll look gorgeous,” I said, smiling.
Sheena nodded. “I will.” She smiled back, her fingers moving over her scars. “I’ll be skinny,” she said. “I’ll be happy.”