Fat Bald Jeff Read online

  The elderly guests were polite and kind to us in spite of my parents’ barnyard odor, probably because of my pretty pink party dress. It had been a birthday gift from Gran. Mother wanted me to wear a floor-length corduroy jumper, hemp kerchief, and peasant blouse, but I kicked and screamed for the frilly pink frock. Mother said, “If you want to look like Baby Jane Hudson, go ahead.”

  As was expected, the parents refused the roast beef and Yorkshire pudding. Mother said, “No flesh for us, thanks,” and tore open her bag of unsalted organic tortilla chips. Father sipped tap water and ate Grandmother’s green-bean casserole after blotting the vegetables with his napkin. I ate the roast as my parents looked on in disgust. I did not claw my way up the food chain to become an herbivore! Of course, now that she’s slumming with that hulking boob Jann, Mother grills brats and burgers in the parking lot of Soldier Field. I’ve seen Jann sprinkle Bacon Bits on steak.

  Anyway, after dinner Grandmother gave me my Christmas present, a pink fake-fur jacket. She put on her fabulous fox, and we modeled in front of the hall mirror by the closet. Mother’s eyes bulged as Father attempted to restrain her, murmuring, “The rent, Ruth” in her ear. She said rent be damned, she could not endorse dead animals as clothing.

  Grandmother said, “But it’s only fun fur.”

  Mother said, “There is nothing fun about fur.”

  We left just about then. I had to keep my fun fur at Gran’s house, since it was not comme il faut in our hut. Her own fox coat was put away in that garment bag, and I haven’t seen her wear it since.

  Had a fantastic dinner. Strawberry Hill goes well with everything. The only part that was a little wrenching was the dessert. She’d made a silver cake with seven-minute frosting, but it’s obvious that she is getting to be ancient and sightless since I could see large strips of unmixed flour running through my slice. I did my best to choke it down; however, some of the flour went down the wrong tube and Grandmother had to thump me violently on the back.

  I sputtered, “It’s not the cake, Gran. It’s my lungs, weakened from years of living with Val.” It wasn’t a lie, since his secondhand smoke had sent me racing from the room countless times and no doubt has damaged my vascular system.

  We retired to the family room for tea. Grandmother brought out the tiny bottle of whiskey we sometimes use for flavoring and as a digestive aid.

  Inevitably, she brought up the cursed subject of work. I try to keep a brave face when speaking of the Place, as I’ve come to call it, to Grandmother. It was she, after all, who paid for my college education, and I feel the need to reassure her that I’ve put my schooling to good use. To confide that all college provided me with was the skill to differentiate good beer from poor beer would crush her—especially to hear that I spent whole weekends slogging down inferior, trail-of-cat-sick brew! She would also hate to know how I detest my job. Anyway, it was easy to steer her back to safer territory. March in the suburbs means ordering seeds and plants for spring, and getting the earth ready for gardening. Her perennial bed was unrivaled in the neighborhood, and I always enjoyed working on it, even though too much fresh air makes me nauseous. She let me prattle on about cabbage worms and black spot and earwigs while she fiddled with the whiskey decanter.

  “Tea’s not very strong,” she commented, upping the whiskey-to-tea ratio to halvsies.

  “Shall we order Sugar Daddy snap peas again?” I asked. I found this hilarious, considering my dalliance with the Lemming.

  “Addie, I believe I won’t be planting anything new this year,” she said. She pulled an invisible thread from a petit point sofa pillow. I listened in shock to her litany of physical complaints: rheumatoid arthritis, failing eyesight, fallen arches, leaky bladder. Nothing could persuade her to dig in the dirt this summer.

  It was like hearing that your priest consulted a psychic hotline, or that Abraham Lincoln preferred drunken carousing to books. The rose pruning and training of the trumpet vines of the past now seemed meaningless, empty, unreal.

  “The clematis?” I gasped, struggling to keep my emotions under control.

  She shrugged—a vulgar gesture in a lady of her age.

  “Is everything just going to rack and ruin in your yard, then?” I demanded, voice quaking.

  “Well, the boy next door is a horticulture major at Northwestern. He said he’ll do some weeding and pruning.”

  My world, pedestrian void that it is, came crashing down around me. All that had gotten me through the endless winter months of editing academic drivel, eating stale crusts in the staff cafeteria, staring out my apartment windows at naked trees with plastic bags stuck in the branches, enduring moronic conversations with the Lemming, slumping in my folding chair at the Place, had now disappeared with one selfish utterance of an old woman.

  I stood up, trembling. What was I to do with spring and summer now? Chase the tamale vendors throughout my neighborhood? Tan in a sleazy bikini on the fire escape? Stand in the alley with the other vagrants and mongrels, eating discarded corncobs and drinking rainwater?

  “Oh, dear,” said Grandmother. She patted my arm. Valiantly, I told her it was all right, that ripping the garden away from me would free up time to forge a closer bond with Mother and Jann. Grandmother’s lips narrowed to one cruel, thin line, but she said nothing.

  I asked if I could have a few moments to bid farewell to the perennial bed and compost heap. She sighed mightily and nodded, and I was uncomfortably reminded of my father, who sighed in much the same manner when I left the paper open to the Help Wanted section near his cereal bowl.

  Grandmother bundled up in her winter coat and followed me outside. My torment at leaving our beautiful garden untended this season was matched only when the icy wind tore through my blasted coat.

  There was nothing much to say good-bye to yet. It was too early to see any real green growth. I just stared at the pine mulch and bawled.

  “Don’t wail out here in the yard, before prying eyes,” she admonished, casting about for spying neighbors. “It’s inappropriate to become excited outdoors.”

  I wiped my tears and moaned softly, in a pretty, feminine way.

  “Wait!” Grandmother shouted. She shuffled over to the garage and picked something off the old potting bench. “Here, take this,” she said, pressing something into my hand. Hoping it was cash, I was disappointed to find it was a packet of red salvia seeds.

  “Thanks,” I gulped, stuffing the package into my coat pocket. Again tears sprang to my eyes; red salvia is the ugliest flower in cultivation.

  Foul mood by the time I got back home. From out on the sidewalk I heard the strains of “Smoke on the Water.” Paco from 1F stood in the hallway, wearing a red velour jogging suit, socks, and plastic sandals. He’s an old immigrant, so he cannot be expected to know our American styles. I’m not sure where he came from originally. There are some ridiculous-looking pen-and-ink marks on his mailbox that might be Greek or Chinese or Russian, but everyone calls him Paco. He answers readily enough.

  Paco looked searchingly up the stairs and asked where all the noise came from. I blamed 2F.

  Up in our apartment, Val Wayne strummed his guitar along with the music. His eyes were closed and he clenched a cigarette butt between his lips, endangering his mustache. I’m all for music, heaven knows I’ve spent many evenings rocking out to the Ray Conniff Singers, but Val’s musical tastes offend me. I turned down Deep Purple and threw my raincoat on the floor like a common street thug.

  “What’s your problem?” he asked, turning up the music. We stood at the stereo controls, poised like dogs at a standoff. As usual, I capitulated. I begged Val for a turn at the record player, explaining that my grandmother had severed my sanity with one final snip of her floral shears, and that only consolation from Lionel or Neil or Abba or Yanni could restore me. Coldhearted, he refused!

  Tried to cry, but Val has known me since I was fifteen and can see through the thin veneer of my tears. We have had many arguments over the years about Deep Purple, and
“Smoke on the Water” in particular, but I cannot sway him to reason. He always ends our debate by saying that I will never understand what those four chords have meant to him.

  Nothing is more depressing than bathing while Deep Purple chugs on into the night, but as the loser in the stereo battle—as in so many others—I had no choice. I filled up the old claw-foot tub and added a few drops of attar of roses. It doesn’t take much rose-scented steam to permeate this empty shell of a girl. Afterward, I padded around in white fuzzy slippers and a high-necked muslin nightgown, filing my nails into sharp points.

  As is Val’s usual Sunday-night ritual, he combed out his mustache at the bathroom mirror and measured its growth with a ruler.

  “It’s not growing.” He pouted. I went in to have a look. I said it looked longer to me, but I was only being kind. Val’s mustache has not changed in three years.

  “It doesn’t grow past the corners of my mouth,” he said, showing me the smooth hairless patch by his lips. I pointed out that only Lynyrd Skynyrd roadies grew mustaches longer than his.

  “I know,” he replied with despondent envy.

  He groomed himself a while longer while I went into the bedroom to select my outfit for work tomorrow. After a quick consultation with the Weather Channel and the Farmer’s Almanac, I chose a cherry-red wool-blend gabardine dress with starched white collar and antique enamel buttons. Gray cashmere cardigan (Grandmother’s hand-me-down), nude hose, gray loafers. The effect was unfortunately librarianish, but with red lips and no Kleenex in the sleeve, I could take my place within the current century. I had no one I wanted to impress at the Place, but there was always the chance that some Wall Street tycoon would ride the bus if his roadster was in the shop. Hung the dress on the closet door and readied the accoutrements on the chair. Also set aside the plastic rain bonnet with charming red trim and hung up the fake Burberry, which I had thrown on the floor, after first polishing its D-rings and belt buckle and brushing out its useless lining. Val was still fussing with his mustache in the bathroom! Who could possibly be attracted to someone of such fastidious habits?

  Laid in bed and felt the sniffles coming on. Blasted Gran! Tried to feel sorry for her collapsing health, but it was no good. She could have insisted I come over three times a week to fix up the garden, like the old days, but I guess she just prefers to lie about the house all day, watching her yard degrade into a rubbish heap. How long will it be before she has the fancy floral student from next door drag out the Valiant to rust on the front lawn, propped up on cinder blocks? A splitting headache was upon me now. I toyed with the idea of calling in sick tomorrow, but those of us treading the poverty line have to press on with work in spite of illness. I felt that I understood how Polish laborers in the munitions factories of World War II felt before commencing eighteen-hour workdays shod only in ill-fitting, thunderous work boots. My own loafers pinched mightily at the toes.

  At the Place, a workshop had been scheduled for us copy-editors and the graphic designers. The two Jeffs herded us into a dank cave around the corner from the dungeon. This was the tech-support department, known as the Hole throughout the rest of the building. Windowless, with naked fluorescent bulbs running the length of the room, the Hole was separated from nontech staff by a wall of plate glass and a locked glass door. A frail administrative geek sat Cerberus-like at a desk outside the door to keep out trespassers. As though we respectable aboveground workers would want to mix with the subterranean techies!

  Opened my notebook at the beginning of the training session. Wrote down silly tech terms. Felt sleepy. I had not anticipated so much information. The Jeffs took turns explaining the software program and demonstrating techniques on the computer. I felt they could have gone to a little more trouble to clean themselves up before the meeting. It was very distracting trying to concentrate on the monitor while the fat, bald Jeff sweated through his T-shirt. The grasshopper-looking Jeff was no easier on the eyes, as his filthy ropes of fur swung to and fro beneath the moldy RON’S PIZZA cap, dislodging crumbs and invertebrates every few seconds. Coddles attended the workshop for two minutes, just to make sure we all showed up. Then he left to gather up his dry cleaning for the secretary to drop off.

  Bev and Lura took copious notes. The graphic designers seemed to have some prior knowledge of this HTML thing and didn’t need much of a tutorial. I was the only one struggling to understand. I have decided that when the time comes for me to format a website, I shall have to sever some wires within my hard drive and pass the job on to someone else.

  We broke up into small groups to practice what we had learned. In my group were tartar Bev and one of the graphic designers. He is called Francis and looks like he’s worn the same pumpkin-farmer jeans for a month straight. He had some foreign matter in his hair, but I was not about to reach in. I tapped him on the shoulder with my Bic and pointed wordlessly to the clump of refuse on his head. He felt around gingerly, then extracted a Cheerio. He didn’t say anything, but he looked grateful as he popped it into his mouth.

  Bev insisted that I go first and attempt to format a simple sentence and a block of color. I stared at the screen for an instant, then starting pressing keys. My group exchanged glances.

  “Have you ever worked on a computer before?” asked Francis.

  Relieved, I said he should take his turn and gave him a dazzling smile for encouragement. He cringed and turned toward the machine. Subsequent furtive glances in my compact told me I still had great clumps of spinach omelet in my bucks.

  Bev looked quite pleased with herself after my disastrous performance. She told me to pay attention because if I didn’t learn it now, I would never get it. I responded that those of us with youth still on our side were better equipped to acquire new skills. Her nostrils flared aggressively and a hard line appeared between her brows, but she kept quiet. Round one to me.

  Something strange I noticed during the session: our trainers are referred to as Fat Bald Jeff and Other Jeff by the rest of the tech-support staff. They don’t seem to be insults—merely accepted names. Even their supervisor interrupted our workshop and said, “Fat Bald Jeff, there’s a printer crisis on the fourth floor in accounting when you’re done here.”

  After an hour in the Hole, I felt I could stand no more. There were too many tech workers and not enough deodorant. My nasal cavities are very sensitive and cannot take repeated doses of human stench. The desks were strewn with Coke cans and moldy candy bar wrappers. The wall above Fat Bald Jeff’s personal workstation boasted an old poster of William Shatner. Someone had mangled an ancient 5¼” floppy disk and hammered it to a crucifix made from company pencils. The floor was littered with debris fallen from mangy beards.

  Finally, the Jeffs released us. The others looked over their notes by the stairs while I waited for the elevator. I wished that I, too, could have escaped into the stairwell, but I’m susceptible to labored breathing and have to be careful not to overtax my lungs. At the last minute, Fat Bald Jeff squeezed his bulk into the elevator with me. My final view before the doors closed was of Bev’s smug pig face, framed by iron-gray bangs and outdated Peter Pan collar. She made disparaging clucking noises and said, “Elevator for only two floors up? My, my.” Of course the doors shut before I could reply.

  After a moment, Fat Bald Jeff said: “Why walk when you can ride?”

  It seems we are not so different after all.

  Spent the whole afternoon composing smart retorts to Bev’s insolent and not very witty barb. I waited for her to comment again on the elevator so I could announce, “Stairs are for peasants,” but she completely ignored me the rest of the day. I did, however, feel a small gratification when she left the ladies’ room with her horrible denim skirt tucked into her mammoth pantyhose. It was a disgusting sight, but one I enjoyed nevertheless.

  Edited the unspeakably dull article “Amassing Aggregations for the Online Library Reference Center.” I must be absolutely brilliant because I was able to edit the whole manuscript without once looking u
p the meaning of “aggregations.” It must mean mobs of angry people, but why would libraries want to amass them? It’s not my problem; I’m just the copyeditor. Challenged the computer to a little solitaire. It won.

  Left work at four-thirty. The day is not officially over until five, but I felt after all I had been through with Grandmother and the new duties in our department, I deserved a reprieve. Hid in the company coat closet until Coddles shut his office door for a meeting with his slutty secretary, Miss Fernquist. When no one was looking, I tiptoed down the hallway and took the stairs slowly down one floor to the exit. This is just how spies must feel when tailing international terrorists. I’ve got to say, it was thoroughly exciting. I can’t describe the thrill I had on the sidewalk, looking at my wristwatch and seeing the minute hand sweep the half hour! Of course, the thrill disintegrated when I was reminded of the inferior quality of the watch. Why not just strap a stone sundial to my head and sheep bladders on my feet? I am completely outmoded.

  Strolled past the little frock shop I adore on Oak Street, coveting the spring line displayed in the front window. Like a starving beggar child in Victorian England pressing its nose against a bakery window, I pressed my nose against the shop glass. The day was gray and windy, and trash adhered to my legs as it blew down the street. The most darling petal-pink Empire sheath with décolleté bodice hung mere inches from me, but for all my meager finances it might have hung on top of the John Hancock building. A saleslady appeared on the other side of the window, glaring at me with frank disapproval. I moved slowly toward the bus stop, making little sad sounds. I wanted that dress: it was a grown-up version of the one Gran gave me all those years ago. But if I bought it, I would have to forgo all new purchases and decent groceries for eight months. I suppose I should have been used to squalor by now, but I couldn’t help rebelling against enforced penny-pinching and egg salad sandwiches. My parents were never plagued by this longing for quality wardrobe, but then good breeding sometimes skips a generation.