Fat Bald Jeff Page 7

  Father suffered, going to the salt mines each morning. He missed lying in bed till noon and firing misshapen clay pots. He came home from work in the evening, replaced his tie and slacks with a traumatic sort of feminine caftan, and shuffled around our hut, murmuring, “Another day closer to death.” Then Mother would stare out the kitchen window at our rusting Volvo and say, sighing, “Why was I born a woman? To bear the burden of some man’s torment all my life?” Then she’d start bossing us around. Father had to wash the vegetables for dinner, and I had to scrub the bathtub so they could battle in the kitchen. I told my grandparents about the constant lack of civility in our house, and Grandfather said, “It’s always the children who end up hurt when mothers neglect their duties. It’s a wonder Addie turned out even half normal.” Grandmother nodded and clucked her tongue. I lowered my eyes and looked sad.

  Father ended up becoming so tiresome about his job that Mother locked herself in her sewing room and refused to clean or feed us! Father was like an infant in diapers, he was so helpless without her.

  “How do you work this can opener?” he once asked me. I pointed out he didn’t need a can opener for bottled beer, but he just got mad and heaved the thing against the wall. I cleaned up the mess while Father stalked around the house, screaming, “You have to come out of there sometime, Ruth! The child is starving.”

  She shouted back, “The cookbook’s by the microwave.” We had carrots and bread heels for dinner.

  The final injustice came one morning as I dressed for school. My uniform skirt was stiff with grime between the pleats, so I brought it to Mother’s attention. She was in the sewing room, stringing beads like a mental patient.

  “My uniform’s filthy,” I said, “and the bus will be here in twenty minutes.”

  She examined the skirt abstractedly, then tossed it at me. “You could do with some earthiness, Miss Priss.” It would serve her right to have Child Welfare spot me on the way to school, disheveled as an orphan. I was willing to withstand the cruel inattention of a foster home if it would teach my parents something about responsibility. I mentioned as much to Mother and she said, “How quick can you pack your bags?” Callous birth-giver! She’s always had a streak of selfishness that stuns me.

  Well, one day Father finally got Mother to come out of isolation. She was making a macramé owl to hang in the sewing room, and I was cleaning our disgrace of a kitchen. We both heard a manic honking in the driveway and wandered outside to see what was wrong. There sat Father, grinning madly, in a Volkswagen minibus painted a lurid shade of mustard. Mother squealed and ran toward the heap. I cast about furtively, hoping the neighbors were not witnessing our domestic drama. Father had quit his job at the pharmaceuticals firm and was taking us on the road to live as vagabonds!

  He planned to support us by selling homeopathic remedies on our travels. I looked to Mother for help, but she agreed with him that living far from a capitalist hive would do us all some good. I even appealed to my grandparents, but they tearfully shook their heads.

  “Can nothing be done?” I demanded, outraged. “I can’t live in a bus with those people.”

  Grandmother sniffed. “She may have no maternal feeling, but she’s still your mother.”

  Against my will, I packed my belongings: pink party dress, twenty pairs of white underpants, drudge garments that Mother threw in, dish towels, two cans of Bon Ami, toothbrush, travel journal with lock, hairbrush, sponge curlers, and a bottle of 409. I also packed Windex to clean the dust of endless flatlands off the bus windows, but Mother took it out of my bag and showed it to Father, who collapsed in hysterics. Father then made some tasteless remarks about one day getting a paternity test! I expected Mother to fume at this blasphemy, but she just giggled. I found his comments about my parentage offensive in the extreme. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead, but my father was an idiot.

  Walked in the door to find Val sucking away on limes and perusing my gardening books! Had I not suffered enough with the workload at the Place, my cubicle-induced head injury and subsequent exhibition of underpants, the terrible fondling of Coddles, the sandwich ordeal, the crying dog on the fire escape, my decrepit Gran, my loose-moraled mother, and King Sweno’s road rage on the Kennedy? No. I had not suffered enough until all new gardening projects were denied me. The weak link to my sanity snapped. I strode up to the disco couch, fists clenched and eyes afire, my adorable chin-length bob swinging in rage. I was suddenly reminded of Gran’s favorite biblical quote: “Tonight thy very soul will be required of thee.” But I discarded it.

  I wrenched the horrible lime rind from Val Wayne’s mouth and flung it against the wall. He screamed—a tormented, agonized cry—and cursed me full in the face. In my fury I had torn off part of his mustache!

  “Oh Val,” I wailed, but he would have none of my sorrow. He ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, ignoring my pleas. I slumped outside the bathroom door in the hallway, trying to explain. The pathos of the situation revealed itself to me as I sat on the floor begging forgiveness in the midst of dust bunnies collecting at the edge of the baseboards. Only a pathetic creature as I would remain prostrate on such a smutty floor. But dust bunnies give me the heebie-jeebies, so I swept them aside with the broom and continued to cry from the comfortable disco couch. I could still be a sorrowful wretch without lying on the floor.

  After thirty minutes I gave up. I got the ironing board out of the pantry, and immediately a calm suffused my body. Something about ironing is so steadying. I selected black cigarette pants and a red silk blouse with mandarin collar for tomorrow’s wardrobe. I was taking no more chances and decided against wearing skirts to the Place for a while. Human nature being what it is, I’m afraid I’m unable to quit gophering over my cubicle walls. It’s not my fault. If the walls went to the ceiling like they’re supposed to, I would not be able to eavesdrop. I have nothing; why deny myself this one guilty pleasure? Studied my wardrobe choice for a few minutes. Decided I’m partial to the glamorous oriental look. My accoutrements were appropriate to the outfit, both in style (dragonfly barrette and fake jade bangle) and in origin (made in Taiwan).

  Chose Chanel-ripoff black ballet flats and set them outside my closet, with bunion pads resting neatly on top. I will not sacrifice my feet to fashion and end up spending each Saturday morning for the next forty years at a sadistic Greek podiatrist’s office. I hung the outfit on my closet doors in readiness. It was a smart, seductive look, particularly with my Godzilla-era Japanese scientist spectacles. Austin Powers, indeed!

  I had just prepared a nightcap of warm milk and whiskey when the bathroom door opened. Val’s eyes were puffy and red. He stumbled to the disco couch and collapsed. His upper lip looked absolutely wrecked. It appeared that he had been applying various salves and ointments to promote new hair growth and soothe the sting. But how can you soothe the sting of a decade’s worth of hair farming lost in an instant?

  I peeked timidly around the corner. I offered Val a hank of my hair to rip out, but he just made little sniffly sounds and stroked his ravaged lip. I offered him my milk and whiskey, which he grudgingly accepted. Then I threw myself upon his mercy and his lap.

  “Forgive me!” I cried. “I didn’t mean it!” In a torrent, I bawled about the garden and my disappointment at being left out.

  “We weren’t leaving you out. The garden is for everyone in the building. I just didn’t think you wanted to tear up sod and rototill dead squirrels and syringes out of the ground.”

  I tried to administer comfort by murmuring softly and patting the little ruined hair patch, but he flung my hand away in anguish, hissing, “Don’t touch it!” Then he stormed into his room and slammed the door so hard our brandy bottles rattled.

  Went to bed. Deep Purple churned away at full volume from Val’s room for eight straight hours.

  Chapter 5

  Val still isn’t speaking to me. When he gets home from work, he changes his clothes, grabs a lime and the bottle of Bacardi, and heads down to 2F. The Bac
ardi is actually mine (a Christmas gift from Mother and Jann), but I dare not say a thing. This has left my evenings empty of human companionship and has forced me to seek solace in the paws of the Lemming. He’s still stingy, but the more groping I allow, the better entertainment he provides. I would not like to announce what I endured to get a dinner at the Pump Room and a musical at the Shubert. It cannot be long before the blue box from Tiffany’s makes its appearance!

  I needed, however, a reprieve from his advances, so it was with anticipation that I looked forward to the invitation issued via e-mail from Fat Bald Jeff today.

  Dear friends:

  Please come over tonight for my birthday party, two doors down from the Chicken George on Huron St. near Damen Ave. This is my 36th, and coincidentally the 10th year I have worked for NAL tech support without a promotion or raise. There’ll be cake and beer.

  Sincerely,

  Fat Bald Jeff

  Since Fat Bald Jeff and I had embarked on the Porno Project at the copy machine the other week, we had grown a little closer, and I was pleased to be invited to his party. Didn’t feel quite as nervous about our hoax anymore … after all, no one had caught us. Francis had quit grilling me. Jeff hinted about the “other plans” he wished us to undertake—and they are much more thrilling than begging the executives for Christmas cocktail weenies! He’s still a tad secretive about what I am to do, exactly, but it involves some type of anonymous muckraking. Everyone knows I detest gossip and snooping and unkindness, of course, but I’m intrigued.

  To ensure my participation in his future projects, Jeff has tackled my Web assignments with gusto, freeing up a lot of time for me to stare out the cubicle window. I asked him how he could possibly have time to do my assignments while working on his normal duties, but he just gave the Hole a bewildered look and said that apart from the occasional mechanical crisis, tech support had nothing to do.

  At 12:05, Francis walked into the staff lounge. I was just about to take a bite of my tuna sandwich strip. I stopped and looked at him expectantly.

  “Please don’t stop on my account,” he implored. “Go on, it’s almost twelve-oh-six. I just wanted to know if you were going to Fat Bald Jeff’s tonight.”

  I nodded and bit into the sandwich. He suggested we run out to Marshall Field’s to buy Jeff a birthday present before our lunch hour was up. I replied that I had sneaked out of the building the instant I received his missive that morning and already purchased a gift.

  Francis looked so dejected as he slumped into the chair across from me. Why not ask Lura, I offered. He hemmed and hawed. Thankfully, I was spared his further indecision by Lura herself as she walked toward the pop machine.

  “Lura!” I called. “Francis here is looking for someone to help him select a present for Fat Bald Jeff’s birthday.” She agreed to accompany him.

  He stood up, sighed, and muttered, “Thanks.” He could at least try to appear grateful! I know he must have a secret crush on her, given her savage hair and wild undulating curves. I have a keen sense of such feelings in others.

  Dashed off a quick note to the CTA.

  Dear Ian el-Sabbah—if that is indeed your name:

  Re: my letter of March 16

  I am shocked and saddened by your unfeeling response to my plight on your train. Perhaps if you had been abused by a vulgar, deranged passenger, you would be quicker to react with some sympathy and action. As it is, I see I have no choice but to discontinue my use of the Red Line. That is, unless you attempt to exercise some standards when soliciting customers. And I found your careless reference to my grandmother in the same sentence as the words “sexual episode” profoundly offensive.

  No need to respond,

  Coddles

  I was careful not to use any exclamation points. Difficult, as I was extremely emotionally charged.

  When I arrived home, I found Val and 2F poring over hairstyle catalogs. Stefan had been a struggling hairdresser when Mr. Chung came along and saved him from a life of cosmetic servitude. He still had his old hairstyle manuals, I suppose, to keep his hand in. Just like I plan to keep The Chicago Manual of Style, fourteenth edition, after Martin whisks me away, even though I will have no further need for grammatical precision, barring the occasional letter to Grandmother.

  Three sets of eyes regarded me icily as I meekly hung up the false Burberry. If only I had been wearing my mandarin-collar blouse that day! Chung might have been more disposed to kindness. As it was, I tiptoed past the glacier into the kitchen and made myself a simple meal of canned peas, toast, and champagne. I made a big show of popping the cork and squealing, “Ooh! Bubbly,” when it hit the ceiling, so that 2F would realize that I was the type of person who always had a bottle of champagne lying around. It was likely that Fat Bald Jeff would have some food at his party, but heaven knows I can’t stomach offal. I ate at our little wooden table and looked out the window at our backyard. From the third floor it was hard to see what progress they had made in creating a garden, other than clearing out some rubble and trampling the one healthy patch of grass. No one came in to watch me drink champagne.

  Why should I be exiled from my own living room? Val would have to come around sooner or later. I changed into a lovely silk kimono I got for three dollars at the thrift and shuffled into the living room in a way that made my feet look tiny. I’d never had occasion to wear it before, but now that Mr. Chung was here, I’d have an appreciative admirer.

  “Val, I know it’s not as luxuriant as what you once had,” said Stefan, with a pointed look in my direction, “but I think you should go for this one on page twelve. Fullness in the center, severely tapering off at the ends. Like David Niven.”

  “No, no,” retorted Chung. “Niven’s all wrong for him. He needs even coverage across the lip. Think Robert Redford in 1974.”

  This went on for a while. Poor Val thumbed listlessly through the book, stroking his bare patch. I thought he should have just shaved the whole thing off and begun again, but he’d probably be well into his forties before he got some decent results. Now he was stuck with adapting his half ’stache into a presentable style. Unfortunately, every time 2F showed him a possible selection, he just looked longingly at the Allman Brothers LP on his lap.

  “This is what I’ve been shooting for,” he said unhappily, showing them Duane Allman’s stringy blond vermicelli. The boys sighed, frustrated with the stalemate.

  “I know!” I shouted excitedly. “How about the mustache on the little balding man from Magnum P.I.?”

  They looked at me as though I had suggested a Salvador Dalí or a Hercule Poirot.

  Chung said, “If he’s going to have anyone’s mustache from Magnum P.I., it’s going to be Tom Selleck’s, not the little balding guy’s.”

  “I hate the little balding guy’s mustache!” said Val. “Besides, he looks like Hitler. That’s great, Addie. You want a black man to wear a Hitler mustache. Great idea.”

  “It’s not like Hitler,” I squeaked, alarmed at the erupting chaos. “It’s like … like David Niven more than Hitler.”

  Stefan rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “It’s nothing like Niven.”

  I stood up. A single tear slid down my cheek, and I cinched my kimono tightly. We sensitive persons can’t take public outrage. I whimpered a little as I shuffled out of the living room. Perhaps the pathetic figure I drew softened Val’s flinty heart.

  “Wait. Where are you going?” he asked.

  I blew my nose in my embroidered handkerchief after first flourishing it in front of 2F. Just because I am friendless and alone in the world and have accidentally ruined Val’s mustache, it doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate quality linens. I explained to Val about Fat Bald Jeff’s party.

  He stared at my kimono. “Is that what you’re wearing?”

  “Oh no, it’s just a robe. This might interest you,” I said to Chung, confidence surging as I twirled and modeled my kimono. “It’s from China.”

  “This might interest you,” he replied. “I’m f
rom Michigan.”

  I fled into my closet. Curse the inscrutable Oriental!

  I pulled my nine-hundred-pound bike out of the storage room in the basement, clamped on my driving goggles over my spectacles, secured the trusty rain bonnet, and set off toward Jeff’s. I didn’t mind an occasional burst of exercise, especially as Jeff didn’t live far and I was too afraid to ask Val to lend me bus fare. Anyway, the bus route that goes by Jeff’s house is unspeakable. Much wiser to avoid it altogether. Unfortunately, riding the bike means wearing trousers. I’ve never been to a party wearing trousers before. I hope the other guests will understand.

  Wrapped Jeff’s gift in company stationery during the afternoon. It got tossed around in my plastic handlebar basket during the ride, but I think it will be okay. I selected for his present a small spiral-bound journal in which to compose his thoughts. Frankly, I doubt Jeff has many thoughts that are not of a rambling, paranoid nature, but I can’t help what he writes in there.

  As I neared the address I became more and more dismayed. Jeff lives in a shantytown! The houses were all dilapidated and festooned with plastic Santas. Groups of menacing young toughs stood about idly on corners. One of them called out, “Hey mama” as I pedaled by. Why is it men feel compelled to cry out for their mamas when I am around? There is nothing in the least maternal about me. In fact, there is probably no one in the world less motherly than I—except, of course, my mother.

  I would not be surprised if a gang of thugs, attracted by the present in my basket, ambushed me and ran off with Jeff’s gift. I shuddered to imagine some hooligan writing earnestly each night in the purloined journal. Just like Dostoyevsky’s postal worker.