Fat Bald Jeff Page 8

  Finally reached Jeff’s address. The number was scrawled on fake brick siding with a Sharpie. In his front yard—a rubbish-strewn square of filth and weeds—stood a grotesque semblance of a mongrel dog. It looked at me with baleful eyes, which ran freely with a yellowish substance. It was tied up by a chain massive enough to restrain an elephant. The fur stood out in patches from its misshapen body, and scabbish, pink skin made up the rest. Even its tail, a bloodied stub that crooked out from its rump, looked diseased. I opened the front gate and timidly crept in, and the dog became a snapping, salivating mass of mange and gore. It strained at the end of its chain—mere inches away! Couldn’t tell if the chain would extend to the sidewalk at the point I would have to cross the dog, so I stood uncertainly by the gate, shielding myself with the massive bike. Was appalled at the plastic garden gnome standing sentry by a dead rhododendron.

  Moments later, Fat Bald Jeff hurried out from the rear of the building. He waved me in, saying the dog would not be able to reach me. I inched my way down the walk, pressed between the chain-link fence on my right and the iron bicycle on my left. Felt brave.

  “Sorry about that,” said Jeff as I reached him. “It doesn’t like me either. Want to lock up your bike down here? I live on the third floor.” He indicated our route: a hundred-year-old wooden fire escape painted a hideous shade of battleship gray.

  I gulped. “I’ll carry it up.” I had a lock, but I was not about to have one of those street thugs try to wrest away my only vehicle.

  I got up two steps and fell down. Jeff had to come back and hoist the bike on my shoulder so that I could try again. Made it all the way up on the sixth try. Set the bike down on the small landing in front of his door, gaining my breath. It was thoughtful of Jeff to wait for me to get up there.

  “There’s a kind of moistness on my neck and face,” I said. I touched the skin gingerly. Clammy.

  “Well … I think it’s sweat,” he replied.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Sweat. You know, from physical exertion.” He looked at me as if I were an idiot.

  Ugh. There was soreness now, too, in my arms. I must be coming down with the flu. Sweat! Please. Sweating is for oxen and terrariums.

  We walked in. Jeff hung up my rain bonnet and driving goggles on a crude Peg-Board by the door. I wheeled my bike over to a load-bearing beam in the middle of the loft and locked it. I recognized some Hole denizen watching me nearby, stuffing its face with chocolate-covered pretzels. He asked if I thought someone there was going to steal my bike. I think my meaningful gaze answered his question.

  Jeff lives not only in a shantytown, but in a shanty! When he said he lived on the third floor, he meant the attic of the house. The pitched roof prohibited any upright movement save in the direct center of the loft. Those taller than five foot seven had to crouch. Luckily, Jeff is quite short and walks around hunched over like a simian anyway. No walls to be seen. His kitchen consisted of a hotplate plugged into a gigantic power strip by his bed. I counted eight plugs attached to the surge protector—its own cord was attached to a series of extension cords that trailed across the room and out the back window.

  I counted among the guests Bev, Lura, and seventeen men. Ordinarily this ratio would please me, except tonight the men were all zombies from the Place. Many had not even changed out of their work clothes! Earl the unarmed desk official was there, still in his dull uniform with dubious SECURITY patch. In the corner, scraping the crab-dip bowl with his fingers, stood Other Jeff. It was a good thing that years of poor posture at the computer terminal had permanently bowed his back, as he never would have been able to stand up straight in this loft. He picked a thick, coiled hair out of the dip and wiped it on the back of his pants.

  I made small talk with him about the dangers of decaying foam-rubber baseball caps as he cast about the room in a forlorn manner. He must have been searching out more crab dip. He began to wander away bit by bit, looking for the dip, but I kept pace with him. Suddenly he broke into a run—quite an unusual sight, as he was bent over like a shepherd’s crook—and ran smack into Francis. I was momentarily impeded by a gyrating zombie (someone had thrown a record on the hi-fi), and it took me a second to disentangle myself from the mess. I heard Other Jeff beg Francis for help, since some girl was following him around. What girl? I hadn’t seen anyone following us. Then I turned and saw Lura a few feet away, filling a cup at the keg. Can’t imagine why she would follow around Other Jeff. Poor darling must be terribly lonely.

  “Care to dance?” Francis surprised me, stealing up that way. He smiled in a way that must charm other women and held out his arm. The music grew louder and shook the attic walls. Techies fought over the hi-fi: the young geeks insisted on the Chemical Brothers; old ones preferred Jethro Tull and Foghat. How does one dance to Foghat? I took Francis’s arm, and he led me into a disgusting group of prancing hobbits.

  I am a lovely dancer. I know this because Grandmother told me so when I was a teen. We used to trade Grandfather off on each other during our scandalous three-way fox-trots. I can also frug with the best of them, but I am not familiar with today’s moronic hoof jigging. Francis flopped around, apparently stricken with Saint Vitus’s Dance, as I gaped openly in horror. Even Fat Bald Jeff flailed around the room, bouncing like a depraved and wrathful beach ball. Tried to mimic Francis’s palsy but felt that unpleasantly moist, sticky sensation on the back of my neck again.

  “Sorry,” I screamed over the Foghat, “I don’t feel well.”

  I’d hoped that Francis would just abandon me as soon as I ran away, but he insisted on accompanying me to a chair against the far wall. He told me to sit down and relax while he got me something to drink. Eagerly awaited a tall scotch, neat. Disappointed to receive plain tap water, squalid.

  He handed it to me and threw himself on a ratty futon covered with old newspapers, saying, “I’ve never seen you wear pants before.”

  “Not ‘pants.’ Trousers. Pleats and cuffs.”

  A maddening black eyebrow shot upward. “Am I wearing pants?”

  How to explain the nuances of modern menswear to a slacker? He can’t appreciate anything but pumpkin-farmer jeans. Looked around at other offending garments. Bev, over by the hot dog rotisserie, wore polyester slacks in a janitorial hue. Her floral smock, three sizes too small, displayed a white roll of flesh spilling over an exhausted elastic waistband. Most of the techies draped themselves in ill-fitting denim, faded and stretched hipwise from sedentary years in the Hole. Other Jeff was the exception; he wore true pants, mercerized cotton with a sickly sheen that cruelly showed us the way God made him.

  “Thought you were thirsty,” said Francis.

  I pretended to take a sip of the murky water and banged my bucks on the rim. I will never be able to afford quality braces. The NAL dental plan calls orthodontia “cosmetic dentistry” and won’t cover it. As if! I’m only looking out for my health, trying to avoid jabbing shards of filthy glass into my gums and bleeding to death. Everyone knows I haven’t a vain bone in my body.

  Francis leaned back on his elbow, stretching his legs out. His eyes were upon my trousers. He was probably sick with envy over the Little Frenchman’s excellent wool-blend tailoring.

  “You should wear your glasses more often,” he said. “They make you look smart.”

  I adjusted the wretched spectacles on my nose. I am into those huge, round Jackie O frames, but the NAL doesn’t offer an optical plan. I have been wearing these My Three Sons glasses for ten years.

  “In fact,” he went on, “with your bangs matted down like that you look like Aus—”

  I interrupted this painful simile, as I have endured it from Val for three years and cannot take any more. Matted! Anyone with sense knows my bangs are slicked down in elfin points à la Mia Farrow circa 1968.

  “I think I might need something a bit stronger,” I said, returning the water to him, “like a double scotch. Or just bring the bottle. Please.” He muttered something about rudeness, grabbe
d the glass out of my hand with force, and stalked off. Rude? Not me; I said please. He must have been apologizing for his rudeness in comparing me to Austin Powers. It was time to give Fat Bald Jeff his birthday present. He was taking a break from the Foghat to load up on beer.

  “Don’t you want to open your present?” I asked, waving the package in front of his nose.

  “Love to,” he said. He swilled the rest of his brew. It was disgusting, watching the beer slosh over the rim and down his chin, yet I found it an impressive display of alcohol capacity.

  He ripped off the company-letterhead wrapping paper, then stroked his moist chin thoughtfully. He seemed pleased and said it would come in handy when drafting poison-pen letters.

  We sat down on two milk crates near the front of the loft. I had never sat on a milk crate before. I asked him about the excruciating dog in the front yard. He said, “It’s a long story.”

  Fat Bald Jeff had moved into the shanty five years ago. His landlady, a Miss Havisham-like lunatic who floats about the stairwells in her nightgown carrying candles, offered him the room for two hundred dollars a month. Her son, the occupant of the first floor and mongrel owner, used to utilize the attic for parties and certain business transactions. Jeff didn’t say what kind of transactions, but one can only draw the conclusion of the drug trade! Wicked, yet very thrilling. The son resents the intrusion on his lifestyle and encourages the mongrel to lunge at Jeff whenever he comes in or out.

  “Has it ever bitten you?” I asked.

  “Once,” he said. “But I was heavier then and stuck out more into the yard when I came down the walk. As long as I can keep my weight down to two-fifty, it can’t reach me.”

  This was loads more exciting than old Paco smoking butts on our front stoop in his velour jogging suit.

  I looked around the loft. Poster of Shatner (pregirdle), dorm fridge, old futon dressed in stiff brownish sheets, goldtone picture frame with photo of his mother (not too fat, but a little bald), collection of samurai swords on the wall, extensive computer setup, milk crates full of identical black clothes. Despite having no electrical outlets and hunching around under the eaves of an attic and the general state of squalor, Jeff seemed content. A resilient thing, the human being. Why, I myself had to abide the uncomfortable Edith Bunker chair, not to mention the vegetable crisper in the fridge, which slides shakily on a warped runner! I suppose I will become hardened by these trials, but when Martin and I move up the privileged ranks, I will remember retrieving rotten lime rinds from behind the garbage can and buying rail drinks at the bar, and I will be a little wiser, a little more compassionate toward the beggars hounding the fence at our gated community.

  Suddenly Francis materialized at my left. Out of breath and perspiring, he plunked down a bottle of J&B on the floor.

  “Where’d you get that?” asked Jeff.

  “You didn’t have any scotch, so I ran to the liquor store two blocks away and bought some.”

  “Ugh,” replied Jeff. “That place. The clerk always harasses me. Did he give you a hard time?”

  “Yes. In fact, he shortchanged me and we got in a big argument. Then a cop showed up and told me to get lost, and I never got the right change back.” He looked at me expectantly. “Well, have at it, Addie.”

  I glanced at the bottle sorrowfully. “No Chivas?”

  Francis stormed off into the dancing crowd while Fat Bald Jeff collapsed in gales of laughter. I don’t see what’s so funny about preferring decent liquor. I choked down a third of the bottle over half an hour or so, then finally slammed it down in disgust. J&B is quite undrinkable.

  Went off in search of the bathroom. Could it be that Jeff didn’t even have plumbing? After a circuit around the perimeter of the loft, I finally asked someone for directions. He pointed me to the center of the room. In a sort of magnetic horror, I was pulled toward a dilapidated structure surrounded by a translucent shower curtain. In the middle stood a toilet and creepy metal bathtub. A person moved about inside, almost completely visible to those outside! Why not rig up a spotlight over it? Transfixed, I gawked openly.

  “It’s rude to stare,” barked Bev as she emerged from behind the curtain.

  The room began to spin as I recoiled in terror. Shall I ever banish from my memory the vision of Bev performing her natural functions? I turned around and stumbled into a group of computer nerds. As I passed out of consciousness, I was tossed back and forth, as though none of them wanted to touch me!

  I remember rasping, “Get … help …” at the reluctant technicians. Oh, and I also remember eventually being lowered onto the futon by greasy hands as I writhed helplessly and mumbled, “Dry-clean blouse … no touch.” To no avail!

  Sometime later, I awoke. It was quiet and dark. I drifted along in a pleasant semiconscious state until a whiff of soiled linens assaulted my nostrils. Jeff’s futon! I tried to sit up, but hands gently pushed me back down, urging me to rest. Dizziness returned.

  Monstrous, nightmarish images passed before me. The grizzled mongrel snapping its jaws. A nine-hundred-pound bicycle strapped to my back. Dancing technicians. Bottles of half-empty J&B, surrounding me like a crop circle. Massive underpants and iron-gray bangs. Dirty fingerprints on a cream silk blouse.

  “My God!” I sobbed, sitting bolt upright. “It’s a Christian Lacroix!”

  “Who?” someone whispered.

  “I don’t know,” came an answer. “Is she delirious?”

  Bloblike forms emerged. Dark hair, impish eyebrows, blue eyes, pumpkin-farmer jeans. A fat, bald head. Pounding commenced at my temples and reality flooded in. Jeff and Francis hovered over me anxiously as I struggled to rally. They said I was dehydrated, had had too much to drink and fainted. As if mere alcohol induced my nausea! I know the truth: agony this miserable could only be caused by the sight of Bev issuing forth from an open-air commode.

  “Why does it have to be in the middle of the room?” I pleaded with Jeff. “Why do the curtains have to be clear? A prison toilet has more dignity.”

  They ignored my ramblings as they helped me down the fire escape. Francis insisted on driving me home. Put on my plastic rain bonnet and driving goggles, slumped in the passenger seat, and dozed off. Next thing I knew, he was groping me at the front door.

  “Unhand me,” I cried weakly.

  He threw me a disgusted look. “I’m trying to find your keys.”

  The goggles had begun to steam up, and the rain bonnet slid forward over them. Trapped by my own accoutrements and unable to find my keys, I pressed our buzzer until Val Wayne came down the stairs.

  Francis gave him the rundown on my condition, and they had a bloody good laugh as they dragged me up the stairs. I prayed that 2F would not hear all the ruckus. But, as usual, God mocked my request. Stefan and Chung opened the door and watched in stunned silence as the boys shoved me up the last flight. The rain bonnet slipped further, covering my mouth, and I began to hyperventilate. Through the fogged lenses I saw 2F exchange pitying glances. They will never accept me now.

  “I need a nightcap,” I moaned through the bonnet.

  Val and Francis roughly pushed me in the apartment. Francis must have left about then, but I don’t remember. Val helped me out of my clothes. With fading strength I feebly grabbed Val’s shirt and whispered, “Hang up blouse.” He recklessly threw it over an old wire hanger.

  “Padded satin hanger …” I croaked, but he told me to shut up and go to sleep. Teared up at his carelessness. He knows I am fanatical about wrinkled garments. I drowsily muttered, “Christian Lacroix” as sleep stole over me.

  “Austin Powers,” he responded.

  Moaned a bit at that, but Val merely turned off the light and shut the door behind him.

  Chapter 6

  Stayed home from work and watched religious television. I will never be swayed by those evangelists. They’re always wearing white trousers. Grandmother says white trousers are vulgar, unless one is playing croquet.

  Val made me a soft-boiled egg before
he went to work. I had dry toast with it and black coffee. I had asked for breakfast in bed, but he said he was my roommate, not my mother. That’s ridiculous. Everyone knows my mother can’t boil an egg properly.

  Felt sorry for Val as he groomed himself before work. His mustache was a disgrace. It detracted from his otherwise neat appearance.

  “What’s a paralegal do, anyway?” I asked.

  He said he spent a lot of time in the company coat closet with one of the lawyers. I recalled my secret meeting with Fat Bald Jeff in our company coat closet, which can barely admit a raincoat, let alone two impassioned zombies. That’s what you get working for a nonprofit.

  “I have an idea,” I said, and led Val into the bathroom. I offered him three shades of eyebrow pencil—black, brown-black, and sable.

  “What’s this for?” he asked. I looked sadly at his half ’stache.

  “Oh,” he said. He chose the sable.

  Afterward, he surveyed his results in the medicine-cabinet mirror. Not a bad job, but I had to restrain him from filling in whiskers below the corners of his mouth.

  “It’s very nice,” I said. “You look like Prince.” Val frowned for a second, as he considers Prince a nancy boy, then admitted that he was an excellent guitarist. Perhaps, but he is still no Lionel Richie.

  Called early and left a message on Coddles’s voice mail, telling him I was ill. If we speak to him live when calling in sick, he tries to convince us to come in to work. Planned on staying in pajamas all day. Strolled about the empty apartment feeling leisurely. Watched the video of Yanni’s Acropolis concert and realized that Yanni’s mother (seated next to Linda Evans) was also crying! This observation made me cry a little, too. Yanni is one good-looking Greek pianist, and it’s a shame he’s throwing it all away on the washed-up star of Dynasty.

  At ten-thirty Francis phoned to ask how I was feeling. It was hard to be offhanded about the previous night’s activities. I’ve never really fainted before, except for one time when the Lemming took me to see the Lyric Opera’s production of Tristan and Isolde. It was very moving. Anyway, I told Francis I would need plenty of rest if I was to recover my former vigor. I could not stand another round of heckling; so I fell down in Jeff’s hovel and hyperventilated through my rain bonnet, so what? Dean Martin fell off the stage at the Sands countless times, and everyone said he was absolutely charming.