Nothing To Lose (A fat girl novel) (13 page)

The logo on the door, chubby magenta letters in lower case, was gay but the rest of the space was dingy in the same forlorn way small town bus depots are dingy. The furniture was bunched up in the center of the room in hygienically neutral space. “Our 30th year of finding great jobs for great New Yorkers,” said a poster. They had been too busy to dust.

April shifted restlessly in her seat, a friendly school-type chair with an extended arm for filling out the form that she had long since completed. The gray-haired woman cleared her throat repeatedly. April began to count the number of times she did so. After the twentieth time, she steeled herself for something weird. Would she beg for help the way some people did on the sidewalks. Please you’ve got to help me!

April fixed her gaze on a far wall on which was posted a message that might have been written expressly for her: You just might blush…because our professional employment counselors aren’t content with reeling off your previous employers. They talk about all the intangibles that make you
you
.

Could that be, she thought? She tugged her skirt over her knees. Maybe they were real counselors and could see deep down into her soul. Within a few minutes a thin woman with a stiff blond pageboy fished out her nameplate from a metal desk and waved her over to take a chair.

The nameplate said Sondra Greene. She was wearing a hot pink sleeveless top, a brave choice for such an iffy day. The same pink grazed her lips, her nails and the dizzying chevron pattern on her discarded jacket. “These samples aren’t worth much.” She had been flipping disinterestedly through April’s slim portfolio that she now pushed halfway off the desk. April jumped to retrieve it.

“What about the car ad? That’s a big account.”

“Doesn’t amount to beans by itself.” She seemed to begrudge her an explanation. Time was money. “You have one car ad. The rest are newspaper ads for…ugh…paper plates…shoes…Barney’s Boystown. There’s no TV. One campaign. Nothing national. And…everything’s almost two years old.” She chewed on her number two pencil satisfying every notion of what a tough job broker should be. “I have nothing for you.”

“Nothing?” April’s mouth hung open. The upper part of her body felt congested. “I’ve got to work.” Her voice sounded overly loud and theatrical. “I’m good at copy…please look again.”

Sondra gave her an exasperated stare. She needed work and Sondra was an employment counselor. What could be less exasperating?

“You want the truth?”

The truth? How had they arrived there so quickly? “Yes.”

“You don’t look the part.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You don’t look the part for the kind of job you want.”

She proposed this as such unassailable logic that April couldn’t defend herself. “What do my looks have to do with it?”

“Plenty. They want lookers.” To her credit, she didn’t look embarrassed or sheepish which would have made it tragic. She yawned and studied her nails.

“They?” April waited but no answer was forthcoming. “They who?”

“The big agencies want good-looking girls.” She folded her arms neatly, pushing freckled breasts to their full allure. It was cold in the office and her arms were so thin. April wanted to urge her to put on her jacket. “I’m not trying to put you down or anything…but…uh…most of the copy chiefs are men and if they have a choice they’re going to choose the most promising girl.”

“Promising for what?”

“To look at. To flirt with. How do I know for what?” Her patience was gone. “Every office is a stage,” she said daintily, as if this was going to be her last word on the subject, “with many, many dramas being played out. I don’t want to get a reputation for sending them….” If she had said dogs…”Look,” her voice softened, “take off forty, fifty pounds, get yourself some clothes that show off your tits and come back to see me.”

April had always suspected that the people she most disapproved of in life would, by some devilish trick, be the ones who held the key to her heart’s desire. At that moment, she suspected Sondra Greene held the key to her heart’s desire and would liberate her if she could detain her long enough.

Sure, she would rally to April’s support if she knew about Harald. Ms. Greene…Sondra…I’m not what you think. I’ve been married to a man who outwits thousands with his stock market know-how with the full consent of the US Government. We lived in a limestone building on Park Avenue. It had thick mullions and delicate muntins – built for beauty, not for profit. He made me wear a silk wrapper at breakfast. It had a scalloped edge and sometimes – you know how unreliable silk can be – my breast would fall out, which is what he hoped.

Then, as if it hadn’t been almost a year since Harald had left her, the pain and desperation came over her so acutely that Sondra’s disdain was ludicrous by comparison. She could see clearly now how to get what she wanted.

“Isn’t there an agency run by one old man who needs an all-around girl? I’ll do mail order. I’ll answer the phone and send out bills.” Her eyes filled with tears. She had left her apartment that morning determined to find herself a place to go each day. Suppose she sat there all day crying? They’d find her something soon enough. Who could move her? “It doesn’t have to be terrific. Please, look again.” As bad as it sounded the speech didn’t leave Sondra unmoved. She rifled through a metal box quickly as if looking for a preordained spot and extracted a soiled white card.

Had she been tricked? April wanted to grab the card and devour the information. “Well,” sighed Sondra as if they had been negotiating for days, “this might work. It’s in Newark. You’d have to commute in reverse.” She gave April another appraising look that made her feel untrustworthy. Then she dialed. “Mrs. Briggs, please,” she said into the phone, “advertising…Hi, Top of the Line here. Have you filled the copywriter’s job?…Good. I have someone. Very good experience. Hard and soft goods. Wouldn’t ordinarily consider a department store but she’s been out of the country for a couple of years and is getting her bearings. She’s not crazy about the salary…considering the commute and…everything. Any chance of upping it a little?…uh huh….uh huh…that’s a little better. I’ll see when she has an opening to come out.” She put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Can you go there first thing in the morning?” Her voice lost all sweetness.

“Yes.”

“It turns out,” she returned to the phone, “she’s had a cancellation. She’ll be there at 10:30 tomorrow. Fine. Bye now. Well,” she said, writing busily on a piece of paper. “you’ve got an interview. Don’t blow it.”

“Where is it?”

“Newark. A department store chain. Six stores.”

“I thought Newark was all burned out…the riots…”

“It is. Don’t walk from the station. Take a cab.”

“What’s the job?”

“You’ll be writing advertising copy for soft goods.”

“What are soft goods?”

“Things that are soft.” She didn’t look up. April pictured clouds and cotton candy, satin pillows, pussy willows. How did you sell pussy willows?”

“What’s the name of the place?”

“Burdie’s.”

“As in tweet tweet?”

“No. With a ‘u.” As in burlesque.” It didn’t seem to April that Sondra was smart enough to be ironic but there you were. Sondra swung her legs out to end the interview and April noticed through her sandals a corn pad on her smallest toe. Worrisome corns before thirty do not point to a carefree childhood. Her heart began to melt for Sondra Greene. They had known each other barely half an hour and she had already negotiated a small raise for April out of simple human caring.

“Are you going to wear that rag?” Sondra now took in April’s cotton overblouse and nondescript slacks. She had spent the better part of the night fanning them dry in front of her tiny oven. It was one of the few combinations that still fit her.

“No, of course not. Why would I wear this?”

“Good.” She eyed April suspiciously. “I don’t have another thing to send you on so don’t screw up. Remember, this is a fashion situation.”

April straightened in her chair and returned the gaze with more earnestness than was necessary. She took the warning to heart. She had been at the mercy of a person called Harald and now another called Sondra, both needlessly awkward names.

Chapter Thirteen

April fully intended to keep her appointment at Burdie’s following her interview with Sondra Greene. She listened carefully to Channel 7’s Accu-Weather report. The weathergirl winked at the anchorman and warned that a wedge of cold Canadian air would push the existing warm, moist air, creating thunderstorms and high winds most of the following day.

She laid out her wardrobe – a tailored shirt whose color had once been labeled Madeira pink and a shapeless A-line jumper of gauzelike material that was faintly stylish for the first hour of wearing after which the seams shifted, making it hang unevenly. Panicked by the unfamiliar roundness of her face, she began to snip at her hair. Suppose it rained and she arrived at Burdie’s with soggy hair and a certain to be soggy outfit? At least in its new length, her hair would curl, giving her the look of a woman who had many years of creative work still ahead of her.

She shaved her legs and under her arms. She emptied her handbag, beating out a year’s accumulation of cookie crumbs, peanut bits and bobby pins. She put egg white on her face and let it dry to tighten her pores. While she waited, she massaged Nivea into her knees and elbows. She would give herself every chance.

She hadn’t eaten her usual quota the preceding day, partly due to the time spent at the employment agency. She had even walked around the city, casually window shopping, and had purchased thirty-five dollars worth of better underwear at Bloomingdale’s, having read in a recent issue of Ms. That “…you don’t have to weigh 100 pounds to wear pretty underwear and vibrant lipstick.

How could she have gained two pounds on one of her most active days? Was her body now a sly enemy, maliciously retaining water and slowing her metabolism to a crawl? Already her heart felt squeezed and the beat irregular.

Too unnerved to leave the apartment, much less find her way to Newark, she waited for Sondra’s call, inventing things for her to say: You fat slob, why didn’t you go? I’ll kill you. Sondra’s fury was rising out of the subway gratings. Maybe Sondra was right. She certainly had every chance to bone up on human nature. Everyone assumed that the overweight had lost control of more than their weight. Perhaps it was true. Perhaps there had been no possibility that she would keep the appointment.

“April Marie,” she went to the mirror and spoke softly to her image,” do you want to sit and rot here in this somber apartment when the only place the sun hits is the refrigerator?” Her eyes looked back narrower behind her puffy, polished cheeks. She now had slitty eyes. Toward the end, that’s what Harald had hated most. “You look,” he had hissed at her across the bed one morning, “as if your IQ dropped ten points during the night.” Somehow the day passed.

By the following morning, the two pounds had disappeared as mysteriously as they had come and she left for her appointment only twenty-four hours late. She was sure to be met with aggrieved, angry faces. She saw doors closing one after another. No, thank you. Still she had to go. She needed someplace to go every day. To hook up again with life. As Sondra had said, there wasn’t another place to send her.

The main selling floor of Burdie’s was wide and spread out with a maze of aisles created by huge glass counters trimmed with polished wood. It looked like an ocean liner and she wouldn’t have been surprised to see Bette Davis at a railing looking meaningfully into the black depths of the sea.

Sleeveless blouses dangled over counters. The Shells of Spring, said a sign. The advertising department was on the seventh floor, a warren of grimy cubicles behind the area where they sold major appliances. A matronly woman was making cocktail dips in a food processor for a sizeable audience. The smell of onions was in the air.

She passed a display of a holiday dinner complete with ham, apple pie and a family of four, depicting the virtues of freezer-to-table ware. It seemed so handy and cheerful; she made a note to purchase some with her first paycheck.

Missy Briggs, her contact was on the telephone when she was ushered to her door. She looked young enough to be a child.

She had known one other Missy in her life, a girl renowned for mischief. There were stories that Missy had set fire to a cat or hacked up a rabbit, but April never believed them. Missy was a name alien to evil. They could have been saying Missy pressed her satin ribbons or Missy combed her ponytail. She mentally airmailed this hopeful message to the Missy in front of her who had completed her call and was looking at April with pale, inquiring eyes.

“I’m April Taylor. There was a mix-up. I was supposed to be here yesterday.”

“I don’t know what the mix-up could have been. I was told you’d be here at 10:30.”

“I’m here now,” she said brightly. “Is it convenient?” She edged into the office hiding behind her giant portfolio, which she unzipped and placed before Missy. After a wary pause, Missy began to turn the pages.

When she came to the final ad, Missy sat back and studied the resume. Occasionally, she glanced from it to April. It reminded her of a segment on “60 Minutes” in which a private eye told Mike Wallace how they could reconstruct anyone’s life from checkbook stubs. They knew where you shopped, where you went on vacation, if you owned your own home, your own car, your own teeth. She began to fidget with her fingernails, trying to wedge one between the layers of another.