Such A Pretty Face Page 5

  When Polly can breathe again, she gets up, thanks Grant politely, and heads back to her office where she resumes working at a frantic pace, bellowing orders, but breathing without the aid of a sack. Grant and Polly are close friends. Polly is also close friends with his partner, Kel, but that is hush-hush. The station prefers to egg on rumors that Polly and Grant are “lovers.”

  She and Grant delivered the news seamlessly, professionally, yet with warmth. They chattered together now and then. The chatter should have sounded shallow, but somehow it didn’t. The newscast was perfect. Right before the commercial, I saw Polly’s hand reach below the desk. No one else probably would have taken note, but I knew she was reaching for her brown paper bag so she would not hyperventilate.

  I felt sick for her.

  And I felt this terrible sense of dread.

  She had lost control.

  Again.

  “Look what I did,” Zena whispered to me the next week at work, flipping that wedge of hair back. “You’re hot now, Stevie. So, so hot. A woman of the night.”

  I kicked my rolling chair toward Zena’s computer.

  She grinned and hit a button with an exaggerated flourish on her keyboard.

  I felt my heart stop.

  My breath seemed to choke on itself as my body ting-ting-tinged.

  Oh no, oh no, oh no!

  I stared at Zena, stricken. “You didn’t,” I rasped out, holding my throat.

  “I did.” She stood up, wriggled her skinny hips, clad in a red wraparound skirt that I believe was a cotton scarf she wore around her neck the day before. She cackled, “Ha! Hooo ha!”

  I wanted to disappear. To hide. There was my face, on the computer screen, under the beaming banner, “Make a Super Date!”

  I grabbed the edge of Zena’s desk and held on for dear life as my world tilted in a nauseating way. “You didn’t.”

  “I sure did!” Zena chortled. “You’re out there, woman, you’re out there. Ready for action. Ready to get laid.”

  Zena had put my profile on an Internet dating service.

  Without my permission.

  The world tilted and retilted again. “I don’t want to date. I don’t want any action. I don’t want to get laid.” No, all that scared the tar out of me.

  In my “Date Me!” photo I was smiling, my curly black hair tumbling down my back, my blue eyes tilted up, the dimple in my left cheek like a smile. It wasn’t a bad picture of me—I had taken far worse—but all I saw was this: frumpy. Definitely geeky. Totally exposed.

  I remember when Zena took that photo. I was laughing at a story she told me about the night before. She had gone to a costume party dressed up as a volcano that a nerdy, brilliant tech friend of hers built. In the middle of the party, she stepped out of the volcano, dressed only in a black leotard, tights, and a hat with attached paper flames, pushed a button, and the volcano exploded, with smoke, a firework, and ketchup. She had won first place and been rewarded with a bottle of tequila.

  Picture snapped.

  “You know, Stevie, you have one of the kindest, sweetest faces I have ever seen. You’re a damn freakin’ Pollyanna. I mean, that dimple! And the way your eyes light up when you’re smiling. And you got fat lips. All guys get hard for fat lips. It’s facial porn to them. Facial porn.”

  “Please tell me this is a joke,” I finally stuttered, fumbling with the collar of my black work jacket. Blah and boring, identical to my black pants. Bought used and cheap. But I don’t want to call attention to myself anyhow. And I’m broke. Those are my excuses. “Please tell me I am not on the Internet for men to ogle and reject….”

  “Yep, you are, freakin’ Pollyanna. I paid you up and everything. Six glorious, glorious months of dating.”

  I gasped. “What is that?” I pointed to a column.

  “Those are your interests! See? You enjoy hiking on mountains and doing outdoor activities, for example, rafting and kayaking down Oregon’s rivers. You’re an outdoor adventurist! You lust over Class IV rapids and fast cars! You’re always in a quest for speed and danger and living on the edge of reason!”

  I squeaked. “I do not!”

  “You like to work hard and play hard and you’re interested in—”

  She abruptly stopped talking and covered the screen with her hand, then frantically tried to scroll down.

  “What did that say?” I pulled her hand off the screen. She put her other hand on it, and I pulled that away, too. I screeched and she screeched back as we wrestled in the law offices of Poitras and Associates. Then I gasped. “You said I’m interested in erotica? Erotica!”

  She cleared her throat. “Well! You want to seem seductive, Stevie. You know, daring in the bedroom in a sexy way…. A woman who knows herself, embraces a slippery toy or two, maybe a costume…willing to try a chocolate handcuff…no cages.”

  “Erotica?” I semishouted that word, then hushed right up. Don’t ever yell “erotica” in a law firm. It distracts the attorneys. They think it’s a legal term. “I don’t even know what that is. I can guess at it, but no, I don’t want to do it. I wouldn’t know how to do it. Oh, my goodness.” I buried my head in my hands, hearing my grandma’s voice. She always said, “Oh, my goodness,” too.

  “Moving on!” Zena declared. “See here, Stevie, before you vomit like a sick cow. I wrote that you’re searching for a man between the ages of thirty and forty-five who is ready to commit, who likes to camp and travel to Italy. You also want a man who is romantic and will take you to nice dinners…. You’re not into star signs or witchcraft, at least we got that right. You won’t be casting spells on anyone and boiling their balls.”

  I groaned. “I don’t want to do Internet dating. I can find my own dates. I sure don’t want to boil anyone’s balls.”

  “Where? Here? You can’t date a lawyer. That’s out of the question. Lawyers are all shits. All of them. Shits.”

  She did not bother to lower her voice when she announced, “Lawyers are all shits. All of them. Shits.”

  “Dare to date, Stevie. Don’t be a puss.”

  “I’m not ready to date.” Heck, no. The only person I wanted to date was Jake, but he would never ask. I could only dream pathetically. “I’m not a puss.” Was I? Was I a wuss? “I’m not a puss or a wuss.” I said that too loud and cowered down a bit.

  “You’re going to get ready,” Zena said. She is half drill sergeant, half brainiac. One time she threw a stapler at the head of a young, snobby male lawyer from another firm who whispered a suggestive, smarmy comment to her outside the firm’s bathroom. “Lock, stock, barrel, and a push-up bra. You’ve got a stupendous rack now, and you need to show those girls off to their best advantage. Pull ’em up, push ’em out.”

  “I like my boobs tucked in.” I so did. I was still hiding from my new body. I was not ready for it, didn’t know what to do with it, and did not want attention.

  “Yoo-hoo! You already have an interested gentleman. His name is Zack (Shorty) Holcomb and he likes midnight walks on the beach, massage, traveling to Central America, and piloting small airplanes. He says he wants a woman between eighteen and thirty-five who is financially independent, chases the high life, doesn’t have to be attached at the hip, is cool on fast cars, and likes camping in the mountains, skiing, running, nature, and adventures.”

  “He’s…” Zena paused, staring at the screen. She flicked her earring. It was long, wiry, and almost touched her shoulder. In her other ear she wore an earring, half as long, frog shaped. “Interesting. Especially if you lust for men with two chins who resemble donkeys. But let’s see who he is. All men lie, you know. It’s in their DNA. They’re all deceptive, sneaky, vague, untrustworthy. That’s why I never fall in love. I don’t believe in it. Love is simply passion unchecked. People don’t get it. They’re lustful and want a naked romp and a leg twister so they think they’re in love. Give me a break.” She clicked to another Web site, punched in some sort of pass code, and then typed in the name Zack Holcomb. Zena’s uncle is a privat
e investigator, so she has access to his skills and tricks. She can look up anyone and get the scoop. “Let’s check this lecher out.”

  This was a bad, bad day. “If you think he’s a lecher and all men are disgusting, why do you want me to date?”

  For a second Zena contemplated me, cat-like brown eyes zooming right in like a target. “Because, Stevie. Now and then, when the moon is full and bluish, when the galaxy is all calm and peaceful and serenity rules and even the falling stars are falling gracefully, and the wind creates a beautiful song, that’s when you find one outstanding man. Kind. Loyal. Funny and smart, great in bed but not kinky. A lover in his head and in his body. A man who doesn’t think as a dick-obsessed monkey with a brain the size of a testicle, but one who is thoughtful and can hold his emotions in one hand and hug you close with the other. A man who is a hunky, manly man but who can talk to you like your best girlfriend, because that’s what he wants to be for you. Your best friend.”

  Zena could get so poetic sometimes, so melodic, it cut right through the sarcasm. It was always a shocker.

  She pointed at me with both hands. “That’s what I want for you because I love you, Sister Stevie. Now, let’s get shakin’ here.”

  I sniffled. I blinked hard. I’ve known Zena for years. Everytime she tells me she loves me, I cry. I patted my touched heart.

  “You’re such a baby, Stevie,” Zena whispered, then she winked, her frog swinging at me. She typed in two more passwords. “This will take a second. Damn, these computers are so slow. They’ve got condoms stuck in their hard drives. Maybe you’ll need a condom soon, too, Stevie. We can only hope. I hear they have condoms with stars on them now. Glittery, too. They have glow in the dark, that’s frickin’ hilarious. A glowing penis prancing about.”

  I rolled my eyes. I could almost—almost—give sex up completely. I didn’t even like it that well. Nothing makes a woman more vulnerable than sex, and the criticism that comes with it when you’re not “good enough” is devastating. I should know. I am bad in bed, that’s what I’ve been told.

  But I couldn’t help think of Jake Stockton. He could bring up some passion in me for sex again. Maybe I wouldn’t be bad with him in bed.

  Maybe. But maybe not.

  The computer screen flicked alive, and there we had it.

  Double Chin’s mug shot.

  He was a doozer.

  Long history of arrests for drugs, DUI, identity theft, burglary. A court case for delivering drugs in and out of Central America was pending. Bankruptcy. Owed child support for four kids and alimony for three wives.

  “Well,” I said. “Now we know why he wants adventure, likes Central America, camping outside, piloting small airplanes, fast cars, and needs a woman with money. At least he was honest about his interests.”

  “Too bad neither of us does drugs. We could probably get a discount. Maybe he has coupons or something,” Zena said.

  “Take me off the Web site. I beg you. I do not want to date and I do not want to do erotica or slippery toys. I do not want chocolate handcuffs in my bed. I only want a pillow.” I heard the clacking of high heels.

  “That would be Crystal,” Zena singsonged. “Hey, Crystal. How are you today?”

  “Shut up, Zena.”

  “Aww. Now that hurts my feelings.”

  “You don’t have feelings. Why aren’t you wearing one of your skull necklaces?”

  “Oh, gee!” Zena pointed a finger up in the air. It was her middle finger. “I lost them when I was picking up sticks for you to shove up your butt.”

  “Zena, you should spend more time working. Without a college degree, let alone a law degree, you don’t want to lose your job. You could end up driving a bus or something.”

  Something flashed across Zena’s face. Fleeting, but I saw it: Raw pain. Crystal had smashed a nerve.

  I stood up. “Good-bye, Crystal.”

  “Don’t dismiss me, Steve. Sit down and work. I need the Compton file in ten seconds. On my deck. Clip clop.”

  I have no idea why Crystal used the “clip clop” expression. None.

  “Clip clop,” Zena said. “I hope you get the clap.”

  Crystal glowered, then left on her towering heels.

  A few days later at work I heard Crystal yell on full throttle. “Arrrgggh! Dammit, Zena!”

  I peeked in Crystal’s office. Her desk was covered with sticks with a copy machine picture of Zena’s butt on top of them.

  Zena is so darn funny.

  We had more excitement at Poitras and Associates.

  Seems that a local married businessman was a bigamist.

  He had two wives; neither knew about the other. The wives were in Oregon and Washington and were uncannily similar. Both were doctors, both were slim blondes, both had two children with him, both were office holders in their elite clubs, and both were snobby and cold.

  Both were beyond head bangingly angry.

  We represented the Oregon wife.

  Her first words to Cherie: “I want his penis on a platter.”

  I took another face-plant on my walk on Saturday to avoid Jake. He likes to run and varies his route. If he didn’t, I’d hide out behind someone’s house so I could watch him and that body on a routine basis with my binoculars—not that I would stalk him. That would be creepy. I saw him coming and darted into an alleyway I used often, then hid behind these giant green recycling bins we have in Oregon. I heard him breathing past. When I thought he was gone, I came back out in time to see him in the distance. My, he had a nice bottom.

  I could never converse for long with that man with the nice bottom—too scary—but I could not deny that perfect shape, those strong hips, those grippable shoulders. But I am not obsessed with him. That would be freaky.

  She snickered. I saw it. Her hand covered her mouth pretty quick, but it was there.

  “What?” I hastily put the red dress back on the rack.

  “Oh, nothing.” Eileen turned her face away, pretending to be interested in other dresses.

  I felt my throat get all tight. Silly to get a tight throat over a dress. But it was so stunning. It had a draped V-neckline, spaghetti straps, and a ruffle at the bottom. I had seen it and instantly sucked in my breath. If only I had the nerve to wear that red dress!

  I felt the material again, my breath still caught.

  She giggled.

  “What? You don’t like the dress?”

  “Well…”

  “Say it.” I sighed. I hated that I sighed. It sounded so petulant and childish. Why do I become petulant and childish around Eileen?

  “If you really want to know….” She smiled with a slightshake of her head, her real and mongo-sized diamond earrings flashing. “It’s not your style. That’s for someone…younger, very thin. Sexy. Hey! You don’t have to look all hurt, Stevie, you asked for my opinion.”

  I took one last peek at the red dress, then idly flicked the hangers, one after another, pausing here and there at other dresses. All of them paled in comparison to that spectacular red dress.

  She giggled, hand over mouth.

  Eileen Yorkson and I have known each other since seventh grade. We were chubby then and got fatter together. Almost all of our time was spent eating, cooking, baking, eating more. We were eating partners. She ate because she had a terrible relationship with her mother and then the mother walked out when she was fifteen and Eileen refused to “ever, ever speak to her again, that loathsome bitch,” though her mother begged her. I ate because I was trying to numb my insidious grief.

  To say that my operation has had an effect on our relationship would be like saying an earthquake, ranked as a nine on the Richter scale, shook things up a wee bit.

  Eileen still weighed more than 300 pounds.

  She reminded me every time I saw her that I had not lost the weight on my own.

  I picked up a purplish-colored dress. It shimmered and shone.

  “You’re not serious,” Eileen laughed, ripping the dress from my hand and slamming
it back on the rack. “Try this on.” She pulled out a large bluish green shirt with white flowered buttons. Even if I was still heavy I wouldn’t have worn it. People would think I was a daisy patch.

  “I don’t think that’s my style—” I said, softly, so as not to start yet another argument.

  “Not your style!” Eileen exclaimed, perfectly made-up eyes open wide. She threw her shoulders back. She’s about two inches taller than me and wears $500 heels, so she towers over me. “Yes, it is. You love flowers!”

  “Ummm…well…”

  “You can’t wear anything tight, Stevie,” Eileen said, “because of your chest.” She eyed my chest, as if it had somehow leaped up, wriggled around, and affronted her that second. “That chest! You can cover up some of that excess fake boob with this shirt.”

  “Uhhh…” I crossed my arms in front of my chest. My chest wasn’t that big. I was a 34C, not exactly bopping about uncontrolled.

  “Take it.” She shoved it into my arms. “This one, too.” She handed me a shirt with swirly designs that resembled amoebas. “Come on over to this section.” She dragged me to the Women’s Section, for large women.

  What do you say to your friend who still weighs more than 300 pounds: “Eileen, I don’t fit here anymore? I know we used to shop here together, but now I can’t.” Wasn’t that insensitive? Wasn’t it calling attention to her weight? But wasn’t it obvious?

  She must have read my mind. She patted her short brown hair. She used gel to make it stick up on top. “You think you don’t belong in this section, but you do. You so do. Maybe not the pants.” She shook her head in pity. “I feel so sorry for you, Stevie, for all you’ve been through. You’re a little grayish, today, honey. Are you okay?”

  “Yes, I’m fine.”

  “And you look exhausted.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Oh, don’t get all sensitive on me. I’m honest, you know that.”

  Why do people think they can tell someone, “You look so tired!” and get away with it with a smile? It’s the same as saying to someone, “You look terrible.”