“To see if it could look intact.”
“It’s very dangerous,” the waitress says.
“I know. I’m so sorry, I forgot about it, I didn’t intend to leave it that way.”
We call it a night.
I walk home. Adam the doorman greets me with: “I hope your evening was as dreadful as you are.”
“Not quite.”
“Wait a minute,” he says, closing his eyes and pressing his thumb and forefinger against his forehead. “I’m trying to imagine you with a personality.” Opening his eyes and shaking his head slowly in bewilderment, he says, “No luck. If I throw a stick, will you go away?”
I say goodnight and oblige.
Upstairs, I receive a call from my mom saying that she researched support groups for fat people and found Overeaters Anonymous, Food Addicts Anonymous, and Eating Disorders Anonymous.
“The problem is,” I tell her, “I don’t overeat, I’m not addicted to food, and I don’t have an eating disorder of any kind.”
“Listen, I’m not an idiot. I can see there’s a slight discrepancy. But I couldn’t find a group called Fat People’s Support Group, otherwise I’d say go to that. You’ve got to make do with what’s out there, sweetie.”
After we say good night and hang up, I brush my teeth, take off my fat, and carefully hang it up. I love the sensual protectiveness of my disguise. It’s like being a turtle or a snaiclass="underline" you can go out and wander around, yet still have the benefits of staying at home. No one bugs you.
I haven’t had sex in two years. I haven’t even gone on a date since Gabriel died and I donned my padding. It’s not that I’m not open to it, as evidenced by my bar ritual. If some man were open-minded enough not to shut me out the second he sees me in my ugly disguise, I’d consider going out with him. But I haven’t found such a man. So I spend a lot of time with my friends, who happen to all be single at the moment as well.
Peter Marrick
Friday, 13 October
Something has happened to me. I finally got around to looking in the laptop I found in the taxi three days ago, and I think my life may never again be the same. While searching inside the computer for its owner’s contact info, I stumbled upon a diary. I know I shouldn’t have looked, but I did. I only meant to glance at it quickly, to see what an average person concerns himself with. Turns out this journal was not written by an average person. It belongs to the novelist Georgia Latch. I haven’t read her books, but over the years I’ve thought I should. Their concepts intrigue me.
Her friends, though, intrigue me even more. I found it painful to read her descriptions of these artistic people. It reminded me once again that I’m not living my life how I want.
I must meet them. And there’s one I’m completely enthralled by: Barb. First of all, there’s the simple fact that I’ve never seen anyone as beautiful as her. In the laptop there are photos of how she really looks — incredible — and how she makes herself look each day — unrecognizable. The mere fact that she wears this disguise is just… so eccentric, in a good way. I read in Georgia Latch’s diary about Barb’s routine in bars, how she takes off her disguise in the middle of conversations with men who show no interest in her. And then she walks away. It’s very spunky and sexy. The way Georgia writes about her, she sounds incredibly interesting.
I’ll return the laptop tomorrow. I’m tempted to make a copy of the photos of Barb — especially the gorgeous ones — but I know I shouldn’t. Still, they seem too beautiful to part with.
These people must never know I’m the one who found the laptop. First: they’d be angry I took so long to return it, especially poor Georgia. And secondly and more importantly: according to the journal, Barb will never date a man who has already seen her physical beauty.
I have to think of the best way to meet them. There is an obvious way, but as I’ve learned detrimentally late in life, the obvious path is not always the best one.
I’m glad I’m writing down my thoughts. Despite my many attempts to keep a journal, I’ve never been able to stick to one for long. Life gets in the way.
Chapter Five
Before meeting Strad for coffee, Lily makes very little extra effort with her appearance because there is not much that can be done. In fact, Lily has often noticed — and others have agreed with her — that in her case, the less done the better. Lipstick only emphasizes the ugliness of her lips. Mascara does the same disservice to her eyes, drawing attention to their unfortunate proximity to each other.
She feels that her best hope today with Strad is her talent, her music.
They meet at The Coffee Shop in Union Square (she tells me all about it later). They sit at a table in the back. They make small talk. He congratulates her again on her success without lingering on the topic.
So she decides to probe. She says to him, “I was very influenced by your words a while back when you said that music’s most noble ability is to beautify the world.”
He looks at her blankly, nodding vaguely. Then he talks about other things — movies he’s seen.
She persists. “The kind of music I’ve developed, does it approach in any way what you were talking about?”
“When?”
“When you said that beauty — I mean music’s — highest purpose is to beautify the world.”
“Hmm, I don’t remember that conversation.”
She blinks, confused. She doesn’t understand how he cannot remember. Or is he lying, out of discomfort? Yes, perhaps he remembers it perfectly and feels embarrassed about having said he’d marry any woman who could create that kind of music. Maybe he doesn’t want to be held to that statement.
In an anxious attempt to understand his feelings, she murmurs, “You said that one should strive to create music that alters people’s perception of reality, music that beautifies reality. I always kept that in mind.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t ring a bell. I mean, I’m glad you were inspired by what I said.” He laughs and bites into his toast.
Lily stares at him, her heart sinking. She can tell with absolute certainty that he’s not pretending. He genuinely doesn’t remember. That’s how unimportant that conversation was to him. And here she’s been worrying that perhaps she hasn’t created exactly the kind of music he had in mind, that perhaps she hasn’t executed his vision in quite the right way to please his discriminating sensibility.
But maybe there’s still hope, she thinks. Just because he doesn’t remember uttering those words doesn’t mean they might not be true.
Gently, she says, “It’s funny that you don’t remember, because you seemed to feel pretty strongly about it at the time. You even said you’d fall in love with — and marry — any woman who could create that kind of music.”
“Did I say that? Is that why you composed your recent music?” he asks, and immediately bursts out laughing. He puts his hand on her wrist. “I’m kidding; I flatter myself. But seriously, I can’t believe I said that music’s highest purpose is to beautify the world, and much less that I would marry… whatever. I mean, I do believe you, that I said it, because I know what asinine things I’m capable of saying, but you should know me well enough by now not to listen to half the stuff I say.”
While she tries not to cry, something in her dies.
But she doesn’t want to give up just yet. She’s not even sure he actually heard her music. Perhaps he only read about it. Perhaps if he hears it, he’ll be won over. The entire last year of her life was built on the statement he made in the dark. She refuses to believe it was utterly meaningless and her efforts were pointless.