Once There Was a Fat Girl Page 3

  “It sounds like exactly what I’m looking for,” Aimee babbled on as they walked down the hall to the supply room. “It means getting involved with the public—representing the company at food shows, meeting with consumers to discuss their complaints and ideas...I think I’d be very good at that. And, of course, it will mean a raise.”

  “Aimee, do you already have this new job?”

  Aimee glanced over at Martha, surprised. “Well, no. Not yet.” She shrugged her shoulders. “But come on, Martha. Be realistic. Who would be a better representative of Dried Potatoes and Noodles than me?”

  Martha nodded stiffly. “That sounds like fun. It would be more interesting than typing letters all day. Will Personnel be holding interviews for this position soon?”

  Aimee stopped walking and turned to Martha abruptly. “Surely you’re not thinking of interviewing for a PR job!” she exclaimed.

  “It is higher-paying,” Martha offered lamely.

  “But Martha!” Aimee screeched, causing two corporate lawyers to glance at them scornfully. “You’re not the type!”

  “Why?” Martha was honestly surprised by Aimee’s reaction.

  “Well, heavens,” she said more calmly, stepping into the supply room and reaching for a pile of yellow legal pads. “This is a food company. And, well, image is very important.”

  “Oh,” Martha said, blushing. She hoped Aimee would drop the subject.

  “I suppose you could talk to Personnel,” Aimee went on, “but I don’t know...”

  Martha accidentally brushed against a wobbly shelf, and twelve Rolodexes threatened to fling themselves down eight feet to the hard tile floor. Martha was grateful for gravity. Aimee’s short attention span had shifted to the problem of careening boxes, and career advancement was quickly forgotten.

  Martha escaped into the stairwell after making an excuse to Aimee. “You go back upstairs without me. I have to stop in at Employee Benefits to pick up a health insurance form.”

  Martha nearly collided with Alex Turner. Although he held the prestigious position of Marketing Manager of the Dried Potatoes and Noodles Division, he possessed the outstanding virtue of treating everyone he dealt with in the same warm manner. Martha had been a special favorite of his ever since the morning the two of them were trapped in a subway car together for forty-five minutes. They had exchanged life stories as they stood shoulder to shoulder in the crowded car, each buoyed up by the recognition that the ordeal was being shared by a fellow AmFoods employee. When they tired of talking about themselves, Alex proceeded to analyze the marketing strategies of each of the products advertised on the subway posters. And Martha’s admiration grew for the slender, dark-haired executive.

  “See that ad there, the one for Goldi-Locks Shampoo? That product used to be positioned as a shampoo for teenagers. But as the U.S. population started getting older, sales went down. So now they advertise to older women. See? The woman pictured in the ad is in her thirties. Five years ago, they used that child model who doesn’t look a day over fifteen. And see that cigarette ad? Their low-tar, ‘anti-cancer’ campaign was scaring people. So now they advertise the taste. And look: they just redesigned the package on that brand of ice cream. Market research studies showed that consumers preferred the brighter colors...”

  Martha had been fascinated, and a new friendship was born. Ever since then, Alex Turner always found a few minutes to chat whenever their paths crossed.

  “So how’s it going, Martha?” he boomed. “Any problems with our products that we’re not aware of ?”

  “No, just the same old things,” Martha smiled. “Although I was just reading a complaint about how Grandma Goodcook stereotypes grandmothers...”

  “Funny you should mention that.” Alex adjusted his glasses. “I was talking to the agency only yesterday about doing some research on Grandma. Just between you and me,” he whispered conspiratorially, “I have a feeling we’re going to be giving Grandma Goodcook a face lift sometime during the next six months.”

  “Really?”

  “Yup. We’re worried about alienating younger women. Betty Crocker changes with the times, and so should Grandma Goodcook. Got any ideas on how we can spruce her up?”

  “Gee, I don’t know. I guess you have to be careful not to change her too much, or consumers won’t recognize her picture when they go to buy a box of noodles.”

  “Exactly,” Alex beamed. “Martha, I wish those fools who call themselves marketing people had half your common sense. One of the creative people at the agency came up with a new Grandma Goodcook who looks like a Playboy bunny. And everyone in the department thought it was great until I took the time to point out that the model would have had to have given birth to her first child at the age of three to be a grandmother! I wish everyone were as clear-thinking as you.”

  Martha blushed and replied bashfully, “Well, I guess I have an idea of how consumers think because I read their complaints all day.”

  “We need input like that. I wish my marketing people would check in with you every now and then to find out what our customers are thinking. Hmmm—I think I’ll go write a memo about that right this minute. I’ll call it, ‘Improved Interdepartmental Communication.’ Thanks, Martha! See you around!”

  What a lovely man, Martha thought. Her exchange with Alex Turner diverted her momentarily, but as she began climbing the stairs, her thoughts returned to Aimee’s harsh words and, more importantly, her complacent, condescending attitude. When Martha finally returned to her desk and Mrs. Gerard’s dissatisfaction, she caught Shirley’s eye across the room. She smiled grimly, and managed to communicate through hand motions and other assorted histrionics, “Shirl, I’ve changed my mind. I need to talk to you later.”

  * * * *

  It was Shirley who masterminded the whole thing. She went through the Yellow Pages during lunch hour and found Thin, Incorporated. She called them for the details: the time and place of each meeting, the cost, the kind of diet it was. Good old Shirl, all ninety-eight pounds of her, carrying on this telephone conversation, sounding hopeful and excited.

  “Well, I’ll certainly be there!” she assured the woman at Thin, Incorporated.

  A few days later, Shirley accompanied Martha as far as the side entrance of New York Hospital, where the Monday night meetings were held. She smiled encouragingly at Martha, promised to be back in an hour, and tripped down the street, planning to pass the time at the Riverside Coffee Shop.

  Martha found the meeting room by asking directions of the receptionist and two nurses along the way. She felt certain they knew her destination. She hid her slightly round stomach behind a folded raincoat, and said goodbye, forlornly, to a display of candy bars as she passed the hospital’s gift shop.

  The meeting room, ironically enough, was the hospital cafeteria. As she turned into the doorway, following the buzz of excited voices and shuffling chairs, her eyes were assaulted with swarms of fat people. They were mostly women. Some were stocky, some obese; some dressed up for a night out, some in stretch ski pants and loose-fitting smocks and sneakers; some as young as teenagers, some as old as senior citizens. They were all sitting around cafeteria tables, chattering away. A few played with the salt and pepper shakers or tapped on the napkin dispensers. Beyond the tables, a bright red Coke machine, marking the end of a cafeteria line, hummed and glowed.

  Martha stood in the doorway, hypnotized, when an authoritative, trim-looking woman with freshly done hair, approached her.

  “Hello, dear. I’m Irma Gold. Is this your first visit to Thin, Inc.?” She pronounced it “Thin, Ink,” rather like “think” said by a person who stutters.

  Martha merely smiled and nodded, then allowed this woman to print her name on a little pink index card. She handed over her registration fee, thinking of all the Milky Ways it could have bought. Irma gave her a pamphlet outlining the Official Thin, Incorporated Diet for Women, a recipe booklet, and a chart for recording every morsel of food that entered her mouth.

  Then
came the moment of truth. It was time to weigh in. Irma led Martha to the scale, and that old sick feeling came to Martha’s stomach. It had been years since she had felt that way, and yet here it was again, engulfing her and throwing her into a panic, making her want to run away.

  Her worst childhood memories were of Weighing Day, once a year at school. The class would file down to the nurse’s office and, one at a time, be weighed and measured. The meager heights and weights of skinny kids would be greeted with cheers and jokes as they jauntily returned to their seats on the floor amid good-natured admiration and approval.

  But when Martha went to the scale, there was silence. The numbers would be announced, the height average, the weight higher than anyone else’s, even the big boys who sat in the back and got in trouble all the time. The silence would follow her as she crossed the room to sit down on the floor, red-faced and determined never to eat again.

  One year, when her turn came, the nurse walked over to the teacher and whispered the dreaded numbers. That had been the worst. Martha stopped eating for three days and passed out on the playground.

  But Irma Gold brought Martha back to the present. She pushed her gently onto the doctor’s scale, and reminded her to remove her shoes. She pulled out a spiral notebook and wrote down “Martha Nowicki” and the date, then proceeded to lower the horizontal bar to Martha’s head,

  “Five-three,” she said to no one in particular, as she fiddled with the balances on the scale. Martha closed her eyes.

  “One-forty...” she continued fiddling, and Martha opened her eyes. “One-forty-five, it looks like.” Irma jotted down the incriminating numbers. Martha felt both shaken and relieved.

  “Your ideal weight would be... let’s see.” Irma consulted a chart. “With your bones, let’s say... one-fifteen.” She made a note of that, too. “Take a seat, Martha. We’ll begin in a few minutes.”

  Martha put on her shoes, clutched her raincoat and booklets, walked over to a table with an empty seat, and sat down, hoping she wouldn’t be noticed. She was greeted by three hello’s.

  “Your first time, honey?” asked a forty-ish woman who looked as if she still had a long way to go.

  “Welcome!” smiled a pretty, emaciated woman of about twenty.

  Martha felt as if she was being accepted into a close clique of prostitutes. The women smiled reassuringly at her assertion that it was, indeed, her “first time,”

  The third person was a woman of about twenty-five or thirty, Martha guessed. She seemed to sense Martha’s uneasiness, and quickly announced, to the table at large, “Hey, I lost three pounds this week.”

  “That’s great, Judy. I only lost one and a half.” That was the forty-year-old. “How about you, Lucy?”

  Lucy had gained a pound, but her two cohorts assured her that it was probably just water. Lucy agreed, explaining that it was “her time.”

  As their talk turned to carrots and yogurt, Martha turned to her booklets. She skimmed the diet, and it didn’t seem too unreasonable. Lots of vegetables; she’d have to cultivate a taste for the green ones. Up until now, her idea of vegetables had been potatoes. The more offensive ones had to be disguised in a cream sauce or a thick cheese sauce. Three fruits a day. But no watermelon or grapes. Half a banana. Half a banana? What did you do with the other half?

  Irma left the scale and took her place in front of the silverware rack. She broke through the din with her loud grating voice.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome to Thin, Incorporated!”

  Martha looked up from the pile of pamphlets and worksheets, all stamped with the Thin, Incorporated insignia. Her first meeting was about to begin.

  “My name is Irma Gold. I have lost forty-eight pounds and kept them off for over four years. Tonight, I’d like to talk to you about salads.”

  Salads. Martha had been hoping for something a bit more erudite, the chemistry of water retention, perhaps, or the psychology of Sara Lee consumption. Instead, Irma Gold began an enthusiastic discourse on the wonders of wine vinegar. She also passed around heads of escarole and chicory and Boston lettuce, meant to be fondled but not sampled.

  The lecture ended with a summary of the group’s collective loss for the week; outstanding losers received a mention and round of applause.

  It was like a revival meeting, Martha decided, designed to generate enough excitement to keep you going for a week. She could picture Lucy clutching a head of Boston lettuce, crying, “I believe! I believe!”

  And then it was over, and the chair-shuffling resumed. Irma’s voice rose frantically over the noise.

  “New members! New members! Stay for five minutes so I can go over the diet with you!”

  Martha saw that there were two other new members in the throng: Ralph, a husky lad of about twenty, and Sophie, who was back for a second round.

  Irma went over the diet in detail, describing each meal and the clever ways food could be prepared and juggled around during the day to satisfy the snacking urge. She emphasized the need to weigh and measure— and record—every bit of food. And no cheating!

  Ralph looked skeptical. Sophie looked bored.

  Martha, however, was enthusiastic. She was caught up in the excitement of it all. There was energy in that room, energy that had made Judy lose three pounds in one week! Martha was ready to head for a supermarket and buy. She would skip the candy aisle and the cookie aisle, breeze by the frozen cakes and ice cream. She imagined herself filling a cart with balloons of green lettuce, ripe red tomatoes, firm yellow bananas. (Maybe Betsy would eat the other half.) And wine vinegar. She would drink it out of a glass if it would make her emaciated like Lucy. Her adrenaline pumped. “I believe! I believe!”

  * * * *

  Shirley was waiting outside the hospital, carrying a Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. Having just spent an hour with the roly-poly, Martha was struck by the sharp contrast of Shirley’s appearance: barely five feet tall, weighing less than one hundred pounds, she was a veritable fashion plate in tight designer jeans and a soft silky blouse.

  Shirley epitomized everything that the Thin, Incorporated devotee was striving for.

  Shirley Abernathy was one of those consistently thin people that Martha generally found annoying. She was the type of person who, when offered a plate of cookies, would say offhandedly, “No, thanks, I already had one.” Her idea of a quick dinner was a package of frozen asparagus heated up and eaten in front of the television. On occasion, Shirley even forgot to eat.

  Martha was envious of Shirley’s disinterest in food. She was also envious of several other traits: Shirley’s uncanny ability to accessorize, for one. Rarely did a pink blouse appear on Shirley’s person without an accompanying flowered scarf or suede belt or enameled bracelet in the exact shade of pink. Martha’s idea of an accessory was a Timex with a brown leather strap.

  Shirley’s hair always seemed to do exactly what was expected of it. Neither rain nor sleet nor snow prevented the front bang from sweeping dramatically toward the back, making her look as if she had just stepped off the page of a shampoo advertisement.

  But Martha found it impossible to hold a bulging pelvis, a treasure chest of costume jewelry, and obedient hair against Shirley. For of all the women at Amalgamated Foods, and, in fact, of all the people Martha had met in New York, Shirley had proven to be the friendliest, the most helpful, the most loyal.

  On Martha’s first day of work, Shirley had been charged with showing the nervous “new girl” around. She was conscientious in her duties, introducing her to everyone, showing her where the coffeepot was, procuring a ladies’ room key for her. She also kept up a running monologue that took the burden of conversation off Martha while filling her in on all the office gossip.

  At lunchtime, Martha prepared to slink off alone, to hide from the discomfort of being new and therefore the object of endless questions. She hated being the center of attention, and a quick sandwich at the Automat seemed like the safest way of getting through her first lunch hour at
AmFoods.

  As Martha gathered up her things promptly at noon, Shirley appeared with Louise and Kate in tow.

  “Hi, Martha! This is Louise Dawson, probably the fastest typist in town. And this is Kate McDougal, who just started here a couple of months ago. I introduced you this morning, but I know how hard it is to remember people’s names in the beginning. All the faces blend into one.”

  Martha was grateful. She had, indeed, forgotten the names of these two new co-workers.

  “We thought we’d take you to lunch at Mason’s, if you don’t have any other plans. We usually just go there on Fridays to celebrate the end of the week, but your starting here is cause for a celebration, too. Want to come?”

  Shirley immediately steered the conversation away from the obscure intrigues of the office. She played the role of a talk-show host, keeping the conversation rolling along on topics of interest to everyone.

  “Shirley’s kind of a mother hen,” Kate whispered to Martha in the elevator on the way down to lunch. “She’ll look after you until you learn the ropes. If you have any questions about anything, just ask her.”

  “She’ll stand up for you no matter what,” Louise said softly as the four women crossed the street. “Shirley’s sort of the leader of the secretaries and administrative assistants at AmFoods. She doesn’t take any garbage from anybody, and she’ll make sure you don’t have to either.”

  So it was that Shirley painlessly integrated Martha Nowicki, the new girl, into the Dried Potatoes and Noodles Division of AmFoods.

  * * * *

  “How’d it go?” Shirley asked as she spied Martha’s radiant face coming out of the hospital.

  “Great. I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “Are you going back next week?”

  Martha waved to Sophie as she crossed the street. “You know it! Let’s go somewhere and talk.”

  “There’s a coffee shop down the street. I never did get there.” She smiled ruefully, holding up her Bloomingdale’s bag. “Black underwear. Silk.”

  In the coffee shop, Martha spread out her booklets for Shirley. She heard herself expounding the virtues of wine vinegar, and telling Shirley about Ralph and Sophie and Judy and water-weight buildup.