— No . . .
— It’s an arthouse cinema. They show really interesting stuff there. We have to go!
— Eh . . . yeah . . . okay, sure, I struggle. But I’m fucked if I’m watching some subtitled Bosnian or Iranian or Scottish shit, full of weirdly dressed, out-of-shape people. Lena’s already fucking guzzled her drink and wants another. — No, I declare. — You know how many cal—
— But I need one. She fingers the charm around her blobby neck. Like anybody would want to draw attention to that with jewelry.
— Of course . . . I hear my voice going that crappy, simpering, passive-aggressive way that Mom’s does, and I hate myself, then Sorenson, for it. I must be getting to that time of life where you recognize the worst aspects of your parents in your own behavior.
Sorenson stands up and signals the waitress over, who looks at me in mild embarrassment, as if to say: “What the fuck are you doing with that?”
But we reorder, and as the drinks arrive, I turn to Sorenson. — I don’t like drinking a lot and I’m antidrugs. I like to be in control. To keep discipline. Drugs fuck with that.
— I hear you, she says. — I guess I went through a phase of partying a little too hard and it didn’t do me any good. She raises the tall vodka glass to her mouth. — It messed with my work.
I’m nodding in agreement. — It’ll do that all right. Your parents, do they drink? I put the cold glass to my lips, feeling it satisfactorily numb them.
— Very little. And they don’t know what drugs are. Well, that’s not true. My mom’s medicine cabinet is full of all sorts of prescription stuff for anxiety, depression, and fatigue. I often think if she cut them all out, though, the net result would be the same.
It’s obvious that the Sorenson parents have done the damage. But as I sip on my drink, I feel my head start to burn in that horrible out-of-control way. I’m not used to alcohol and I hate being drunk. I look around at the faces, slackened and buckled with drink, lust, and desperation. The scene here always disintegrates at a certain hour. A gross old bulldyke I once gave an enema to, as part of general health package (we all go down blind alleys), and who is now a hopeless lush, clicks ludicrously long fingernails around an overfull martini glass. It’s as pathetic as trying to grab a cheap toy with a rigged claw at those fairground games. Fearful of spillage, she concedes defeat and lowers crinkled parchment lips to the rim of the glass, sucking on it like it was pussy. A chick wearing sweat pants, a white tank top, expensive jewelry, and orange fake tan, struts in. The Liposuction Fuck—we’ve never been properly back on speaking terms since a confused encounter on a boat party last year—gives me an “I know” glance. We make strange alliances, but this is Miami Beach and Eurotrash need to be kept in their place. Worse, I feel the jolt of attraction, like a hand grabbing and twisting at my intestine, and a tiny metronome of dread now pulsing within me. Wanting Sorenson to fuck off, but also strangely glad that she’s here, though in the shadows, out of range of the throbbing lights.
Then my friend, Masterchef Dominic Rizzo is coming over, his grin expanding in recognition as he zigzags through the crowd. I haven’t see him in, like, months. — Dominic!
— Scalp me, sugarpie, scalp me, Dominic theatrically begs, arms and palms flying from his torso.
— Where have you been? I’ve been calling, texting, dropping emails . . . Bruce told me about the split.
— A verboten word, sweetcakes. I’m moving on. Got him out, capital O-U-T, of my system. You wouldn’t believe the holes I’ve been in, both psychologically and physically. But I’m so done fucking and drinking that man right out of my hair. I’m coming round to Bodysculpt next week. His eyes plead as he thrusts a slight paunch at me. — Make me look a fairy prince again?
— Diet first. What have you been eating? Sampling your own recipes?
— Oh, honey, the damage has all been done by the demon drink. I forgot the particular bottle of wine in my cellar, within which I had secreted the answers to the riddles of life and love!
— When you find out, let me know, a lit-up Sorenson interjects.
— Oh, I’m totally the wrong person to ask, Dominic says, not introducing himself to her, but turning brightly back to me. — But here I am, fifteen days sober and with a crush on my sponsor that fucking chokes me. An architect. It never works with me and nine-to-five types, though.
— I know, right, I concede the point. — Well, now that you’re thinking of you again, and not you-know-who, I say to him, but with a pointed glance at Sorenson, — it should all be straightforward.
— You know, Brennan, Dominic looks at me in fatigued indebtedness, — I wish you were the son your father always wanted. We’d be in Canada now, with a license.
— Closest I’ve ever come to a marriage proposal, but it’ll do.
Dominic arches his back, placing his hands on his hips. — What about that hunky firefighter?
I note Sorenson taking an interest, shifting weight from one fat buttock to the other. — You gotta be shitting me. I know that you fags think you’re the ultimate narcissists, but this is one straight fuck who would give you a run for your money!
— Well, I’m moving on, honey, physically as well as metaphorically. Dominic kisses my cheek. — Too bushy and not cocky enough in here, and he turns to Lena, with an awkward, reluctant nod of acknowledgment as he departs. Some would call it rude and superficial, but looking as out-of-shape as Sorenson really is a crime against the esthetic order in South Beach, perhaps the last bastion of sanity in a fucked-up world.
But the alcohol has gone to my head. I find myself touching Lena’s arm; so swollen, but her skin is still young and taut. She’s got about two years to lose that weight before she has to move into the realm of plastic surgery, and get big water-wings of skin removed. If she loses it right now it’ll snap back to where it should be. I smile at her and run my finger down her arm, eliciting quite a fetching giggle. — The difference between being a healthy 140-pound woman and an obese 200-pound one is big. But the difference between being an obese 200-pound and a morbidly obese 300-pound one is small. Do you want to have ankles like loaves of bread? I shake my head in Lena’s face.
— Can we not talk about—
— No. We can’t not talk about it. Because those giant women didn’t talk about it. They got fat, got depressed, depowered, addicted to sugar and comfort-eating to spike their mood up, and went into free fall. They will always be mutants. Even if they lose weight they will carry obscene scars where they’ve had folds of skin removed, or have to fill that empty parcel of skin with megamuscle, like the older fatties you see on The Biggest Loser. Not you. You can still look normal again. You’re young. You’ve got good skin.
— Oh, thank you! But you’ve got great skin!
I suddenly realize that I wanna work that flesh. Her armor facinates me! It slips out. — Tell me about your first kiss, Lena.
— What? Through her drunk buzz, the pseudobohemian affectations retreat and that hokey small-town schoolmarm persona edges to the surface. I want to find the MTV-schooled artist. That’s the Sorenson I need.
No going back now. I spell it out. — Tell. Me. About. Your. First. Kiss, and I fix a big grin, — Lena!
Sorenson looks defiantly at me. — No! Then she chortles again. — I mean, you first.
Suddenly my ears are fucking ringing. I can’t hear a fucking thing. First fucking kiss . . .
— Lucy, are you okay?
— Just not used to alcohol.
— There was I thinking that you were spooked about telling me about your first kiss!
I suck down some breath. I have to think past him, past that prick, that fucking Clint asshole, to the harmless Warren. — Okay, no biggie. There was this kid called Warren Andover. He had huge rabbit teeth, you know, buck teeth, so it was a pretty unfortunate given name. But every time I saw him I got so wet. All I thought about was those white teeth scraping on my clit.
Her hand goes to her mouth. — God, Lucy, Sorenson se
miblushes, — you remind me of my friend Amanda from college!
Did she go to art school or fucking convent school? But I look up to notice I’m getting the lazy eye from a chick at the bar; short straight brunette cut in a great wedge, slender figure, but with a bust in that purple top, and, as I recall from a previous checkout, an ass inside those yellow tight pants. She sees Sorenson, and looks pointedly away. Now that ship has probably sailed as she’s doubtlessly marked me as a chubby-chaser. So I turn to Sorenson. — You keep in touch with your college buddies?
— Oh yes, though obviously I don’t see them so much, being here . . . Sorenson starts waffling on. The way she curls into that couch, like a big fat stuffed cat, but a cat nonetheless, confirms the fat suit hasn’t always been there. Muscle memory generally offers clues. — Kim is working in a gallery, Amanda moved back east and she’s engaged to this really cool guy who’s a stockbroker. It sounds kinda crass and boring, but . . .
I wanna see those blue veins push their way back to the surface of the skin on your breasts. I wanna watch that skin sear and scorch under my touch like it was meant to, before you turned it into cookie dough. I wanna turn it back.
— . . . so many of those guys were more Jerry’s friends—you see that when you split. You really do know who your friends are in those circumstances . . .
But first I want to strap you onto my bed, you fat little bitch, with the rubber sheet down and tickle you till you piss yourself. Don’t want her drying out on me. Dehydrated is no good. — Let’s get some water, I suggest.
— Okay . . .
Leaner Lena Leaner Lena.
Leaner Leaner Leaner Lena.
Shit, that vodka’s making me crazy. She’s a client. Cool it. I rein myself in, and kick back into the couch, taking in the growing madness around us. The worst moment is when Sorenson wants to dance. I don’t think I’m that drunk, but we take to the floor, her in a creaky, self-conscious nursing-home waltz. I feel all eyes on us and I want to get the fuck out of here before that bitch wrecks my entire social life and leaves me the laughing stock of the Beach.
At my suggestion, we exit and go back to her place. When we get there, I cajole her into letting me see more of her stuff in the workshop. This time it’s uncovered—a full-sized skeletal creature. It has all the bones wired together—legs, arms, spine, and ribs—the only replacements, Sorenson explains, are the molded plastic hip and skull, which are a slightly different color and texture.
— It’s a work-in-progress, Lena says. — But I don’t know if it’s me anymore. The bones, the animals. Jerry used to say— She catches herself and puts her hand to her mouth.
I prompt, — The prick said what? The talentless fuck who undermined you said what?
— He used to say that it was too morbid. That I was making myself depressed. That I needed to work on brighter, more uplifting stuff. That I didn’t have the personality to do dark.
— Tells you all you need to know, doesn’t it? I stand close to her, grab her hand, and whisper in her ear, — Finish it. And tomorrow, you start on those Morning Pages. They will help. Because something is blocking you, it’s like there’s a giant cork up your ass . . . and I start to laugh uncontrollably at her expression. — I said “cork” . . . and now Lena’s laughing too, doubled over, and I see her, see how repulsive and how fucking beautiful she is.
15
CONTACT 6
* * *
To:
[email protected] From:
[email protected] Subject: You Got It, Girlfriend!
. . . and how! Just saw you on TV! You’re the best, Michelle! If I say “bitch got game,” I hope you take it the right way!
Got my own bee-aych on Morning Pages! See how it goes. As you say, nothing ventured, right?!
L x
16
ART WALK
THE CROWDS SASHAY by on Lincoln. The locals showing off; strutting, posing, skateboarding. The tourists with their relaxed strides, oozing money. In the doorways, the odd skulking bum or hustler watching proceedings, often under the not-so-discreet supervision of a chunky cop.
I’m still thinking about Sorenson’s studio. How it’s so different to her bland house. It was fabulous chaos. Not mindless, alcoholic dissolution: it just oozed sweat, industry, and focus. It showed me the inside of a head that knew that stone-cold, abstract planning, while essential, could only ever get you so far. That you needed to get your hands dirty to achieve anything in life. The workshop told me that Sorenson once knew that. She had to relearn that lesson. She had to get down and fucking dirty. Well, I will fuck that bitch. I will fuck her shit right up!
So, lunch with Miles, at the World Resource Cafe. I’m paying, so Miles, bleary-eyed, looking more soft-boiled than of late, is gorging on a steak sandwich and fries (800–900 cal). Like, double-carbing, dude: a no-no. Triple, if you count the Peroni (180) he’s drinking. Going into the four figures for lunch in South fucking Beach? How gross is he? Pilot to navigator! Please assist!
— Lemme get this straight, Miles is asking, chomping on his food, — all I gotta do for five hundred bucks is bang some fat loser?
— You got it.
He shakes his head, lowers his sandwich to take another quick suck on his beer. Screws up his eyes as he sets the bottle down on the table. — So why am I smelling dirty Bostonian rats here, Brennan? What’s in it for you?
— I want her to lose weight. She’s depressed, she eats too much. Why? Cause some asshole she was in love with ditched her. I want you to fuck her good, get her some perspective back. A good pussy-pounding will make her feel much more worthy than a thousand pep talks from me. You do have a certain expertise in that area, I lie flirtatiously, in order to hook the sucker.
— Well, I guess you did come to the right place, for sure, he grins, then his brow furrows. — Exactly how fat is this chick?
— One hundred and eighty-two, I tell him, taking a little license, cheating with the numbers like Sorenson does. But it’s for the greater good.
— I can suck it up, he has another slug on his beer, — and take one for the team. I once balled this fat chick in Vegas when I was loaded. Larry and Joe and I had a bet. After a Floyd Mayweather fight.
— How delightful for you both, I smile, signaling for the check.
— When do I . . . you know?
— No advances, this is a strict C.O.D. job.
Miles goes to protest, then shrugs it down. Asks me if I’ve had my hair done, tells me it makes me look like Blake Lively from Gossip Girl. I don’t know who the fuck that is. — I’ve never seen that show.
— You should. You would dig it the most.
— Righto, I say, knowing that I will now never watch that show, ever.
So I meet Lena Sorenson at my place and she’s driving us over the Julia Tuttle, where it all started. I thought I’d feel queasy as we passed the spot, but there’s nothing, indeed the only stomach-churning aspect is Lena’s big haunted eyes, fishing for a reaction. I ignore her, turning away to look out over the bridge onto the bay. These are only places, they can’t spook you. After the incident in the park back in Weymouth, I would walk to the same spot, alone, at night, and feel nothing. It’s the people who make them scary, one specifically, and that’s who I was waiting on. But he never fucking showed.
Now we’re heading for the Design District and Art Walk. I’ve only been on this once before, with, as it happens, Miles, who ended up shitfaced on the free beer the galleries provide, leering at all the pussy, trying to interest me in getting some chick involved in a threesome. He is so gross when he’s drunk. In fact, strike that, he’s gross all the fucking time.
It’s a hot night, and the ocean breeze seems to have died down. My legs suddenly feel very tired, and it’s a struggle to walk through the dense, close air. To my surprise, Sorenson, although sweating like a prize sow, is striding on ahead, very excited. All because she dipped under two hundred pounds on her crappy scale. That’s no fucking progre
ss at all, she should be in double-digit weight loss every week, with what I’m giving her. But she’s a fucking time-wasting trash disposal!
We get off the crowded street into a gallery’s (air conditioning—yeah!) that sells art books, and one of them features more plates of Lena’s stuff, her weird monster men and women. I know it’s nerdy, but I kinda like her shit. — This is so good, I tell her, — you should never give up on that stuff.
— I don’t know if you mean it, or you’re just saying it to be kind, but it really is exactly what I need to hear right now. Thank you.
— Lena, I don’t do kind. I do straight. Brutal fucking honesty is what I do.
— I think you sometimes sell yourself a little short.
I shrug, trying not to let her see that I’m lit up inside. Praise is always weakness, it’s the staple diet of the quitter. The strong woman doesn’t need that shit. The strong woman just knows.
A cool-looking skinny bitch dressed in a black blouse, Medusa-like hair extensions coming out from under a black hat with a big feathery trim, is checking out Lena. She leaves her lisping flock of culture vultures, and comes across to engage her. — It’s you . . . isn’t it?
— Andrea, Lena smiles. — So good to see you!
— I scarcely recognised you.
— I’ve put on a little weight, Lena concedes.
— It suits you, darling, the bitch says, flashing the hangman’s smile. — You working on anything?
— Well, trying.
— Very good. Anyway, she grimaces at me and I mirror the expression, — look, this has been so gooood, but I really must fly. Dinner reservations. Call me!
I track her fake ass to its company, and watch them pushing off into the throngs outside. — Who the fuck was that asshole?
— Oh, an old friend. I always thought that she and Jerry . . .
Jesus, she needs to learn to pick her friends. Any fucking friends. Never known a bitch so isolated. The encounter has certainly left Sorenson deflated, and as she drops me off at my place, she can’t even be enticed to come in for a protein shake. In her absence I try and settle on the couch in front of the TV, then there’s a knock on the door. It’s the DJ kid from downstairs, and he’s holding up a big FedEx package almost as tall as him. — This came for you, he says.