kind where the fat is removed. Nothing added. Nothing taken away. Nothing genetically engineered. Do I have to buy a farm? Raise my own animals? Grow my own crops? It may come to that. Stay tuned.
It’s almost become a routine now. Every month or so, Bill Wharton takes me to lunch. Very simply, I’m his cash cow, and his goal in life is to keep the paper a success, something he’s done for over twenty years by vigilantly watching the bottom line. The Daily Record is having a banner fourth quarter, and Bill is particularly proud of “Fat Chance.” But also, he likes me. Somewhere in that enlarged, underexercised heart of his, he has a soft spot for my loud mouth and pleasing plumpness, I think, not to mention my irreverent wit and occasionally off-color jokes. He’s got five boys, and, well, you get the picture.
Of course, not all of Wharton’s innovations at the paper are as successful as the column. The style section’s recent cover stories make him wonder if he’s getting too old for all this stuff.
“Cross-dressing birthday parties; Upper East Siders who color-scheme their homes to coordinate with their dog’s fur; and hair stylists who are buzz-cutting customers’ astrological signs onto the backs of their heads. The editor is a moron,” he hisses. “But I’ll keep mum and give her more rope to hang herself before I pounce and obliterate her authority.” He gulps down some Maalox and scratches his head.
“I used to have a handle on the news, a gut feeling about what was fresh,” he said, one day over an osso bucco lunch at Carmine’s. “Now that part of the job is in the hands of a bunch of kids who think that Charlotte Russe was a star of film noir.”
So why, on this day, a full week after he called me, did I still not return his phone call?
“The fourth-quarter numbers look great,” his message said. “Your column continues to be a smash, why don’t we break out some champagne over lunch, restaurant of your choice.”
In hindsight, I now realize what a mistake it was to ignore him. Just as Tamara and I were—for the tenth time—cranking up the volume of our nauseating fitness tape, we saw the door of my office open and who should stand before us, a horrified look on his face, but old Wharton. Shit. Double shit. And what did I do? Wave. He closed the door as quietly as he opened it.
Next thing I know, a messenger is delivering a Bailey’s Irish cream cheesecake, to me, from, guess who? That was followed by a voice-mail message—“When your dancing fever subsides, call your publisher about lunch.”
“Tex might be on to you,” Tamara tells me after lunch one day.
This is not a particularly welcome development. “What did he say?”
I get the whole conversation verbatim.
“Something’s up with Maggie,” Tamara says he told her one day while she was sitting with him and Larry. “But I don’t know what.”
“I looked at him straight-faced,” Tamara says. “I asked him what he meant.”
“She hasn’t been herself lately.”
“Probably something you said.”
“Can’t think of anything,” Tex says, “but yeah, it doesn’t take a lot to get women pissed. Once at a party, I got a drink for myself, but forgot to get my date one.” He nods his head, as if remembering. “I walk back to her and she says, ‘Didn’t it ever occur to you that I might want something to drink?’ I said, ‘I didn’t think you wanted one,’ then she pushes right past me and says, ‘Right, you didn’t think.’”
Then Larry chimes in. “Great material, we should write a screenplay. Once, I bought a gift for a woman. This black lace nightgown, great, sexy, I couldn’t wait to see her in it.” He shakes his head. “How was I supposed to know she wasn’t an extralarge?”
“Observant, aren’t you, Larry?” I say. Tex laughs.
“So she takes it back for a small and finds out that it was the last one and came off the clearance rack.” Larry looks down at his drink and mixes it with his finger and then licks his finger. “So she says, ‘The one thing I hate is men who are cheap and stupid!’ So I said, ‘That’s two things.’”
Tex nods his head. “Yeah, the old one-two punch.” His voice trails off. “I think there’s some basic resentment of the opposite sex. It bobs along the surface until one day, propelled by some deep seismic forces, it explodes in your face.”
“PMS,” Larry says.
“No, that’s not it with Maggie. She’s just distant…less eager to eat out. She’s even starting to look different.”
“Different?” I say. “What do you mean by different?”
“I’m enjoying baiting him, Maggie. He is so unbelievably dense sometimes.”
“I’m not sure,” Tex says, as though he’s afraid to divulge what he’s thinking.
So Larry pipes up.
“Better,” he said. “Maybe she’s on a diet.”
“Nah, impossible,” Tex says. “Not old trencher woman Maggie. She never diets or takes off for spas like some of the women I know.” He shakes his head. “She doesn’t think about things like that. That’s the great thing about her.”
“Absolutely right,” I say. “You guys read her stuff. Maggie doesn’t diet.”
“Take her out for ribs,” Larry says. “See what’s up.”
“I looked at them both, trying hard to keep from laughing,” Tamara says. “If these two geniuses were directing the investigative reporting at the paper, then the Times, the Daily News and the Post could rest assured that they had nothing to fear.”
six
FedEx parks the wardrobe-size box in my building lobby with the doorman. No more nights spent cuddled up by the TV. No more evenings sprawled on the bed facing a snack tray with BBQ Pringles, Snyder’s of Hanover homestyle pretzels, Entenmann’s chocolate doughnuts and Diet Coke. From now on I’d be quaffing Fiji Water and snacking on orange wedges. NordicTrack time. The Dominican handyman rolls it up to my apartment door on a dolly and hauls it into the bedroom.
He looks at the box and laughs. “Everybody buy these things, these equipments, but nobody use them.”
“Well, it’s good to stay in shape.” How would I know? He looks at me, shaking his head, laughing, as if I told him a good joke.
After a lightning-quick smile, I double-lock the door behind him. It would probably be fun. I’d make it fun. Sliding, gliding. I’m not the most coordinated person in the world, but I’d get the knack of it. I am a quick study.
I change into my sole pair of cycling shorts, which were secreted in the back of my drawer years ago. I start to tug them on, but when I stretch the waistline apart, it stays that way. I fling them into the garbage. At least my dresser drawers are getting roomier. I pull on a dress-length STOP HUNGER T-shirt, sweat socks and sneakers.
I tuck my feet into the toeholds, reflexively stiffening up as I slide forward, then back. Thighs make up one-quarter of women’s weight. Indeed. The effort brings me back to
