Glitter on the Web Page 2

  It was a complete waste of time, considering most of the people who needed me to change to accept me didn’t give a shit about me anyway.

  That was another hard lesson learned.

  My hourglass figure had a few more minutes in it than average, measuring in at 42/34/42 since I was about eighteen. According to the BMI chart, I had just barely tipped over into the “overweight” category, but I had had my share of people calling me fat since elementary school so I didn’t need the stupid calculator for that. The world around me made sure I knew, like it was their duty or something, like I wouldn’t know otherwise, or worse—as if it was my job to make myself as attractive as possible for them, and if they couldn’t look any deeper it was really my fault.

  It was a misogynist pile of crap, and I wasn’t buying. I suspected almost immediately that Eli Blake was one of those people, so I wasn’t buying his pack of bullshit either.

  After I moved to L.A. and started working for his brand new agent, Frank Abruzzo, I learned what kind of guy he was for a fact. My very first day on the job, Eli came into the office, his newest (size-0) girlfriend hanging off of his arm like an accessory. He looked me up and down exactly once before he dismissed me entirely like some kind of flunky who was beneath him. Before I could ponder if it was my station itself that made him so dismissive, he turned his attention to the 20-year-old mailroom girl who could do nothing for him except fill out a pair of size-2 jeans, and turned on the charm so thick I thought I might choke on it.

  That was bad enough, but when you’re a size-16, you get used to that stuff. That’s how you can sniff out the phonies a mile away.

  But what really made Eli Blake the biggest asshole I had ever met was when he dared to treat his fans this way if they wanted to get close to him. These are the people who loved him most and loved him best, the ones he had shamelessly courted. He wouldn’t even have a career it weren’t for them. I have had the unfortunate displeasure of watching excited young women of varying sizes clamor to meet him, only to get the same cold shoulder I did, rejected however subtly for someone who was thinner and prettier than they were, usually the thin sisters or friends they had dragged along to meet him, who fell for his shtick even when he was right in front of them, doing what every other self-involved douche bag had ever done.

  Yet they walked away defeated, as if there was something wrong with them. Eli made his career crooning to big girls, so if you were fat and he still rejected you that meant there was something fundamentally wrong with you as a person.

  Needless to say, I had no use for the man.

  Well, that’s not exactly true. I worked for his agent and, as such, was responsible for maintaining his public persona whether I liked it or not. Eli Blake was one of the biggest stars on Frank’s roster, and one of the reasons we were having such a kickass year. This meant I had been working with him, talking to him and thinking about him every day of every week of every month I’d had my job. I was paid a few bucks above minimum wage to keep his public persona sparkling, and I earned every dime I made twice. Smoke and mirrors was all part of the PR game, and I was damned good at my job.

  I was even more talented not kneeing the jerk in his balls every time I had the dishonor of being in his company.

  It was this patience I summoned when Eli came into the office that afternoon, his new girlfriend, Rhonda Esposito, in tow.

  Like Eli, Rhonda was a pop star on the rise. This petite, fiery Latina was feisty and outspoken, with a fearless sexuality that dared anyone to slut-shame her for, dare I say it, living her life like a man. She sang about sex almost exclusively, turning grown men into slobbering adolescents whenever she flashed some skin, which, again, she did almost exclusively. Talk about booty, that girl had an ass that wouldn’t quit. And she knew how to shake it better than anyone I had ever seen.

  So of course they’d end up together. Why not?

  Things had heated up so quickly that she had moved into his house in Malibu that previous week. From the string of Spanish she aimed at him just like a machine gun as they walked into the office, however, I suspected that it wasn’t going so well.

  I mean, I didn’t know Spanish beyond what I had to learn in high school for a foreign language requirement, but “bastardo” was fairly easy to translate.

  “Jesus Christ, Rhonda,” he finally exploded. “It was just a bird.”

  One hand went on her hip while the other hand waved a finger right in his face. Her English was as rapid-fire as her Spanish. “Oh, no, no, no, no. You don’t get to say that, okay? I gave up everything to move in with you. The only thing I kept that meant anything to me was that fucking bird. I’m allergic to cats, but do you get rid of your precious Beau Jangles? No. I have to take a pill. I have to make all the changes and take all the losses. It is not just a bird.”

  He wasn’t chagrined in the least. “I have twenty bucks in my pocket. I’ll buy you another parakeet. Just shut the fuck up about it already. Your bitching won’t bring Rosie back, for fuck’s sake.”

  It was the wrong thing to say.

  “My bitching? My bitching?” she repeated, her eyes narrowing into such small slits I suspected that a laser might emit right from her stare and disintegrate him on the spot. Another string of Spanish words followed, spoken much too fast for a non-speaker like me to follow, though I suspected the word “puto” wasn’t meant to be flattering.

  It caused such a ruckus that the whole office came to see what was going on. Julie Russo, the aforementioned 20-year-old mailroom clerk, took one look at the fracas, then another look at me, and withdrew a twenty from her pocket to hand to me.

  I was 5-and-0 predicting Eli’s “love” life, winning every office pool for the entire seven months I’d worked for Frank. It had even earned me the title of OGWO around the office, an acronym that stood for Oh Great Wise One. Most didn’t even bother challenging me anymore, but Julie was young and endlessly optimistic. She so wanted to see the best in Eli, despite my telling her—daily—there wasn’t any.

  Frank eventually emerged from his office. “What the hell is going on out here?”

  His demand unleashed a torrent of angry Spanglish from Rhonda, as well as pathetic mansplaining from Eli. Finally Frank raised his hands to shut them both up, which it did. He processed all the information before he turned to Rhonda. “So what do you want me to do about it? He offered to buy you a new bird.”

  Her jaw dropped, and more angry Spanish poured from her mouth before she spun around on her heel and stomped out of the office. Frank glanced at Eli. “Where you just bored this morning, Eli?”

  “It’s not my fault,” Eli repeated. “It was a bird. Beau’s a cat. You can’t fight biology. And besides, it wasn’t like Beau killed her the first time she escaped from the cage. We did everything to keep her safe, even putting her in a guest bedroom. She managed to open the cage, scoot out from under the door and take a walk on the wild side anyway. Gives me new appreciation for the term ‘bird-brained.’”

  “I’m familiar with the concept,” Frank growled as he glared at him. “I told you not to move her into your house. Hell, I told you not to get into a new relationship at all. It causes too much negative attention. I can’t keep explaining why you pick the women you do, while singing the songs you’ve written. I’m getting letters from feminists, Eli,” he said. “Feminists.”

  “Rhonda happens to embody female empowerment,” Eli shot back.

  “Rhonda is a nineteen-year-old shaking her rump roast for cash. What is wrong with you?”

  Eli bestowed that aggravating smirk of his. “I already told you. Can’t fight biology.”

  Before Frank could reply, a stapler went whizzing past the both of them and smashed into the wall behind them. Everyone turned to see Rhonda, who had stomped back in as angrily as she stomped out. She grabbed whatever loose thing she could nab from a desk and threw it at the two men in the office.

  Normally I was all about girl power, but that tablet she threw next got a little too close f
or comfort. Julie and I dove under my desk for cover, where my young coworker dug out another twenty to hand to me.

  “I’ll never doubt you again,” she promised.

  I caught her staring at Eli’s famous denim-clad ass when he dove for cover. “Yeah, you will,” I predicted.

  It was never wise to argue with OGWO.

  At exactly five minutes after five o’clock that afternoon, I used my new windfall to head to my favorite nightspot after work. I needed a drink in the worst way after spending four hours picking up the office and ordering supplies to replace whatever Hurricane Rhonda had broken.

  I cursed Eli Blake the entire time I did so. I hated the man with the white-hot intensity of a thousand suns, yet I always found myself cleaning up his messes. If I didn’t love Frank, and Julie, and the rest of the office, as well as 99% of the clientele, I probably would have quit that job. But in that way Eli really would have defeated me, or so my best friend kept reminding me when I cried on her shoulder about it all.

  I met Clementine Pomeroy my first weekend in Los Angeles, when I went to the dive bar just down the street from my new apartment in Hollywood. It was called FFF, which I later learned stood for “Full-Figured Floozies,” an inclusive little joint that celebrated women of all sizes, and the men (and women) who adored them.

  Eli would have hated the place, which, of course, made me love it even more.

  Clem was a character. She didn’t give a rat’s ass that she was a size-20. She was fearlessly sexual, coming onto whoever struck her fancy, almost predatorily, just like any man might do. She didn’t give a flying fuck if anyone judged her for it. She played the field without one iota of remorse, with a robust social life that included all kinds of men.

  Being traditional never really appealed to her, which might explain her multi-colored hair and her many tattoos, on display thanks to the revealing way she dressed despite courting 200 pounds on the scale. Despite what society told her she should want, she didn’t aspire to some white picket fence existence, finding Prince Charming or breeding a houseful of kids. She wanted to drink and laugh and dance and fuck, which was why she and her best friend Antoine opened up FFF three years before I moved into town. The little dive bar that could had made significant strides since then, growing in popularity year after year.

  I knew she was about to break out soon.

  It was pretty impressive for someone who had barely reached the quarter century mark, but Clem wasn’t your typical twenty-five year old. From the time she was nineteen she juggled a half a dozen jobs, working as a makeup artist for major television programs. This girl was always on the go, right in the thick of things.

  I pretty much thought she ruled all, and hung out with her daily so she could teach me how to do likewise.

  Naturally after the kind of day I had, I made a beeline for FFF. Thundering music met me at the door, the heavy beat of the dance music rivaling any fabulous WeHo club. Since Antoine was fabulous and flamboyant, the club catered not just the big girls, but all who loved them. Tops of that list included many gay men.

  Everyone was welcome at FFF. That was the point.

  It was the kind of place you could see a drag show on one night, sing karaoke the next, with a full-figured fashion show at week’s end so Clem could sell all those unique little outfits she put together after scouring thrift shops, garage sales and clearance racks.

  No matter what size/age/gender/sexual orientation you were, Clem could make you look and feel like a superstar.

  Those days I had to deal with Eli at all were the ones I didn’t even bother going home first. I went straight to the club and rejuvenated myself around the people who really mattered. Not everyone was fake in my world, and I needed that reminder some days more than others.

  As a result, Clem knew exactly why I wore such a sour look as I planted myself at the bar. “So how is Eli?” she asked as she poured me a drink. When I practically growled as I glared back, she doubled the alcohol. “Let me guess. Girl problems?”

  “Not anymore,” I mumbled as I took the drink.

  Clem chortled. “Who didn’t see that coming?”

  I grinned at her. “Julie.” I slid the two twenties across the bar.

  “And you got a meltdown too,” she said as she picked up both bills. “Sweet.”

  The unmistakable beat of Eli’s hit, “More Than a Mouthful,” punctuated her comment. My jaw dropped as I stared at her. “Really?”

  She shrugged. “It’s got a good beat. And they love it,” she said, referring to the crowd that flooded the dance floor.

  My scowl deepened. “If they only knew.”

  Clem shrugged as she cut up some lemons. “Who cares if he means it or not? As long as we do, that’s all that counts.”

  She poured me another double and headed down the bar to the next patron.

  I didn’t linger after I finished my drinks. I knew I had quite the week ahead of me, so I wanted to go home, change into my comfy jammies and enjoy a little downtime before the chaos ensued.

  I walked the few blocks from the club to my apartment. It wasn’t the best part of Hollywood by a mile. My place wasn’t up in the hills, sparkling like stars in the sky. Instead it was a little one-room studio that smelled constantly of Chinese food, courtesy of the bustling restaurant downstairs.

  That was where I stopped for my usual, the #2 with vegetable egg roll and brown rice, which they practically had ready for me as I walked through the door. “Hey, Ling,” I greeted as the owner finished putting the white cardboard containers in the bag.

  “You’re late tonight,” Ling Cheung commented with paternal concern. He was short, slight and balding, but had the spirit of a dragon. I knew he would always have my back, which had been reassuring for an L.A. orphan like me.

  He had virtually adopted me from the day I came looking to rent the space above his restaurant, seeing something in me that resonated, I guess, since he was once a stranger in a strange land himself.

  Ling emigrated from China as a young boy way back in the sixties. In pursuit of the American dream, he took a job as a dishwasher when he was eighteen years old, juggling college on the side. Within twenty years, he owned his own restaurant, opening this current location in 1984. Since then he had seen and done a lot of things, which were all documented on his Wall of Fame.

  The Lucky Dragon may have looked like a hole in the wall from the outside, but heads of state had dined there. Despite it all, Ling had remained humble, one of the sweetest men I ever knew. He was like an honorary grandfather, so he could keep tabs on my comings and goings and I’d never take offense.

  In fact, I found it rather comforting.

  “Long day,” I offered with a shrug.

  He nodded as he handed me the bag. “Leave a day open this weekend,” he requested. “I’m meeting with all the tenants.”

  My stomach dropped. “That sounds ominous. Is something wrong?” My heart sunk even further. “Are you okay?”

  He brushed it away. “I’m fine,” he assured. “Just old. What day works for you?”

  “Any,” I replied as I tried to hand him what was left of my winnings from my bets with Julie. He shook his head, which scared me even more. The only time he’d ever turned down any money was the previous December, when I had lost a week of work because I got sick with the flu just before rent came due. Since I came up short, he let me skip the month to recover. It had been the most amazing Christmas gift ever, proving he had developed quite a soft spot for me. I saw that once again in those warm, dark eyes.

  “Saturday at ten. Okay?”

  I nodded, but my mood had effectively flat-lined by the time I lumbered up the narrow stairs to my apartment on the second floor.

  There were four studio apartments there. One was rented by an aspiring screenwriter who was already going bald at twenty-seven. I barely saw him. Whenever he wasn’t down the street at the local coffee shop typing away on his newest creation, he was networking through groups and classes around town.


  Another was rented by a woman and her two children, who had escaped domestic abuse by the hair of their teeth, and were now living hand to mouth in a tight little space. I heard them more than I saw them, though I had taken them some extra blankets and linens when they moved in because they had precious little else.

  Unit B was occupied by a man so old and so deaf that his constantly running TV could be heard from the stairwell. Since he was the neighbor right next to me in Unit A, I never bothered to get a TV of my own. I could hear everything I needed to hear through the thin walls. Sure it was mostly old TV classics, but it was entertaining. I was pretty sure I could quote M*A*S*H word for word.

  I let myself into the tiny apartment that I kept fastidious and neat. Thanks to Clem, I had decorated the modest space with light and color, with funky old hipster furniture, and all my favorite art on the walls. A print of my favorite piece, Hopper’s Night Hawks, was mounted on the wall right across from my sofa-bed. Who needed a TV when I could just stare at that masterpiece for hours?

  I routinely lost myself in the image, imagining what life would have been like in New York in the 1940s. Having transplanted to a huge city, where I lived in some shoe box of an apartment, right in the midst of things but still gloriously removed, that stark, lonely piece spoke to me. Many times it rendered me melancholy, though I wasn’t sure why. I found that I kind of liked the feeling. It hurt, but the hurt felt good, like I was struggling to remember a past life, the remnants of which lingering somewhere in my subconscious. When I felt it, really, really felt it, I was occupying both lives at the same time.

  I opened my laptop to queue up some dinner music and check my social media accounts, which is where my appetite, and my mood, took an immediate nosedive. In a heartbeat I knew things had just gone from chaotic to catastrophic.