Slim to None Read online

It’s midnight and I’m lurking behind the trash dumpster in the grim alleyway behind Happy Chung, with Jane, of all people. After hearing all about Barry while we did the weight circuit the other day, she begged to join me to witness his comeuppance. I’ve toted along a camera I borrowed from one of the photographers at work. The only reason I didn’t call in a photographer from the Post to do the honors is I’d like to spare my paper any public humiliation and I hope that Mortie will deal with this discreetly. Though part of me would love the joy of having Barry’s weasel-face splattered across the pages of the paper in my stead. I can see the headline: GOTCHA UNDER GLASS. Revenge would be delicious. Of course it would probably only resurrect my shame, so who needs that?

  "You think he’ll really buy into this?" Jane whispers to me.

  I hold my finger up to my lips to indicate silence. I hear a man getting out of a cab just down the way, slamming the door, then whistling the tune "Whistle While You Work" as he strolls along the alley. I peer around the side of the dumpster and see it’s Barry. Thank goodness he’s so entirely predictable! What a fool.

  He approaches the unmarked entrance to the restaurant and taps out the first six beats to "Billie Jean" against the metal door—honestly, the man is such a drama queen. Ling Chung opens the door and steps out into the alley, the two of them brightly illuminated by a street lamp directly overhead, Ling in a heavily-stained apron, with a cleaver in his hand, Barry in a slick long black leather duster coat and dark shades, evidently channeling The Matrix.

  "You have what I came for?" Barry asks.

  Ling nods and glances around in search of us. Jane has the camcorder rolling now. "You wanted it in all fifties, right?"

  "You’ve got a hundred of ‘em?"

  "Count it out if you want."

  "Ling old boy, I trust you. Now I got my money, you’ll get your review."

  Ling hands Barry the envelope. In the shadows I’m snapping away, the loud exhaust fan from the kitchen just barely blocking the sound of the motorized film advance.

  A rat skitters across the ground near their feet in perfect timing. Jane—recording it all for posterity on a camcorder,—and I step out of the shadows.

  "And now it seems you’ll get yours, Barry, old boy," I say.

  He gasps, staring at me, then Jane, then me again. "Abbie! What are you doing here? And who’s your little friend? What’s this all about?"

  "Why don’t you tell me what it’s all about Barr?" I say, pointing to Jane’s camcorder. "Don’t you have something to say to the camera?"

  Barry starts to lunge at us but Ling is a quick little guy and inserts himself, cleaver and all, between us and Barry.

  "I think this is what we call in the food biz your ‘just desserts,’ isn’t it Barry? You screw me, I screw you. You didn’t think you’d get away with this, did you?"

  "Wh-wh-what do you mean, Abbie? I’m not doing anything." He’s inching away .

  "Besides, I’m back in shape, now, Barry. Your gig was only a temporary one. It’s all over for you."

  "You call yourself in shape?" he says, scoffing at me. Ouch. Low blow. Of course he knows my Achilles heel and would say that to me even if I were as thin as one of Ling Chung’s famous sambal pepper five-spice noodles.

  "Sticks and stones may break my bones," I say, sticking my tongue out at him. Jane cracks up. Barry tries to lurch toward the camera again but Ling lifts the cleaver, at the ready. You ever see a Chinese chef with a cleaver? Barry knows not to mess with the dude.

  Jane holds the camcorder up and points it right in his face, zooming the lens for a tight shot. She starts talking to him like you would to a child you’re videotaping trying out a bike without training wheels. "Wave to the camera, Barry! Why don’t you tell us all about how you’ve ratcheted up the expense accounts? Oh, and about the money you’ve been extorting from restaurateurs? Now it’s time to wave bye-bye to your sweet little job, because you are so out of one, as of now."

  Barry tries to run but he trips over a recycling bin and sprawls on the ground.

  "Hey, come on now, Abbie, friend. You gotta tell me what’s going on here?"

  "Just about the most perfect time I’ve had at a restaurant in ages, that’s what, Barr, old boy. I can’t thank you enough for such a lovely evening."

  With that I grab Jane’s hand and with the added security of Ling’s protective cleaver, we back toward the door into the restaurant.

  "Gee, Barry, its been real. Hope you enjoy being on the other side of this job, because that’s precisely where you’re gonna be. Bon appetit!"

  With that I wave with my fingers and we escape into the restaurant, high-fiving each other on a perfectly-executed operation.

  * * *

  Mortie’s late-night email contains the incriminating video footage—uploaded to Youtube, conveniently—and the photographs, as well as an attached letter attesting to the events of the evening from Ling Chung himself. I prefer to not even deal with Mortie directly and instead just want Barry to fade off into the sunset. Which seems to be precisely what happens, as Barry simply doesn’t show up at work, from what we hear.

  By dawn, Mortie’s leaving me message after message, wanting to talk turkey. As if I have any interest in talking turkey, trout, even water buffalo with the guy. I’ve got too many other things I need to deal with in my life right now; somehow the whole Sentinel and my former job just seem entirely irrelevant, when viewed in light of my missing husband and wounded poochie.

  * * *

  The next day my doorbell rings. What I would give to have Cognac barking needlessly at the door right now. I can’t bear the silence of his absence. Not to mention the silence of William’s void. I peer through the peephole to see Sally, aqua Lilly headband in place, oversized Gucci sunglasses dwarfing her skinny-lady cheekbones. Today she’s in her off-to-play-mahjong outfit: bright aqua velour Juicy Couture sweatpants and coordinating hoodie.

  "Sally!" I greet her warmly. That I’m welcoming near-strangers with the warmth reserved for long-lost friends is a sure sign that I’m lonely.

  She marches in like she owns the place and plops herself down on a kitchen barstool.

  "Nice," she says, nodding and pointing around my near-commercial kitchen.

  "Thanks."

  "You like to cook?"

  "You think I’d have a set-up like this if I didn’t?"

  She dangles her sunglasses from her teeth and stares at me like I’m nuts. "Doesn’t everybody?"

  I’d forgotten she hails from the school of thought that more is better and that goes for everything in your living space, even if you don’t know how to use it. I just shrug and continue on.

  "To what do I owe this visit?" I daren’t say pleasure, as that would be stretching things a bit.

  "I came to show you the guest list before I share everything with Gretl."

  "You need to show her your guest list?"

  "She stays up on the gossip so she always wants to know if anyone she’s seen in Page Six will be there."

  I roll my eyes. Household help of the rich and famous.

  Sally whips out a guest list that could be for a State dinner it’s so long.

  "I thought this was an intimate affair with just family?"

  "It is an intimate affair with mostly family," she says. "I had to throw in a few extras—I mean everyone’s going to want to see George, you know. But I kept the extras to only our closest friends."

  Oh, Lord, I worry that George is going to turn tail and run for cover if he shows up to a whole horde of people.

  "You’re sure about this?"

  "I insist," she says. "I know my George. There’s not a name on here that wouldn’t be glaringly missing if I omitted it."

  I throw my hands up. "You’re the boss. I’m just in charge of getting him there."

 
"And you’ve got everything set for that?"

  "Not exactly, but it’s all under control."

  "Not exactly? Abbie, I would be the laughingstock of Pound Ridge if we did all of this and George didn’t show."

  "We couldn’t have Pound Ridge laughing at you. Not to worry, he’ll show. Trust me." The things I get myself into sometimes.

  "And you’ve got the menu all set?"

  "That’s Gretl’s problem. I trust her to keep the menu dignified and in keeping with the importance of the occasion." I hesitate to speculate on what would constitute an undignified menu—a phallic-shaped pound cake for dessert?

  She whips out a folder with detailed information on getting to the house.

  "And when you get to the gate, tell Junior you’re a friend of the family’s."

  The gate? Junior? "Won’t he recognize George?"

  "Last time he saw George he didn’t look quite so, uh, urban as he does now. I have a feeling no one’s going to recognize the man." She rolls her eyes at the thought of him appearing so vagrant-like.

  Well, it’ll be my surprise, then, to gussie him up for the event.

  Sally and I talk a little bit longer and then I show her to the door.

  "Don’t worry, this will work like a charm!" I assure her.

  She waves with her sunglasses before hiding her face behind them and she’s gone.

  * * *

  A few hours later I receive a flower delivery. I quickly sign for the flowers, one of those spectacular arrangements you’d see in the lobby of The Pierre or something. Surely these are my much-anticipated truce flowers from William.

  I race to open the card, but am instantly deflated.

  Dear Abbie,

  I’m not exactly sure how to make things right with you. I know that I betrayed you and I know that you’re disappointed that I used you to help me with Dex. It was wrong and it wasn’t the type of thing a good friend does. I hope you’ll find a way to forgive me for my selfishness. If not, I might just jump off the Brooklyn Bridge in despair. Ha ha. Just joking! I miss you, Abbie. Call and tell me we can be friends again.

  Love,

  Jess

  Sheesh, how’s a girl to stay mad when she gets a letter of apology like that? Plus this arrangement has the most divine aroma, the exotic scent of an Asian market almost.

  I guess I’d better reach out to Jess. I just have to figure out how and when. In the meantime, I’ve got to put the finishing touches on my column and send it over to my boss.

  Being Jiggly in My Piggly Wiggly

  By Abby Jennings

  I was standing in line at the grocery store the other day and it brought to mind my that my favorite shirt in the world is from the Piggly Wiggly, a grocery store chain popular in the South. Only never would I wear this shirt in front of a soul. I don’t dare wear it for anything but a nightshirt. Because I fear that I am setting myself up for public ridicule if anyone but my all-forgiving husband sees me wearing this thing. Ah, the irony, they’d say, the piggly wiggly wearing a Piggly Wiggly shirt. Designer fatso. I’m left to wrestle with this all-important dilemma: Do I dare be jiggly in my Piggly Wiggly?

  Of course, if you’re like me, sometimes you lose perspective on exactly how bad—or good—you look. You go along ignoring the reality of your appearance for awhile, but then you see someone who you suspect looks much like you and you wince. "Oh, no. Do I look that bad?" you think.

  I used to always ask my husband that question. I’d point out some stranger at a party, or walking down the street, and I’d say, "Okay, do I look that bad?" Early in our relationship he was foolish (or in love!) enough to obligingly respond. Eventually he knew that no matter what he answered (he: "honey, you’re not that fat." Me: "Well, what do you mean by that fat? Are you saying I’m fat?"), he was in trouble, so he gave up attempting to placate me.

  Since then I’ve been left to my own devices to gauge my size against other women of comparable girth. A while back, I saw a woman at the gym wearing the exact same bathing suit I own but haven’t tugged onto my body in five years, it was so tight the last time I tried. When I saw her, packed in like a bratwurst in the thing, the first thought that came to mind was this: "I really have to do the South Beach diet and not cheat this time." She looked that bad. And so, evidently, must I.

  So a few days later, I was at a dinner at a high-end restaurant. Amongst those at the table were: two slim and gloating South Beachers; one over-exerciser, who has the body of a goddess; one Neanderthin (in which you must eat like a caveman, although I’m pretty sure cavemen didn’t pound Jack Daniels, as did he); one who stays-slim-courtesy-of-her-antidepressant; one who claims to be perpetually on Atkins all the while guzzling wine (an Atkins no-no) and eating more than her share of carbs; two diet-at-dawn-turned-dessert-at-duskers (we can assume that I fall into this category); and one who just couldn’t give a damn, as he happily drank his dinner: a bottomless tumbler full of Ketel One on the rocks with a twist.

  The courtesy bread found its way down to our end of the table by its rejection at the other end (they acted as if it was radioactive as they hurled it toward us). Which was fine by me: made me happy, tasted delicious. As did the complementary crostini goat cheese bruschetta appetizer we ate (and our end of the table gladly consumed the other ends’ allotment). Obviously as the meal progressed, I’d forgotten all about my twin from the gym who hardly shone in her Land’s End blivet-wear.

  Admittedly, I was self-conscious in my too-tight dress that night. I gazed enviably upon my good friends who looked so thin and so damned happy that they were thin. I am assured that coursing through their minds weren’t feelings of remorse over the umpteen million moments of caved willpower they’d suffered through during the past six months. But I also was kind of left to wonder why people who don’t actually eat go out to dinner. It seems a practice in futility. Although I will grant you, they can drink hard liquor to their heart’s content on these carb-free existences. If that could be considered any healthier than binging on crostini.

  I don’t know. After all of the back and forth, to eat, to starve, to live a balanced life—and is that even a possibility when your metabolism doesn’t allow for that?—I’m still wrestling with what would truly make me happy when it comes to my body size. The older I get, the more I am inclined to just say "to hell with it, life really is too short to waste time and effort worrying about these things." But those notions of body image ingrained in our minds from an early age are hard to exorcise.

  Which brings me back to the grocery store, to my morning’s dilemma (while not wearing my Piggly Wiggly t-shirt). Standing in the check-out line, I couldn’t help but notice the myriad magazines on display. The grocery store is one of those places of irony where the entire time you’re stuffing your cart, you’re fantasizing about what to make (and then stuff your face) when you get home with all the new fun foods you’re about to buy, but then you get in line and are guilted into at least pondering every diet known to mankind on the cover of twenty some magazines featuring impossibly-thin-bordering-on-anorexic celebrities. All this while checking out with a basketful of ingredients intended for use in that Amaretto torte with drizzled marzipan icing and crumbled toasted almonds that sounded so damned good only minutes earlier.

  And so I’m left to wonder: do I really care? Or would I rather wear my Piggly Wiggly, don that lumpy bathing suit, shame myself perpetually in public, because I’m fighting a losing battle anyhow? Or can I really go out to dinner and never again eat a carbohydrate again? Do I have to decide that now? I think I’ll just mull it over while I sleep tonight, in my soft, comfie Piggly Wiggly t-shirt. I’ll let you know in the morning.

  * * *

  Two hours later the door bell rings yet again. Honestly, it’s a man bearing flowers. Now these must be from William. I tip the deliveryman and slam the door, setting the beautiful arrangement down
and grabbing the card.

  To my Muffin,

  I just want you to know how much I appreciate your coming to visit. Janie told me all about your subterfuge and I’m glad you collared that creep and got your job back. They’re lucky to have you. I thought this was the perfect bouquet to send someone like you.

  Love,

  Dad

  I look closely at the arrangement and see that it’s made up of herbs and spices and everything you can re-use in the kitchen. How very thoughtful. I wish I could feel more enthusiastic about my beautiful arrangements but neither of them is from the one I’d hoped would send me something. That certain someone who’s starting to seem like he’s on permanent hiatus.

  Part of the secret of success in life is to eat what you like and let the food fight it out inside.

  Mark Twain

  Stir in Two Cups Kindness

  I’m having yet another bad dream about Cognac’s accident, turning over and over in my sleep, like a free-range chicken over a spit. No, wait, more like one of those horrid-looking unidentified doner kebobs (what is in those things, anyhow?). Correction: I toss all night like a salad. With a tiny splash of oil and fig vinegar. Much more dietetic of me.

  Suddenly the blare of the phone jars me awake. I glance at the clock to see that it’s barely seven in the morning.

  In my sleep fog I can’t find the phone anywhere. By the time I do, my number has been re-called three different times. Someone must really want to talk with me. God, I hope it’s not a emergency to do with William or Cognac.

  "This is Abbie," I answer on about the fortieth ring.

  "Abbie—it’s Sally. We have a crisis on our hands!" The woman is panting into the phone like she’s having a panic attack. She probably broke a fingernail or something: crises of the rich and famous.

  "Calm down. It can’t be anything we can’t deal with."

  "Oh yeah? Well, how about this? Gretl refuses to cook," she says, as if she’s thwacking me with a leather glove and saying "take that!"

  "Isn’t she your employee?"