The Second Matter to Be Discussed is another story with Deborah Hall, the cosmetician. I have a fondness for this type of character. It’s a spin on the dumb blond stereotype. Instead it’s a good hearted character who always messes things up. I think this kind of character first appeared in Preston Sturges’ madball comedies. I’ve even met this character. From my experience it is usually a young woman who has not yet become cynical about life. Usually because they are quite innocent about men. Not sexually but intellectually. They haven’t had someone mess their head up. Some malicious mean spirited male. They haven’t been abused.
Fat Girls Get Taken Advantage Of just emerged out of a story that was headed in a different direction. I think this may be the only appearance of the character Josephine Baker. I like the title. There is a kind of truism about it. Girls who do not have a good self image get taken advantage by the cynics in life. It doesn’t have anything to do with being over weight. More to do with feeling fragile, lonely, and unwanted. This is the definition of being young. I felt that way myself when I was a teenager. I remember thinking sometimes that if I could just get laid everything would work itself out. Other times I felt that if I could just hold a girl’s hand. Man, that would be it.
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THE SECOND MATTER TO BE DISCUSSED
Senior’s Day at the pharmacy. Discounts. Retiree’s gathered around the tables that offered free coffee and cookies. Like scavengers. They had to wait. Listen politely to the sales pitch by one of the pharmacists. A bright young girl named Jenny Lee. Jenny had just recently graduated from pharmaceutical college. And some of the seniors claimed to have known her from her childhood although she had just moved to Etobicoke from Winnipeg that spring.
“I used to do her mother’s hair every week.” Mrs. Cunningham insisted. “The poor woman was losing it. Bald spot right on top. What a shame. A good looking man like Mr. Lee with a bald woman.”
“Jenny went to the graduation with my John.” Mrs. Wright’s pasty red lips shriveled into a smile. “Such a lovely couple. I warned my John not to take advantage of Jenny. John promised not to touch her and true to his words not a finger was laid on that girl. I don’t know why John never called her again. Compatibility. That’s what he told me. That seems to be the explanation for all the young ladies I try to match him up with.”
“Jenny has lovely teeth, don’t you think?” Dr. Steele offered. “I’ve been perfecting that smile of hers for twenty years. I remember her first cavity. The girl bawled her eyes out. She thought it was her fault.”
A giant called Everest stood at the rear of the crowd behind the head pharmacist and partner of the drug store, James Edwards. The giant put a huge paw on the shoulder of James Edwards and, leaning over, whispered into his ear.
“Like a soup kitchen in the dirty 30s.” He chuckled. “The price of a meal is a speech about redemption. In this case, prescriptions. I love a good sermon. This new girl you got is quite the looker. What is she, Vietnamese?”
James Edwards turned and looked at the big man. He was about to respond that Jenny was from Winnipeg but thought better of it. Let the old man have his little joke, he thought. Instead James Edwards smiled, a smile that was only one weapon in his repertoire of charm.
When Jenny Lee was finished, she turned and introduced Mr. Edwards. The handsome black pharmacist stepped up through the crowd, smiling all the time. When he reached the front of the crowd, he turned, looked at the crowd, and smiled again. Everyone knew it was an insincere smile but forgave him nonetheless.
“He is so bloody handsome,” Mrs. Williams whispered to her friend Maple Parks.
“Do you think so?” Maple asked.
“If I was twenty years younger…” Mrs. Williams responded and the two women began to giggle.
Mrs. O’Hara looked at them sternly. She was trying to listen. Her hearing had begun to deteriorate years before. Shortly after her marriage to Mr. O’Hara who was known for his bellowing voice.
Mr. Edwards placed his large soft hands together. The older women smiled at each other as if they were acknowledging Mr. Edwards’ charm. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have a son or son-in-law like Mr. Edwards, each of their smiles spoke. Even the men were taken with the pharmacist, for Mr. Edwards had a manner that was appealing to both sexes. Mr. Edwards said a few words, mostly tiny words, soft words, reminding the gathered throng of the discounts that were available to seniors and how each of his employees were trained to serve their needs, how it was their duty and their pleasure.
When Mr. Edwards was finished, the crowd applauded politely and then headed for the cookies and coffee. Mr. Edwards nodded appreciatively and after shaking a few hands as they passed his way, he headed back to his office. Waiting for him at the door of his office was Deborah, the new cosmetician.
“Can I speak to you, Mr. Edwards?” Deborah had a slight British accent that added a shrill note to any question.
James Edwards smiled.
“Certainly,” he said. He slid his key into the door and entered his office. Stepping behind his desk, he took a seat, gesturing to a chair in front of his desk.
Deborah took a seat.
Mr. Edwards removed his suit jacket and hung it on a hook behind his desk. He took a seat and smiled at the young woman.
“Jenny, isn’t it?”
“Deborah,” she corrected him.
Deborah smoothed out her slacks. She bit on her lip, brushed her long blond hair off her shoulders and looked across at her boss.
Mr. Edwards turned on the radio beside his desk. They were playing Glen Miller’s version of In The Mood. Mr. Edwards looked at Deborah.
“Deborah.” He smiled. “How can I help you, Deborah?”
The young woman smiled. She cocked her head slightly to one side.
“There are two matters at hand.”
“Yes.” Mr. Edwards cocked his head in the same direction. To maintain the balance between himself and the young woman.
“First,” Deborah said matter-of-factly, “I have been accosted.”
Mr. Edward’s jaw dropped. “Accosted?”
“Yes.” Deborah cocked her head to the other side. “A young woman came into the shop and berated me about makeup.”
“Berated?” Did she just cock her head to the opposite side? Mr. Edwards cocked his head to the opposite side.
“The young woman,” Deborah continued, “said that we were reinforcing a negative view of women. That everyone… well she went on in that mindless feminist dribble about self-image.”
“I see.” Mr. Edwards nodded. “You didn’t agree with her.”
Deborah sat up sharply, the abruptness of her movement jolting Mr. Edwards.
“No, I did not. Certainly not.” Deborah shook her long blonde hair off her shoulders.
Mr. Edwards leaned slightly forward. Did she just shake her hair?
“And,” Deborah continued, “she also said that the cosmetic companies experimented on innocent animals.”
Deborah laughed, more like a bark laugh then briefly glanced up at the ceiling. Mr. Edwards glanced up at the ceiling to see what she was looking at. And then she abruptly lowered her head and shot her eyes at Mr. Edwards and shouted.
“As if they should experiment on children! Better some monkey than someone’s seven year old.”
Mr. Edwards retreated slightly. He adjusted his tie. It seemed to be getting tighter.
“You said that?” he asked. The girl’s abrasive response to a customer was troubling. It was not company policy. And it certainly was not the manner in which Mr. Edwards would have dealt with the situation. Mr. Edwards had never had an occasion upon which he felt it necessary to raise his voice.
Deborah hesitated.
“No.” She lowered her eyes in contrition but abruptly raised them again. “But I felt like it.”
Mr. Edwards ran a finger across his chin in thought. He looked up at the young woman sitting across from him. She is pretty.
“Well, you’ve had quite an eventful first day, Deborah. You said there were two things you wanted to discuss.”
Deborah nodded. “I think we should go out.”
Mr. Edwards stared at the young woman for a moment. Excuse me?
“Excuse me?” he said.
“I think we should go out,” the young woman repeated. It was more a demand than a suggestion.
“Out?”
“On a date. Dinner perhaps.” The young woman continued to smile at the handsome pharmacist who continued to stare back at her.
“You have me at a disadvantage,” Mr. Edwards began but was interrupted by the young woman.
“I made reservations at the Canadiana for eight o’clock. I’ve brought a change of clothes. You won’t need a change of clothes Mr. Edwards. As usual you are dressed impeccably.”
That’s what Deborah wanted to say.
“Miss Hall?” Mr. Edwards looked at Deborah with a concerned expression.
Deborah looked at Mr. Edwards with a dazed expression.
“There was something else you wanted to discuss?” Mr. Edwards asked. “You said there were two things.”
Deborah laughed. She put her fingers over her lips.
“Slipped my mind. Phew.” Deborah waved her hands in the air as if she had released a bird into the air.
“Slipped your mind?” Mr. Edwards asked.
“Phew. Gone. I can’t imagine what I was going to say.” And without another word, Deborah stood up and stepped out of the office. Mr. Edwards watched with a stunned expression on his face as she left.
“That was odd,” he said.
That was what Deborah feared would happen.
“There was something else?” Mr. Edwards asked.
“Excuse me?” Deborah replied.
“You said,” Mr. Edwards said, “there were two things you wanted to discus. We have discussed the first. Perhaps we should move on to the second.”
“Oh yes.” Deborah smiled. “I’d… I’d like to meet your wife.”
Mr. Edwards stared at Deborah for a minute.
“You’d like to meet my wife?”
Deborah nodded.
“Well,” Mr. Edwards glanced around his office looking for something to say. “I’m sure you’ll meet her one day. She comes into the store quite regularly.”
“I’d like to take her out to lunch. To talk.” Deborah giggled. “Girl stuff.”
Mr. Edwards’ mouth fell open.
“Girl stuff?”
“Oh,” Deborah began but broke down into tears. “Just forget everything I said.”
Deborah stood up and turned toward the door. When she reached the door she turned around and waved.
“I’ll be getting back to work now.”
Deborah closed the door behind her, walked out of the office, across the store floor, straight into the bathroom, into one of the cubicles, and screamed.
FAT GIRLS GET TAKEN ADVANTAGE OF
Josephine Baker was the prettiest girl on Prennan Avenue. According to her father. She just needed to lose a little weight. Put on a little make-up. Spend that little smile more freely. Meet more kids her own age. Quit being so negative. Accentuate the positive. But, oh how lonely she felt standing in front of the bathroom mirror. There was nothing there that would interest anyone. Why did she even try? She smiled. I guess it’s not that bad. How strange this new world was to her. Making her feel awkward and ugly and so full of hope. Hope that sometimes made her feel like she wanted to die. Nothing ever seemed to happen fast enough for Josephine Baker.
Most of Josephine’s friends described her as sweet. Josephine did not have enemies. No one got to know her that well. Sometimes she hated herself. Why was she always so very agreeable? Listening closely to any discussion to make sure that her viewpoint did not contradict anyone else’s opinion. Never arguing. Backing down from any conflict. Why did Josephine feel that she could not afford to lose any potential friends? And as a result, she had few friends. People described her as two faced, not because she was malicious or talked behind people’s backs, but because her opinions changed depending upon the company she kept. She was a chameleon. Disappearing into the background. If only they knew. She was just disappearing.
Josephine graduated from high school with honors and entered college. Studying science. Headed for a career in medicine. It was thought how wonderful it would be if she was the first female to become the county coroner. That’s what I need. All my colleagues will be corpses. Josephine took a summer job at the local drug store. Her father, who was a police officer, had connections with Mr. Edwards, one of the owners. Josephine loved working as a cashier. It was easy. She didn’t have to think. Just smile and give people their change. Every liked getting money back. She liked it so much that she considered quitting college and working full time. Her father forbade Josephine from making this decision. Anyone with your I.Q. should not be working in a drug store the rest of your life.
And there was a boy. Paul McGregor smiled at Josephine the first day she worked in the drug store. The first moment she walked through the front sliding doors. The first time she walked out of the Ladies’ room wearing her blue and ruby uniform. Josephine had been blind sided, struck by Cupid’s arrow. Working at her cash register, she would glance down the aisle hoping to see Paul. Working. Merely walking by. I’m mad about the boy. A gay appeal that makes me feel that there is something sad about the boy. On her breaks Josephine would sneak out to the back of the drug store where Paul went to smoke. Bought a package of cigarettes so that she wouldn’t look out of place. And she smoked. Studied smoking. Practiced in front of a mirror. Got real good at it. One day Paul offered her a cigarette and she took it. Even though she had a package of her own. Smoked like she’d be born to it. Paul looked impressed. Addicted her to the cigarette. And the boy. Occasionally Paul would come up and talk to her and May when business was slow. Paul was a mysterious figure to Josephine. He smoked. He shaved his head. And he liked to read books. The only person she’d ever met who read Moby Dick for pleasure. And he wanted to be a writer. If only I could employ some magic that would finally destroy this dream that chains me to this boy.
Josephine wrote as well. Mostly poetry. About romance. And unspeakable crimes against loneliness. She submitted her work to several magazines. And was published. More than once. The publisher encouraged her to write more. They loved the gothic edge to her story. Stories where love and death were lovers. Where blood and wine became interchangeable. Where nothing ended happily but always in some sad and ominous manner. And so Josephine wrote. And submitted. And got published. But she kept all this quiet. Her father did not approve of such frivolous activities as poetry. Won’t pay the rent! was his usual refrain to any activity he didn’t agree with. Nor did she tell her mother. The content of her poems would have scandalized her mother, a religious and rather prudish woman.
One day when Josephine caught Paul writing in a small book he always seemed to keep on him, Josephine mentioned that she wrote. Paul encouraged her to bring in some work so he could read it. She did. When Paul finished reading three of her pieces he just stared at her, his mouth hanging open.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” she finally asked.
“They’re very… adult.” He smiled awkwardly.
“You think I’m a pervert?” Josephine asked. “I’m taking an introductory course in psychology at college and I have all the symptoms.”
“Is perversion an illness?” Paul asked.
Josephine nodded. “I believe so. It’s in the genes. My father is a police officer, you know. He has all these unresolved conflicts between good and evil. And my mother is quite the prude even though she was quite the hot number when she was young. I was born out of wedlock. Conceived in the back seat of a ‘57 chev. Custom built. I have this image of my mother’s left foot dangling out the car window. All of these conflicted traits get handed down in the genes. I think I’m a mess.”
Paul laughed. “You are interesting.”
“Do you think so?”
“No doubt about it,” Paul responded.
Josephine glared at Paul. “Is that good?”
“It can cause problems.” Paul replied.
“Do you think I have talent?” she asked.
“I don’t know,” Paul responded. “Do you think it’s going to rain this afternoon? I didn’t wear a jacket.”
Josephine sucked on her cigarette, pouting.
“I’m trying to become a writer myself,” Paul explained, “so it’s not like my opinion means anything.”
Smoke slithered out of Josephine’s lips. He doesn’t like them. She took the poems from Paul and placed them back in the brown envelope that she kept them in.
Paul watched her.
“But I’d keep writing,” he said. “I go to a writer’s workshop once a month. We read each other’s work and offer criticism. Would you like to come?”
Josephine’s face lit up. She nodded. Then sadness turned her mouth down.
“Would I have to read my stuff?”
Paul shook his head.
The next evening Paul and Josephine met after work. They took the subway downtown to a café above which the writer’s workshop met. There were about a dozen writers, mostly in their early 20s. Josephine was introduced to the group and soon forgotten. The other writer’s were anxious to read their work. At the end of the workshop a group of the writer’s decided to go across the street to a pub and have a few drinks. Paul encouraged Josephine to attend. She drank too much. On the way home she kept passing out on Paul’s shoulder. Paul walked Josephine home. There was a park near her house and they stopped. Paul went into some bushes and took a piss. Josephine sat on a park bench and looked out into the darkened park. There was a tennis court. In the darkness of the court she saw something move. It was a couple. A light from a distant house where someone had opened the door flashed across the tennis court. A girl was giving a boy fellatio. The door of the house closed. Paul returned and sat down on the bench beside Josephine. She turned to him.
“Do you think I’m fat?”
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