Mary Gaitskill - Two Girls, Fat and Thin

On the fifth night, however, my stamina began to give out. One o’clock then two o’clock came and went, and still Granite discussed. At two thirty Wilson Bean went home. At three Bradley retired into Granite’s bedroom for a nap. Fifteen minutes later Knight rested in an easy chair to close his eyes. For the next interminable half-hour, it was only Granite, me and the haggard Wilma. The air was heavy with swarming yellow granules, all light was an assault. To my dismay, I saw my dictation stumble, get up, stumble, and proceed along on its knees. Every sentence was a marathon with a lung-bursting explosion at the end. Wilma curled up on the couch and went under. Granite turned to me.

“And how are you feeling, Dorothy?” Her eyes were encircled with bruise-like purple but they retained their intensity. I felt her hot noisy heart pumping in her chest and my own dull organ making its reply. “Are you tired?”

“Yes, Anna, I am.” My blood roared in my head; I had involuntarily used her first name.

“Yes, I can see.” She leaned forward and turned away, and I thought she was displeased. Then she turned back. “I would like to offer you something to help you stay awake. But only if you want it, you understand?”

“What is it?”

“It” was two small capsules (half midnight blue, half aquamarine) that made me feel as wide awake as I had ever felt in my life. Together Granite and I outlasted everyone, smiling and waving goodbye as one by one, Wilma, Knight, and Bradley expressed their regrets. Indeed, at the very end it was I who fiercely paced the floor taking notes in motion while Granite lay on the couch soliloquizing, cigarette held aloft.

It was seven thirty when she finally gave me my cab fare. “You have pleased me, Dorothy,” she said, and I sailed out into the celebratory sun full of get up and go. It was a Saturday, but instead of going home to sleep I went to a large diner with a sparkling, kidney-shaped counter and ordered french toast. I ate slowly as my usually receptive stomach was still taut with excitement. (I didn’t make the connection between the pills and appetite loss.)

I looked with great interest at the other people at the diner, thinking about the oddness of fate. Who would think from looking at me as I sat mopping up syrup that I had just, of my own initiative, become part of the greatest intellectual vanguard in the country? I looked at the man just across from me. He was only in his late twenties, I guessed, but grizzled and jowly with tough skin and dully thoughtful eyes. He had a crouched, guarded way of sitting that was wary, weary, and sluggish, yet, because of an alertness in his neck and head, he looked capable of sudden quite vigorous action. I wished I could talk philosophy with him. He looked at me.

“You’re a cute little girl,” he said.

I stared.

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No,” I answered. “I don’t. I’ve never had a boyfriend.”

“Really?” He picked up a triangle of dark toast and bit off half of it, chewing with loose, loopy movements. “That’s a shame. I’d offer to be your boyfriend myself but I’m too old and you’re not interested.” He looked sadly off into space. “You’ve got great tits though,” he added morosely.

I knew most people would think this was a rude thing to say, but considering that no one had ever described any portion of my body as “great,” it was hard to view it that way, especially given the wistful tone in which it was said. I started to say “Thank you” but then considered how Solitaire D’Anconti would react to such a remark and flushed with embarrassment to think I’d almost been flattered by it. I glowered in the mirror behind the counter, making my features as cold and imperious as possible while surreptitiously checking to see if there was anything there that could reasonably be described as “cute.” Drained face, wild burning eyes, pale fat too-wide mouth.

“You don’t have to say anything,” continued the man, pulling apart his toast with a certain magnanimous air.

I fled to the comparative serenity of the Euella Parks Hotel.

I slept most of the morning and all afternoon but still found myself a little groggy when it was time to return to Granite’s apartment at six (she ran the meetings through the weekends). I had barely enough time to heat a can of soup on my hot plate and eat it, along with a few pieces of bread, before rushing out. That night and on many of the nights that followed — whenever the conferences went past one’clock — Granite would secretly share with me one or two of her heavenly midnight and aqua capsules. My dictation became ever more quick and sure, my demeanor so optimistic that at times I feared I was losing my mind. I was sometimes so full of energy when I left Granite’s apartment that I walked to my hotel instead of taking the taxi. Knight continued to escort me to the taxi on the nights when we left at the same time and my pill-induced enthusiasm elbowed my shyness to one side. Sometimes when the cab pulled away I would look out the back window and see him turning in the other direction, presumably to walk to his apartment, or perhaps to take a bus. I viewed him romantically, but not with the expectation that anything sexual could happen between us; that didn’t occur to me. It was enough for me to be the recipient of his gallant attention, his smiles, his almost tangible warmth and goodwill. Then something happened to awaken another need which, although it initially awoke with only the feeblest twitch, continued to twitch with larger and larger movements until I saw that it was only the smallest foreclaw of a beast that, once fully aroused, would scream unabated day and night — then sleep again forever.

One evening I arrived at Granite’s apartment so exhausted that I didn’t think I could successfully pick out main points. For the first time I asked her for a pill and she gave it to me. Thus, even though it was only twelve thirty when the meeting broke up, I left with my brain chattering enthusiastically to itself and my body full of energy. When Knight performed his usual courtly gesture, I stopped outside on the pavement and told him I thought I’d walk home.

“By yourself?” he wondered.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll give the cabbie some money so he won’t be upset.” I did so, shut the door in his muttering face, and returned to my Knight.

“How far away do you live?”

“It takes about half an hour to walk it.” We both watched as the cabbie tooled off into the night.

“Do you think it’s safe for you to—”

“Mr. Ludlow,” I said. “I’m, I, I’m grateful for your concern but I’m really not afraid. I’ve done it before, even later. I know I must seem very ordinary to you but—”

“No you don’t,” he murmured.

I hesitated. My stimulated heart ground away, my stimulated brain spewed words. “Well, I’m not. After what I’ve experienced, I doubt that anything on the late-night streets of Philadelphia could throw me for a loop.” Knight looked at me as if I’d said something curious and very cute. My confidence suddenly felt like a heavy, high structure creaking on a flimsy base. I stared at the sidewalk.

“Well, maybe you’d let me walk you home. I’m feeling pretty stirred up and energetic myself. Besides, I’m a terrible insomniac.”

I agreed out of passivity more than anything else; it discomfited me, this familiarity and friendliness. I would have preferred that he remain at a distance, gallant but within prescribed boundaries. I didn’t understand why he wanted to step over those boundaries for me. I’d seen movies in which important handsome financiers became smitten by little secretaries — but those little secretaries looked like Judy Garland and Doris Day, not like me. As we walked, however, my feelings began to change. He didn’t rush into conversation; he didn’t talk at all. He simply walked along, hands behind his back, emitting grace combined with that full and buoyant quality I’d heard in his voice — and now, unlike in the meetings, it was suffused with warmth. I enjoyed his presence in spite of myself. My hopped-up mind spewed words which, since I was too shy to talk, tunneled through my brain and doubled back out until my head was riddled with unspoken words. My thoughts roiled around in such a convoluted way that I wondered how I ever spoke at all. I wished Knight would talk to me.