Boomerang
by
Marcia Fine

Chapter One

“You are bringing ruin to my department,” says Megan, her bosom oozing from the top of her dress. Her words suspend in the air, cartoon-like, then fall in perfect, enunciated syllables onto the pink area rug. Heat rises to my neck and face.

The regulation six-by-eight community college office, windows shut against a rare October breeze in the still air of Phoenix, reminds me of a well-bred English woman’s home, all chintz and ruffles, rose slip-covered chairs and English country prints. It smells of musty pillows and talcum powder, a product Megan uses with abandon. Once I caught her with a powder puff half-way to her armpit.

What a drama queen! Ruin? What did I do? I’m blank.

Megan lifts her chin for a power peer-down over the top of her glasses. I move forward in my chair.

She removes her reading glasses and stares hard into my eyes. “Did you assign Women as Lovers in your Women Lit class last semester?” My pits sprout water despite my anti-perspirant. The back of my knees feel damp. Maybe I can hijack some of the talcum from her drawer.

“After the trouble with your curriculum choices a few years ago I thought I had made my position clear.”

“It was on my list of reading materials.” I lick my dry lips. I’m cautious and a little hostile. Megan resents me. Her snide comments about my not really needing the job make me furious. She should only know. “Why?”

“You know it’s outside the approved reading list for the college curriculum.” She rolls her chair closer to me, her plump body covered in large purple violets more appropriate for the upholstery. Her belt slips above the waistband.

I hesitate. What’s wrong with me? I’m in a tense situation, my body is going into a full-blown hot flash and all I can do is stare at Megan. Her bountiful bosom folds itself over her lap as she leans forward for emphasis, the cleavage uncooked muffin dough.

“Yes, but it’s on a list of optional choices. I want to give the students exposure to all kinds of ideas while they’re in an educational setting.”

Megan leans back, the powder on her tiny facial hairs illuminated by the sun. “Jean, do you remember a student named Tiffany Gorden?”

My mind scampers through the lists of young people’s names on my computer sheets for Women and Literature, Women and Mythology, and Feminist Expression. “It doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Refresh your memory. She was in your morning section last semester. She picked the selection I just mentioned, which I might add, is only available at the gay and lesbian book store off campus.” Her voice rises an octave on the last few words.

With my fingertips I wipe a droplet on my temple that melts its way toward my ear. Glee, my friend who believes in homeopathy gave me estrogen pills from some plant. They’ve failed.

I know Megan waits for some sign of recognition from me, but I don’t remember one Tiffany among all the other Tiffanys, my synonym for the blonde sorority types who always sit together. The students who stand out are the ones who participate in class discussions. She must have been one of those back-row silent-sitters.

I’m getting impatient with Megan’s fake English reserve and uppity accent, a residue from her Boston Brahmin family. The reality is she’s in Arizona now, a place primitive enough not to achieve statehood until 1912. We even managed to impeach two governors in the last decade.

“Megan, what’s the problem here? I can’t guess.” I make an effort not to sound as annoyed as I am, but the truth is: I’m cranky.

She straightens, the muffin dough rising toward her neck, her fingers tapping the violets on her knees. “This young woman failed your course because she didn’t want to read this book and was traumatized by going to a gay book store.”

I frown. “She didn’t have to pick that selection. There were other choices.”

“She was ill when the books were assigned. When she returned, it was all that was left.”

I give Megan my so what look. When are we going to stop coddling these kids? No wonder they don’t accept responsibility. Of course, that’s an absurd thought to have when my own son, Michael, just moved out a few months ago, but I never said I was consistent.

"She didn’t want to read it, especially after her visit to the bookstore. The women in there had mannish haircuts.”

I self-consciously pull the back of my hair down toward my collar. Mannish haircuts? This woman is out of touch.

“When she spoke to you about another choice, you refused to give her one. Then she applied to drop the class. Too late in the semester. She flunked your course.”

I shake my head in confusion. “I still don’t see that I’ve done anything wrong.”

“We don’t want to make our campus a hotbed of liberal thought. Alternative lifestyle discussions breed controversy, especially with funding under review. Remove that selection from your list immediately. Or any other selection dealing with that topic. And change Tiffany’s grade to an incomplete,” says Megan, her voice elevating.

“I am not trying to bring ruin to your department.“

She cuts me off. “Please.” Her hand shoos me away.

“But,” I protest. The light of defiance burns low in my chest. “This is an educational setting. Students need to be exposed to ideas. I never change a grade.”

“Do it.” Her mouth rolls into a disapproving, pinched “O” as she swivels her chair back to the desk, reaching for her reading glasses. I am dismissed.

I head for my Last Legs Volvo in the faculty parking lot, each flop of my Birkenstocks making me angrier. What kind of academic freedom is this? Telling me what books to use and to change a grade. I’m outraged! I’ve tolerated Megan’s autocratic, high-handed style in the past, especially when my salary helped defray some of Lara’s wedding expenses, but now she’s demanding, too. Do I fight back and unleash her wrath or do I give in? My car starts with a cough, and a screech. Must check the fan belt. I head home while my head pounds a steady African beat. I’ve got to force myself to bury this in my swamp-brain for the afternoon. I’m meeting Glee and April for lunch. I haven’t seen them in ages.

A full-length mirror hangs on the back of my closet door. My transformation is complete, the abandoned sandals shoved against the baseboard. I’ve gone from disheveled prof to well groomed lunch lady. Of course the change is a miracle of make-up and clothes. I’m fapitzed with mascara, foundation, lip liner, and three colors of eye shadow, which I hope I’ve painted in the right place. Fapitzed, a Yiddish word for showing off everything you’ve got, means make-up, hair, nails, fancy clothes, jewelry, high heels, all the girlie stuff that requires a commitment of time and supreme effort. My mother thinks I should be fapitzed all the time. If she saw me today, she’d say, “Jean, you look stunning. Just stunning. Like Debra Winger in Terms of Endearment before she got sick.”

Maybe I look better, but I don’t feel it. Megan’s dictum worries me. What will happen if I don’t change the grade? I adjust my steel-jawed push-up bra with a snap and a wiggle. I catch a glimpse of myself in front of the mirror. I haven’t worn heels this high since Glee had a boudoir party and we had to dress as whores and pimps.

Instead of the 101 Freeway I negotiate traffic through a grid of streets (Thomas Jefferson’s idea), L-shaped shopping centers, and beige developments with red tile roofs. No ethnic neighborhoods with bustling outdoor café’s and funky boutiques like other big cities. It’s all new. The older places left fight for survival through urban blight.

A commitment to aesthetics dictates that the architecture and colors remain true to the desert that’s been mowed down to put the buildings there. No Miami art-deco hues, only sand, dusk, adobe, and Navajo white. Few green lawns either. The barren landscape of gravel and sand on miles of tract homes are dotted with compass cactus, a kind that leans toward the southwest, its circumference design reflecting the sun. They even make candy from the pulp. It’s reminiscent of strawberry jam when it’s boiled in sugar. We used to send it to our friends, a home-grown novelty like taffy from the New Jersey shore or coconut patties from Florida.

Paloverde plants grace many lawns. Spanish for green stick, its green trunk, waxy leaves and needle-like stems, sprout tiny yellow flowers. Desert plants are hearty because they don’t require much water, but it takes a while to get used to beige everywhere. Not a blade of grass in sight.

I leave Tempe, home of Arizona State University, where dudes with spiked blue hair sail by on roller blades, their cappuccinos held high, for Scottsdale, Land of the Fapitzed.

My Volvo slides into a space under covered parking at Fashion Square, mall extraordinaire. The restaurant Glee has picked for lunch, PF Changs, is an upscale, pseudo-Chinese place. My heels keep me unbalanced as my purse swings from my shoulder. It’s a fashionable one that doesn’t hold my wallet, keys or glasses, but matches my outfit.

Glee waits for me in the entrance, her wild dark hair, in an-I-just-fell-out-of-bed look. A some-time yoga instructor and erotic artist, Glee dresses in costumes, a capricious gypsy with wild taste. Usually, she’s in something provocative, willing to turn the world on, but today she’s covered. A hand-painted orange and pink scarf winds its way around her neck, ending in tassels with gold bands, a stripper during Mardi Gras who forgot to take her clothes off.

I love her because she makes me laugh and has a good soul, but I know she’s crazy. Of course Maury says we’re all nuts, but Glee’s a pleasant dysfunctional. Her mission in life is to take enough workshops to grow and experience everything. Fortunately, she has Ted, the condo king of Scottsdale, to finance the search for inner peace and outer beauty.

Glee and I greet each other with hugs and air kisses, making sure not to smudge the delicate lip lines we’ve painted with precision. Her tattooed lips are more pooched and redder than mine since she had fat removed from her thighs and pumped into them. In fact, she grabs my shoulders to assure we air kiss on both sides of our cheeks, a habit she brought back from Europe years ago along with a ceramic bidet.

“Jean, you look fabulous! I haven’t seen you looking so glamorous in ages!” says Glee as we pull apart. An older couple in Bermudas stares at us. The wife whispers to her husband as she places her hand on top of his, “They’re so fapitzed.”

Our hostess seats us at a table that faces outward so we can watch for April. I remove my sunglasses. “Look at this,” Glee says as she lifts her top above her waist.

“What is that? Are you wearing a girdle?” I reach over to tap on the pink corset wrapped around her waist.

“No. This is the undergarment you wear for two weeks after liposuction. Dr. Reingler did me a few days ago. I’m going to have the midriff of a twenty-year old.”

“Didn’t you already have liposuction?”

“Yes, but that was for my drooping ass and sagging thighs. This is different. We’ve got to keep everything up and flat, except the breasts, of course.” She shimmies a little and the tassels shift.

When Glee starts on her plastic surgeries, I envision her surrounded with before and after photos, gauze and ointments. I can’t imagine going through the pain and inconvenience, but she says everyone is addicted to something and hers makes her look good.

Most people come from somewhere else. Glee’s a rare Phoenix native whose upbringing was steeped in economic turmoil. Usually her mother divorced well, but the fourth one plunged them into poverty. The country club membership evaporated, the Mercedes was confiscated, the horses disappeared, and Glee bounced from boarding school. Her insecurities still boil to the surface. Since she found Ted and his congenital bucks, she works on herself inside and out as though she’s one of his building projects.

We spot April teetering behind the hostess. Her Versace glasses hide her aquamarine eyes. In a tight red dress that outlines her model’s figure and zebra Jimmy Choo’s her hips sway like a fifties movie star. It’s the kind of walk that used to make men drop their dangling cigarettes from their lips and fan themselves with their hats. April looks fantastic. It’s her job.

Tables of business men, their silk ties a panoply of blues, purples, and muted reds, stop their conversation as April passes their table, forks held midway to their mouths. She’s a gorgeous sea creature who floats through an ocean of attention, queen of the mermaids. I’m sure they’re in agreement with Maury that her heart-shaped tush is a number ten. Mine’s only a mushy six.

Glee pushes back her chair so they can air kiss and then I do the same, forgoing one cheek.

“You look smashing,” says Glee.

“Thank you,” April pulls out her chair. I notice the men return to their conversations. “What a long line at valet!” She places her Kate Spade tote near her red toenails. “The market is taking another dive. The tech roller coaster ruins my day.”

April’s married to Steve Lefkowitz, a personal injury attorney whose advertising includes the jingle, You can bet, we’ll get them upset. Call Harding, Collier, Smith and Lefkowitz. She reaches for her water, the grape-sized diamond on her finger sends out sparks.

By the time we catch up on latest projects, laugh about some gossip--a local society woman who’s experimenting with cybersex--explain my outrage at Megan, and discuss a few movies, we’ve pushed a few noodles across the plate. I adore my longtime friends because they take me out of my world, one of community college students who can’t read and barely write past seventh grade level, an ailing twenty-year old house, and a husband and two grown kids who still need me.

“Michael called yesterday and he wants to bring over his girlfriend,” I share. The lettuce wrap I’m attempting to eat falls apart mid-air. They’ve known our son, a sweet, albeit lazy child, since pre-school when we all lived in the same neighborhood.

“What happened to Cashmere?” asks April, putting a fork with a miniscule amount of food between her red lips.

“You mean Velvet. This is a new one. It’s the first time he’s wanted me to meet one of his girlfriends. What a party boy he’s been, more interested in beer and broads,” I say using a term I abhor for women.

“Is it serious?” asks Glee.

“I don’t know, but I can’t wait to see who he thinks is presentable enough to bring home.”

“Oh, don’t worry. He’s maturing. Law school has probably made him appreciate you and Maury more,” says Glee, ever the positive soul-searcher.

Glee knows our disappointment when my underachiever had to take a year of classes after graduation to pass the LSATs. How can two driven parents create such an unfocused kid? Anyway, his grades have improved so maybe he’s on the right path.

We depart after the check arrives, sailing through the restaurant, an aquatic parade with April as the homecoming mermaid on the front float, then Glee and me in the rear. No matter how fapitzed I get I’m still Jeannie in my cardboard high school band uniform stuck behind the horses in every parade. We repeat our air kissing routine outside. Glee reminds me to embrace whomever Michael brings home. “She might be his soul mate,” she says, twirling the tassels on her scarf.

Probably more like a crotch mate knowing my horny son.

“Don’t forget about my art opening in a few weeks,” Glee goes on. “I’ve got a great new couple for you to meet. They just moved here from overseas,” Glee waves as valet pulls up her black Mercedes sedan under the porte cochere. I wonder if they’re going to be like her granola friends who smelled of garlic. April continues into the mall to shop. I hike to the Volvo with a slower gait to accommodate my crushed toes.

Next to my car a woman on a cell phone, her fingers splayed with wet nails, says loud enough to echo in the garage, “Isabella, este es senora.  Como es bebe? En casa en diez minutos.” She drops her keys. I pick them up for her as she mouths thank you taking them with two French-manicured fingers.

I slip off my heels and unhook my bra at a red light. I can breathe at last, a fading supermodel returning from the Land of the Fapitzed.