Being Don Being Donna - Chapter Six

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I was back in the living room, in the easy chair, about to continue my reading about alcoholism; after writing the one word: yes, on the envelope that contained her note she left for me to find (see part three). I looked over her most recent list, and set the seven books from the library on the end table in the order she listed them. Then, I put the books we bought the day before in the order that she had listed them on her previous bookstore purchase list.

Miss Morgan certainly is thoroughly organized, unlike me. The progression of the books she suggested about alcoholism was plainly devised to support a clever plan to address any compulsive disorder, including weight control. Luckily I didn’t lose the two lists she made out. I’d have never guessed her intent without accidentally comparing the lists to my own choice of reading order. I made that independently, by reviewing the books’ glossy paper coverlets or introductions.

The lists’ progression started with introductory, general data about alcohol abuse. From there, the books gradually became more and more advanced and complex.

She wanted to make it easy for me to get interested, before I progressed to any diverse concepts, to be prepared to help my dad recover when he was released from the alcohol abuse treatment unit at the hospital, or so I thought.

What she wanted me to do was become well-versed in all kinds of substance abuse. I had read five; well I read three and skimmed two, without my knowing that she was also preparing me to deal with my obesity. Ugh, that word again!

No one ever cared that much about my weight. Not enough to devise an intricate plan of attack for correcting my disorder. Mom didn’t think being overweight was a problem. She should have. Her weight was a major cause of her heart attack and death. Dad’s depression over her death led to his alcohol abuse. Between the two, no, make that three if you include my weight problem, a happy family was on a slow, downward spiral too, what? Extinction?

She was determined. That’s for sure. If Miss Morgan had told me to read about weight control instead of alcoholism, I’d have pegged her as picking on me like everyone else and ignored her, just like I always do with hecklers.

She was due home soon. I decided to put off reading further until I was clearly aware of her true interest in me. What prompts a sharp woman like her to drop everything and thrust headlong into the life of a complete stranger, me, with a hospitalized alcoholic father? Why would she be willing to be my guardian? Not the bank’s risk? No, the bank holds mortgages on many homes. She can’t be a guardian over every mortgagor that becomes risky! It doesn’t make sense.

If she were a fanatic about helping others lose weight, she would be involved in an organized health program, as a counselor, or something like that. No, she was a health freak, but she wasn’t dedicated to preaching about the evils of being fat.

What was her objective? Should I come out and ask her, plain and simple? No, she could easily lie or evade the issue completely, or give me that "once upon a time" fairy tale that she was fatter than me when she was my age. No way!

Sooner or later, she’s going to slip up. All I have to do is coast along and wait. If she has something sinister up her sleeve, I’ll be ready for it. In the meantime, a pretty lady is going to spend a lot of money keeping me happy. Why get bent out of shape over that? I could sure use the clothes, no matter what her weird tastes will dictate. I won’t mention my figuring out her undeclared, yet clear purpose for suggesting the list of books in the meantime.

She arrived, carrying in a gym bag. "What’s in the gym bag, ma’am?" She didn’t answer me, but went to the kitchen, instead. She was looking at the back door but spotted the envelope on the table and the half-full garbage bag on the floor. "I cleaned out some of my old stuff. I was going to throw this load out but changed my mind. I waited for you, to see what you think, instead" She didn’t reply, but picked up the envelope and put it in her purse.

"The gym bag contains a few changes of clothes, Donny. I stopped at Walmart on the way here." She opened the bag and pulled out a short-sleeved polo shirt and a pair of jeans for me. "2XL, and 44x30’s, right? You said men don’t need to try on the clothes they buy. Go see if these fit you. We were going shopping for more streetwear for you this evening. Remember? At your age, wearing sweats all day will pass, but I’d like to wear a casual outfit like I did last night, and I’d like you to dress in a similar manner while we shop. I picked out a shirt and jeans I think will please you, the kind you’ve worn ever since we met. Do you mind?"

"No. They’re fine. I don’t mind your advice or your opinions, but I’d rather pick out my own clothes. I’m not a little kid. I can be stylish, if I want to be, if I could afford to buy stuff, that is. I admit that I need the clothes, but if you think you can force me to wear what I don’t want to wear, let’s forget the whole thing."

"I told you last night, Donny. I apologized for trying to be too overbearing. If I get out of line again, let me know right away, but try not to bite my head off. Two can play, as you found out when we got back to my place. I can be just as obstinate as you are, but I’d rather not fight. Let’s try to reach a happy medium, okay?"

"That’s fine with me. I know you’re older and wiser, but you made me feel like I didn’t know anything last night like I was a baby. As long as we both know where we stand, I can deal with it, if you can. It’ll be fun, matching wits."

Her eyebrows rose at that comment. "Okay, Donny. That’s settled. I know what I’d like for dinner, tonight, but I’d rather let you decide where we should eat after we finish shopping. We can talk about it along the way. How about taking turns deciding things. Will that be fair enough to suit you?"

"Take turns?"

"Sure! Even while we’re shopping! If I suggest a certain article, I’ll ask you what you think. If you like it, we’ll get it. If you don’t, we won’t. If you pick something I think is outrageous, I’ll tell you why I don’t like it. If you insist, we’ll buy it, but only if you agree not to wear that article when I’m around. How’s that? We can even take turns in picking out the stores we go to. Where do you want to start?"

"In my bedroom, trying on the stuff you just bought. It’s been so long since I got any clothes, I don’t know if they will fit. How did you know what size to buy?"

"Ancient Chinese secret. I looked in the hamper. It’s my turn to pick a store. We’ll go to Target, next. Objections?"

"No fair, Target was my next pick. Think of someplace else, while I change" My voice faded, as I ran up to my room. She made an excellent selection. The shirt was a perfect size, and the pants fit, tight, at the waist, but they fit well enough. That’s why fat guys don’t need to try stuff on. If the waist is tight, we can wear tight pants under the gut.

She was ready and waiting, in a pullover top and short skirt.

True to her word, we took turns. She tended to pick out flashy stuff, which would draw attention. I tended to pick blah stuff, to fade into the background. Between us we got a wide selection of clothes. I forgot all about getting expensive stuff to deter her zeal. I was too interested in my windfall of new threads. The hard part was convincing her I didn’t need a suit. We finally compromised. She bought me a tweed sport coat with two pairs of coordinating dress pants, instead.

We hit Bennigan’s for dinner after the stores all closed.

It was hard for the two of us to carry on a conversation over the din of noise at Bennigan’s. The place was crowded. We were seated at a table. We were both leaning forward trying to speak in a normal tone of voice, but we both had trouble hearing, without talking so loud that people at the adjacent tables could hear.

It was exasperating! We sat, eyeing each other, after ordering our food. We both wanted to make some headway but knew the background clamor would keep us from getting anywhere, so we patiently waited for the food, discussing mundane topics about the news stories on the televisions strategically located throughout the restaurant. When the news was over, and our plates were empty, the crowd thinned. Our waitress offhandedly suggested they were closing down the section.

I decided to be blunt with her. "We haven’t finished our coffee. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I saw the two of you trying to talk earlier, without success. The porter is going to start vacuuming this section. I can bring out some fresh coffee to you in the party alcove." She pointed to the empty alcove. "It’s empty now. It’ll be much easier to hear each other there. I would have suggested moving sooner, but we just finished cleaning it up after a gang of young kids had a party. I’ll bring you a full decanter of coffee and dessert, on the house."

After she walked away, Miss Morgan looked at me smugly. "You were out of line with her, you know. I took her aside and asked her to move us, earlier when I went to powder my nose. She agreed to find us a spot as soon as she could. She was being nice, and you bit her head off for it."

"How was I to know? Why didn’t you say something to me about asking her for a better table? Gees! It’s not my fault!"

"Fault? Why does everything have to be someone’s fault, Donny? Why is it, you feel people are blaming you for something all the time? Shit happens! We’ll talk more about it over there. Let’s move."

Just before we sat down in the alcove, I immediately clarified my defense. "You were the one that said I was out of line. All I did was tell her we weren’t finished with our coffee, yet. I thought she was being rude."

She just looked at me, calculating my mood. I knew it was a careless reaction to respond nastily to the girl. If I had known Miss Morgan asked her to move us, the incident wouldn’t have happened.

"I’m not worried about it. You’re under a lot of stress, Donny. If my dad was in a hospital, and I was up to my neck in bills and worries, I’d probably react the same way. Forget about it. She probably has already.

Waitresses are used to getting the blunt end from irate customers. You aren’t any different from anyone else that speaks before finding out the true cause for a set of circumstances, Donny. Happens all the time. Remember when your dad went off half-cocked at me when he was trying to talk me into extending terms on the mortgage? I almost lost my cool and was ready to foreclose. I saw you sitting so quietly, I forgot all about his tirade. Something about you made me want to look a bit further, beyond the obvious circumstances."

"Yeah, look where that got you. Now you’re strapped with me, a fat, ugly, pimpled teenager that has to beg for the clothes on his back."

"BEGGGH? You call our coming to an understanding: begging? Wait a minute!"

"I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant, Miss Morgan. I can’t help it if I don’t like that I have to accept charity from you. I know I should be more appreciative, but I need other things more than I need new clothes. Getting this stuff is great, but it won’t change my lack of sufficient means to keep the house. I’ll still lose everything in the long run. Can’t you see that?"

"Stop! Hold on and cool down, Donny. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Try to sit back and give others a chance to explain, before you react. The girl knew I wanted a place to sit and talk. You overreacted. You are doing the same thing to me about buying you clothes. Forget about the other problems and consider only why I’m willing to fork out the money for the clothes.

You forgot all about what I mentioned earlier. You need to look decent to expect to get hired by a prospective employer. I had to do the same thing. What makes you think an employer can take a chance and hire a shabbily dressed prospect; someone that would make his company look bad? Should he go out of his way to provide you with clothes to enable you to fit the image for a job he has available? Think again! You can’t go to a stove and say give me some heat, and I’ll turn on the gas! You have to provide the gas, or the stove doesn’t work. Get it?

"You lost me."

"I’m advancing you all the clothes, so you can get a part-time job, just like I’m encouraging you to lose weight, so you can be more socially acceptable. All I’m trying to do is make you more capable of standing on your own two feet when the time comes. That’s what a guardian is supposed to do. When you’re of age, you can be ready to move along, on your own, independently, in a year or so.

All you accomplish by questioning every move I make is only making it harder to make any headway. You said I was older and wiser, but then you question me at every turn. Give me a chance, will you? All I want to do is see to it that you don’t lose what little you have before you can stand on your own."

"Why?"

"Keep your voice down. I already told you. Because ten years ago, I was exactly like you are: fat, ugly, uneducated, and all alone in the world. Both of my parents were gone. For the first time, since I turned my life around, I have a chance to do something positive for someone in the same position I was in. I don’t want to muff the job. I’m willing to do whatever I have to do in order to help you. It has nothing to do with what you need. It’s to satisfy my ego, to do what I wish some fool like me would have done for me back then. Call it self-justification, if you like."

"You said your uncles took you in."

"Oh, they took me alright. They took my self-pride, they took my body and twisted it to their liking, they took away my ability to think independently, and they made me into their slave, to sell me to the highest bidder. They took me. They sure did!

I want to help you establish your self-pride, and rebuild your body into a classic form, to be admired, not abused, so you can change into a socially attractive human being, not a target for cruel jokes and abuse. I want to teach you to think on your own, encourage you to read, so you gain knowledge, and not react defensively at every turn as you do now. I want you to continue in school, and not worry about the house for a while. I’ll take care of it. Trust me. I can support you. I want to see you make something of yourself; become a success.

But, you won’t let me help. You think I’m trying to make you over into something else, like the slave I once was, maybe. This whole thing keeps getting out of hand. You can make me feel totally incompetent sometimes, Donny. I’m afraid I bit off more than I can chew. Help me out, won’t you?"

The waitress brought another carafe. She put a ten-dollar bill on the table. "Keep this, sister. I couldn’t help overhearing you two squabbling. If I knew this jerk was stringing you along, I wouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Let this slob pay for the dinner. He doesn’t deserve a hard-working girl like you. Don’t waste all your hard-earned money on this low-life. There are plenty of managers out there that know how to treat a lady with your assets properly. Get a man with some class to handle your appointments and protect you. Show this ignorant bum your shoe."

She turned around and walked away without a reply. "She thinks you’re a hooker, and I’m your pimp; your kept boy toy!"

"That’s what I mean. I can’t handle this! Why must people think the worst when they don’t know what’s going on? Let’s get out of here! I have to work tomorrow, and I got a feeling we’re going to be up half the night, again. We can’t address these issues in a public place anymore. People read all sorts of wrong things into what they hear, Donny. She got the wrong impression from what we said."