TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 208

Fri Apr 27 08:14:26 PDT 2007

April 26, 20000000007

Dear Purple,

	Yesterday's settlement conference was a 
big surprise.  I arrived early and was greeted by 
the judge who was in a talkative mood.  She went 
on about coffee beans, how particular and rigid 
we get as we age (I told her it was not rigidity, 
it was the fact that with age, she had developed 
an educated palate.  She laughed loud.), her 
maroon carpets (she didn't want your usual boring 
legal firm decor), the flowers that get delivered 
every week to the office (she likes them very 
much.  They are no scent arrangements.  They last 
a week), the way this case has dragged on and on 
(she revealed that she got to the point where she 
just rolled her eyes at the  twelve page 
diatribe/documents that the opposing lawyer and 
clients submitted the minute before settlement 
conferences).   She said that this time, all we 
had to do was line up the official papers.  They 
were all there, and ready to go.  We needed to go 
over them for a few details, dotting Is, crossing 
Ts, then sign them, and we could all go home. 
That easy.  That fast.  "This is the last time 
you'll see me!" she said, transforming her face 
and body into a gesture of mock longing and 
grief.  Actually, I thought, this would be a good 
person to have as a friend.  I like her.  She's 
got ethics, brains, humour, a way with words, a 
good attitude about life.  How'd she start out 
being a lawyer?

	Then villainman's lawyer walked in 
dragging his dolly packed with briefcase and 
papers.  The conversation stopped abruptly. 
Sterling handed her a stack of papers.  She took 
him off to another room.  By the time he came 
back, my lawyer, Dennis, arrived with his own 
little pushcart of briefcase, papers and files. 
Sterling asked him, "Did you get my documents?" 
Dennis answered him, a little perturbed, "I got 
them just as I was leaving to come here.  I 
printed them out; that's why I'm a little late." 
"Did you read them?"  "I just got them.  I 
haven't read a thing."  Oh no.  New documents. 
Spread sheets and demands.  This from the ex 
husband who refused to send me my support check 
this month because, "We have an agreement".  Just 
a penny pinching ploy.  Evidently, as shown by 
the last minute papers, even he has to admit that 
we didn't have an agreement.

	Dennis asked the legal secretary if we 
could set up in the first conference room.  She 
agreed, cheerfully, and opened the door for us. 
Dennis, slapped down a pile of papers on the 
desk. " This is what Sterling sent this morning. 
Two documents.  One is sixteen pages long.  The 
other I haven't counted."  Groan.  The judge 
knocked on the door.  She came in with Sterling's 
most recent offerings.  She asked Dennis if he 
had had a chance to glance at any of it.  He told 
her he flipped through pages while he was 
printing it out, and the first and only thing he 
saw was some cockamamie demand that Tobie write 
letters to The Bank of America about late payment 
on the mortgage.  The judge made a sweeping 
gesture with her arm.  "It's gone.  Forget about 
it."  Then they discussed what had to be done 
that morning.  She told me they had to go over 
the latest collection of commentary from the ex 
and company, and I wasn't really needed for that. 
I could go home.  Dennis started to push the 
sixteen page package across the desk to me.  "You 
could read this and hang around," he said.  The 
judge looked at me and mouthed, "DON'T DO IT." 
So I declined, got my things together, and left.

	So that won't be the last time I see the 
judge.  And it ain't over yet.  It seems like it 
will go on forever.  I'd worked myself up to face 
this next phase of my life, and I had to work 
myself down again.  The meeting still left me 
exhausted from the adrenalin and the angst. 
There will be more chapters.  Feh.

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Just College Boys

	My breasts used to get me into a lot of 
trouble.  They were big.  In fact they were one 
moment not there, and over a summer rose like 
Paricutin from a field in Mexico.  I had sudden 
twin volcanos.  In the ninth grade at fourteen, I 
was still wearing T-shirts.  By the time tenth 
grade started in the fall, at fifteen, I was 
hoisting my twin volcanos around in thirty six 
double D brassieres.  It was strange to me, 
having these huge appendages.  I had to get new 
clothes, and now my upper half wore a larger size 
than my lower half.  I was terribly self 
conscious about it.  I could feel the eyes of men 
and boys on me.  All at once, I was a sex object. 
Before, I had been invisible.  Now, I was like a 
neon sign that couldn't be turned off.  When boys 
in school talked to me, they focussed on my 
breasts, not my eyes or my mouth, or my head in 
general.  I squirmed under the scrutiny.  I could 
hear the boys laughing, making jokes about me and 
my new acquisitions that I'd purposefully mounted 
on my chest just to tease them.  Caving in my 
chest, hunching my shoulders wouldn't do it. 
They were too big for that.  They would just be 
there where they were, shining in the night.  The 
neck of my cello could now only fit right between 
them, and the shoulders either below them or 
above them, otherwise, I would be squeezing 
myself in two parts.  There were many 
disadvantages, and I couldn't find one advantage.

	At home, my father began to ogle me, leer 
at me, rub his hands together as if anxious for 
something delectable to happen.  It was awful. 
The whole thing was awful.  I walked around 
embarrassed, cringing, knowing that they all 
thought I was a slut.  I was asking for it, 
because I was shaped the way I was.  And what 
could be done about it?  An incurable situation.

	I wore coats to disguise myself.  Even in 
the summer, I wore coats or jackets and wrapped 
them around me for camouflage.  Still, the 
feeling was that I was not myself any more, with 
my talents and sensitivities, my sense of humour 
and my heart.  I was two breasts.  The flat 
chested girls didn't understand.  They'd be 
openly envious.

	"Oh, I wish I had a figure like yours," 
they'd whine.  "I keep telling mine to grow, but 
they don't.  You're so lucky."

	Luck had little to do with it.  This was 
one of those things that ran in the family.  Both 
sides, all the way back, the women were ample. 
On my mother's side, more than ample.  Grama 
Fannie arrived at womanhood in the teens and 
twenties.  That was the era when the fashion was 
to strap the breasts down, minimize them, have 
the figure of a boy.  So Grama's breasts were 
flattened, huge and pendulous, spread out close 
to her rib cage.  When unharnessed, they reached 
past her waist.  Thank you to the winds of 
fashion.

	In my camouflaged state, I crept around 
Berkeley High School, hoping no one would notice. 
At home, I covered up as best I could.  But it 
was useless.  My father would catch sight of me 
and a hard lipped grin would appear on his face. 
Then he'd turn red, as if he'd been caught doing 
something he shouldn't do.  It was important not 
to acknowledge it.  But that was near impossible.

	After school, I'd meet Yvonne at the 
public library, and we'd go through the shelves 
together, picking out books of romantic poetry, 
or art books with lots of coloured plates.  We'd 
whisper in the aisles, go to the ladies' room for 
major confidences.  We'd study.  We'd enjoy each 
other's company.  Then when we were done with the 
library, we'd make our way to her place on the 
corner of Dwight Way and Telegraph Avenue.  We'd 
part somewhere on the Avenue.  She'd go home. 
I'd walk to the bus stop.  Sometimes I would stop 
in stores and idly look at the goods.  My 
favourite place to stop was the UC Corner.  In 
the back was a record store that carried 
classical and ethnic folk music.  I'd fold my 
arms across my chest to hide myself, and go 
through the racks and racks of albums.  I'd 
bolster myself for the excursion up the street 
and emerge out on the sidewalk among the twenty 
seven thousand, five hundred students, hoping to 
blend in.

	One day, I was walking on Telegraph, 
trying to make my way to the bus stop, when a 
klatch of fraternity boys gathered around me. 
Half of them walked in front of me, facing back 
to their brothers who were walking behind me. 
They had me surrounded.  They tossed a football 
over my head, back and forth, back and forth. 
And they made great sport of me.

	Toss.  Thunk.

	"Hey girl, you've got big ones!"

	Toss.  Thunk.

	"Wow!  Take a look at those, you guys!"

	Toss.  Thunk.

	I ducked my head down, wrapped my coat 
around myself, felt the adrenalin surging in my 
veins.  I headed down the Avenue looking for a 
place to run and get away.

	"Hey, I bet your boobs are bigger than your head!"

	Toss.  Thunk.

	"Give us a kiss, Susie.  Show us what you've got."

	Toss.  Thunk.

	"I'd like to climb inside that dress and crawl all over those things."

	I shuddered.

	Toss.  Thunk.

	"What's the matter, Susie?  Don't be shy.  You know you love it!"

	Toss.  Thunk.

	It was a busy time of day.  The sidewalk 
was mobbed.  People had to part on either side of 
us as my fraternity brothers herded me down the 
Avenue.  This was a public event, and everyone 
was staring.

	We passed by the open doors of a clothing 
store and I ran inside, stumbled over the clothes 
racks to the back and busied myself, intensely, 
with going through the hangers.  I was afraid the 
proprietor might kick me out if I weren't 
seriously shopping.

	The fraternity boys stood at the opening 
to the clothing store, and called inside to me.

	"Come on out and play, Susie.  Bring it all with you."

	I didn't look up.

	They smacked their lips and laughed. 
This was the most fun they'd had all day.  Tears 
started forming in my eyes.  I tried to suppress 
them.  But they crested over my eyelids and 
streamed down my cheeks.  I wiped them away with 
the sleeve of my jacket.  The owner of the store 
went to the open doors and shooed the boys away.

	"You're blocking my doorway!  Go on!  Get out of here.  Break it up!"

	They laughed that they had important 
business to do with a girl in the store.

	"I don't think so," said the man.  "Beat it!"

	They turned back up the street shouting 
at each other and tossing their football.  I 
heard them disappearing, their noise fading out. 
When I could no longer hear them at all, I still 
stayed in the safety of the store.  Maybe they 
had slinked back quietly and were waiting for me 
at the corner.  Or maybe they were already back 
at their frat house collecting the extra credits 
they got for harassing a co-ed.  How many points 
was I worth?

	I took a billowy folk blouse off the rack 
and asked to try it on.  A saleslady showed me to 
the dressing room.  She said nothing about my 
tears, my red eyes.  I went into the room and put 
my books down on the floor.  I hung the blouse up 
on a hook, took off my blouse and was about to 
put the other blouse on, when I caught sight of 
myself in the hideous dressing room mirror. 
There I was with my two offensive, dangerous 
breasts, overflowing my brassiere.  I put my 
blouse back on, sat down on the chair and cried 
in earnest.

	The saleslady knocked on the door.  "Are you okay in there?"

	I sucked up my tears and stiffened.  "I'm 
fine.  Really.  I'll be fine."

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-- 

Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net