Skinny

Joan didn’t know what to do, whether to schedule an intervention for Celia, or to just tell her no. She had agreed to accompany her co-worker to what only the most charitable (or gullible) person might call a “pop-up clinic.”

Celia was nearing the 300 pound milestone, or rather millstone. She had seen the photocopied ad on a telephone pole promising “I CAN MAKE YOU SKINNY IN A DAY!” Joan had also seen the ridiculous advertisement. At the bottom of the wrinkled black and white xerox was the obligatory fringe of pre-cut phone numbers, some of them missing, leaving a gap-toothed jack-o’-lantern mouth effect. They had both seen the ad on one of their lunch break exercise walks. Celia had eagerly torn off a slip of paper and that same night had set up an appointment.

Joan had warned her she had seen a similar telephone pole ad, almost identical, and that one had listed a different address. It had the same grainy black and white “photo” of the suss “Dr. Durango,” which looked like a Central American newspaper mugshot. You really couldn’t see a single one of his facial features clearly. He was like a piece of burnt toast with eyes.

Celia didn’t care that the address had changed, that the new address was in an equally bad part of town as the last one. “It’s a pop-up clinic. Who knows what their agreement is with these buildings,” she had reasoned.

What bothered Joan (130 pounds) the most was that Celia seemed to believe that a young woman who lived in her development had gone from roughly 250 pounds to 125 pounds overnight. She swore she saw her twice in the same week at the supermarket and even talked to her. When she asked her about the miraculous change, she had only whispered “Dr. Durango” in her ear, and then rather mysteriously wheeled her shopping cart away.

This is why Joan wondered whether she should be staging an intervention and how, exactly, one went about that. The poor girl must be so desperate at her situation that she was hallucinating. But for now, even though they weren’t close friends, just office mates, she had agreed to accompany the younger woman to this appointment in what she knew was a dangerous neighborhood even at noon. She felt she owed it to her to chaperone the poor dear in her vulnerable state.

Celia pulled up and parked right behind Joan. Her brand new Chevy Silverado looked out of place in this street of broken-down cars of yesteryear. It was Cinderella on a street of ugly step-sisters. Joan told her to make sure she locked it up tight and had her keys. She had already told Celia that she would wait outside, in her own car. This was for safety’s sake. Celia was to text Joan every fifteen minutes or so, as often as she could. She advised against letting them do any medical procedures as “the place might not even be sterile.” She begged her to change her mind, but Celia just hugged her and thanked her profusely for being there.

Joan watched her heavy friend struggle up the brownstone steps and enter what had once been a tony townhouse a century ago, which had then been divided up into low-rent apartments and then finally sat vacant, like so many other buildings on this blighted street. The FOR SALE sign was still up. Joan wondered whether Dr. Demento, or whatever his name was, might be a squatter. None of this might be legit at all. What if it was just a robbery scheme. Or a rape set-up. She began to feel queasy. She wondered whether she should call the police. But that would be ridiculous. The police would surely dress her down, call her a Karen. The police would surely have cracked down by now if it was a truly dangerous scam.

She listened to talk radio for what must have been forty-five minutes. Celia had indeed sent her two texts during that time reading, “All okay, hon.” The same exact text twice. Just as Joan’s impatience and worry was reaching the “furious mother” stage, someone came out of the building. The woman was ridiculously wearing Celia’s oversized clothing as she emerged from the gloomy tenement and trotted down the doorstoop stairs. What sort of sick joke is this, Joan wondered.

As the stranger approached Joan’s Hyundai, she nervously pressed the door lock. But the woman leaned down to the passenger side window and laughed, “Joan, open the window, it’s me!” And it was her. My God, it was Celia! The ballooned-up Celia, the parade float Celia had been deflated by more than 150 pounds, at least. She was now positively a sylph! Joan felt her head spin. Who was the one with the hallucinations now, she thought.

“It works, honey! Dr. Durango is a genius. It didn’t even hurt. They put me in a twilight sleep and I went inside that machine and they played me soft tropical music in that chamber. And when I woke up, well, look at me! I was so worried about extra flesh, surgeries, but none of that shit! Look!”

And here Celia lifted up her floral blouse, which swam on her now, to show her swimsuit model stomach. Joan swallowed hard and felt a strange white-hot flash of…what?….jealousy? How was this possible? Can pity turn into jealousy in less than an hour, invert itself like a sweater turned inside-out?

“I thought we agreed you would not allow them to administer medication to you!” Joan scolded like a kindergarten teacher. She was still seated in her Hyundai and it was probably for the best since she felt so light-headed.

“Who gives a shit?” the now-hot Celia laughed, and she looked down at her phone which had just rapped a braggadocious Nikki Minaj ringtone. She took the call, turning her back to Joan’s car, chatted very briefly, then hung up.

“Listen, honey. I left my purse up there. Like an idiot. I’m not supposed to climb stairs for a few days, or at least as little as possible. It’s three floors up. Could you be a doll and just run up and have the secretary hand it to you.”

“Okay, okay,” Joan nearly whispered. She was in shock. “Don’t leave until I get back though, okay?”

“Sure,” Celia promised brightly, and then twirled so her huge blouse seemed a dress. She was feeling the joy of her new body every second.

Joan couldn’t believe what a dump the place was as she climbed the punishing two sets of stairs. They were littered with trash and there was a broken open door, half off its hinges, on the second floor. She heard children speaking a language she thought might be Arabic and smelled some lovely foreign meal. When she reached the third floor, she saw a laughable piece of white copy paper with OFFICE written in black magic marker on it. It had been Scotch-taped to the door. She pushed open that grimy door, saying “Hello?”

Celia was seated in her lovely blue Silverado looking at a dating app that had always disappointed her before. She had already uploaded her new profile photos, taken on the street next to the truck. She couldn’t believe how quickly she was getting matches now on the app. She heard Joan’s voice calling her somewhere from above.

She stepped out and down from the truck, looked up to a dormer window way at the top of the building, out of which Joan was leaning and waving her arms, clearly quite desperate, trying to whisper-yell and still be understood, not an easy thing to do in an inner city.

“They took my phone! Dial 911. Get the police! I’m locked in a room. Celia, hurry! These people are not normal.”

Celia smiled up at her co-worker. “I know. They told me they wanted you. They saw you on the street. Kiss Dr. Durango for me. He’s a cutie, isn’t he?”

Joan realized then how it was and started to scream “Help!” but two pairs of arms grabbed her and pulled her back into the third floor room. And wouldn’t you know it, the loudest, longest car horn sounded at just that moment right on the street below. People are such damn impatient creatures. And then, of course, the window slammed shut.