The bartender calls me Picabo, but that’s not my name. It started two years ago when I first began frequenting the Bright Eyes Bar & Grille. I sat myself down at the bar, ordered a rusty nail and pulled out the novel I’d been reading at the time. Impressed by my order, the bartender asked for my name.
“Katie Street,” I had replied.
“Street?” he’d repeated. “Like the skier? Picabo?”
I narrowed my eyes at such a reference. I had a vague recollection of an athlete with that name doing lip balm commercials when I was a kid. “I guess?” I replied, non-committal.
“Except you don’t ski,” he laughed, looking my plus-sized frame up and down.
I rolled my eyes. “Well, Marv,” I said, taking note of his name tag. “As it happens, I do ski. Every winter. Since I was eight. I also have a brown belt in Krav Maga.”
Marv appeared to feel as stupid as his words had made him look. “Look, that was rude and really dumb of me. I’m sorry.”
I took a sip of my drink, and damn if it wasn’t delicious. Marv might be an idiot, but he made a great rusty nail. “Okay then,” I replied.
He made me another drink and told me it was on the house. “Can I call you Picabo?” he asked. And I could tell it was as much a peace offering as the drink.
“Marv, my man,” I said. “If you keep making drinks like this, you can call me anything you want.”
By now, I had become accustomed to this. People didn’t always know how to handle me. I was, according to the beauty standards of modern Western society, quite pretty. My hair was long and dark brown, I had large brown eyes, pouty lips, and high cheekbones. I was also, by those same standards, big. Yes, I was overweight, fat, plump, full-figured, big-boned (this was my favourite for its biological unlikeliness), plus-sized, large-bodied, BBW.
From the ages of ten to thirty-four, I had starved myself. And then I didn’t anymore. My body went up three dress sizes in a year, and now, two years later, it has found balance in the shape I currently am. I, Katie, am usually okay with it. It’s other people who have the problem.
Now, as I sit in my usual seat at the Bright Eyes Bar & Grille, Marv has become a good friend. He updates me on the goings-on with his wife, Jill, and their prized cocker spaniels: Biggie and Precious. He and Jill were originally from Queens but came upstate to breed and train dogs. I had met Jill a few times when she came to pick up house keys or some cash from her husband. They were unbearably sweet together.
I looked at my phone to see a missed call from my mother. Nope, I didn’t have the bandwidth for that. Plus, my gosh, it was three in the morning in Budapest! She didn’t leave a message, so I knew it wasn’t urgent. A drunk call, most likely. She and my dad would hit the town once a month and let loose. I would get a call in the middle of the night, the two of them shouting into the phone about how much they lovvvvvveeeeddddd me. Being an only child, I shouldered this and many other burdens alone.
The family business had been the biggest one, of course. But it wasn’t a burden anymore. In fact, I had doubled our profits and built it into a well-oiled machine that meant I only worked twenty hours per week. Street Smarts Tutoring was now the largest private tutoring service in New York State. I even had the space to take on some underprivileged clients pro bono. My favourites were high school seniors hell-bent on bumping up their grades. So, that had been my routine for the past two years. Work with clients on Monday, Wednesday and Friday evenings, and then come to the bar for a few drinks before heading home to crash.
Home, for now anyway, was actually my parents’ condominium. I told myself when I moved in three years ago that I was doing them a favour by house-sitting while they were off on their Hungarian adventure. But they were doing me the favour. It had been one less thing to think about when everything else had fallen apart.
“Picabo? Where are you?” called Marv from the other end of the long, luxurious black walnut bar.
I shook myself back to the present moment. “I’m here,” I said. “But I think I’m done for the night.”
He sauntered over, waving my bill. “You sure? We didn’t get to chat tonight.”
“You’ve been busy. As you should be. It’s Friday night, Marv. It wouldn’t do for you to be talking to me all night. Get thine tips!” I said, waving my hands dramatically.
He laughed and swiped my card. “Jill wants you to finally come over for dinner. You’ve been putting us off for nearly two years, Picabo. I’m off next Sunday. Tell me you’ll come.”
He was right, of course. I hadn’t seen anyone socially in three years—not family, not friends. I had always gotten out of it and stuck to FaceTime and texting. Most of my friends had young kids and so they barely noticed. My parents were in Hungary, and I’d never been close to the rest of my family. I had a few cousins in Manhattan, but they were younger and we didn’t have much in common. I liked keeping people at arms’ length. And I needed to, at least for now.
“Sure,” I replied. “Next Sunday it is.” I got up, grabbed my purse and smiled at him as I waved goodbye, all the while knowing I would cancel the day before.
Photo by Abdel Rahman Abu Baker
A Sweetwood Review
Writers love reviews. Readers love reviews. So I’m very grateful to all who take the time to leave an honest review of my books. Here’s Nana’s:
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