Act I
You remember that episode of Good Times when the Evanses suspected their neighbor, Gertie, of eating dog food? They saw a bunch of cans in her trash and Gertie didn’t have a dog to speak of. Then, after bringing them a not-dog-food meatloaf—and forcing them to eat it, even though Florida already had a bird on the table—she actually admitted to eating dog food. Casual as hell too, “Well I do.” Later that year, the New York Times ran an article about seniors eating dog food to survive due to low Social Security or disability income. FDA-approved ingredients, easy to access and prepare, et cetera. After I saw that episode, I always imagined Gertie cracking cans of Pedigree in her free time, a variety of bowl-licking flavors, all cheaper than a can of chicken. Jouging up her dog food casserole and dog food stroganoff and dog food burgers. At some point, dog food probably starts to taste good or, at least, normal. Maybe it is. It’s just all the leftover parts pushed through a cheese grater anyway. You ever had canned roast beef? Ain’t nothing by private-label dog food. At least put “premium” on mine. Even if we all eating dog food, Gertie was the one to vocalize it. There’s power in shame. She the one who spit it out onto the floor and let it sit there. That’s something a dog would do.
All it takes is a little anecdote to solidify your personhood. We are only a bundle of stories wrapped up within one another like a hank. Molten decisions made by other people. People that have been changed by even other decisions. The anecdotes preserve us as we were. Based on who you were, people decide who you are. Whenever I can, I tell them myself: I am Pametha Gillis. Whatever that means for the day. I took care of my grandfather while he had dementia—until he began to confuse everything with a loaded gun and me with a person he needed to shoot. I sanitized airplanes for two years to avoid taking out student loans. A man once sat in the corner of a ruddy motel room and paid me $750 to undress as if he wasn’t there, then $1,000 to redress as if his presence terrified me. When I was younger, I tripped a man trying to rob a convenience store on his way out of the side door. I’ve seen every American film released in 1998. Two years after graduating high school, I sent an anonymous threatening email to my freshman English teacher over a failed essay about Farewell to Manzanar. I took tap dancing lessons for six years. I was seven years old when I said my first word: zeitgeist. As a student attorney, I cried in court after being admonished by the judge for advising my client to skip out on a bench warrant and quit the next day. I can draw a near perfect portrait of Barack Obama without lifting my pencil from the page. I can do a back handspring, but only while wearing a specific pair of Nike Air Max. Most of that is untrue, but which parts are not for me to say.
There are five of us or four of them and one of me, whatever is easier for you to wrap your head around.
Act II
At work, I am Pam. G., lone member of the Welcome Committee. Pam G. works at a company that requires everyone to wear a nametag on the right breast and to acknowledge anyone you come within ten feet of while in the hallways—if you’re within five feet, you have to speak. Nothing meaningful. Just a flat “Good morning” or “I like that bag.” Interactions are logged in a spreadsheet somewhere, Pam G. is sure of it. They hand out certificates and fun-size candy on work anniversaries and talk about stress efficiency and family culture in the new hire orientation.
In the mind of Pam, I log each of the company’s new white women into my spreadsheet. Shellie: two cats, moved from a large city, her family perished in a bad accident. Fiona: alcoholic, dresses like a Victorian aristocrat, impossibly long hair. Allison: freckles, obsessed with Nascar and dressing like a teenage boy; single mother, awful ex-husband. Alexis: jilted, moving back to take care of her grandfather’s old farmhouse and estate. Hannah: recent college graduate and devout Christian. Darby: romance enthusiast, really into cosplay. The company has a type: fragile white women on the verge of collapse who quit after just a couple of months on the job—a few if they’re lucky. They’re replaceable. A dime a dozen. Good thing, because they shatter like hammered glass.
Pam G. is there to welcome them. To keep them comfortable for their ninety-day trial period. To answer their questions about when their favorite eating spot shut down or why the streets flood so bad or where to find extra staples—nowhere, extra staples are a myth. Did you notice that the committee is not welcoming? It’s a formality. A procedure meant to receive new employees. And only certain employees. Those upper office employees are greeted with signing bonuses and company cars and Yard House gift cards and custom notes on company letterhead that all begin with “Dear [New Employee Name], welcome to the family!” A formality. Can a formality be welcoming? Is it welcoming if it is just procedure? It seems like a paradox, polite radical propaganda. I am fragile, all five of us are. There’s a reason that char is stiff, unmoving, and comes off in one piece—giant thick flakes. That’s why I am the Welcome Committee. There is nurturing here, even when I’m elbow-deep in confusion and purposelessness and the thought soup of my mind and the mundaneness of circuity. Even when I’m the Welcome Committee, stamping stacks of HR files, memorizing personal details I will void her mind of in a couple—a few?—months to make room for more other personal details.
Pam G.’s back straightens as she senses a visitor coming to her cubicle by a creak of the floorboards beneath the office’s muted blue carpet. She is always grateful for the extra three seconds before the shadow looms over her desk and eclipses Pametha completely. If her life had a soundtrack, it would be full of screaming violins to mark the horror of every pointless in-office conversation.
“Hey Pam. Happy Friday.”
Pam G. stamps a final file and like a ghoul, a smile—no more than a pastie—possesses her face. Pam G. spins around. “Hey boo, you okay? You wanna talk?” I fight the urge to claw out of my shell each time Pam G. says “Boo,” like an animated caricature. It’s a costume she’s made, a role she’s filled, a character with her own style, hobbies, and a voice at least an octave higher than my own.
Bella—recently widowed, from Small Town USA, likes to sing in a child star kind of way—is having what Pam G. calls “an adjustment cry.” Some start working with high hopes and crack down the middle upon finding out the truth. Sometimes they need help coping with what they discover life to be. Most of them want advice about a man Pam G. will never be able to distinguish from the butt of a bread loaf. And who is she to tell them that they can’t like bread? Everyone does.
“I’m just having some trouble getting used to things, I think. I bake when I’m stressed.” Bella holds out a container of sandwich cookies covered in icing and sprinkles.
“Oh, that’s all right, Bella. I’m not hungry.”
“Please, they’re my specialty.”
Pam G. isn’t rude, so when Bella takes the lid off the container, she grabs a cookie and takes a bite. It is so grainy and stale that it’s nearly unrecognizable, but it is undeniably milk’s favorite cookie.
I know that doesn’t count as baking, but that isn’t something Pam G. would bring up. Instead, she grabs a travel pack of tissues and sits them atop Bella’s cookie container. “I know it’s hard being in a new place, but give it a few weeks. Remember: you’re a part of the family.”
Act III
“Daughter,” Mr. Roger calls, poking his severed salt-and-pepper head over the left wall of her cubicle. Whenever any employee loses something, Mr. Roger makes it grow out of his hand. One day, I saw his palm birth a Buddha statue when a manager thought she’d lost it. Later, she found it in the trash can beneath her desk. Forgotten objects peek through the skin of his palm like splinters until they emerge fully and wait to be retrieved. He is a miracle worker. A Mr. Jingles resurrecting magical negro. I know that one day they’ll use that shit to fire his ass.
When around Mr. Roger, I am Pamela, a mispronunciation that I don’t care to correct, a different woman, a quiet one that listens to his stories about how the city continues to change around him and how he’ll be able to move his wife to the U.S. one of these days, but not today, so Pamela might as well fuck him in the meantime. An “oh come on, it’s not that serious, you’re so goofy, stop playing games, we’re two adults, grow up” kind of man. She pretends not to take offense to the polite, yet condescending laugh he lets loose when she declines, the pretentious chuckle he releases whenever he calls her “daughter,” like he wouldn’t ogle her naked body given the chance. She needs an alliance in the office—someone to vent to about the job’s monotony, the hell of the yearly Secret Santa exchanges, the long weekly meetings where executives tell the same jokes, the confusing quarterly potlucks—and he’s the only person she has. Mr. Roger nods a head toward a hallway lined with office doors. “I want to show you something.”
They take a quick walk to the conference room, where the spread is some of the most over-decadent shit Pamela has ever seen. Turkey and cheese subs cut into quarters, a tray of sweet gherkin pickles, cuts of prime rib sitting in hot au jus, perfectly browned fondant potatoes garnished with parsley, rasta pasta full of oxtail, meatloaf topped with ketchup, plastic containers of Caesar salad, damp hardened biscuits, uncut green beans sprinkled with turkey bacon, irregularly cut apples, a box of salad wafers, warming trays of Swedish meatballs, shrimp with parsley and butter sauce, white rice and roasted vegetables. The food has merely been picked at, eaten the way a woman does when struggling through day one period cramps or heartache or understanding the state of the world, a pecked pinch at a time.
Pamela flicks twin grains of rice to the floor. “There was a meeting in here?”
“I don’t know. They just make a mess and tell me to clean it.” Mr. Roger keeps a foot outside in the hallway and one on the space-gray carpet of the conference room, straddling the threshold and maintaining his presence in both worlds. It’s a skill to tightrope every fence you come across. “Ten more empty,” Mr. Roger says. Every day there are fewer coworkers populating the honeycombs of cubicles. No one else ever seems to notice the company’s workforce eroding away.
“How many floors do you clean now?”
“Five,” Mr. Roger says. “Last year it was only two.”
“You should say something.”
“I’ll just go missing next.” When Pamela doesn’t respond, Mr. Roger moves on. “Get what you want. The rest is trash.”
The longer Pamela looks at the meal, the more foreign it seems, like the cheese food between the ribboned ovals of turkey lunch meat are more venomous than usual. As if the turpentinian gloss on the meatballs is actually turpentine in the first place. Maybe it is. Still, she grabs a circular cut of apple and chews it. It is bitter and slightly alcoholic. An acrid taste coats her mouth. Shellac. A thick preservative meant to maintain food quality—to keep up appearances. A formality.
“Hmm,” Pamela says. “Gross.”
Somewhere, a studio audience laughs. At first, Pamela is offended. Then, she remembers that the laugh tracks recorded in the seventies are still used in live shows. Those laughs probably smell like dog food.
Act IV
I am playing the role of Pammy. Chaste, intelligent, patient, great-niece of Katrina. Polite, angelic, and forgiving, with the voice of a Disney princess, just not the proportions of one—but sweet Katrina loves her anyway, charitable. A handmaid heaven-sent to bring some sort of value to Katrina’s twilight years. It is a tall order, especially since Aunt Katrina still has responsibilities. While working through congestive heart failure and thyroid treatments, Katrina runs a daycare out of her home. Many of the parents have never paid her a dime and never will. And her heart is so large and fluid-filled in her chest that she doesn’t take any issue with that.
Once a week, Pammy comes over to say hi and ends up scrubbing dishes, sweeping leaves off the congested back deck, and clearing off the dining room table just for children she hopes to never see again to scatter it with a pocketful of crumbs or the broken pieces of an action figure. That means that once a week, Pammy is reminded that she hates children.
“Don’t get an attitude, Pammy.” Aunt Katrina pushes a juice box into the hands of a toddler and hustles them off to the living room to watch that VeggieTales DVD where the tomato and cucumber tell the story of Christ.
Pammy straightens her back as she stands at the kitchen counter, sorting the mail into three stacks: Junk, Bills, Other. The Other stack is nonexistent. Three boys roll by in a fight cloud; Pammy can barely make out a set of Adidas and two elbows. Aunt Katrina is unfazed. “I ain’t got an attitude.”
“Well, you got something and I suggest you lose that shit.”
Pammy fights to keep from clenching her teeth together and sucking the plaque from them. She’s aware that Aunt Katrina would smack the shit out of me for that. “Layoffs,” Pammy says. “I might lose my job—”
“—don’t get smart—”
“—Welcome Committee of one is about to be a Welcome Committee of none.”
“You can always apply somewhere else.”
Aunt Katrina has only met Pammy. She doesn’t know how hard Pam G. worked to get that job, all the lies she came up with to pad her resume, all the deep breaths she took before the interview, all the lies she came up with to look impressive during the interview. It is the perfect role for her. They are asking for something specific and nothing more. She doesn’t have to be the Welcome Committee, plus something else to someone else. A secretary slash bookkeeper slash delivery driver. Banker—court jester—personal assistant. Daughter-confidant-punching bag. Cook; chauffeur; sex doll. Acquaintance, slave, reflection.
“I’m making sandwiches for the babies. You want one?”
It is shoulder to shoulder with two snot nosed ass kids and between bites of a mushy, tasteless sandwich that I put Pammy away and take my place in my own body. I observe the diverse group of “babies” Aunt Katrina has gathered: her ASL posters, addition flash cards, incomplete boxes of crayons, empty picture frames and labeled jars of nothing. Lower cabinets full of creams and salves, cookie tins brimming with sewing needles, handwritten recipes secured to the fridge with fruit-shaped magnets, one million head scarves, a bejeweled cane nearly worn through at the tip, doilies in every color, a wall clock as large as a bay window, and stacks of empty picture frames. The sum of these parts is Aunt Katrina’s character. Pammy is the only person that calls her “aunt” that is related to her by blood. At least I think so. Let me get back to you on that, gotta check the source material.
She is Big Momma or Nana or Ma Dear or GG. There are five of her or one of her and four of them. She is a severed deer head mounted to the wall with a crown poised on her head. She is an actress, a comedienne, a figment.
Aunt Katrina is only an idea. I bet she doesn’t need a cane at all.
Act V
In an old Ruby Tuesday, squeezed in with a construction worker on one side of a banquette, I am Me-Me. A question mark, a body-shaped enigma covered in a tight dress and even tighter tights. Sultry, drowsy, and only tolerable because she is just mysterious enough to hold his attention. It is the mystery that he’s really after, right? To be able to say, “You different” with his own fuckboy essence and mean it. To pay Me-Me the mind he’d pay a Rubik’s cube while at the DMV. Fiddling with her. That’s what they do. They fiddle. It’s what you do when you are intrigued by something, but you don’t really understand it. You are cautious of exploration, because the unknown is just as fascinating as it is fucking terrifying. Wouldn’t it be cool if you solved this Rubik’s cube right here, right now? Wouldn’t you be smarter than everybody fucking else? Wouldn’t it give you some other shit to say when you walk into a room? Aren’t you shivering just thinking about it?
So Me-Me maintains the mystery by speaking in riddles. Jada Pinkett in Jason’s Lyric type shit. “Our kingdoms will next meet two days after the Red Sea dries.” Like that. Or “I have counted the heartbeats since my eyes last met yours.” Bullshit, basically. Ain’t nobody counting heartbeats. Parochial as it is, it makes her feel smart. And it makes him feel like he’s dating someone superior to himself. Someone pulsing with potential he plans to taper down to nothing. Me-Me’s character thrives on his near-groveling style of companionship. It gives her a reason to buy pointy-toed heels that give her calves a toned look.
Me-Me considers her relationship with Charlie, the construction worker, as charity. For starters, his name is Charlie, not Charles. That’s stupid on its own. Me-Me would ask his mother why she did that if Me-Me cared enough to meet the woman in the first place like Charlie had requested. It’s probably hereditary; Charlie ain’t too bright himself. He’s never filed his taxes, he uses forks on nonstick pans, eats like a horse, and thinks Bill Gates and Bob Saget are the same person. He is the kind of guy to encourage her to pop some ibuprofen before they have sex. As if turning her vagina into a mangled mound of flesh is something to look forward to. As if he knows that she looks forward to it and looks down upon it at the same time. Still, she prefers a gentle pulsing ache, one that makes her cherish being alive, not forces her to live in agony, and Charlie is just the person to give it to her, stupid as he is.
Charlie takes instruction well and has hands that are surprisingly wise. And for that reason—and that reason only—Me-Me lets him feel her up in the booth at Ruby Tuesday between bites of New Orleans seafood. When the pretty waitress brings him a new glass of Sprite, Me-Me pretends not to notice their fingers touch and Charlie is careful not to look at the waitress too long after saying “Thank you.”
Me-Me pretends to enjoy the food, but production’s budget must be a little low, because it is all made of plastic—all aside from the cream sauce. Instead of a tilapia filet, she is staring at a plastic fish with Xs for eyes. Charlie cocks an eyebrow as he sucks real mashed potatoes and gravy off a spoon.
“Not hungry,” Me-Me says over the sound of her stomach; a crumbly cookie, an apple sauce, and a soggy sandwich aren’t much in terms of sustenance. Charlie stabs a fork through the plastic fish and manages to crunch it down into a swallowable chunk. Horrifying.
Me-Me pays the bill and Charlie leaves the tip, a five and three crumpled ones. He’ll pay the next time, he promises while attempting to force his hands into the nonexistent space between her ass and the seat of the booth. Ah, an ass squeeze for her troubles. How chivalrous.
“I thought it was pretty good.” Charlie has a smirk on his face and gestures to her plate, empty now aside from a smear of leftover cream sauce. His hands making their way beneath her thighs, closest to the knee, as if he plans to slide her onto his lap and mold his hands around her waist and fuck her right there in front of the pretty waitress that drops the check on the table as she passes by.
They leave the restaurant in a flurry. They have a limited amount of time before Charlie unavoidably begins to disgust her and she’d like to make it to their hotel room first—Charlie isn’t allowed in her house, no one is.
The carnal is revealing in every way, even for a woman with five ready-to-wear costumes. There is a second between the moment Charlie makes Me-Me’s nose touch the ceiling and the moment she comes crashing back down, flopping against the hotel’s king-sized bed like a fish, that I pay my own body a visit. It’s only right that I take the wheel just before we cross the finish line.
And I don’t think about Charlie at all. I think about when I used to match with a girl I met named Seraph, before the Welcome Committee. Every day, Seraph looked like a different person. Monday: shaved head, cropped hoodie, and platform boots. Tuesday through Thursday: off. Friday: braids so fresh I could use Seraph’s scalp to warm my hands. Saturday: a three-piece suit, tailored to drape over her shoulders like curtains on a window. Sunday: an ankle-length denim skirt, clogs, and an oversized sweater. Every day a different person stared at me through clouds of gray smoke in the breakroom.
Seraph always fingered the new girls. It was damn near part of the new-hire routine, like filling out an I-9. Seraph was every woman they wanted and wanted to be, Swiss Army Seraph. That was the name of her character. She was considering changing it as not to offend the Swiss, but Swiss Army Seraph had a ring to it. A faux championship ring like the one she wore when she dressed as Michael Jordan and her middle fingers desperately searched for something inside of me. I was a new girl.
“I hate being who they think I am,” Seraph said, wiping a smear of bright red lipstick from her mouth and cheek. She wore a full camo pantsuit and kneed the fabric into the carpet of the hotel room floor. “Like a Fill-in-the-Blank-Bitch or something. That ain’t me.” When we checked into the room, Seraph climbed on the dresser and cut a hole out of the ceiling so that we could gaze at all the identical points of light pierced into the navy bedroll of the sky.
On my back, sprawled across the hotel’s mattress that was too plush to be comfortable, I changed the channel to a new sky—a more interesting one where clouds gathered around the moon like children.
“People are more complex than that,” Seraph said, pulling my knees apart. “I’m more complex than that.”
“You don’t have to keep transforming.”
“Of course I do,” she mumbled into the damp skin of my thigh.
“That has to be exhausting.”
Seraph peered up at me over the swell of my flesh and prurience. “It’s survival.”
When the duvet settles beneath my body and Charlie has stopped calling for the Creator and Me-Me shimmies into place between the skeleton and fascia, we decide to make our exit.
Charlie leans against the cold wood of the headboard and watches carefully as she redresses. “Next week. Same time, same place,” he says.
Will Bella go on a baking spree with Chips Ahoy cookies next? Will Mr. Roger clean his floors fast enough to ask Pamela for some ass on her way out the door? How many children will crowd around Aunt Katrina’s dining room table for sandwiches? How many pretty waitresses will refill Me-Me’s water glass before one catches Charlie’s attention? Tune in next week to find out.
