UpHill

---

UpHill - book excerpt

Chapter One

“Ouch!”

Lary winces as she tweezes yet another stray hair from her chin. She peers into the Mirror from Hell, a 10X magnifying circle of terror, weaving atop a flexible metal stem, like God’s ugliest flower. The base balances precariously on the edge of a cigarette-burned counter. She sits on the toilet seat, scanning her jaw line for further insults to her fifty-five years.

             “What the …?” She tugs on a quarter-incher with her fingers. Scrambling for her tweezers, she knocks over her glass of Cabernet. She grabs the closest towel and mops wildly at the spreading wine. After tossing the red-soaked terrycloth onto the bath mat, she storms from the room.

             Without slowing down, she manages to snatch the tabby peacefully sleeping on a rocking chair of cast-off clothes. Pizza, named for Lary’s favorite food, meows predictably before settling into her arms. For some reason known only to the cat, he loves the ancient ratty housecoat described by her last boyfriend as her “I-never-want-to-have-sex-again” robe. Lary finds on the floor what she’s looking for – the rest of the wine. She pours herself another glass with one hand, tossing a month’s worth of tabloids from the sofa with the other. Finally, she manages to arrange both herself and the cat on the down-starved cushions. Without ceremony, the cat kneads her lap for a moment before dozing back to sleep. Lary sucks back the glass of wine.

            Glancing down at her mid-section, she’s shocked to the bone. Well, not to the bone exactly. More shocked to the fat. “How in the world have I managed to put back all that weight?” Her scale must be wrong, surely. After all, it was just a cheapie from the dollar store. But is it possible? She has put back those twenty pounds? Again? “That’s the fourth time this year!”

             But on the other hand, she calculates on her fingers, she has lost them four times, which is eighty pounds. She has lost eighty pounds! Well, that sounds kind of good, doesn’t it? Eighty pounds? That’s like one supermodel.

             She takes a large gulp of wine to celebrate her enormous loss of eighty pounds.

             Now, okay, let’s see though … she has gained it back … oh, rats … four times. Which puts her right back where she started a year ago.

             I give up.

             A soft creaking sound irritates her ears. Bleary-eyed, she turns her head left to find the source of the annoyance. A fake pine tree lists to the right, threatening to topple over, dropping all of its decorations, such as they are.

             She tries to ignore it, lights a cigarette, and leans back to stare out the tenth-floor windows of her one-bedroom apartment facing south down Yonge Street. Wet snow blurs the view. Lights twinkle. And a double line of honking, angry traffic snakes up the slish-slushy slope south of St. Clair on the late afternoon of December 24th, 2004.

             “So, I have lost and gained eighty pounds. What else happened last year? I have applied for 1,437 jobs, give or take.” Her fave application had been to conduct cross-country tours for seniors on Via Rail. But the powers that be couldn’t see how being a downsized television producer made her a successful candidate.

“No imagination, honestly! What were some of the other ones? Long distance truck driver. One teeny-weeny problem there – I didn’t have a trucker’s license, but still, a few lessons could have fixed that. Those people were so rude.

             “Let’s see, what else sticks out? Landscaper, now that was a cool one. Free exercise, after all. What else?” She had considered becoming a hairdresser, a mortician, a pet psychologist, and an electrician. And don’t forget, a zookeeper. The problem was they all required courses, some of them even college courses, for Pete’s sake! Small wonder I’ve ended up as a real estate assistant. Not even an agent, just a lowly assistant.

             Lary strokes the cat. “Start thinking about New Year’s resolutions and have them handy for next week. After all, I have been very successful in keeping my one resolution last year. I have given up swearing. You know, using profanities like my all-time favorite – the f-bomb. It has been a struggle I have to admit. Swearing is one of the great pleasures of life.”

And miraculously she has managed to stick to it for a whole year!

             Lary giggles. “That’s because I have so much fun creating my own swear words. And no one, well, a few do, know I’m swearing at them.” She yells, waking the cat, “Hey, you great kumquat! It’s almost Christmas. What the popcorn?”

            She drinks some more wine. The new swear words are all food related. That makes it easier to remember. “Okay, this year, what are going to be my new resolutions? Give up chocolate? Sure, why not. Give up ciggies, again? Absolutely. Maybe I should give up … alcohol?

            The thought makes her whole body shudder. Then she wouldn’t have any flaws at all. And what’s more boring than a goody two-shoes? Little Miss Perfect with a “P.” Nobody likes that. No, she would keep her alcohol flaw but make a concerted effort to cut down on the amount. That’s it. She would moderate herself.

            Lary glances down and catches sight of her hairy legs; she has forgotten to shave again. What has happened to her personal hygiene?

            Never mind. Next year will be better. New body, new job. Let’s make that new career. Oh, and a new man in her life. In that order.

            Lary relaxes her head back on the sofa. “Hey, when you’re on rock bottom, Pizza man, there’s only one way to go, and that’s up, right?”

Chapter Two

            Lary wakes to the feeling of a pot-scrubber scraping her forehead. It’s Pizza, licking cheese puffs stuck to her bangs. It seems she and the cat are still cuddled on the sofa.

            “Pizza, I love you dearly. But do you mind morphing into a near-perfect man? Just for a few minutes? Keep my inner fantasy alive?” She doesn’t lust after George Clooney or anything. He’s too perfect. Maybe a fifty-fifty perfect like say, Alec Baldwin or …

            She glances over at the forgotten glass of water and two aspirins sensibly sitting on her coffee table, intended to be drunk before sleep to ward off the Demon Hangover. The smell of stale cigarette butts assails her nose.

            She blinks her eyes rapidly to loosen the contacts stuck to her irises. Finally, her vision clears; she stares out at the empty street into the dull, cold, sunless day. Turning to look at the wall clock in her galley kitchen, she shouts in a panic, “Kumquat! It’s three in the afternoon. How in the popcorn did that happen?”

            The phone rings, sounding like a fire alarm in her head. Lary groans. Dumping the cat, she struggles out of the cushions and pads across the carpet to answer it where it sits atop her crappy old TV.

             “Merry Christmas, Pumpkin,” she mumbles with as much cheer as she can muster.

            Her niece, Penelope, although twenty-three, has been saddled with “Pumpkin” ever since her champagne-soaked Aunt Lary called her that in her bassinet.

            Now as she listens to her niece rattle on about exams, her stepmother, and someone whose name sounded like Hagi – Nagi? Hani?

             Lary wanders over to the sofa, filling up last night’s glass with the remains of last night’s wine, and tossing it back. “Hair of the Rottweiler,” she says into the phone.

             “You sound kinda fuzzy-wuzzy, Lawrence. You sure you’re all right?” Pumpkin’s voice chirps into the headset. “The wicked stepmother is expecting you around five for drinks before her dinner party. More like her disaster party if you ask me.”

             “I’ll be okay. I’ll be late, but I’ll be okay.”

             “I can come by and give you an emergency makeover,” Pumpkin offers. “I’m pretty sure you need one.”

            “Play nice, niece. No, I’ll be there bright-eyed and bushy-tailed …” She rolls her eyes at the ceiling, “’Bout six. Ish.”

             Dinner at the family vegetarian’s? Could this day get any worse?

            Half an hour later she lays in a steamy hot tub, wet hair piled on top of her head, and toes balanced on the rim. She stares at her chipped toenail polish, left over since … when?

             Since the last time she had worn sandals, that’s right. That would be the end of September, when she thought Michael from 4A was going to ask her out. Instead, he asked to borrow a can of Meow Meow cat food.

             Meow this, Michael from 4A.

             She relaxes back onto the plastic pink pillow shaped like a seashell stuck to the back of the tub. Her eyelids close; her breathing slows.

             Her thoughts drift back to … how long ago now was it, anyway? Three years? Four? Couldn’t possibly be.

            She taps her fingers on her slippery belly. One … two … three … It has been four long years ago since that awful afternoon when she had leaned down to brush a muddy leaf from a ten-minute old, cocoa brown stiletto, purchased between her lunchtime mani-pedi and bikini wax.

            The day that had changed her wonderful life forever …

            Lary swore later that the twenty-foot maple, mother tree of the offending leaf, had materialized out of thin air, the way it had jumped off the sidewalk like that, whacking the stuffing out of her, tossing her and her size four, moss green, pencil-skirted suit butt-flat on the pavement in the middle of chichi Yorkville.

             “Umphffft.” Her back hit the concrete like a sack of wet laundry. The contents of her purse scattered like yesterday’s litter.

            She had lain there on the pavement, inexplicably filled with anxiety about the new production head who was going to be joining their company this afternoon. She was thinking about that, rather than why she was lying on her back on the sidewalk.

             The so-called brilliant Under Forty from Chicago she was about to meet. Stan, or Sam or … Cran?

            Couldn’t be Cran, you silly goose, she thought. No such name as Cran. Must be … Her head felt funny as she continued to lay there on the sidewalk in the middle of afternoon pedestrian traffic.

            Suddenly, a masculine face leaned down as the sublime October breeze brushed her skin. She tried to smile up at the tanned cheekbones, thatch of brown hair, and blue eyes above a black leather jacket.

             Hey, he’s kinda handsome in a Matt Damon, psychopathic killer sort of way. Geez, you just never know when you’re going to meet … Maybe he’s—

             “You all right, lady?” His voice was more like Wally Cleaver.

             Lady? How dare you? I’m still a girl!

             “Aw, could you … maybe … ah?” Her mouth felt post-root canal numb. Strong arms circled around her waist, scooping her upright like a fallen mop.

            A small crowd tittered and shuffled off, as “Matt” helped her gather up her lipsticks, wallet, Day-Timer, cell phone, which was apparently ringing, a pair of running shoes, unopened mail, whitening toothpaste, a pink thong, an electric toothbrush in the shape of a hula dancer, a Patricia Cornwell novel, a package of ciggies, a collection of scrunchies, and a silver lighter engraved with “Always, Alan.”

             “Leave … leave ah … the … That’s …” Lary frantically jammed everything back into her bag.

            The stranger treated her to a boyish grin. “You sure you’re okay? I’m Matt, by the way.”

             Your name is really Matt? What a coinci—

             “Hi, I’m Lary, rhymes with scary. Short for Hillary… Sorry for the … ah … It’s just I’m so …” She tried and failed to tuck her hair behind her ears so she could see him properly. “Well, actually I use it all the time but … Well, Matt, I, heh …” She tore her concentration from his Tom Ripley blues to glance down at her watch. “Oh, rats, the time! I’m desperately late for a—”

             “Your head,” Matt said with a frown.

             “What’s wrong with my head?”

            After gathering up all her belongings, she had fast-trotted across the busy intersection at Bay Street, waving goodbye to a grinning Matt. Finally, she arrived at the massive glass and steel offices of TTV, otherwise known as Toronto Television. She raced into the elevator and paced in the tiny enclosure up thirty-one floors. She tore down the hall to her corner office, whipped open the door brass-labeled: HILLARY WILKES, VP EXECUTIVE PRODUCER.

            Zooming in on her desk piled high with books, videotapes, DVDs, CDs, head sheets, and

sticky notes, she spied the end of her egg salad on rye. Where’s the file? The file? The file? She tried to search with one hand, removing a bright red leaf stuck in her armpit with the other.

             Finally, she located the precious file, stuffing the last bite of her sandwich in her mouth before dashing down the hall. She threw open the door to the boardroom.

            There was only one person in it, not the usual noisy gathering she had expected. A stranger stood up, all five-foot-two of him. “Laurie, do come in,” he said.

             “Where is everybody?” Her eyes dashed around the room. “Where is Henriette?”

             The pipsqueak walked around the table to extend a sweaty hand. “Branston Goodmark. Nice to meet you, Laurie. Most people call me Bran.”

             Bran, that’s it. Like the cereal.

             She took his hand reluctantly. “Actually, my name is Lary, Bran. Lary, rhymes with scary, haha. Short for Hillary. So, welcome to TTV. Sorry I was ah … detained but … I’ve been looking forward to ah … work—”

            His chubby features had quickly turned into a frown. “What’s wrong with your head?”

            Her hand flew to her forehead, feeling something that wasn’t there before. She had spun around to catch her reflection in the window. A lump the size of Mike Tyson’s fist was forming just below her bangs, like she had been in a fight with a pit bull.

             “Would you like to take a moment, Laurie, to ah …?” He tilted his head like a spaniel.

            He’s forgotten my name already. “No, no… I’ll be fine, but where’s Henry, my invaluable assistant producer? We`re supposed to be selecting the menus for next week`s show.”

             “Sit down, Laurie, please.”

             Less than an hour after the disastrous meeting, Lary was stumbling back down Bloor Street in a daze. Under one arm she carried her laptop. Under the other rested her soft leather briefcase purchased impulsively in New York on her last trip.

             Was that little jaunt only a week ago? She began to sob like a duck with asthma.

             She just couldn’t believe what had happened. She wondered if maybe she should call someone. Pumpkin? No, she was at school. Becks? She was on a flight to Rio. Howard? Howard was on vacation. She should know. She was minding his cat.

             Lary-in-the-tub relaxes in the now lukewarm water. That day, that moment, had been the worst thing that ever happened to her, ever, in her whole entire life. The very worst. Even worse than that time… well, never mind, that. Imagine! Replacing her with a junior producer with six months experience. Pamela Big Boobs Nobody. Restructuring, Bran had called it. Downsizing. Ha!

            He’d actually read to her from a tiny scrap of paper that day. He didn’t even have the nerve to look her in the eye. “Due to cutbacks at the, ah, station, your-your services are no longer required. Thank you for your con-contribution and g-good luck on your future endeavors. You have one hour to c-clear out your desk. Your computer is dis-disconnected. Your have f-four f-free psych-psychiatric visits to-to help you with the stress, paid in full by-by TTV.”

            Then he had the nerve to stick out those stubby arms of his, grinning, and say, “Hug?”

            Her thoughts crash rudely back to the present with the abrupt detachment of her plastic pillow from the back of the tub, tipping her legs skyward while dumping her face underwater.

            She bounces back up, gasping for breath, just in time to see the top of her thighs lift out of the bubbles like white freckled throw pillows. Leaning up and over to examine them, she grabs the flab of her stomach instead. That’s when she notices two long, white pubic hairs poking up like weeds.

            In a mad panic she jumps halfway upright, leaning over to reach for her tweezers lying on the toilet tank, almost losing her footing entirely. Grabbing wildly at the shower curtain for balance, she manages to rip most of it down.

             Falling backwards, still swinging from the curtain, she lands with a bang on the toilet seat, the Mirror from Hell inches from her face.

            A long white hair waves at her from her left eyebrow as if to say, “Season’s greetings, Lary.”

             Bursting into sobs, her head collapses on her chest.

             What has happened to her life? Her glam career! Her trips to Paris and Hong Kong, or somewhere with Henriette to discover the next foodie trend. Her morning workouts so she would look hot in all those designer threads she bought whenever she wanted. Oh, and don’t forget all those gorgeous men flocking around her like butterflies.

            Her head lifts so that she is eye-to-eye with the cat on the counter. “What the popcorn happened, Pizza? Am I ever going to get my old life back? Or is this it? A downhill slide to obscurity and death?”

In reply, he licks her nose.