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The audition pushed me over the line.
I pull the New York Mets baseball cap from my head and mop at sweat with one forearm, not breaking stride.
Sure, I'd appraised my size-ten physique in the mirror hundreds of times, turning left and right with stomach sucked in and back as straight as a carpenter's plumb line. I looked fine. The fashion model ideal - face gaunt with an animal hunger, body desperately thin - could only insult me. How could such a creature ignite anything but disdain and pity in my solid Latina soul? Surviving on a carefully measured thimble-full of food each day? No way. I was a real woman.
My first audition, however, changed my attitude. It was a TV series pilot, and it went well. I'm sure of it. But I heard one of the casting crew whisper to another, "Chubby, don't you think?"
I speed up, my feet pounding the pavement. I'll show them chubby. That line drawn blade thin by the popular media, the one I swore I'd never cross, now confronts me. Suck it up, girl! My solid self suppresses a sigh. I attempt to jog my way to the new, thin ideal.
"Hey, America!"
I turn, sweat streaming down my forehead. The apron-clad man standing in the doorway of Sammy's Italian Bakery grins at me and holds his broom up in salute.
"Hey, Rodney. How goes it?" I jog in place.
Rodney is the father of a nine-week-old son. "Good. You losing weight?"
I wipe my chin with a wristband. "God!" I gasp. "I hope so."
"Nice tan," says Rodney.
Do I have a tan? I look down at one brown hand. Is it darker than usual? I can't tell. Maybe it's the streetlights, which haven't kicked off yet. The October dawn creeps slowly into my neighborhood. "Thanks," I say to Rodney.
I huff on down the street, swerving to miss the few people who are out at this time of morning. I love getting out early. Secrets unfold before the sun rises. Owners ready their shops for business like stagehands setting up for a play, activities patrons aren't meant to see.
The sounds and aromas that announce the start of day give me comfort and energy - the creaking of brakes on the garbage truck, the full, yeasty smell of baking bread, the muted bleach fumes where the German green-grocer has disinfected the pavement. And the bracing fall weather makes my energy soar off the charts. Late risers miss all of this. I wave to Mr. Parisi as he stacks newspapers in front of his newsstand.
A man dressed only in sneakers, tight shorts, and sweat races up from the opposite direction. "Looking good, America," he says. A big Shepherd-cross dog runs close to his left leg. When the dog sees me, his tail wags in a wide arc. I come to a screeching halt as he jumps up, front paws on my shoulders.
"Parkway," I say, ruffling the fur on the back of his neck. "How are you, boy?"
"He's great," says Mark, the jogger. "Man's best friend, huh, Parkway?" Mark gives me the thumbs-up sign. "Thanks to you, America," he says. "Come, Parkway."
The dog drops back to all fours and follows his owner. I turn to watch them for a second or two, jogging backwards. I found Parkway on the Saw Mill River Parkway a year ago. A puppy, he cowered beside the "Pleasantville" exit sign. I told myself not to stop, but then he turned toward me, his frightened eyes engaging mine. A few days in our tiny, shared apartment - me, Brittany, Rachel, and Parkway - convinced me such confinement was unfair to both the fast-growing, energetic animal and us. Mark took him in - a buddy and running partner.
Now, Chiquita, a Chihuahua-cross I found snacking on a cheeseburger behind a dumpster, rules the roost at our apartment, with all three of us vying for her majesty's favor.
A teenage girl waves from the display window of Funky Hats. I wave back, mouthing, "Hi, Veronica." Veronica won a full academic scholarship to Cornell University last fall, but gave it up to take over her father's hat business when he was diagnosed with liver cancer. She grins and holds up a garnet-colored soft-brimmed number. Hot. I'll come back later to try it on. Carrie and her gal-pals from Sex and the City can spend their money on shoes. My vice is hats. I pull the bill down on my Mets cap and keep running.
A guy I've seen once or twice, nods as I pass. People are so wrong about New Yorkers being unfriendly. I've met a wide assortment of kids, professionals of all ages, and various unable-to-be-categorized folks while racing down the street to Bonicelli's Grocery, or renting a movie at Sid's, or buying a box of tampons at the pharmacy. My Greenwich Village neighborhood stands apart from the rest of the world, a warm community of possibilities, a place of magic. And New York's skyscrapers soar like my hopes. Here in this city I am on the cusp, the brink of something wonderful. I know it.
A garbage truck honks, then pulls in front of me, cutting into the alley between the pizza place and the pharmacy. I swerve around it.
Only fifteen pounds.
A rendition of America the Beautiful plays in plinky harpsichord style from the vicinity of my belly button. Dios! Cell phone. At this hour? I reach down to grab the phone, which is clipped to the waist of my shorts. As it slips in my liquid grip, I pray silently to the patron saint of desperate causes. Saint Jude, don't let it be bad news. I congratulate myself that this mental prayer comes out in English, not Spanish. I'm not ashamed of my Latin roots. They give me passion and strength and history. But I've vowed that here, in the City of Promise, I will perfect the demeanor of a sophisticated gringa.
My roommate's perky voice - at six-thirty a.m. - would irritate even Mother Theresa. "Hi, America! Where are you?"
"Running," I squeeze out between huffs. "Fat-burning project. Day five."
"You're a trooper, girl. Uh, if you go by Sammy's would you bring me a bagel? Cinnamon, with cream cheese."
Brittany works nights at a donut place. But she eats bagels, not donuts - a feeble nod to healthy living. "Sure thing," I tell her, trying to stifle the panting as I talk. "Almost there." I turn and head back to Sammy's Italian Bakery without slowing my pace.
"Oh, and your aunt called."
"Teresa?" The sweat on my brow turns cold. "Any message?"
"Call her back A-SAP," the cheery voice of my roommate commands.
Madre de Dios! It's only four-thirty a.m. Albuquerque time. Something must be wrong with Mama.
When I moved to New York - ignoring the custom of staying close to la familia - I held my diploma up like a crucifix, keeping the demon of tradition at bay. But each call from home deposits a measure of guilt, pitiless sand trickling through an hourglass. I fear my freedom is using itself up.
I stop moving and bend over, my left hand resting on my left knee. I take in a deep breath, then speak into the phone. "Okay. Thanks."
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