If They Only Knew
by KP Vogell
Art by Sève Favre
I arrived at the office one morning to find the team already assembled in the conference room, passing around the latest issue of a tabloid magazine and talking excitedly.
“Sinter!” said Callahan, our executive director, when I walked in. He grabbed the tabloid and tossed it at me across the polished table. “Take a look at page 4.”
I flipped open the magazine. On page four was a column called “Who wore it better.” It didn’t take me long to pick out what Callahan was so excited about: side-by-side photos of two nearly skeletal influencers, both wearing the same swimsuit. The text underneath the photos read: “Sleek @_____ rocks sassy bikini better than voluptuous @_______.”
I stared at both photos. The bikini tops were stretched over skin through which sternums clearly showed. My eyes went back and forth between each woman’s countable ribs and protruding collarbones, trying to remember what exactly “voluptuous” meant. I decided that maybe the “voluptuous” Instagrammer’s pelvis (visible in all its bony glory) was slightly wider-set.
“Yikes,” I said.
“I know,” said Zwicky, one of my coworkers. His leg jiggled madly. “This is, like, a watershed moment for us.”
Callahan said, “Every woman in America is going to see this and immediately go on a diet.”
“Even the skinny ones,” said Zwicky.
“Especially the skinny ones,” Callahan corrected. “All I have to say, Sinter, is well done.”
“Oh, I didn’t--”
“Don't be modest,” Callahan said. “We know you’ve been working with this publication for ten months now. When you started they were still running that ‘Have they gone too far?’ column. And now look at them.”
Zwicky said, “By my calculations those women have Body Mass Indices of fifteen. That's gotta be a new record for a 'fat' reference in any magazine."
Callahan grinned. He said, "Boy, Sinter, I don't say this to everyone, but you really are a natural at this stuff."
"Thanks," I said.
When I got home from work that evening, I found my wife, Rachel, on our old computer in the bedroom.
“Whatcha doing,” I said, kissing the top of her head and peering over her shoulder.
“Nothing," she said, quickly xing out of some sort of spreadsheet and turning to me with a faint smile. I could tell it had been another bad day, but I decided not to notice.
She got up and I followed her into the kitchen.
“Did you get a call from that nonprofit you liked?” I said.
“Oh," she said, "Ocean Awareness? No. But I’ve been thinking. Maybe I’m going about this whole job-hunt thing the wrong way. Maybe I should change my approach."
“What do you mean? Like, update your resume or something?”
“No. I don’t know,” she said. She opened the oven and took out a pan of roast beef. “I was just thinking that maybe I should take things one at a time, you know? Like maybe I should take care of the me-stuff first and then try to find a job.”
“Okay," I said.
She carved several thick slices of beef and put them on my plate along with a generous helping of roasted potatoes and a handful of green beans. Then she positioned a morsel of beef, a small piece of potato, and a single green bean on her plate, as if it were the minimalist version of mine, a haiku about comfort food.
"Aren't you hungry?" I said.
"I've already eaten too many calories today," she snapped. Now I knew what the spreadsheets were for. She waited for me to start eating.
"So by 'take care of the me-stuff' you mean..."
"You know, get my body where it needs to be. I think that might be why I can't get a job right now. You know what they say about fat discrimination."
"Rachel, you're not overweight."
She laughed. "You know we can't talk about this."
"I'm serious. You look great."
"Maybe you think so. But have you seen a magazine lately? Believe me, I'm fat."
"I'm sure you're not fat."
"You don't count. You'd love me no matter what size I was."
"Isn't that a good thing?"
"Yes, but I can't expect you to give me honest criticism."
"Fine," I said, around a mouthful of beef. "So, carbs or no carbs this time?"
She blushed a little and said, "Carbs but no grains and no fruit after 2 pm."
I sighed.
"Rachel, do you think this is really necessary?"
"What else am I going to do?" she said, tears of frustration in her eyes. "I have to do something. Otherwise I'm always going to look like this."
"Rachel, I like you looking like this."
I watched her cut up her piece of potato into smaller and smaller chunks. Finally she said, "Well, how was your day? Bust up any terrorist rings? Foil any assassination plots?”
“Oh you know," I said. "Just one or two."
Rachel thinks I work for the CIA. That's my cover. Everyone at Directives Consulting has a cover, because we're not supposed to exist. We have to work completely undetected. Otherwise we'd never get anything done.
Our mission statement is in Latin and translates roughly to "Shaping feminine self-image for the greater good," which means convincing as many women as possible to try to lose weight. We used to have our fingers in other pies—for instance, we spent a lot of money in the eighties fighting the development of more comfortable feminine hygiene products. But mostly we work on establishing a negative body image and getting women interested in dieting. That's because we've found it to be, hands down, the most effective way to waste their time.
As for our clients, they're not the usual suspects. I mean, there's the diet and exercise industry, but their investments are small change compared to what we get from the many and various interest groups that, for one reason or another, want to keep women in a self-hating, Zumba-dancing frenzy. New clients come in and scream and shout and point at their charts on the increasing numbers of women doctors, women political leaders, women race car drivers, whatever bee is under their bonnet. We let them throw their little tantrums, and then we pour them cognac and talk to them soothingly about the publications we influence, the clothing manufacturers we work with. Placated, they get out their checkbooks.
Originally, I wanted to be a psychologist. Rachel helped support me while I finished my Ph.D. For my thesis I focused on anxiety, propaganda, and psychological conditioning. I thought that one day I might help rehabilitate former terrorists.
Instead, days after my defense, one of my professors whispered that he had passed on excerpts from my thesis to a private consulting company and that they were very interested. I underwent a series of strange interviews in different Starbucks around the DC area. I was sent to a GRE test center where I took a two hour-long psychological battery. By the time they told me they wanted to hire me, I was convinced I was joining an extra-top-secret branch of the CIA.
Finally I was invited to headquarters, the top floor of a vacant tower on the edge of a state forest in Maryland. They showed me a promotional video on Directives Consulting's past and current work. The breadth of it was incredible. Size Zero. Kate Moss. 100-calorie snack packs.
I had moral reservations. How could I not? But the pay was six figures, and Callahan wanted me. He told me I could work on my own projects with whatever data we collected. He told me I was brilliant, that I would accomplish big things.
So I made a bargain. I told myself two years. We'd save every penny and then I'd switch to a postdoc at the most liberal, feminist university I could think of. Maybe I'd even teach at a women's college.
It's been four years. In the meantime, I've worked on everything under the sun, from slashing regulation of addictive substances in Nutri-grain bars, to inconspicuously shrinking the sizes of several clothing lines.
You'd think that smart women would laugh at such infantile strategies. But in fact, smart women, women like Rachel, were what we at Directives Consulting called the "sweet spot." They're intelligent, attractive, ambitious. What they long for more than anything is to be perfect.
Sève Favre, #IntervariactifSerials: Hindered
The "Who wore it better?" photo had its intended domino effect. ABC was putting their new Zooey Deschanel vehicle on hold until the actress could lose 15 pounds. Selena Gomez was investing in a new treatment that used lasers to gently melt subcutaneous fat and then allowed carnivorous sea worms to feed on the liquified fat through minute subdermal incisions.
But the big question at work was whether we were truly expanding our market or simply increasing the pressure on our existing one. It had always been Callahan's opinion that we needed to target women earlier in the whole self-realization process. And while our casting for the Harry Potter movies had been a relative success, too much interest among young pre-pubescent girls was still directed towards dragon-themed literature and soccer.
"We need one of those teen hearthrobs dating someone tiny," my partner Zwicky said. We were sitting on the beanbag chairs in the Genius Lounge. The walls were covered in whiteboard. Zwicky took out a marker and drew a crude smiley face with a stick figure next to it. “Does Hailey Bieber have a little sister?"
"Think more holistically," I said. I drew an aimless squiggle on the board with a marker. "What about... ballet? Ballerinas are really skinny, right? More ballet, less soccer?"
Zwicky stared. "You're an oracle," he said. "How do you do it?
"And think of all those mirrors," I said. I drew a tutu on his stick figure.
As we started brainstorming tax incentives for new dance studios, I wondered whether any of the other guys at work faced the problems I did. Did they have wives, daughters? No one was allowed to talk about it. Zwicky was barely 25. He bragged about the models he slept with when he flew up to New York for business. I doubted it. He kept a copy of a pick-up artist manual in his cubicle.
All that week, Rachel was in a great mood. She cheerfully measured out her oatmeal in the morning and weighed slices of chicken breast for her dinner salad. The endorphins from her elliptical workouts seemed to be keeping her in high spirits, and I could almost believe that things were going to get better.
But the day I came up with the young ballerina strategy, I came home to find Rachel in bed with the lights off.
"Rache?" I said, cracking open the door. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," said a voice from under the covers.
"You don't sound fine."
"I ate all the popcorn."
"You ate a bag of popcorn? Isn't that supposed to be healthy or something?"
A sigh came from under the covers. "No, I ate all the popcorn. Remember that crate?"
"Oh. The one we got at Costco?"
Rachel was silent. Then she said, "Do you think I'm disgusting?"
"No," I said. "I don't." I sat down on the bed and rested my hand on the lump under the covers. "Rachel, we need to talk. This needs to stop."
"I'm just having a bad day," she said. In her voice I could hear the usual optimism that flooded in after one of her binges. "I can do this. I'll find a way."
One of Callahan's favorite things to bring up with new clients is the Minnesota Starvation Experiment. This was an experiment that took place during World War II, when 36 conscientious objectors, all of them healthy young men, volunteered to be starved in a controlled environment by physiologist Ancel Keys. The idea was to gather data on how to rehabilitate the millions who were starving in war-torn Europe.
Every day the men ate about 1600 calories and walked 3 miles. The regimen was meant to make them lose 2 and a half pounds a week. After five months, they had dropped 25% of their body weight. They were gaunt and emaciated, weak and irritable. Their hair thinned and minor scratches refused to heal.
But the part that Callahan brings up with clients is the psychological toll, which was much larger than Ancel Keys had expected. The men simply became uninterested in anything other than food. They passed around cookbooks as if they were porn mags. They lurked in diners, watching people eat and writing lovingly detailed accounts in their journals. One man chewed forty packs of gum a day, another averaged 15 daily cups of coffee. And—Callahan's favorite story—one guy got so stressed out he chopped off three of his own fingers.
I wanted to tell Rachel about the subject who worked in a grocery store and, one day, as if in a trance, consumed in three minutes flat two cookies, a bag of popcorn, and several overripe bananas he had been meaning to throw in the trash. I wanted to tell Rachel that she had been duped, that she needed to snap out of it, that surely she was smarter than the assholes at Directives Consulting who every day were plotting against her.
I was relieved to make it to the weekend. Callahan got really excited about the young ballerina initiative and had me working overtime on Thursday and Friday trying to lay the groundwork. On Saturday and Sunday, Rachel seemed relaxed; she let me fry eggs for breakfast and even shared a slice of cake with me after dinner on Saturday night. After another hard day on Monday I got home to find her flushed from her workout and in a great mood.
"Did you hear back from somebody?" I said.
"What? Oh, no. Not today."
"So did you apply for any other jobs?"
"No," she said. "But I told you, I'm trying to work on the me-stuff."
"Rachel," I said, "you really need to give this up. You're playing with fire here. Trust me, it's not healthy."
"No, what I'm trying to do is be healthy," she snapped. "And it's all taken care of now. I told you I was going to find a way and now I have. Look."
I followed her into the kitchen. On all the cabinets that contained food were small black squares bearing LED displays.
"What are these?" I said, trying to pull open one the cabinets. It wouldn't budge.
"Oh, that one's locked for another hour. Isn't it great? It's a really strong electromagnet on a timer. Every morning I'll just prepare my food in advance and put everything else in the cabinets and lock up. I got one installed on the fridge, too. See?"
She gave me a kiss on the cheek. She looked so happy. I could practically see visions of the Perfect Rachel dancing in her eyes.
Before I went to work on Friday, Rachel gave me her car keys. "That way I can't cheat," she said. I sought out Callahan for a private conference. He was in his office playing with one of his desk toys, one of those things with the hanging ball bearings that clack back and forth.
"Sinter!" Callahan said. "Man of the year!"
I cringe-smiled.
"What's on your mind?"
I went in and closed the door. Callahan got up from his desk and sat with me at the little table he kept in his office.
"Sir, do you..." I didn't know how to start. The ball bearings thwacked away in the silence. "Are you... married?"
Callahan cocked his head. "You know we're not supposed to discuss personal relationships here," he said, retaining his smile.
"I know. But I've been having a really hard time lately. And it's kind of...I don't know. Relevant."
Callahan nodded. "You're not the first. It's tough realizing what an impact our work has in the world. Especially when you're doing such a good job at it."
"But what do I do? I'm willing to silence some of my moral questioning for the good of the company and all, but I think my wife is going crazy."
"It happens," Callahan said. "In fact, it's supposed to happen."
"Yeah, but not to my wife. Can't I give her, I don't know, a loophole?"
Callahan's face hardened. "Tread carefully, Sinter. I don't think you want to be saying what I think you're saying."
"I just want to exclude her from what we're doing. That's all. I mean, she's just one woman. It can't make that much of a difference."
Callahan looked sad. "You're right. She's just one woman. But that's how we work, Sinter. 'Change, one woman at a time.' It's part of our slogan."
"It is?"
"It's in our sub-slogan. One woman at a time. My woman. Your woman." He sighed. "We really have to focus on getting them all, or else we're not doing our jobs."
"So that's that?"
"I'm afraid so." He paused and said, "How long has this been going on? With your wife?"
"I don't know. A couple of months?"
Callahan seemed to consider. "Well, there is one thing you can do," he said.
"What's that?"
"Write down some of the crazy stuff she's doing," he said. "It could make a pretty powerful presentation someday."
The rest of the day was a blur. I was stuck in back to back two-hour meetings, first with Special K, and then with casting directors for the new ABC Family fall lineup. When I got home from work I was exhausted.
Rachel was sitting in the living room, looking totally blank, like a bomb had gone off. She wouldn't look at me as she told me what had happened.
It all started with her stepping on the scale that morning to find that, in what amounted to no less than a violation of the laws of thermodynamics, she had gained a pound. She tried to stay calm. She got on the elliptical, showered, got out her food for the day, and set the timed locks on the cabinets and the fridge. She ate breakfast. She meant to put lunch and dinner in the cooler she'd bought, but instead she found herself tearing open the lovingly prepared tupperwares and eating it all as fast as she possibly could. When she finished, she realized there would be nothing else to look forward to that day. Worst of all, she was still hungry. She had heard somewhere you could eat paper, and the thought scared her so much that she started tugging on one of the cabinet doors. It didn't budge.
At some point, she didn't remember when, she got out the hammer. It wasn't as difficult as she'd expected, smashing through the cheap particle board. The refrigerator had been more of a challenge, she said, but her persistence had eventually paid off. She told me I could go in the kitchen and see for myself if I liked.
"I don't know what's wrong with me," she said finally, in a small, horrified voice. "Why can't I do this?"
I was sweating. I had a terrible feeling deep inside that no amount of time spent teaching at women's colleges was ever going to make up for what I'd done. I sat down, took her hands, and looked into her eyes.
"Rachel," I said. "There's something you should know."
Sève Favre, #IntervariactifSerials: Hindered
