Top-Heavy and Flat-Footed
Top-Heavy and Flat-Footed
1972
After Ginger’s death, Jack took a leave of absence from Mattel. He could barely function. He was losing all the women in his life. First his wife, then Ginger. And Stevie—he was worried, after the funeral, that she would abandon him, too. It felt like his appendages were dropping off, vital organs withering and drying up. He’d sulked for the longest time, drowning in booze and perfume, waking up each morning with a different girl in his bed, unable to recall their names or how or where they’d met. The blackouts bothered him, but they did at least interrupt his thinking and give him a break from his mind and its many tortures.
Who knows how long he would have carried on like that had it not been for his UCLA boys. They found him one night passed out in his sunken bathtub and were unable to wake him up. Later, at the hospital, after they’d pumped his stomach, he was admitted to a psych ward.
After a little drying-out time and some new meds, Jack is back at work. But everything’s changed. In his absence, Barcus has taken the lead on certain projects and has made some abysmal decisions. Jack can’t believe Ruth approved them and wonders if she’s lost the will to fight with these guys. Their new initiatives are the sort of things Jack would have vetoed on the spot.
Case in point: Barbie’s new breasts. They’ve decided to enlarge them, and while Jack is a confirmed breast man himself, he never would have gone in that direction. Why on earth would you increase the very problem you’ve been battling against from day one? He remembers Ruth saying, Smaller, Jack. You gotta make those tits smaller . But by the time he returned to Mattel, Barbie’s new boobs were too far down the line. Talk about top-heavy. Her breasts defy gravity, and thanks to those bigger boobs, Barbie is about to fall flat on her face.
For the first time since her “birth” in 1959, Barbie’s sales are down. Women hate her now more than ever. At that year’s Toy Fair, the feminists were out in full force, protesting in front of the 200 Fifth Avenue building. NOW handed out leaflets condemning Barbie—everything from her body to her bubblegum brains and her materialistic world.
Ruth is panicking, and when Ruth panics, Elliot panics, as do Charlotte and Jack. It trickles down, and eventually the whole team is riddled with anxiety. They gather in meeting after meeting, brainstorming ways to keep Barbie relevant, ways to appease the women’s liberation movement while not alienating the antifeminists.
“Why don’t we have a Burn Your Bra Barbie?” suggests Barcus.
“Oh yeah, that’s just fucking brilliant,” says Jack. “And how would you execute that? Package Barbie with a book of matches? Lots of luck selling that to mothers.”
“What about if we create a Protest Barbie?” says Loomis. “We can have her marching with the women’s libbers.”
“In those heels?” says Charlotte.
“So we’ll flatten her feet,” says Barcus. “That’s an easy fix.”
Stevie, who’s been taking all this in, finds she can’t stay silent any longer. “It’s not that simple. This isn’t something that’s going to be resolved in this boardroom or with a new product design. The problem isn’t Barbie’s feet. It isn’t Barbie at all. It’s society.” Nobody says anything, but there’s a lot of chair shifting, sighs, grunts, even some groans. “Like it or not, guys, women are fed up. They’re lashing out because they’re sick and tired of—”
“Of what?” asks Lewis.
“Where do you want me to start?” says Stevie. “Should we talk about pay scales? About birth control? Our right to have an abortion—”
“Okay, whoa,” says Loomis, hands out like a referee. “I think we’re getting off track here. We’re not gonna solve the women’s liberation movement gripes. We’re not gonna fix society. What we’re gonna fix is Barbie.”
And so they try to do just that. Barbie goes flat-footed, which only flattens her sales more.
—
“You’re awfully quiet today,” Dr.Klemes says to Jack, who is stretched out on the leather sofa, hands laced behind his head.
“Don’t really have much to talk about,” Jack says, though his body is burbling with things he should be discussing with his doctor.
“You’re sure, now?” Dr.Klemes asks. “Nothing’s bothering you?”
“Yep. Positive.” But the truth is, his head is full of nonsense. Everything has him on edge. He lost his cool with Ann the other day and slapped her. Aside from a spanking when she was little, he’s never raised a hand to her. His car is making that weird rattling sound again. He has to remember to get an extension on filing his income taxes. He needs to pick up his suit at the tailor’s. He doesn’t like his new secretary, who questions why she needs to read everything to him. He worries that the bags and dark circles beneath his eyes are aging him. He’s starting to go gray all over, too, not just at the temples. He feels old and broken. And on and on it goes. He’s making himself crazy. He would give anything if, for the love of God, he could just stop thinking, just turn off the noise inside his head.
“Okay, then,” says Dr.Klemes, consulting his notes. “Tell me, how are things going at work?”
“Fine. Peachy.” He shifts his weight on the sofa. It makes an embarrassing impolite sound. In a company as large as Mattel, where you can go weeks and months without seeing someone, why is it that he runs into Simon every fucking day? Stevie is in love with the guy and Jack’s happy for her but sad for himself. He glances at his watch, wishing their time would be up.
Dr.Klemes scratches down some notes and changes the subject. “I want to make some adjustments to your medications,” he says, scratching down more comments in his file. “How’s your appetite?”
“I can’t eat,” says Jack.
“Uh-huh.” More notes are scratched down. “And are you sleeping?”
Jack shakes his head.
“I’d like to start you on phenobarbital. See how you respond. Maybe it will help regulate your sleep patterns.”
Jack gives a sad laugh. If only the answer were in another pill. He either sleeps for days on end or else is wide awake, unable to shut himself down. There’s never anything in between, anything resembling normal. He sees no end in sight, no relief. This is it. This is going to be him for the rest of his life. He drives his fists into his tear-soaked eyes. “I don’t want to live like this anymore. I can’t. It’s too damn hard. I hate myself. I hate my life. I’m done…”
Scratch. Scratch-scratch . After Jack manages to collect himself and promises that he’s not really thinking of killing himself, Dr.Klemes gives his pencil a rest and says, “In addition to the phenobarbital, there’s a new medication I’m going to prescribe. It’s showing a great deal of promise for individuals who suffer from moodiness .”
Jack’s thankful that the good doctor remembered not to say manic depression . He’s not crazy. He’s not.
—
Lithium. Jack hates it. It makes him even more exhausted than he was before. It makes his hands shake and it’s making him gain weight. He’s not supposed to drink while he’s on it, but he does anyway. But more than anything it has made his world dull, colorless, blunting everything that was once sharp, distinctive, alive. He is flattened down, no pizzazz, no flair. Everything that had been worthwhile is now gone. And sex—he no longer wakes up with a hard-on, and when he does manage to get aroused, he can’t maintain it. How is he expected to function, to create anything while he’s in such a placid state of mind?
People ask what’s wrong with him. If he’s going to have another party anytime soon. They don’t like medicated Jack. He’s boring. A real drag. No fun at all. Jack’s not sure he even remembers how to have fun.
One month and five pounds later, he’s done. Surely, being a little moody is far better than feeling nothing at all. The lithium goes down the toilet and Jack goes back to being the life of the party.