The Faces of Freida Fay McBeal

Art wasn't my thing in high school because I didn't understand it. I mean, yeah, I'd seen art because it was all over the place and some of it was OK. If the painting or sculpture looked real, I could appreciate the talent of the artist, but if it looked like some did, just splashes of color or something that looked like it was made out of blocks, not so much. To me, some of that type of art looked more like a first grader's work than that of a professional artist.

I could have taken an art class and learned why some artists painted like that, but I didn't. That was because of the high school art teacher, Miss Dyson. Miss Debbie Dyson, or "Debbie Dyke", as we guys called her, was what we guys all knew to be the stereotypical lesbian who was always "on top". All the female teachers except Miss Dyson wore conservative dresses. Miss Dyson always wore pants and shirts that were obviously made for a man. We knew this because at that time women's pants zipped up the side, not the front, and women's shirts had the buttons on the left, not the right like hers always did.

Miss Dyson never wore makeup and her short, brown hair always looked like mine did when I'd just gotten out of bed. She never wore the low high heels like the other women teachers. Instead, she wore tan, leather moccasins that had the backs mashed down flat so she could just slip them on like sandals and she never wore socks.

Miss Dyson didn't seem to like the other teachers. We'd see the others going into or coming out of the teacher's lounge and they always sat together at lunch. Miss Dyson stayed in her art room from the time she got to school until she left for the day. She didn't seem to like the students either, well, unless you were in her art class. Then she'd tolerate you. I could never figure out why she became a teacher in the first place.

The only student she did seem to like was Frieda Fay McBeal, and Frieda Fay was a real case too.

Frieda Fay - that's what she wanted to be called, Frieda Fay, not just Frieda - Frieda Fay was a year younger than I, so I didn't know her well, but I did see her a lot. Lockers were assigned alphabetically, and my senior year, McBeal came right after my last name, Mason, so our lockers were side by side. I don't remember ever talking to her that year. Doing so would have caused me to endure a lot of kidding by the other guys. They called her "Freaky Frieda" because of how she dressed and how she acted.

Frieda Fay had blonde hair that reached half way down her back and it always looked dirty. She didn't really style it like the other girls. Her hair just pretty much went where it wanted, and she was constantly brushing it away from her eyes so she could see. I don't think she could see very well even then because her black rimmed glasses were really thick, and half the time they slipped down on her nose so far she couldn't have been looking through them right.

Frieda Fay wore dresses or a skirt and blouse to school just like every other girl did in those days because pants for girls were against the school dress code. The only exception was a girl could wear pants under her dress or skirt. That exception was intended to keep the girl's legs warm in cold weather.

Every other girl in the school happily wore dresses or skirts as short as they could get away with and showed as much leg as possible from the start of school until the last day. Some would even roll the waistband of a skirt up a turn or two to bare more leg than their mother thought appropriate.

Frieda Fay wore dresses that went almost as far down as her black, high top tennis shoes and under those dresses was always a pair of baggy pants.

Every other girl wore makeup even though some put that makeup on at school because their mothers wouldn't let them leave home with makeup on. The girls who had mothers who taught them didn't look bad at all. The girls who kept their foundation, powder, and lipstick in their lockers often looked a little strange because their ears and hairline would be lighter or darker than their face. They all sported bright red lips and kept them that way by touching up every time they went to their locker.

Frieda Fay didn't wear any makeup at all, not ever

The other girls in my class and the class after mine were old enough they had pretty nice figures and they did their best to show off those curves like the movie stars of the day did. Their mothers wouldn't let them wear tight sweaters like the movie stars did, but they had a fix for that. Girls wore a lot of blouses and skirts because they were easier to get in and out of for physical education. If she was well endowed, she'd pull both sides of her blouse to the back as far as she could, tuck it into the waist of her skirt to keep it there, and then stand up straight with her shoulders pulled back. If she was less than what she considered to be adequately endowed, she'd stuff her bra full of tissues, pull her blouse back, and stand up straight with her shoulders back.

They all developed a way of walking that made their asses swing. Now, at that age none of them had much in the way of an ass, but the sway of what they did have turned us guys on.

Frieda always walked around with her shoulders hunched forward and her blouses and dresses seemed to be a size or two too big so it was hard to tell if she had breasts or not. It was the same way with her ass. She took little short steps, and her ass didn't move much at all.

Frieda Fay didn't have any friends that I knew of. The other girls talked about her, but it wasn't because they liked her. Frank told me his girlfriend, Janice, said the girls all figured Frieda Fay was either a lesbian or just wasn't smart enough to figure out how to make herself look better. Their bet was on the lesbian thing because Miss Dyson seemed to like her and they were sure Miss Dyson was a lesbian.

Frieda Fay didn't seem all that freaky to me. She just seemed to be really shy and not interested in anything involving making herself look better. I didn't think she was stupid because she kept getting promoted from one grade to the next. I didn't think she was ugly by any means. If she'd had glasses that were a little smaller, did something with her hair, and dressed like everybody else, she wouldn't have made it to prom queen, but she'd have been at least a girl some guy would have wanted to date.

In a town as small as ours was, everybody knew everything about everybody else, warts and all. I figured the way Frieda Fay was had a lot to do with her home life. Her dad evidently had a decent job as a carpenter, but he was known as a drunk. He wasn't one of those drunks who goes on a three day binge and misses work, and the whole town would have known if he'd ever hit his wife or Frieda Fay. He just started drinking when he got home from work and kept on drinking until he passed out.

Her mother wasn't much better although she didn't drink. Her passion was her religion. She went to one of those charismatic churches every Sunday morning, every Sunday night, and every Wednesday night. I worked a couple hours after school stocking shelves at our local grocery store, so I saw her about once a week. She dressed the same way as Frieda Fay, except she didn't wear pants under her dress. She didn't wear black tennis shoes either, but instead of heels like Mom wore when she went shopping, Frieda Fay's mother wore plan black shoes with no heels.

Most people tried to avoid talking with Mrs. McBeal because she always did all the talking. She'd go on and on about the sins people were committing every day and tried to get anyone who would listen to come to her church and confess those sins. She sounded more like a preacher than the preacher at Mom and Dad's church. The women she was able to corner would nod for a while and then make an excuse that they had to get home to fix dinner or something like that so they could get away from her.

It was understood that I'd go to college after high school and study to become an engineer or a scientist. That's what the guidance counselor said I should do. At the time, people thought the world as we knew it would come to an end unless every person got a degree in some type of science, so that September I started college in Mechanical Engineering.

In my sophomore physics class I discovered I liked electricity a lot more than thermodynamics, and switched majors. I graduated after four years with a B.S. in electrical engineering with an emphasis in power distribution and got a job with E & E Construction, a major contractor in the same city as the university.

It was three years after that when E & E Construction got the job of adding a wing to the art building on campus. That building was about thirty years old, and the electrical system was barely keeping up with the current demand. The addition would require either a separate power station or a major rebuild of the old one. It wasn't feasible to shut everything down to rebuild the existing switchgear, so the architect put a separate power house in the plans. My job was to design the electrical system, spec out all the components and then oversee the installation.

The first thing I did was visit the building. I needed a fresh copy of the building electrical prints and I needed to see where the feeders entered the building and how much capacity those feeders had. If they didn't have enough capacity for the additional load, I'd have to design and spec a new service entrance.

The maintenance guy who let me into the existing power room told me to lock the door when I was done and then walked off. I spent an hour writing down the specs of all the equipment and making sure the one-line drawing of the electrical system matched what was really there. When I was done, I closed the door and locked it, then started to walk back to my car.

As I walked through the gallery, a painting on one wall caught my eye, so I stopped to look at it. Like I said, art has never been my thing, but this painting pulled at me for some reason.

It was a painting of a frowning blonde girl sitting in a porch swing but what drew me to look closer wasn't the girl. It was the faint images in front and in back of the girl. From a distance, it looked like those transparent images were supposed to be people. When I got close, I had to really look to make out what those images were, and even then I wasn't sure if they were men or women or something else.

I read the name of the painting, "Life On A Swing", on a little engraved plastic plaque below the frame. I had to read the name of the artist three times before I was sure I was reading it right. The artist's name was Frieda Fay McBeal.

I didn't think it was possible this Frieda Fay McBeal was my Frieda Fay McBeal, but the name was so unusual, I thought it had to be.

I asked the young girl at the desk if she had an address or a phone number for Frieda Fay McBeal. She looked up from the thick textbook she'd been reading and smiled a really sweet, but really fake smile.

"I'm sorry, Sir, but I'm not allowed to release that information. I can tell you Miss McBeal will be here at the gallery tomorrow afternoon. If you want to meet her, maybe you could come back then."

When I walked into the gallery section of the art building the next afternoon about four thirty, a small group of people were gathered around a table, and a woman was standing behind the table and talking to them. It was obvious the woman wasn't my Frieda Fay McBeal. This woman had blonde hair, but it was a shining yellow color, not the dirty color I remembered. She was wearing glasses, but they were wire rimmed and so fine they were hardly even visible, and even from where I stood, I could see the pale pink lipstick that accented her full lips.

I was in the process of turning to leave when she brushed the long, yellow blonde hair away from her eyes. It was the same motion I'd seen Frieda Fay make at least twice every time we were at our lockers. She took three little steps toward one of the paintings behind her then, and it was like watching Frieda Fay leaving her locker for her next class.

She turned sideways to me then, and I knew it had to be her. She was standing there with her shoulders hunched forward just like Frieda Fay had in high school.

I'd gotten to the gallery late on purpose. I thought if it was Frieda Fay, I'd introduce myself and we could catch up. I don't know why I wanted to do that because I hardly knew her. I suppose I was just curious as to how she turned out.

At five before five, the people around the table started drifting away. Some of them carried paintings I assumed had been done by Frieda Fay. When the last one left I walked up to the table. Frieda Fay looked up and smiled.

"What can I do for you?"

I grinned.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

Frieda Fay looked at me for a while, then I saw her eyes light up a little.

"Jack...Jack Mason?"

"Yep. I saw your name on one of the paintings and decided to find out if it was you or not."

Frieda Fay's brow wrinkled a little.

"Why would you want to do that? You never paid any attention to me in school."

I shrugged.

"To be honest, I don't really know why. I just saw your name and wondered if it was you. As for back in school, you didn't pay any attention to me either."

"Well, I'm me, and in school, I tried to not pay attention to anybody."

"I know. I've always wondered why."

Frieda Fay shook her head.

"You wouldn't understand and it would take too long to explain it anyway."

"Well, since we did go to school together, could I buy you a cup of coffee? I'd at least like to find out how you got from there to here."

I felt pretty old in that coffee shop. I was only twenty-four, but everybody besides Frieda Fay and me looked and acted like they should still be in high school. I didn't remember being like that, but I suppose I must have been and that was a little shocking. Fried Fay didn't seem to be shocked, but her blouse and jeans fit in a lot better than my suit and tie. She sipped her coffee and then smiled.

"So, I suppose you want to know how I went from ugly duckling to artist."

"Well, I never thought you were ugly back then. I just thought you were just different. I never pictured you as an artist though."

Frieda Fay smiled again.

"And just what did you think I'd end up doing?"

"I don't know. I guess get married and have kids like most of the girls did."

"I couldn't have done that back then. I don't know about now, but definitely not back then."

"Why was that?"

She smiled.

"I thought you wanted to know how I became an artist."

"OK, then tell me how you decided to paint pictures for a living."

Frieda Fay took another sip of coffee and then frowned.

"It started because of what you guys called me. Yes, I knew you called me Freaky Frieda. I know even the teachers called me that when they were alone.. You can't imagine how it feels to be called a name like that. The only one who didn't call me that was Debbie. She always called me Frieda Fay."

"Miss Dyson?"

"Yes, but once we got to know each other, she wanted me to call her Debbie when we were alone. She was a lot like I was then, and she understood how I felt. She said a lot of artists feel like that. Other people don't understand them so they retreat into themselves.

"I knew I could draw and that I liked drawing, but I never thought I was special. Debbie did, and she helped me learn as much as she could teach me. Nobody knew, but I'd go to her house after school and work with her some more. I'd always walk down the alley and go in her back door. If anybody knew what we were doing, even though there wasn't anything going on, she'd have gotten fired just because of what they suspected.

"Yes, I know everybody thought she was a lesbian because she wasn't married and because of how she dressed. I asked her about that after we became friends instead of just a teacher and her student. She said she wasn't sure. She had a girlfriend in college, but once she graduated, they parted ways and she hadn't found either a man or another woman who interested her that way.

"I knew what boys did to girls, but I had no idea what two girls did together, so I asked her what it was like.

"Debbie told me I'd have to experience it on my own because it was different for every woman. When I asked her to show me, she said she'd teach me as much as she could about art, but she wouldn't teach me that. She said I wasn't old enough to make that kind of decision yet.

"Anyway, when I graduated, Debbie said if I stopped studying art, I'd be doing something I'd regret for the rest of my life. I told her there was no way my parents could afford to send me to college. She shook her head and said she wasn't talking about college. She said none of the professors in any college were very good artists, so they couldn't help me.

"That was kind of a shock. I had this idea that all art teachers were experts. Debbie said all college art professors could draw, paint, or sculpt, but like her, they were teaching because they weren't good enough to make a living by selling their art. She said she knew another woman who did though, and who would teach me more in less time and it wouldn't cost me much of anything.

"One Saturday, Debbie took me to meet the woman. Brittany Ferris is an artist who lives in an old farmhouse out in the country about fifty miles from where we grew up. She raises a few chickens for eggs, a couple of goats for milk, and she grows a big garden every summer. She makes her living by painting pictures and selling them at art galleries. I liked her, but I couldn't afford to drive that fifty miles every day. When I told Brittany that, she said I could live there if I helped her with the chores and bought my own art supplies. She even gave me a list of what I'd need.

"I really wanted to work with her, but even the art supplies cost more than I thought Mom and Dad would give me. They didn't understand why I wanted to be an artist, and thought I should either get married or get a job in a factory. It would have been hard to get any money from them. If I got a job, I'd have the money, but then I wouldn't be able to spend enough time with Brittany. I'd given up hope until that October

"I suppose you know my dad was a drunk. Everybody else in town did. He and Mom went out to celebrate his birthday one Saturday night. When the police found the car, it had hit a retaining wall on a curve head on. Both of them were killed. The police told me Dad was drunk and had been driving too fast to make the turn. Instead, he drove straight into the wall."

I said I hadn't heard and that I was sorry. Frieda Fay smiled.

"Don't be. You'll think I'm a horrible person, but I wasn't sorry. I was tired of watching Dad drink himself to death and I was tired of Mom's lectures about what was right and what was wrong. I never felt like we were a real family. We never did anything together. We were just three people living in the same house. Dad lived for his beer, Mom lived for her church, and once I got old enough to understand that, I just tried to get by without making either one mad at me.

"I wasn't sorry it had happened, but I was sad for a little while. I mean, they weren't much but they were still my mom and dad. That didn't last long though. Mom's minister was trying to do what he said would help me cope with the loss. He said I should remember all the good times we had together. I thought about that, and honestly couldn't remember even one. That's when I stopped being sad.

"Thankfully, Dad had a life insurance policy from the carpenter's union. It paid enough to bury them both with quite a bit left over so I went to see Brittany again. When she said she'd be happy to teach me, I sold everything I'd inherited, bought a used car, and move into a room in Brittany's house.