“You have got to be kidding me. Are you really going to pull this crap on me?”
“It’s true. We put a bagel in the toaster and it got stuck and caught fire. That’s why it’s smoky in here.”
“Where is the toaster now?”
Ben inspects the kitchen counter before answering.
“Um, we threw it out.”
“How old are you?”
“ Thirty-th—”
“Yes, Ben, you’re thirty-three, which is too old to be lying this transparently to your girlfriend. First of all, you don’t like bagels.”
“People change.”
“Shut up and let me speak! Second of all, we never had a toaster, which makes it pretty hard to have burnt a bagel in it. And third and most important, this apartment does not stink of burnt toast. It reeks of cigarettes. Now, before I list the three million reasons why smoking is bad for you, I suggest you sit down and start talking. And this time, I want the truth!”
I am channeling every after-school special I have ever seen. It’s uncontrollable. I can’t stop the clichés. Of course, on TV it’s usually mothers, not girlfriends screaming about the dangers of drugs, alcohol, and cigarettes.
“Fine.”
“I’m listening.”
“After work, John came over.”
“Ben, it’s 3:30 in the afternoon.”
“Okay, at lunch John and I came home and—”
“What about work?”
“We said we didn’t feel well.”
“So you lied to your bosses.”
“We were going to have a few beers and watch ESPN, but then John said he had some smokes.”
“Smokes? Is that what they call them these days? Continue.”
“I told John that I’d never tried a cigarette before and he laughed.”
“Classic peer pressure. If he had told you to run in front of a bus, would you? Would you?”
“Jesus, why do you have to be so dramatic? I only had two cigarettes.”
“Two? Already an addict!”
“I am not an addict. I just wanted to try them.”
“Why? I want to know why.”
“I heard they can help you lose weight!”
“Ben, Ben, Ben. I know you don’t like all the vegetables and walking, but trust me, it’s the only healthy way. Cigarettes will make you old, ugly, and smelly. Promise me you will never touch another one again.”
“Fine. Is the after-school special over?”
Clearly, Ben watched the same shows I did growing up.
“Almost. There is something else we need to talk about. I found the wrappers.”
“Anna, I don’t want to talk about that.”
Ben shuffles back to the bedroom, where I hear the unmistakable sounds of Law & Order. I sit defeated at the dining room table, processing what he told me. More than anything, I have greatly underestimated the power of Ben’s friends. If John can get Ben to smoke, he can get him on track with the diet and exercise. I’ve always steered clear of John and all his cronies at Ben’s firm, but I think it’s time for a visit. In the after-school special of Ben’s life, I am the annoying mom he ignores in favor of the local hoodlum, John. I must reappropriate John’s influence for good, not evil. Every Thursday morning, Ben has breakfast with one of the partners, giving me a one-hour window to visit the firm and casually run into John.
The Benson and Silverberg law firm inhabits the pristinely modern twenty-fifth and twenty-sixth floors of a skyscraper in Midtown. It’s the kind of heavily trafficked building that embodies modern corporate America. The building’s security is akin to that at Baghdad’s airport, making the hidden transport of carrot sticks and bran muffins tricky. The metal detector, pat down, and individual scanning of each food item rattles me, but I recover. I can’t turn back; he is an addict. He needs help.
Ten minutes later, I chat mindlessly with Ben’s assis tant Mel under the pretense of having been in the neighborhood. Ben’s office, like our apartment, is modern and austere, with few hiding places outside of the desk drawers. I seat myself casually at Ben’s desk while pretending to care as Mel drones on about his weekend at home. I slip my fingers under the handle and silently pull out the drawer. Nothing but paper clips and Wite-Out. I smile at Mel. I pull out the second drawer— a bunch of files.
“Um, Mel, sorry to interrupt, but I should probably get going.”
“Okay, I’ll tell Ben you stopped by.”
“Um, actually, don’t bother.”
“You don’t want me to tell him?” Mel asks in amazement.
“He gets a little emotional when he misses me. He’s very attached, like a Labrador or golden retriever with separation anxiety. Or not necessarily a dog, but a child with separation anxiety. Anyway, bye!”
I head down the hallway in search of John. I need to find him, impress upon him the importance of helping Ben, and unload the snacks. This is a straightforward mission, so I estimate fifteen minutes tops. From down the hall I hear John’s obnoxious voice radiate from a small room wedged between a supply closet and the copier. It’s the kitchen; this is going to be easier than I thought. John, the cigarette pusher, holds court with two younger associates at a sleek table. I smile at John and offer a sheepish wave as I enter.
“Anna, what’re you doing here?”
“Um, hi, John. I just wanted to say a quick hello—”
“Ben’s at breakfast with Silverberg.”
“Oh, I know, Mel told me, but I have snacks for Ben.”
“You brought Ben snacks? Maybe you can change his diaper while you’re here?”
“Oh, John. How witty!” I retort, smiling widely. I hate John. I would like to take his face and smash it into a child’s soiled diaper at this moment, but I can’t. I don’t have a diaper on hand, and more to the point, I need his help. “I brought some healthy snacks for Ben because I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but he hasn’t been eating very well lately.”
The room’s silence makes me question my mandate. I want to stop, make a joke, and leave. But I can’t. The junk food is destroying him.
“If you guys happen to see him eat Doritos or chocolate, maybe suggest a granola bar or carrot instead?”
“Does Ben know you’re here?” John asks.
“No, it was a last-minute stop by—”
“So he doesn’t know you brought snacks?”
“No. Like I said, it was last minute. And the snacks are also for you guys.”
“Wait, so the snacks are for us now?”
“Well, yes. I thought you guys could offer some positive peer pressure to help Ben make better food choices.”
“We don’t discuss food, Anna. It would be awkward to work into the conversation—”
“It doesn’t have to be awkward,” I say with a manic smile. “If you happen to see him go for empty calories, just stop to remind him what it does to his body. Plus, you guys can lead by example; I’ve included more than enough of everything,” I say, pulling out various healthy snacks from my bag.
John and the other two associates gape at me. I ignore their expressions and carry on; I don’t have time for mutiny.
“Excellent. Well, I should be going, but thank you. And let’s keep this between us, just until Ben gets back on track, okay?”
Part V
Good-bye Fatty
Chapter Thirty-two
The events of the last few months, namely The Makedown and RMFAB, have altered not only Ben’s appearance but also my behavior. On a base level, I have desensitized myself to outrageous, bizarre, and downright insane conduct. I no longer cringe while watching strangers act out their most fundamental urges on reality tele vision. I understand that once you cross the threshold of questionable behavior, it’s a slippery slope. After putting Nair in my boyfriend’s shampoo, calling him fatty, or enforcing brown-bag lunches, hardly anything registers as out of the ordinary. Whether John actually manages to persuade Ben to eat the healthy snacks is unforeseeable at this point, but at least I trie
d.
Asleep on the couch with a trashy celeb weekly across my chest, I open my eyes to a seething, angry, and sweaty Ben. A large vein pulsates across his forehead as he stares viciously in my direction. I am frightened of Ben at this moment.
Something about his gritted teeth and vile expression tells me to let him make the first move. I slowly sit up, sweating under the intensity of his stare. The anticipation causes my stomach to twist and turn. Part of me wants to scream, but instead I remain blank, patiently waiting for my boyfriend to explode.
“What in the hell were you thinking?” Ben yells.
“Um?”
This is all I can manage to get out. I know what this is about, but I don’t know how to explain myself. I force my expression to remain blank.
“You told my colleagues that you wanted help keeping me on a diet!”
The anger of his words reverberates throughout the room. My chest tightens.
“It wasn’t like that. I thought a little encouragement could help you—”
“Help me what?”
“Help you . . . lose weight.”
“Why is my body your job to fix? What makes you think you are in a position to decide what needs fixing? I hate to break it to you, but you’re not perfect. Actually, I think you’d look a hell of a lot better with a lighter hair color, but did I storm into your work and embarrass you in front of Janice? Did I point out your flaws publicly? No!”
“I didn’t mean for it—”
“Stop! There is no ‘I didn’t mean.’ You did it because you’re shallow. I have been more patient with you than I have with any other woman I’ve ever dated, and I have no idea why. You certainly don’t deserve it.”
“I’m sorry. I wanted to help. That’s the only reason.”
“Anna, you treat me like a fat stepchild you’re ashamed of. You monitor what I eat, when I exercise, and what I do for fun.”
“ Ben—”
“It’s over.”
“Ben, how can you say that? No! I love you! I know how you feel, but please.” Tears stream down my face. My heart pounds with fear.
“You know how I feel? You know how it feels to be humiliated in front of your colleagues by someone who claims to love you? I don’t think so.”
“I’ll change. I’ll stop acting like this.”
“No, this just isn’t working.”
“Please, let me explain. If I could explain starting from the beginning with the Washington Monument comment—”
“It’s too late; we’re done.”
“No, please, listen!”
“I’m staying with John this weekend, but I’d like you out by early next week.”
“You’re kicking me out?”
“I’ll give you a relocation fee. E-mail me what you think is fair.”
His eyes are iced over and his voice is devoid of emotion. I cannot see one ounce of love in him. My deepest, darkest fear has been realized; he’s gone. Maybe not physically yet, but emotionally.
“How can you be so cold?”
“Anna, I’m not cold. I’m done.”
“You’re done? It’s been five minutes!”
“No, this judgmental, superficial side of your personality has been here for a lot longer than five minutes. Anyone who is so easily unglued by an issue like weight is not the right person for me.”
“Please let me explain. If you will listen . . . it’s not what you think . . . I’m not who you think—”
“Yeah, I know.”
On that note, he walks out. He doesn’t pack a bag or get his toothbrush. He leaves. The shock painfully makes its way through every pore in my body. I can’t imagine a weekend without him, let alone a lifetime. My chest cripples with short, panic-stricken breaths, and my eyes blur with tears. I don’t want to believe that it’s true. Remembering the dark, angry expression he greeted me with only exacerbates the hurt. How is it possible that someone who loved me could come to loathe me so quickly? Ultimately, it doesn’t matter. Nothing I do, think, or say can change the facts. Ben doesn’t love me anymore. As I look around the living room, the beautiful furniture mocks me. This apartment, like Ben himself, is too good for me, too far out of my league. It was a cruel joke to let me have him, to experience love with him, then to rip him away, righting the universe’s obvious mistake. A wave of self-loathing suffocates me.
I can’t continue to lie on the floor of this apartment, which represents everything I’ve lost. I need a psychologically sterile environment for my breakdown. As I dial the Hudson Hotel, I wonder whether I should buck up and pay the extra two hundred dollars to die at the Mercer. I am not going to kill myself, but I am going to die. There is no way that I can continue after this; it’s a complete impossibility. Breathing, eating, talking, and walking all seem grossly unfeasible without Ben.
I rip black shirts, slacks, and jackets off hangars, shoving them haphazardly into a suitcase. I don’t bother folding anything. Shoes are strewn throughout the bag, along with a hair dryer, pounds of makeup and moisturizers. Between recipes and other odd papers I’ve accumulated, I throw in my bible of misery, Hello Fatty. Oddly, the most heartbreaking item to pack is not a picture of Ben and me but the one of my family from years ago. I let that chubby little girl down. I achieved a completely new appearance and life, only to blow it because of insecurities. I can’t believe this is over, this life, this apartment, this man— all of it finished.
I call a cab, leaving my keys on the kitchen counter, dishes in the cupboard, and knife set by the sink. I want to bring as little as possible of this life with me. It’s too painful.
The Hudson’s cool linen is the only thing I feel. I turn to my side and crack open my eyes. The realization hits me: he left me. I am alone in a hotel without any possibility of ever being happy or even mildly content again. He will never love me again. It’s been less than twenty-four hours since Ben left, and already the devastation has destroyed my soul. I am without hope, yet I wrack my brain for any possible way to go back in time, deleting my visit to Benson and Silverberg. I close my eyes, exhausted from crying. I awake almost fifteen hours later, drink some NyQuil, and go back to bed.
When I wake again, I have lost track of the day and time. I undress, finally taking off the last clothes Ben will ever see me in, leaving them in a pile by the bed. I don’t bother washing my face or brushing my teeth. I dress in head-to-toe black, with large sunglasses to hide my swollen eyes. Walking through the Hudson’s sleek lobby, I sense people staring at me, wondering why I’m so dirty. When life loses all meaning, personal hygiene is the first thing to go. As a smelly wreck, I yearn for comfort without judgment or expectations of improvement. This is something I don’t think any rational human could offer, but I’ve got to find companionship somewhere.
I walk from West 58th and Columbus to East 59th and Second Avenue, arriving at the pound full of ideas about soft and cuddly puppies. But as I pass the row of caged dogs, I realize I can’t handle the responsibility of a dog when I can’t guarantee surviving the week. Cats are more resilient and therefore a much better option for me. Sure, PETA will advise against adopting an animal when you yourself are dying, but in this situation, I can’t help it. Moreover, I am metaphorically dying; shutting down, becoming a miserable hermit who wishes each day was her last. A cat feels like an appropriate addition to my macabre future. As I examine the long corridor of felines, I remember that Ben is the only man I know who likes cats. Their little furry faces remind me of him. A surreal panic takes hold. I cannot imagine life without him. I lock eyes with an obese and dandruff-covered cat. His name tag reads Fatty.
“Ahhhh . . . uh . . . ahhh . . . ,” I mutter.
“What’s the matter?” the ASPCA worker, who has been tailing me since my arrival, asks quietly.
“Fatty looks like my ex-boyfriend.”
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“I . . . called him . . . Fatty . . .”
The rest of the sentence is lost in a loud wail.
“I
would like to adopt Fatty, please. This is a sign. Fatty will be my road to salvation. I don’t mean to sound evangelical, especially since this is a nondenominational pound. Basically, I just need Fatty . . . a lot . . .”
Again, I trail off into unintelligible gasps and squeals.
“Oh my. Your breath.”
“What? Is it against the law to forget to brush your teeth? I’m sure Fatty doesn’t mind.”
The woman inspects me, scrutinizing every inch of my body.
“There is a clause in our charter about mental stability, and I am afraid that I cannot with a clear conscience say that you are of sound mind and able to care for Fatty the cat. I am sorry, but adoption denied. Please see yourself out.”
“What?”
“I said adoption denied.”
“Who do you think you are, God? Is that what you think? Or maybe Cupid, deciding who gets to have love and who doesn’t?”
“Lady, I don’t want any trouble. I’m just here to protect the animals.”
I realize that I, too, do not want any trouble. I have no one to pay my bail should I get arrested.
Alone, rejected by the pound, I make my way back to the Hudson. As I enter the lobby, I sense eyes from several people— from the concierge to a small child— watching me with pity. I am a broken woman on the verge of total annihilation, and it shows. Back in my room, I climb beneath the sheets and give up. I should call Janice, as a courtesy, and let her know that I can no longer work for her. I must face my destiny to return to Ohio and live with Mother or in a sanitarium. Either way, they won’t let me around knives to cook. Oh, thank heavens she’s not home.
“Janice. Ben dumped me. I have decided to die— metaphorically speaking— and can no longer be a part of society.”
I drop the phone to the floor without bothering to place it back on the cradle. Who cares? I close my eyes, and begin to drift into blackness.
Some period of time later, I hear the click of the door opening and the swish of it closing. Is that the maid again? How many times must I tell her that I don’t want clean sheets? I’m not even brushing my teeth; why should my sheets be clean? A bag drops to the floor, followed by the clanging of a chain. I know that sound; it’s the sound of a quilted bag with a chain strap.
The Makedown Page 22
