Requiem for a Dream (11 page)

The first day of the diet was over. Well, almost.
Sara sat in her viewing chair, sipping on a glass of water,
concentrating on the show on the screen and ignoring the refrigerator
which was whispering enticingly to her. She finished the water, her
tenth glass, thinking thin. She refilled the glass from the pitcher
on the table, the pitcher that replaced the chocolate box. If eight
glasses of water was good, then sixteen is twice as good and maybe
I'll lose twenty pounds the first week. She looked at the glass of
water and shrugged, If I stay up all night I cant make sixteen. I
drink any more Im going to be up all night anyway. She sipped the
water, thinking thin. The refrigerator reminded her of the matzoh in
the cupboard. Without looking at it she told it to mind its own
business. What do you have to do with the cupboard? Its bad enough
you have to remind me about the herring you got but the cupboard is
too much already. She sipped some more water and stared at the screen
and shut her ears to the refrigerator, but he managed to penetrate
the barrier and tell her that the herring, the beautiful and
delicious herring in sour cream, will go bad if she doesn't eat it
soon and it would be a shame to let such good herring tidbits go to
waste. So listen to Mr. Concerned. Youre worried so much about the
food going bad why do you do it? Thats your job meshuggener. Youre
supposed to keep the food from going bad. You do your job an the
herring will be fine thank you. She sipped some more water—thin,
thin, thin, thin. Too bad I dont have a scale. I could weigh myself
and see how its working. Eh, right now it would groan. All this
water. Anymore and I'll float away. The program ended and Sara yawned
and blinked her eyes. She thought briefly of staying up and watching
the late show, but quickly ignored that thought. Her body was aching
and was crying for sleep. It was a day. The hair is getting closer to
the red. At least now theres a nodding acquaintance. She drank more
water—thin, thin. The form ... eh, a nothing. Zipping through like
a whirling dervish, youll excuse the expression. And the eggs and
grapefruit, one, two, three, and some lettuce thank you. A long,
tiring day. Almost too tired to go to bed. She suddenly remembered
the refrigerator, If he tries to grab me I'll hit him, and not in the
tuchis. She finished her water— thin, th— zophtic, zophtic,
zophtic. She stood up and listened to the sloshing, I feel like a
goldfish bowl. She turned off the set, put the pitcher and glass in
the sink and, with head high and shoulders back, she walked past the
refrigerator swerving neither to the left nor right, her eyes fixed
steadfastly ahead at her goal, knowing that she had conquered the
enemy and that he shook with fear—listen to him grumbling and
rumbling, shaking in his boots already—and she walked like a queen,
a television queen, to her bedchamber. She slowly, and luxuriously,
lowered herself onto the bed and stretched out, thanking God for such
a nice bed. Her worn nightgown felt so silky and smooth and cool and
softness seemed to surround her, and a feeling of peace and joy
gently spread out from her stomach, like small ripples in a pond,
through her body and rested ever so lightly on her eyes as she
floated off into a joyous and refreshing slumber.

Marion hustled them out of the house early so Harry
and Tyrone were among the first to show up for work. Actually it
didnt make any difference because so few shaped up that everyone was
put to work. They took another dexie before leaving so they were very
quick and ready to go. It was a hot and humid night and the sweat
poured off them as they tossed bundles of papers into the trucks, but
they just tossed and laughed and giggled and talked, doing as much
work as any six men there. When their first truck was loaded they
went over to another one to help, and the guys stood back and shook
their heads as Harry and Tyrone tossed the bundles of papers around
like it was a privilege and a game ... a fun game. One of the guys
told them to cool it, Youll fuck this thing up man. Like how? Shit,
they push us hard enough as it is, if you guys start racin like this
theyll expect this every night. One of the other guys handed each of
them a can of cold beer, Here, take it easy and cool off. We come
here pretty steady, you know? an we want ta keep it like it is.
Sheeit, I dig what you say baby. We be cool. We doan want the man to
lay a heavy han on nobody jim. Yeah, Harry nodded an swallowed half
the beer then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, goddamn
thats good. Cuts through the blotter I got in my mouth. The other
guys slapped Harry and Tyrone on the back and everybody was happy,
and when the trucks were finished Harry and Tyrone bought the next
dozen cans of beer and passed them around while they waited for the
next line of trucks to back in. Later on a few bottles of wine were
passed around and Harry and Tyrone were feeling pretty good, the
alcohol taking the sharp edge off the dexies. They worked a couple of
hours extra and were as happy as hogs in shit figuring out just how
much they would make that night. The kick in the ass came when they
found out they wouldnt get paid that night, but would have to wait
until the end of the week to get their checks. Sheeit. Now aint that
a shame? Aint that a mutha fuckin shame? Ah fuck it man. What the
hell. This way we'll get our bread all at once an wont have to worry
about pissin it away before we get enough for the piece. Yeah, maybe
so, but workins weird enough, but workin without getting the braid is
somethin else jim. Dont sweat it, Ty my boy, just go home an take
those downers Marions gave ya an get some rest. A couple more nights
an we got our piece. Harry extended his hand and Tyrone slapped it,
You goddamn right baby, and Harry slapped his and they left the
newspaper plant, hurrying to get home before they got caught in the
early morning rush hour, and the sunlight.

Marion languidly tidied up the apartment after they
left, humming and singing to herself. The apartment was small and
there wasnt much to do other than clean the cups and coffee pot and
put them away. She sat on the couch, hugging herself as she listened
to the music. She had the strangest feeling inside, a feeling that
was unfamiliar but not threatening. She thought about it, tried to
analyze it, but she couldnt quite identify it. For some reason she
kept thinking of the many, many madonnas she had seen in the museums
of Europe, especially in Italy, and her mind was filled with the
bright blues and brilliant light of the Italian renaissance and she
thought of the Mediterranean and the color of the sea and sky and
how, as she looked at the isle of Capri from the restaurant on the
top of the hill in Naples, she suddenly realized why the Italians
were masters of light and why they could use blue like no one before
or since. She remembered sitting on the patio of that restaurant
under the net awning, the sun warming a new life into her and firing
her imagination and experiencing what it must have been like to sit
there a few hundred years ago in that light and color and listen to
Vivaldis strings singing and vibrating through that air, and
Gabrielis brass canzones pulsing from the nearby towers, and sit in a
cathedral with the sun bursting through the stained windows and
gleaming on the carved wood of the pews listening to a Monteverdi
Mass. It was then, for the first time in her life, that she felt
alive, really and truly alive, like she had a reason for existing, a
purpose in her life and she had realized that purpose and would now
pursue it and dedicate her life to it. All that summer and fall she
painted, mornings, afternoons, evenings, then walked around the
streets that were still echoing the music of the masters, and every
stone, every pebble seemed to have a life and reason of its own and
she somehow felt, though vaguely, a part of that reason. Some nights
she would sit in the caf£ with other young artists and poets and
musicians and who knows what else, drinking wine and talking and
laughing and discussing and arguing and life was exciting and
tangible and crisp like the clear Mediterranean sunlight. Then as the
grayness of winter slowly seeped down from the north the energy and
inspiration seemed to ooze from her as paint from a tube and now when
she looked at a bare canvas it was only a bare canvas, a piece of
material stretched over a few pieces of wood, it was no longer a
painting waiting to be painted. It was just canvas. She went further
south. Sicily. North Africa. Trying to follow the sun to the past,
the very recent past, but all she found was herself. She went back to
Italy, gave away all her paintings, equipment, books and what nots.
She went back to that restaurant on the hill in Naples and sat there
for endless hours for a week, looking at Vesuvius, Capri, the bay,
the sky, trying, with the desperation of the dying, to reawaken those
old feelings, trying with jewels of sparkling wine to rekindle the
flame that half fired her imagination just a short lifetime ago, and
though the wine sparkled in the sunlight, and the moonlight, the once
blazing fire was extinguished and Marion finally succumbed to the
stone coldness within her. She shivered as she remembered leaving
Italy and coming back to the States, back to the grossness of her
family, back to the dulled brilliance of her life. She shivered
again, involuntarily, as she sat on the couch, looking back through
so many miserably unhappy yesterdays, then smiled and hugged herself
tighter, not from coldness nor fear nor despair, but joy. All that
was in the near and distant past. Over with. Gone. Once more her life
had reason . . . purpose. Once more there was a direction for her to
follow. A need for her energies. She and Harry were going to
recapture those blues of the sky and sea and feel the warmth of
desire that had been rekindled. They were going to a new renaissance.

Sara slowly awakened in the middle of the night and
though she tried for many long seconds to fight it, eventually she
got out of bed and stumbled to the bathroom to relieve the urgent
pressure of her bladder. She tried to blink her eyes open, but they
were unyielding to her attempts and so she kept them almost
completely closed as she sat thinking thin. Though still partially
asleep, her mind clouded and fogged, she was still aware of the water
passing through her body and the reason for its abundance—thin,
thin, thin— she suddenly straightened up—zophtic, zophtic,
zophtic— Why should I settle for second best? Still half asleep she
stood for a few seconds watching and listening to the whirling water
in the bowl with joy because she knew that not only unwanted pounds
were going down the drain and ultimately to the ocean, but an old
life, a life of loneliness, a life of futility, of being unnecessary.
Sometimes her Harry needed her, but . . . She listened to the music
of the water filling the flush tank and smiled through her haze of
partial wake-fulness, knowing that freshness was filling her and soon
she would be a new Sara Goldfarb. The fresh water in the bowl was
crystal clear and looked cool and refreshing, even in a toilet bowl
it looked cool. Clean is clean and new is new. . . . Still I'll drink
from the faucet, thank you. Sara went back to bed, a slight bounce to
her step. The sheets felt cool and refreshing as she lay down and
rubbed her fingertips up and down on the silky smoothness of her
nightgown, sinking deeper into a smile, a smile that she saw
reflected on the inner surface of her eyelids. She breathed slowly
and deeply then sighed long and happily as she floated in the
weightless joy between sleep and wakefulness and dozily felt the
sensations tingle through her body and then seem to disappear
somewhere in her toes as she cuddled into the light fluffmess of her
old pillow and kissed herself goodnight and sailed eagerly into the
comfort of her dreams.

Harry was still wired when he got back to Marions
pad. She gave him a couple of sleeping pills and they sat on the
couch for a while, smoking a joint, until Harry started to yawn and
then they went to bed and slept through the dreary heat of the day.

Today the hair was perfect. Such a color. It was so
gorgeous it makes you want to jump out a window. Now you should hurry
up and get on the show before the roots grow out. Believe me, I want
to, but Im glad theyre waiting until I lose more weight. When I walk
across the stage its a hush youll hear. I'll look over my shoulder
and say I vant to be alone. So now youre Swedish American? They
chuckled and Sara went back to her apartment to see how her red dress
would look, now, with her red hair. She put it on, and the gold
shoes, and posed and twisted and turned in front of the mirror,
holding the back of the dress as close together as possible. It
seemed to come a little closer. She could feel that she lost weight.
She wiggled and squealed and smiled at her reflection, then threw
herself a kiss, Youre gorgeous, a living doll. She wiggled and
squealed again, kissed her hand then grinned at her reflection, A
Greta Garbo youre not, but youre no Wallace Beery either. She looked
over her shoulder in the direction of the refrigerator, See, Mr.
Smarty-pants, Mr. Fancy Dancy Herring Tidbits? Already its almost
fitting. A few more inches, more or less, and I'll fit in nice and
snug thank you very much. Keep your herring. Whose needing? I love my
egg and grapefruit. And lettuce. She posed and pranced for a while
longer, then decided to eat her lunch and go out and get some sun.
She took the egg, grapefruit and lettuce out of the refrigerator, an
expression of smug superiority on her face. She tossed her head
contemptuously at the refrigerator and hit the door with her tuchis.
So, hows by you Mr. Big Mouth? You see how I look and youre
speechless. She vamped in front of the refrigerator then proceeded to
fix her lunch, humming, singing, wiggling, feeling safe and cocky.
When she finished her lunch she washed the dishes, put them away, got
her chair and, before leaving the apartment, kissed her fingertips
and patted the refrigerator, Dont cry, dolly. As my Harry would say,
Be cool. She chuckled, turned off the television, and left the
apartment and joined the ladies sitting in the sun. She put her chair
in a good spot and closed her eyes and faced the sun like the others.
They didnt change positions as they talked, but continued to look
straight ahead in the direction of the sun, turning their chairs
occasionally so the sun would always be shining directly on their
faces. Know yet what show? Are you hearing anything? How could I
hear? I just mailed it yesterday. Maybe tomorrow. It might even be
longer. So whats the difference what show? Thats how I feel. Its the
television thats the important thing. Theyll let you know ahead of
time? What are they going to do, tell her after the show? You can
bring friends? Sara shrugged, So how should I know? They should let
you bring at least a schlepper. Whose going to carry all those
prizes? Believe me I'll get them home. Especially Robert Redford. For
him I dont need a schlepper. The women chuckled and nodded as they
continued to stare at the sun, and women who were walking by stopped
to talk with Sara and by the time she had been sitting there for half
an hour all the women in the neighborhood were knotted around her
talking, asking, chuckling, hoping, wishing. Sara felt warmed not
only by the sun but by all the attention she was suddenly receiving.
She felt like a star.