The Makedown (27 page)
“Ben, get up!”
“Babe, I can’t. My stomach hurts. I need to sleep it off.”
“You need to sleep off a stomachache?”
“Sometimes when I get up too early I get a stomachache. Sleep is the only thing that can cure it.”
“Walking can cure it better. I read that in the
New England Journal of Medicine
. Get up!”
“No,” Ben whines, “I need to sleep. Please, woman, let me sleep!”
“Fine!” I relent. “I’m packing tofu stir-fry for lunch. You better eat it!”
“Okay. Can I go back to sleep now?”
I turn and leave my boyfriend in a ball on the floor of the closet. I angrily toss tofu and vegetables into Tupperware, badmouthing Ben silently the whole time. Frustration overcomes me; I want RMFAB to be over as soon as possible. Why does Ben make it so hard? I never dreamed a short walk would conjure such resistance from him. I push the Tupperware to the bottom of the brown paper sack, wishing there were a way to monitor Ben’s lunches. Confirmation that he’s eating them would greatly settle my nerves. My fingertips quake with aggravation as I write Ben’s name in Sharpie on the bag.
It’s hard to believe that I had sex last night, although I didn’t have an orgasm due to the crying fiasco. Nothing quiets an impending orgasm more than your boyfriend weeping like he’s a seventh-grade girl at a Justin Timberlake concert.
By the following morning, I have anxiety-induced energy to get RMFAB on track. I wait impatiently in bed, listening to the clock tick from 6:00 to 6:01. I have already changed into my spandex running ensemble, tennis shoes included. I yearn to squeeze Ben’s testicles, forcing him to wake up and get into his Nikes, but I don’t. After yesterday, I am determined to wait until the wholly reasonable hour of 7:00 to rouse Ben. To waste time, I switch off staring at Ben’s face and the clock. At 6:47, my eyes return to Ben’s face and discover he’s awake.
“What are you doing up?” Ben asks groggily.
“Oh, I woke up . . . a few seconds ago. You ready for our walk?” I throw back the blanket enthusiastically before Ben can respond.
“You’re already dressed. Let me guess. Another Ambien-induced bout of sleepwalking?”
“Hmmm? My outfit? I woke up an hour ago and thought I should get dressed . . . then get back into bed . . . to use my time efficiently.”
Ben nods before sleepily wandering toward the closet. I follow close behind him to avoid yesterday’s impromptu snooze on the floor. Luckily, Ben appears focused on walking this morning.
Within moments of rounding our block, I sense a problem. Ben is not interested in walking. He is interested in meandering. Small children with foot-long legs and heavy backpacks overtake us en route to school. A woman with an abnormally short left leg limps past us as Ben peruses the shop windows. He comments on every thing from women’s lingerie to model train sets. The people gliding past us don’t register with Ben. He is too busy talking. He should be short of breath and perspiring; instead, he gabs away about nonsense.
Having tired of the window displays, Ben partakes in the thinking man’s version of “what if.” Most girls ask things like “what if Alan asked me out,” “what if I was as popular as Pauline,” or occasionally “what if I could read people’s minds?”
“What do you think would have happened if JFK hadn’t been assassinated?” Ben ponders aloud.
“He would have continued the march into Vietnam. Keep your knees up.” Ben ignores my knee comment and continues down the tragedy-ridden Kennedy family tree.
“What about Bobby Kennedy?”
“Listen, chatty, unless you want to stay a fatty, I suggest you pick up the pace.” The word
fatty
slipped out a little too easily. How could I call him fatty? Did I remember nothing of the hell I myself had endured?
“Don’t call me fatty, bitchy!”
“I’m sorry, Ben, but we are currently averaging a two-hour mile.”
“Don’t rush me; my stomach still hurts a little.”
This is the fat-person lie I know all too well. I can’t let him get away with it. I may have been out of line calling him fatty, but he needs exercise.
“Can we stop at Starbucks?”
“Okay, but no Frappuccinos. They’re all sugar.”
“I didn’t even say I wanted one. Jeez. I’m getting a mocha, drill sergeant.”
I want to scream “A mocha? Why not deep-fried Snickers for breakfast?” but instead I nod.
“Ben, have you been eating the lunches I pack?”
“Yes.” Ben’s eyes dart around suspiciously, frantic for something to focus on.
“Remember how much you liked vegetables when we first met? I want to help get you back there.”
“Thanks, babe,” he says as he plants a kiss on my lips.
If he knew what I’d done, he wouldn’t be thanking me.
B
en is cheating. I’ve had my suspicions for weeks, but having confirmation is hard to swallow. Ben is a cheater, a serious cheater. This is well beyond a minor indiscretion after a few too many glasses of wine while out of town. This is a standing appointment. All those nights he awkwardly stammered when answering my questions about work lunches or dinners. How could I have been so blind? Maybe I didn’t want to see the truth. I looked the other way and believed what felt good. Well, I certainly can’t do that now. The proof is burning a hole in my hand. How could Ben do this to me? After what we’ve been through— morning walks, tofu burgers, and sit-ups. We took a vow, but clearly that means nothing to him. Ben promised over a steaming pot of vegetables that he would eat my healthy home-packed lunches. And now this! Twinkie, Twix, and Snickers wrappers are in every pocket of his slacks. He consumes copious amounts of empty calories behind my back. I assumed he would sneak a Fig Newton or two, but Twinkies? There is nothing nutritious or filling about a Twinkie; it goes straight to his spare tire. I cannot believe how painfully addicted to junk food he has become.
I have destroyed the bedroom looking for remnants of his binge eating. Under the dresser, I discover a sea of chip wrappers, mostly Doritos and Cheetos. If he eats like this at home, he must have an even larger stash at work. I imagine Ben’s desk, filled with fattening contraband that he shoves into his mouth between meetings, hoping no one will notice the crumbs on his tie before plummeting into self-loathing over the empty calories and nondiet soda he consumed.
Secret eating leads to an anxiety-and guilt-filled lifestyle. A secret eater continually frets that someone will spot a dash of Cheetos dust, a smudge of Hershey’s chocolate, or a french fry grease stain. It is a miserable existence.
In a remorseful haze, I wander toward Braham’s Spice Emporium on Jane Street in the West Village. Janice is determined to have more exotic flavorings than any caterer in town. I am far too preoccupied with Ben shoving Twix bars into his mouth to be an intelligent spice buyer right now. Staring at a bag of dried Indian parsley, all I can think is how dramatically I have screwed up Ben’s life. I have turned a vegetarian against vegetables.
I manage to buy the spices on Janice’s list and make my way home.
The bag of spices I hold is so pungent that it takes me a second to detect the smoky odor wafting from my apartment as I unlock the door.
“Ben!” I holler as I inhale the toxic air.
The apartment is a mélange of cigarette smoke and Lysol air freshener. Ben enters the living room, doing his best impression of innocence.
“What’s up?” Ben asks as if he’s just turned fifteen.
“What’s up? Are you serious?
What’s up?
” I scream back.
“Why are you yelling?”
“Why am I yelling? The entire apartment smells like smoke and freaking air freshener!”
“Ohhh, that. John came over after work and we . . . burned a bagel. We sprayed Lysol to get rid of the smell.”
“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—”
