The Makedown (28 page)
“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?”
Good-bye Fatty
T
he 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 tried.
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.
“How did you find me?” I ask pitifully.
“Sweetie, I’m your Fairy Godmother. I always know where you are. It’s called caller ID,” Janice says flatly.
“And they just gave you a key to my room? What if you were some stranger off the street?”
“You’ve made quite the impression downstairs. They were taking bets on whether you’d jump out the window. Trust me, they were more than willing to let you be someone else’s problem.”
“I’m already dead. Run . . . save yourself.”
“Get up!” Janice barks authoritatively. “You’ve missed three days of work, run up a hotel tab that will take you a year of baking quiches to pay off, and from the smell of this place, I suspect you have done permanent damage to your gums. You need to get up.”
“Janice, you aren’t listening to me,” I yell from under the blanket, “
I am dead!
Go away!”
“I know you are dead inside. I’m not trying to diminish that. I simply want you to continue your journey to gingivitis in my guest room. I can keep an eye on you in case you decide to rethink the metaphorical death for a more literal one.”
Janice’s guest room is painted a deep crimson, which seems somehow appropriate. I imagine that I am in the center of my own personal bloodbath. Janice tiptoes into the room, goes directly to the window, and flings open the curtains. Sunlight burns my corneas. It’s been days since I have seen natural light.
“Please close the curtains,” I beg.
“Not unless you take a shower.”
“You said you would leave me alone.”
“I have left you alone for days. You smell. Either sit in the sunlight or shower. It’s up to you.”
“I’ll shower.”
Janice hands me a toothbrush with toothpaste and walks me to the bathroom. She holds my greasy hair back while I brush my tongue vigorously. When I finish brushing, she turns on the shower and shuts the bathroom door.
The shower pressure hurts my skin as it penetrates the protective layer of grime covering my body. My hair is vile and requires two washings to remove the grease. I run my tongue against my newly clean teeth. Only now, as I towel off, do I realize how nice it is to have found hygiene again. I leave the shower dressed in a white terry cloth robe and return to bed.
I wake almost fifteen hours later to Janice. Once again, she leads me through the motions of brushing and washing. This time I change into jeans and a sweater. I attempt to apply makeup but stop after foundation, realizing it will smear when I cry. Who needs the mess?
Alone with the paper, I scan the listings for available apartments. It is a painful reminder of the breakup: we no longer live together because he dumped me. Ben doesn’t love me, but I still love him. I want to know what Ben is doing at this very second. Is he eating eggs or reading the paper? Is he thinking of me? Does he miss me? The answer is no. He broke up with me. I am the woman he knows he doesn’t want. And what is worse, I can’t even blame him— I wouldn’t want me either.
