Anton woke. The electric numbers said 2.44.
Vague streetlight was etched on his curtains. Beyond the white shadow of his wardrobe was the door to his apartment, the lure of the semi-lit passage.
Don’t get up.
He got up and rummaged amongst last night’s pizza boxes, soft drink bottles and soiled paper bags for his clothes.
Don’t do it.
I always do.
He dressed, then grabbed his coat and keys. His front door was a dim barrier.
Don’t. I can. But don’t. Look I am. Look, see I can. I can do this. I am doing it, see?
Outside the air was brisk and mute, moonlight stained the city walls. He hobbled to his car.
Ruing the broken heater, he listed the places he could go to. Candy’s could be open, about five minutes away; too many people might see him. Even at 3am. The all-nighter on City Road was reliable, but a longer drive. The joint on the beach side offered anonymity; their staff turnover was high due to hold ups. His eyes itched, his head was heavy. He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand.
He pulled up opposite the Beach Shack and forced the car door open. A wind was up. It flitted up the grass incline from the beach and nipped his ears. It ruffled the surf somewhere in the dark. Dampness greased his cheek. He turned his back on the blackness that was the sea and loped towards the neon flame of the café.
A young Sikh worker stood behind the bain-marie. It was full. Good. The fridge was full too. Plenty of coloured bottles, like a balanced diet. Steam rose in the bain-marie from beneath the trays of rice, stir fry and wrapped burgers. The shop attendant wore a black top and a name badge, Mani.
‘Hello, sir, can I help you?’ He had dark eyes. In his early twenties, Anton reckoned. He said,
‘I’ll take a chicken curry and rice, make it two, a sweet and sour pork, a couple of those burgers there, and what’s that?’ He pointed.
‘Chicken Caesar wrap,’ said Mani.
‘Two,’ said Anton, ‘and these.’ He lifted the 1.25 litre bottles of iced tea and Fanta on to the counter. Peach iced tea is a nod to, well if not health, restraint, of some sort. It’s not all fizzy sugar. And besides fizzy drinks are hopeless when you need to shift the chunk of chicken stuck in your throat.
‘And add in a large fries too.’ Potatoes are vegetables; you need vegetables. Like Caesar is a salad; you need salad. ‘I’ll eat here.’
He touched the pay pad with his card and watched as Mani cut the plastic-like surface of curry which had shrink wrapped across the aluminium tray. There’s carrot in there, and something green. Green is good. And there’s protein too. Always justifying.
Mani retrieved the two white wrapped burgers, tossed piles of limp fries into a cardboard tray.
He sat at the formica table and unwrapped one of the burgers. He bit and felt the familiar wave of triumphant debauchery shimmer through him. Now you’re open, now you’re free, you’re allowed. Yes.
He chewed feverishly and bit again. Yes, that’s it. Go. He twisted the Fanta open and glugged an opening salvo. Fizz and sugar and burger swilled in his mouth and he swallowed and bit and bit again and chewed, eyed the sombre wall of the room, bit once more and drank.
Hardly touched the sides. You haven’t even started, mate. Watch yourself go.
He cracked open the first of the curries, and dug into it with a plastic fork. Chunks fell off as he lifted it into his mouth. It wasn’t hot. He chewed and picked up the globs from the tabletop and inserted them into his mouth. Mani keeps this clean, hey; people overstate the risk of bacteria. It makes you strong. Another mouthful, and again. Good eating this, hurried, chasing the starting point. Fanta. Strange combo, orange fizz and green curry, but hey, life does that, mixes things up. He poked around for the last of the rice grains drying in the corners of the plastic container. He picked bits off his sweater. That’s clean, you know where it’s been.
Sauce from the second curry and the pork splattered across his chest and chin when he ripped them open. Don’t let them get too cold. He gulped at pork, chicken, rice. Eat, man, it’s approaching. Not too far now.
A pain stabbed his sternum. Stuck chicken. His body flexed and fought to rid itself of the chunk of meat. He opened the iced tea, and guzzled furiously, and with an uncomfortable gulp, the chicken dislodged. You’re good at this. You know what to do. He coughed and thumped his chest and took another mouthful.
He looked to see if Mani was watching. He was looking at a TV out of sight behind the counter.
Chewing, he grabbed a handful of fries. The salt mixed with grease was an exfoliant around his mouth as he stuffed them in. His palate dried and he worked his jowls to chew, grabbing the iced tea in anticipation. It’s a ball of tepid mush. Mash, man, sink it with the tea. That’s the way! You can do this.
More fries, rice and pork, his fingers slipping on the fork and the tea ready in his spare hand. He paused to open a Caesar wrap. The dressing was congealed on the rim of the cracked pita. He bit and the bitter tang of mayonnaise smothered his palate. You know this feeling, this cover all, like a blanket, a greasy warming coagulated blanket. It’s good, yes, this is good. You’re on form tonight, buddy.
Then, with the next bite, the moment arrived. His stomach was stretched. He paused, breathing heavily through his nose, his mouth full. This is it. You can feel it in your gut now, it feels round, substantial, slightly taut – yes you’re taut, Anton, taut. This is where I start.
Finally.
He paused and swallowed, and took a swig of Fanta. It buzzed in his mouth like flies in a trap. He picked a piece of lettuce from his back teeth, looked at it and ate it.
Now is the time, Anton. Do it! Do it now!
He folded the end of the Caesar wrap into his mouth and followed it with fries. Salt and sweet and bitter and raw and cooked. He swallowed the lump, drank tea as insurance, and stabbed pieces of pork with his fork. The pressure in his stomach built. He ate. Curry, pork, rice, salty fries. Here it comes, Anton, it’s coming. With the second Caesar the ache in his gut hit. He chewed diligently, breathing through the conglomeration in his mouth. He swigged Fanta. It burst into his stomach. The ache lurched. Pain, Anton, pain. I can do this. This is what I do. This is real.
He bit more wrap and stuffed in rice and the last of the pork, chewing with distended cheeks. His gut was hurting now. But hurting is good. Hurting is achievement. Overcome the pain, eat through it, experience it, be alive. Alive in this desolate eatery at 4am. Alive to your own accomplishment. He swung curry at his lips and missed. It hit the table, where he scraped it off and refuelled his fork. This is not a sickness, Anton, this is victory, this is living.
He unwrapped the second burger. It was cold now, and he bit into it. Eat, Anton, eat. Go beyond, go where you rarely go, where you can go. I can do this. Watch me, being me, conquering, breaking a line, forging a life.
‘Hey guys, check out lard arse here.’
Anton stopped mid chew and looked up. Three men had entered the shop. He hadn’t seen them come in. He hadn’t noticed any wisp of sea breeze when they opened the door. Shame and fear suddenly sullied his food. He froze.
‘Hey, fatso.’ One of the men stood opposite him. Jeans, a t-shirt and a leather jacket. A face appeared, dark and mocking. ‘I’m talking to you. You gotta name?’
Anton’s mouth was clogged with sugar bread and mince. The burger needed more sauce.
‘You eat all this?’ He waved his hand over the plastic containers and crumpled wrapping.
Anton swallowed and put his hands on the table. There was nothing to say. They would not understand. I don’t understand. He stared at the iced tea. It had a yellow label and a font that promised the good life.
‘Swallow your tongue too, lard arse?’
The man shoved a container with his finger.
‘Hey lads, how’s about we show Fat Fuck here a lesson?’
Anton breathed, short, determined breaths. Pushing down the ire. Managing the gut pain. Angry at the interruption. Scared of what might happen.
Two other bodies appeared, in similar clothes.
‘We could take him outside and punch the food out of him.’
‘You’d lose your fist in the fat.’ Laughter. Back slapping, boy staunching laughter. They had no idea.
‘I’ve got a better idea.’
‘What?’
‘You eat all this stuff?’
Anton didn’t move.
‘Hey, Michelin Man, I’m talking to you.’
Anton looked up.
‘You eat all this shit?’ He shoved a container on the table. Stay silent, Anton, keep your mouth closed.
The man turned.
‘Hey, what’s your name?’ he said to Mani at the counter.
‘Mani,’ said Mani.
‘Tell me Mani, did fat boy here eat all this?’
Anton looked towards the bain-marie, but his vision was blocked by the men.
‘Please, sir, it is late, I don’t want any trouble,’ said Mani. ‘He ordered a burger only. The stuff on the table was from a prior customer. They left their rubbish behind.’
The man turned back. ‘That true?’
Anton reached for the iced tea, more for something to do than a drink. The man pressed his hand on it to prevent it moving.
‘There are three tables here. Why would you choose the one full of other people’s garbage?’
Anton forced the bottle away from the man and held it with both hands. His mind was blank.
‘So, what’s the plan?’ said one of the men. ‘We gonna take him out?’
The other man’s body turned. He grinned and said, ‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘We’re gonna feed him. We’re gonna buy him a double of what he just had and make him eat it. We’re gonna make him feel it, make him be the glutton he is, the fucking sicko. Mani, don’t lie. What did he buy?’
‘I’m not sure now,’ said Mani.
‘Well, there are three plastic containers here, so what was in them?’
‘Rice in one I think,’ said Mani. ‘And curry and sweet and sour in the others.’
‘And how many burgers?’
‘Just one.’
‘Fries?’
‘One small, and a drink.’
Mani, Mani, Mani. I can run my own lies. I’m not looking for help.
‘Gimme three foods, I don’t care what, a burger, some fries and another Fanta, for lard arse here, and we’ll have some fries and coke to go.’
The three containers appeared on Anton’s table, along with the wrapped lump of burger.
‘Eat, fucker.’
Anton looked at the food, then at the men, and then back at the food.
You can do it. You can. You’ve had more than this before.
But this was different. This was compulsion, not a choice. Not self-determined, self-inflicted. Do I inflict myself? Do I suffer an infliction? Why do I do this?
He smiled.
‘What are you smiling at, fat fuck?’
Anton looked up at the man. His eyes had no understanding, no knowledge. No, appreciation.
The man unwrapped the burger and pushed towards Anton.
Anton lifted it, inspected it. Just a burger. Just an addition to the gut that, let’s be real, still had plenty of expansion left. Despite the pain.
But it was a burger with humiliation. To be forced to eat, that’s not natural. That takes the achievement out of it, the triumph.
He looked up at the three men. They were peas in a pod, all dressed the same. He couldn’t beat them. Hell, he couldn’t beat one of them. They’d beat him up, force the food into his mouth. He’d resist, there’d be food everywhere and they’d get really angry and beat him up.
He picked up the burger and bit. A wave of anger roared through him. Bastards. You bastards. He chose his only way to avoid being beaten up.
He ate feverishly, ripping large chunks from the burger and chewing like a hungry dog. He washed down masticated lumps with iced tea and Fanta, bit more and ground the tepid mush between clenched teeth. His gut ached, his breathing laboured, but he persevered. He ripped open the curry container and, in a feeble display of protest, scooped its contents out with his fingers, shoving them into his mouth. Curry spilled across the table and his clothes, but he didn’t care. He was nothing now, nothing worth anything, just a glutton who did other people’s bidding. He pulled the top off the chicken container and put the whole thing to his mouth, shovelling its contents into his waiting jaws.
‘For Chrissake stop,’ said one of the men. ‘That’s fucking disgusting. I’ve never seen anything like it. You’re sick, y’know, sick.’
Anton chewed frantically, gulp-swallowed and then yelled back,
‘Yeah I am. Maybe you get it now. Maybe you have an inkling. This is me. What I am. What I do. I eat, I eat because I can, whenever I can. You, you know jack shit about me. You’re just a bunch of jerks with normal lives who don’t care a shit about anyone, but I am me, you understand that now? I am.’
He grabbed the Fanta bottle, took a frenzied gulp and slumped into the seat, mutely hoping it would not buckle under him.
The café was still. Steam rose in the bain-marie.
A cockroach skitted along a skirting board into a crack.
‘Let’s go,’ said one of the men. ‘Leave the fucker to his fate.’
They left.
Anton pursed his lips. His mind was flame. His head voice said, ‘You did good there. You showed ‘em.’ Shut up.
He peered through the window. The first light of dawn burned on the horizon, like reflux.
You have to go home now. The early joggers will be in for a coffee soon. Get going before they see you.
I could sit here and show them too. I could sit here and stuff my guts with pancakes and muffins and coffee and tea and show them up for what they dream of and who they want to be. I could disgust them too, like I disgust myself. I am the disgust.
He put his head in his hands and sighed. Why do I do this? What drove me to this? I don’t recall any trauma. I’m ashamed, but not guilty. Why?
Why do you care? You just do.
He sighed again. I just do. I just, do.
Time to go, bud. You know you have to.
He rose.
Mani was still behind the counter.
You could take a couple of those muffins. So what if they are a week old, the plastic keeps them fresh. Banana for the goodness, chocolate for the joy. With an iced coffee. No. Resist. You can. Fuck you!
His stomach hurt.
He curled his fist and jammed it into his mouth and walked out to the flaring day.
* * * * * *
Photo by Kayleigh Harrington via Unsplash
