Hungry for Love

by Nancy Frederick

  Glenda and Jean rose at that moment and attempted to flee.

  Her supervisor coughed, then spoke up, “Excuse me, Chrissy, could I see you for a minute? Take a short break everyone, won’t you. We have some great pamphlets right over there.” Gently, Elise led Glenda and Jean back to their seats.

  Chrissy, excited about her imminent promotion, followed Elise toward the back, where the offices were. In the background she could hear the conversation. Jean, grown foolishly bold without Chrissy there to keep her in line, said, “This is worse than EST.”

  Lou, sounding less gruff and more tremulous, said, “The army was kinder.”

  But so what. Chrissy would whip them into shape in no time. This was like a calling—she had been led here and now she would rock it.

  The people in the sharing circle sat and watched the drama through the window into the back office. Chrissy seemed to be shaking her fist at Elise.

  “I hope she doesn’t kill her,” said Glenda. “We’ll never get out alive otherwise.”

  Chrissy was enraged. That moron Elise who was supposed to fawn all over her and offer a promotion was instead firing her. This place was for losers. “Yeah,” said Chrissy, “Well I hope you gain fifty pounds and your implants burst!”

  She stormed out the door as Elise looked down quizzically at her b-cup.

  Livid, Chrissy slammed an exercise duffel bag into the trunk then kicked the car a few times but it made her feel no better. How was she going to do anything if the world was filled with morons? Didn’t it seem lately that she met more and more morons? They were taking over the planet. She entered the car and slammed the door, speeding away, seething and thinking about morons.

  Bill did what he often did after work. When most other men were out for drinks with colleagues, dashing off for a quickie with a mistress, or even hastening home to a beloved wife, Bill meandered through the supermarket. He could cook—after a fashion—well he could almost cook, that’s what he’d say if anyone asked. He could read a package and he could probably follow a recipe, but he didn’t try that often. He could cook hamburger and add sauce and make spaghetti. He could add stuff to packaged salads. He could grill, of course, because grilling was a man’s birthright, a result of having evolved from cave dwellers. It wasn’t about cooking, however, it was about the meander, the stroll through the market, the aisles with all the boxes, the sense that here lay life and sustenance. In the mornings he visited JoEllen and longed for the life they shared. In the evenings he visited the market.

  He’d felt better about himself and about life in general since he began making breakfasts and dinners for the kids. Yes, he had to deal with Chrissy’s intolerance of anything not in the category of lettuce, but all he had to do was speak sternly and she would back off. That was odd, wasn’t it? Did she seem different? He wondered, but he seldom stopped long enough to ponder the question seriously. He suspected there was much about Chrissy and her current odd behavior that he could unravel with a little prodding but it was his desire lately not to explore, not to question, just to drift. It seemed so much less taxing.

  Tonight he would grill some steaks. Recently he discovered that you could grill vegetables such as peppers and even—amazingly—potatoes. You couldn’t put potatoes on the grill raw—that was where he’d made his mistake before. But if you microwaved them, let them cool a bit, and then sliced them, a little slather of oil and they could go on the grill with some thickly sliced onions and the whole meal was right there on the fire.

  In his basket were the items for tonight’s grill and he thought, what if he added some other things, that was what a mixed grill was, wasn’t it? But what to add? Shrimp would be good but wouldn’t it fall through the grill? As he pondered this, he bumped baskets with his neighbor, Sophie Gold. He knew she was a regular visitor to his kitchen and he was grateful for all the goodies she constantly brought over for the kids because they needed that sense of security.

  “Dr. M!” she said excitedly, “How are you? I haven’t seen you in a while.”

  He smiled at her with genuine appreciation. “I can’t apologize enough,” he said. “I’ve been meaning to knock on your door, bring you some wine or at least some ice cream. You’ve been so wonderful to bring so many delicious goodies over. Candy says she’s adopted you.”

  Mrs. G laughed, “Well, we adopted each other. And you know I love to cook. Just don’t want Bert eating every bite I cook, wonky ticker. Trying to keep the old man around a little longer. Fifty years you know—in three months.”

  Bill sighed and looked at Mrs. G, “Fifty years. A whole lifetime. That’s a lot of memories, wonderful memories for sure. I expected….”

  Sophie patted Bill on the arm, “I know you did, I know. We all did. Listen—why don’t you come over tonight and we’ll have dinner together instead of me slipping over to drop off stuff so Chrissy doesn’t starve those kids.” She gulped, thought better of what she’d just said, not wanting to be too critical, then added, “Though I know she’s been better lately.”

  “No, you know what—it’s about time you came over and I fed you. I’m a cook now—and I’m making a mixed grill. Steaks and veg and what else is the mixed part is what I’m trying to figure out.” He laughed as Sophie smiled at him as a mom would do at a slow child.

  “Depends on the size of the grill,” she said. “You can add chicken, sausages, nice fat asparagus, shrimp on skewers, anything really. You can do burgers, but with steak, it’s nice to have a different meat—see—that’s why it’s mixed. But don’t worry about dessert. I baked a couple pies earlier today.”

  Bill walked and Sophie strolled alongside him and they talked and laughed and tossed items in their respective baskets. Later Bill produced an acceptably good dinner, which the Golds proclaimed the best dinner ever and everyone enjoyed sitting together outside in the yard at the comfortable garden table.

  Candy climbed into Sophie’s lap after eating and said, “You know I’m really sorry, Mrs. G.”

  Sophie laughed and asked, “What are you sorry for, Cutie?”

  “That you don’t have children of course. It’s so sad for you.” Then she smiled mischievously and said, “But good for me,” burrowing down against that warm and cozy lap.

  “What?” said Bert. “Suddenly we got no kids? Nobody told me that.”

  Sophie laughed at her husband, thinking of the car they’d just bought for their granddaughter and said, “We have kids, they’re just grown up like your daddy. And grandkids, older than you.”

  “But where are all these people?” asked Candy. “How come I never met them?”

  “They live in San Francisco,” said Bert. “But Gigi, the baby, she might be moving back here soon.”

  “But aren’t you too old to have a baby? And how can she live where was it again with nobody to change her diapers?” asked Candy.

  Bert laughed. “She’s the youngest and still our baby but she’s actually what, thirty seven?”

  “Thirty nine,” said Sophie. “She’s a fantastic architect. Divorced about a year. She lives in San Francisco, Candy.”

  Will raised his thumb and pointed up so Candy would know where that was.

  “Heaven?” Candy asked.

  “San Francisco, dummy,” said Will, “North of here. Up the freeway. Not heaven.”

  “Speaking of North of here,” said Bert.

  “Somebody’s bedtime,” said Sophie.

  “No!” protested Candy, “I’m not ready to go to bed.”

  Sophie laughed. “I meant him, not you,” she said, putting her hand on her husband’s arm.

  It had been a pleasant evening. Bill enjoyed entertaining, and never realized he could do it on his own. He didn’t mind the cooking or the cleaning up after and he liked the company. They would do that again.

  Once the dishes were done and the kids were tucked in, he sat in bed, reading a medical journal and relaxing. Then Chrissy blew into the bedroom like a storm cloud and she slammed—and locked—the door. Before
he could even ask her what was wrong, she had tossed off her clothes and dropped them on the floor where she stood and then she was in bed astride him, maneuvering him into something that passed for sex—assuming they were two people in the military or the boxing ring.

  She sat astride him, rising and falling, pumping and bouncing as though it were a timed competition. Her arms tightly wrapped around his back she moved at about the speed of a rabbit. “Do it. Do it. Do it more,” she said, although she was doing most of the work and Bill was a passenger. “Harder, do it harder,” forcing Bill to clench up with vigor, causing her thighs to slap down against his. “Push,” she commanded, “Yes, push up. Up! Up! More!”

  Bill closed his eyes and clung to Chrissy, moving in rhythm, and contemplated whether this would lead to orgasm or injury.

  “Yes!” she shouted, “You got it! Right!”

  More relieved than sated, Bill watched as she fell off of him and lay limply, her back to him, the covers pulled up around her. He slid over to spoon and cuddle, but her breath was too regular, and now and then a tiny snore came from her—she was already asleep.

  Bill sighed and reached for his robe, then padded softly into the kitchen where he poured a glass of milk and opened a box of Malomars, which he ate silently, not even noticing that they were much smaller in size than the last box he’d bought.

  Angie struggled with a weighty issue. She paced the floor of her now-empty deli, everything around her gleaming clean and ready for tomorrow. Still in the food case sat today’s food, which would be emptied and donated or tossed. But the question was, should she listen to Dr. Masters’ suggestion, which she feared. One bite led to two in her experience and two led to two hundred. Her inclination was to walk out the door and avoid this line of thought altogether. It was too easy just to say let’s try it, let’s check out all this amazing food that she’d been creating for so long, which other people got to enjoy daily and she got to enjoy never.

  Then her face softened, her eyes brightened, and her heart quickened a pace. There was Kevin, the man of her dreams, her destiny, the person she was certain would become her future. And what had he told her. What had he told her? Didn’t it seem as though Kevin were suggesting that she should seduce Dr. Masters? No, surely not. A person as honorable as Kevin would never connive and manipulate his partner in that manner. He clearly had been stressed. Who knew what was going on in his horrific marriage? Things like that took their toll on people, Angie was sure of that. But she did know that he had said trust Dr. Masters, or had he said get on his good side? But why? What would that serve? She was his patient not his employee. Maybe it would help Kevin in some way. But wasn’t Kevin his partner, his equal? Why was he so afraid of Dr. Masters—or did he think Masters would tell on them, tell his wife, and then get him in trouble before he was ready to leave her? Messy divorces cost a lot more money, Angie knew that.

  Yet maybe it made sense. She had eaten very little all day, so even if she tasted, perhaps tomorrow she could shore up her resolve, redouble her efforts, take the day off from the deli if necessary. But what if this were the slippery slope, the thing that would suck her back into the abyss of fat, just as it had done so many times before?

  Angie sighed and she paced, walking back and forth to the display case, opening it once or twice, even taking a platter out and then returning it to the case. What a vexing situation. Finally, with a deep breath and the desperate hope that this wouldn’t be the end of her slim self, she made herself a plate, one bite of each item in the case. At last, she would taste her food.

  Tempted to stand at the case and just eat, she decided instead to set a place for herself at a table. It was an occasion, a special event, one she hopefully would not be repeating again for a very long time.

  So there she sat, the plate before her, cutting edge, revolutionary cuisine ready for her to sample. She lifted the fork and took a bite, her face alight with both positive expectation and fear of being unable to stop herself. What if it was so fantastically delicious she couldn’t stop? What if she grazed through the entire display case? Angie chewed slowly as she’d recently learned to do. She let the food move around against her taste buds. She chewed some more. And some more. And then she gulped. The expression on her face turned from glorious expectation mixed with fear of future addiction to unbelievable horror. But no, it couldn’t be.

  More bites followed. Bite after bite. Soon she began cutting her one-bite portions into half bites and small slivers. It didn’t take long for her to register the same expression that Bill and Laura had endeavored to conceal.

  “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. She felt like heaving the plate against a wall, but a knock on the door distracted her.

  It was Ben. Angie rose, opened the door and in he came, opening his arms for a hug. She hugged him back rather distractedly then pulled away, unaware that he was still hugging. He stumbled a bit, then reached in toward her hoping to kiss her at last, but she turned her cheek to accept what was assumed to be a friendly kiss, which devolved into an awkward face to mouth bump. Ben blushed, once again foiled in his efforts, but of course Angie didn’t notice at all, so distracted was she.

  “My food sucks! Jesus this stuff is inedible.”

  She looked so upset that Ben tried immediately to help her. “No, you’re a fantastic chef. Don’t be silly. You’re the best cook I ever met.”

  “Cutting edge cuisine, my ass.”

  “I love that spaghetti Bolognese you used to make.”

  Angie reached for the plate, removing it from the table, and started walking back toward the kitchen, but then something opened inside her and she turned toward Ben, her eyes wide. “I must have figured if I was giving up food then why make it wonderful for everyone else—why let them have pleasure while I was suffering.”

  Ben smiled at her, impressed with her insight.

  “I know caramel doesn’t belong inside meatballs,” she said, her voice growing more excited, “And I transferred my anger at my dad into this cutting edge crap—making shitty food to punish people who were allowed to indulge.” Angie paused a moment, still thinking. “How about that! He wasn’t a quack.” Angie smiled at Ben then and said, “Come on, I’m gonna make you some good food.”

  In short order Ben and Angie sat opposite each other eating plates of spaghetti with nice salads on the side. Ben ate happily and smiled at Angie. She was so wonderful. “Remember that scene in Lady and the Tramp?” he asked.

  “Where all the dogs are depressed and locked up?” she replied, pausing for a moment to think about Ben. “Ahh, you’re so sweet to worry about me. I’m fine, though. Really.” She reached out and squeezed his hand, not noticing the disappointment that flickered across his face.

  Kevin enjoyed driving along the serpentine curves of Sunset Boulevard in the evening. As long as he stayed west of the Sunset Strip, traffic was light and he could just relax and appreciate the excellent way his car handled.

  At a conveniently discrete distance behind the Porsche, Butch and Wimp drove along, Kevin’s frequent, mostly unnoticed shadow. Wimp had been worrying and fretting and attempting to get Butch to give up this quest. Butch turned to Wimp and said with assurance, “Not this time we won’t. Watch this! I’m gonna lead this horse to water and then run him off the road.” Her foot pressed down on the gas and the car sped forward, coming closer and closer to the Porsche.

  Kevin turned around as a black SUV came so close to him it was practically riding on his bumper. Did he know that car? “What the devil,” he muttered. He pressed down on the gas, speeding forward, determined to shake this insane driver. He sped up, changed lanes, craned his neck and squinted into the rearview mirror but couldn’t see who was driving the car.

  Closer and closer to Kevin’s bumper Butch drove, almost grazing him, then backing off slightly with a chortle while beside her Wimp gulped and grasped the sides of his seat. “We’re gonna crash into him, be careful,” he said, terrified.

  “Oh there’s gonna be a crash all right
, but it’s not us who’s crashing, it’s the sound of his mean little mind exploding.” Butch sped up once again and whizzed so close to Kevin’s Porsche that he was forced almost to the side of the road. Feeling a surge of power, Butch sped up even more, ignoring the shrieks coming from the passenger seat. They were almost neck and neck in one lane. It was as good as a scene in a movie and she shivered a bit from the thrill of it all.

  “Stop it, please,” begged Wimp.

  Looking all around him, Kevin spotted the entrance to the 405 freeway ahead of him on the other side of Sunset. Just as the maniac slowed a bit, he had his chance. He turned the wheel, crossed within inches of the several cars heading east on Sunset and blazed down the incline onto the freeway. He’d eluded them, well perhaps he had. His heart was pounding but Kevin sensed all would be fine.

  And then the sirens went off. Cops! Finally they would haul this psycho off to jail. The lights began swirling directly behind him and Kevin was forced to pull off to the side of the freeway. What in blazes! The cop hadn’t been chasing the SUV at all.

  Kevin glared at a cop so young he looked like he should have been tucked in on a school night, resting up for a test in long division in the morning. He launched into the detailed story of his near death experience but the cop looked at him without the slightest degree of believability. His face showed no expression at all. Then he said, “You can’t pull across lanes of traffic and race onto the freeway like that. It’s dangerous.”

  “Dangerous,” said Kevin incredulously, “Didn’t you hear what I just said? I wasn’t planning to take the 405. I had to veer off the road because some maniac was chasing me. I would have ended up in a ditch between here and Sepulveda if I didn’t. Black SUV—didn’t you see them? They almost crashed into my bumper several times.”

  “You careened right in front of me,” said the cop, with determination.