#TripleX

by Christine Zolendz

  “What the Hell did you do that for?” Christine asked, looking at the cupcake sticking goo-side down on the grey leather.

  “Jake hates it when people eat in his car,” I said, revving the engine and peeling out.

  “Hey, aren’t we going to FAX these?” Christine asked, grabbing the papers from me.

  “No, I’m sure he can pay someone to print him out another copy… or Hell… to paint him a canvas of them over top of a… a… a fricken Monet,” I quipped, feeling spiteful and resentful of all of my brother’s money and the ease at which success came to him. “Give me another cupcake,” I said, knowing that my budding anger would only be appeased by the last red velvet cupcake that was smashed up against the inside of my purse.

  After a few hours of me belting out country music, Christine turned down the radio and said, “So, what’re you going to do about Matt?”

  “What about Matt?” I asked, my eyes getting heavy.

  “Come on Ang, you can’t live in denial like this. Did you not see how that man looked at you, pleaded with you?”

  “Chris, I know we talk a lot and share A LOT, but there’s so much you don’t know—so much,” I said, feeling my voice quiver. “He’s not in love with me anymore—”

  “Did he say that? Did he tell you that?” she asked, adjusting herself in the seat to look directly at me.

  “He doesn’t have to. I can just tell,” I stated. “It’s just not the same anymore. Our marriage used to be about us. It’s now just about the kids—only about the kids.”

  “Hello??? That’s called parenthood. He buys you cards, takes you on vacations, builds you fricken libraries--”

  Almost on cue, my phone dinged, indicating a new text message. Glancing at the clock, I knew it would be Matt. Matt hadn’t called me once since he left—not once. However, every night before he went to bed, he texted me the same message.

  In all of our years of dating and marriage, Matt brought an icy glass of water to our room and put it by my nightstand. I often wake up in the middle of the night with a scratchy voice and need a drink. Matt always ensured my glass of water was right next to me. Sure the ice had melted, but with how cold we kept our house, the water was always cool enough to take a few drinks in the middle of the night without having to trek down to the kitchen.

  The first night he was in Michigan, I received a cell phone picture of a glass of icy water sitting on a dresser in his little apartment. The water glass was next to his alarm clock and bedside lamp. It was filled to the rim with ice and water. The message read “For Lou.” I got the same text message every night with the same picture. I doubted he was still filling a glass of water, but he was still sending me the picture and the message.

  After I explained the story to Christine, she said, “Come here,” and motioned for me to lean over. The second I was within arm’s reach, she flicked me in the forehead, leaving a perfectly circular red mark right smack dab in the middle of my eyebrows.

  “What the…? Why’d you do that?” I asked, rubbing the sting in my head.

  “You’re frigging delusional. I walked in on my husband digging for ovarian cysts with his microscopic tool in the depths of some skank’s fallopian tubes, and you’re telling me that I don’t understand,” Christine argued. “Bitch, I understand. I understand that marriages crash and freaking burn… in a big old pile of infidelity and ruin. I also understand that yours… your marriage… isn’t one of them.”

  “I know I sound stupid… but… but… Matt told me years and years ago… before we were ever engaged that he would never… ever… get divorced,” I explained. “He said it was the worst thing you could do to your kids. Swore that if he ever had kids that he’d stay married—even if he was in misery,” I said, turning the radio completely off. My head was beginning to ache, and my eyes started to burn. “It was better for him to be miserable… in a loveless marriage… than it was for his kids to be miserable in a dysfunctional environment, living in two different houses.”

  “Alright, then what’s the problem?” Christine asked, confused.

  “The problem is… Matt IS miserable. He hates me. He hates us. He no longer loves me, but he made this promise to himself and his future kids—before they were even born—that he just won’t go back on,” I stated, truthfully. “He wants out, but is afraid of what it’ll do to the boys.”

  “Has he told you this?”

  “No, but I’m his wife. I just know.” I explained.

  “The man that I saw in that kitchen was not looking for a way out. He was looking for way in,” Christine argued.

  “Actually, I don’t think so. He hasn’t looked that good—appearance wise—in a long, long time. Chris, I think he might be seeing someone up there,” I admitted, honestly.

  My mom always told me that when a spouse drastically changed his or her appearance and overall look and lifestyle that someone was cheating and trying to look better and just be all-around better for someone—someone else. Someone who was not his or her spouse.

  “So what are you going to do about it?” she asked, opening a bag of Doritos and giving me a handful. I let a few of them fall to the floor and stomped on them. Let Jake hire someone to clean them up. Then, I scarfed down the rest.

  “Let him go,” I said, choking down the dry, ragged edges of the truth—chased with a handful of Doritos.

  “Where are we?” Christine asked, waking up and rubbing her eyes.

  “Rest stop. Indiana,” I said, unbuckling my seatbelt.

  “Have to pee?” she asked, putting her seat upright.

  “No, a different kind of release,” I admitted.

  “No, no, no, I’m not going to sit here while you diddle the bean,” she said, looking around, mortified.

  “Shut the Hell up. Are you kidding me? I would never Tweet-the-Twat with you in the car,” I declared, rolling my eyes at her. When I opened the door, the overhead light shined down on me.

  “Jesus! Have you been crying?” Christine asked, her face full of concern.

  “Yeah, for like the last two snore-filled hours,” I quipped, grabbing a napkin from the glove compartment and wiping my eyes.

  “It started with thinking about Matt—of course, then those douchebags at the buffet… then the damn floodgates opened,” I explained. “I started thinking about all the crap in my life which made me start thinking about the Twinkies—it always comes back to those damn Twinkies, and then I just full-out freaking lose it. Happens every time,” I admitted, sobbing again, but this time in a determined anger. “And now, I’m done. I’m just freaking over it. I can’t… I just cannot do this any more.”

  “What in the world are you talking about? What Twinkies? I didn’t even know we had Twinkies with us,” she said, looking around the inside of the car.

  “We don’t!” I yelled. “It’s a long story, but it’s the story of my life. My entire life revolves around those damn Twinkies… but not anymore. It ends now. Right now.”

  When I was in high school, I was a cheerleader. I was the heaviest cheerleader—by far. However, I wasn’t nearly as heavy as I am now. Hell, I fit into the uniform, so I couldn’t have been THAT big. The thing buttoned and covered my butt—that had to count for something. Anyway, despite being the biggest, heaviest cheerleader on my squad, I took my position on the team very seriously. Not only was I the biggest, I was also by far the best. Nobody even came remotely close to being as good as I was—even though I was only a sophomore.

  Through that horrible, vicious, ever-growing grapevine of gossip, I heard that some of the junior and senior boys had a little something planned for the upcoming Friday’s game-day pep rally. The plan was that during my tumbling pass across the gymnasium floor, the boys were all going to throw Twinkies at the FAT-ASS cheerleader as she tumbled across the court.

  I heard about the prank on Thursday morning in study hall from a meek, little freshman boy. He told me who all the participants were going to be. They were all boys who degraded me publicly on numerous
occasions, but never with such a grandiose plan, a plan that would allow everyone to witness the level at which the ridicule reached. After doing a little ‘”sleuthing” of my own, I discovered the little freshman boy was right. The plan was set. I was the target, the giant, fat target they wanted to nail.

  The next day, I came down with a little something, *cough *cough*. My mom let me stay home from school, and I missed my last pep rally of my sophomore year and skipped the basketball game that night. Those boys never got to pelt me with Hostess deliciousness, and I never had to face the degradation that those spongy desserts were supposed to inflict upon me.

  “Are you kidding me? What’re their names? Let’s look them up and cut off their penises and stuff ‘em in Twinkies and make them eat ‘em,” Christine yelled, fury raging.

  “That’s just it. I hid from them. I hid from it all. I never faced them. I never got back at them. I never faced the problem… and it’s been the same damn problem all of these years. I’m fat. I’m a total freaking fat-ass and what do I do about? I hide. I hide away from the truth, hoping if I don’t recognize it, then nobody else will either,” I said, hitting the steering wheel with my hand. “I can’t do this anymore. Matt doesn’t want me… and I don’t think it’s because of all the weight I’ve gained. It’s because of how much I hate myself.”

  “Awww Ang, don’t say that,” Christine said, reaching for my hand.

  “It’s true. All I do is sit around and bitch about my life, complain about everything. And ya know what? My biggest complaint is my damn weight. I’m sick of it. I have to do something about it… right here… right now,” I stated, getting out of the car and grabbing our bags stuffed with food. “And quite frankly Chris, so do you.”

  “Well jeez, I’m glad you decided to turn your self-loathing in on me,” she said, glaring at me.

  “Seriously though, Scott’s an ass… a total ass, you deserve way better, but you’ve been bitching about your weight since the day I met you. All you do is talk about being on a diet. How much weight have you lost since you started dieting?” I asked, staring at her intently. “Truthfully.”

  Sighing and rolling her eyes, she said, “Gained eight pounds.”

  “See what I mean! We are on a vicious, horrible roller coaster, and we’re never getting off—unless we do something about it.”

  Laughing, she said, “Well let’s be honest, neither of us would actually fit on a roller coaster.”

  “Exactly!” I screamed. “But son-of-a-bitch, by the time we get to Vegas in three months, we’re riding that death defying roller coaster at New York, New York… and if we don’t fit, we’re going to stay there until we freaking do.”

  “And… meet lots of guys to hook up with,” Christine added, winking at me.

  “Well, you can hook up with some dudes. I think I’m going on a celibacy sabbatical.”

  “Alright, I’m in. What’re we doing? What’s the plan?” Christine asked, excitedly.

  Filling the shopping cart with every food that made our mouths water, Christine and I headed to the cashier’s counter at the 24-hour grocery store. Walking past three high school-aged boys, we got nearly high off the weed scent wafting off their hoodies and winter caps—in the sweltering heat, no less. Don’t get me wrong, I know it’s a statement and all, but why do teenagers insist on dressing for a blizzard in 80-degree weather?

  “Awww dude, look at ‘em, they’ve got the munchies too,” one of the kids said, his eyes not opening more than a sliver.

  “Man, maybe if we share our G-funk with them, they’ll share some of those ice cream bars with us,” another surmised.

  “Hold it, if you two tell me that you shared your junk food with minors in exchange for illegal substances, then you realize I’ll have—”

  “Hahahaha God no!” I laugh, my shoulders shaking in memory of that night.

  “I would never contribute to the delinquency of minors,” Christine promises. “Angelisa and I are teachers. There are enough hoodrats in this world—we’re not going to condone that crap.”

  “Actually Your Honor, Christine gave them a box of Twinkies, a bag of Sour Patch Kids, Fritos, and chocolate ice cream. Then, she made them promise to never make fun of fat women,” I explain, smiling. “Naturally, they looked at her like she was nuts, but they agreed. One even admitted that he had a crush on the ‘fluffier’ chick in his history class.”

  “Oh my God, that’s right, and the other guys teased him, because they finally figured out why he never skipped history when they did,” Christine laughs. “We have to text him to find out if he actually asked her out.”

  “He did. I got his text that night we were in New Mexico, remember?” I remind her.

  “Uhhh no,” Christine glares at me. “I don’t know much about New Mexico.”

  “Oh yeah, my bad,” I say, dropping my head to hide the smile. “Anyway, Travis took Lacey, that’s her name, to a concert. They’ve been dating ever since.”

  “As riveting as Trent and Lacey’s story must be--”

  “Travis, Your Honor,” I correct her. “And you’ll be happy to know that Travis has since stopped hitting the bong. Lacey wasn’t big on recreational drug use. They’ve actually taken up hiking and biking—”

  “Angelisa! She doesn’t care about Lacey and Travis!” Christine sighs.

  “Fine, but she should be happy that we stopped one kid from continuing down the path of self-destruction,” I state, proudly. “Anyway, after we left the grocery store, we realized that the boys were walking in the middle of the night.”

  “No, not walking, they had their skateboards,” Christine corrects.

  “Right, skateboards. So, we let them pile into the back of the Jag and drove them home—safely—before we started the fire,” I explain.

  “The fire?” the judge asks, rubbing her forehead and shaking her head.

  “Yeah, the fire! But before we get to that, we have to tell you about the cashier,” I say, excitedly.

  “Oh my God, YES, tell her about the cashier,” Christine squeals, clapping her hands.

  By the time we reached the check-out, we’d already begun our friendship with Travis and his friends. We probably had a ten-minute chat with them about the deliciousness of BBQ Fritos on top of chocolate ice cream. They couldn’t get home fast enough to try our concoction.

  As the tiny, rail-thin cashier began ringing up our cart that was packed with junk food, disgust clouded her face. With repulsion, she mentally calculated the year’s supply of caloric intake, but clearly it surpassed her mental math as it glared on the register’s screen. Apparently, the temptation and repugnance was too overbearing, because the waiflike cashier finally spoke up after reviewing our bodies (And possibly chewing on a lemon as well—there was no way that face could come naturally to anyone, but I digress.).

  “I know it’s none of my business, but we do have a whole section next to the produce department… produce, that’s uh… like… ya know, fruit and stuff… anyway, it’s a whole section that’s dedicated to organic and clean-eating,” she said, scrunching up her nose and shaking her head at us. “Maybe you’d want to check out that area over there, ya know, for your sake.” We thought she was done with her lecture on healthy eating. But then, under her breath, she added, “And for the sake of everyone who’s forced to look at you.”

  Sighing so heavily that my hair blew around my forehead, I immediately shoved Christine out of the way. I didn’t want to prolong our mission. We didn’t have time for one of Christine’s “what for” tirades and tongue-lashings. We had a mission to complete. She must’ve read my mind, because Christine simply cleared her throat, while allowing a gurgled “skank” to escape with a cough.

  Christine and I were shocked that our pothead buddies were about to become our new best friends and knights in shining armor. “Hey Lea,” nose and lip-ring, said behind us. (We later learned his name was Jay.)

  The cashier looked up, as she handed Scott-the-cheater’s credit card back to Chr
istine. “Yeah?” she said, looking at him like he was a crusty cum-ball left in her hair from the night before.

  “I talked to Lance; is it true you have Gonorrhea of the throat?” he questioned, smiling and feigning innocence.

  Lea’s eyes widened as horror splashed her in the face—apparently, just as many other things have done so in the past. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she mumbled quickly, looking away.

  “Dude, I heard that too,” eyeliner boy concurred. (His name was Tony; we didn’t know that yet.)

  “Yeah, but you also had to tell Ty and Mick, because you wasn’t certain whose load gave you the STD,” Travis chimed in, happily.

  “I’m… I’m… I’m on break,” she said, leaving her register as well as all the bagging of our snacks to us. The boys laughed, high-fiving each other.

  Laughing hysterically, Christine looked at me, and said, “Come on, it’s got to be Whore 101 to know that if your name’s ‘Lea’ you can’t—you just cannot get Gonorrhea.”

  “I know, right?” I said, feeling quite validated.

  After dropping the boys off at Jay’s house where they were spending the night and finding a field a few miles off the highway, Christine and I unloaded all of our snacks. Making the trips back and forth from our new “campsite” to the car wore us out quickly. Panting and completely out of breath, we sat down to go over our plan. Finally, after opening our booty of snacks and making a fire with all of Jake’s financial papers and the leftover grocery bags, our tiny, meager fire was ready to burn.

  “Alright, I’m going first,” I announced. I took a bite of a Twinkie and savored the taste and texture of it in my mouth. Holding it my hand, I addressed the pastry confidently. “Goodbye Twinkie, it’s been a wonderful ride, but it’s time to let go. I just wish that I could go back in time to the pep rally. I’d show up to that pep assembly proudly, tumble my way onto the gym floor, and pick up a Twinkie and eat it whole—in front of the entire student body. Then, I’d tumble my way back to my spot in the routine. But I was too embarrassed, too scared back then. But not anymore. I’m done. I’m not hiding. Goodbye Hostess!”