I DREAMED OF FRENCH FRIES. Hot, golden greasiness. Salt-encrusted decadence. Licking them, smashing them, stuffing them in my mouth. I wanted dozens. Bagfuls. Boxes full. Dipped in ketchup. Smothered in mayonnaise. Coated in ranch dressing.
And a burger dripping cheese on a pillow-soft white bun and piled high with fresh-sliced tomatoes, onions, and pickles. I’d take greedy, gulping bites, sinking in my teeth, feeling the fat and carbs explode against my tongue.
I dreamed of food. As my stomach growled and my muscles clenched and I whimpered in physical pain.
Then, I woke up.
And I could smell it. Here, in the room. Full fast-food glory. Cheeseburgers. French fries. Chicken McNuggets. I could hear it too, the rustle of food wrappings, the pop of a straw being thrust through a plastic lid.
I think I whimpered again. There’s no pride in starvation. Only desperation.
Footsteps. Coming closer. For once, I prayed for him to step faster, advance more quickly. Insert the key in the padlock, twist it open. Please. Pretty please.
Whatever he wanted me to do. Whatever he needed.
French fries. The smell of French fries.
When he lifted the lid, I had to blink against the flood of light. From narrow beams through finger-size holes to a wash of bright white. My eyes welled. Maybe in response to the sudden onslaught of visual stimulation, but mostly due to the smell. The wonderful, intoxicating smell.
Memories. Hazy. Humanizing. Running through sprinklers on short chubby legs, laughing with little-kid glee as I tried to catch droplets of spray on my tongue. Then a voice, distant but familiar. “Tired, love? Let’s go get a milkshake . . .”
Fast-forward a couple of years. Fresh memory: hands age-spotted, shaking unsteadily as they set down the brown plastic tray. “Ketchup? Nah. Best thing on fries is mayo. Now, looky here . . .”
For a moment, I am four, or six, or eight, or ten. I’m a child, a girl, a woman. I am me. With a past and a present. With family and friends. With people who love me.
Then he spoke, and I disappeared again.
There was only the food, and I’d do anything for it.
He had to help me out of the box. I did my best to exercise as much as I could in the narrow space, but time had grown long and I didn’t always remember what I should do or if I’d already done it. I slept a lot. Slept and slept and slept.
Then I didn’t have to hurt as much anymore.
When I finally rose to standing, my legs shook uncontrollably. I hunched reflexively, as if expecting a blow, but I couldn’t blame my rounded posture on the box. I was always lying tall and straight in the box.
“Are you hungry?” he asked me.
I didn’t answer; I wasn’t sure if I was supposed to. Besides, my stomach growled loudly enough for words.
He laughed. He was in a good mood. Cheerful even. I found myself standing up straighter. He was cleaner tonight, I noticed. Hair damp, as if he’d recently showered. And he was steady on his feet, gaze clear, which wasn’t always the case. I found myself looking past him, to the battered gray card table. Food. Bags and bags. McDonald’s. Kentucky Fried Chicken. Burger King. Subway sandwiches. A fast-food banquet.
He’s bingeing, I realized. Food, not drugs this time. But why? And what about me?
“Are you hungry?” he asked again.
I still didn’t know what to say. I whimpered instead.
He laughed magnanimously. This room was his kingdom. I got that. Here, I was his property and he got to revel in his power. Beyond these walls, no doubt he was a Loser, capital L. Men disrespected him. Women laughed at him. Hence, his need for this room, this box, this helpless victim.
And now, this exercise in terror.
I moved, tentatively. I’d learned by now that his permission was all-important. And everything he gave, he could also take away, so I had to proceed with caution. When he didn’t object, didn’t reach out a hand to stop me, I closed the gap with the food-covered table. Then I stood, head ducked, hands clasped meekly before me. I waited, though it was the most painful waiting I’d ever done. Each muscle trembling, my stomach clenched unbearably tight.
“What do you want?” he asked.
I frowned, his question confusing me. I didn’t know what I wanted. I’d been trained these past few weeks to be no one, to want nothing. That was my job. Now, I was scared. Because the smell was intoxicating, overwhelming. I could feel my self-control slipping and I couldn’t afford to mess up.
Worse than starving would be to stand surrounded by food and still go hungry.
“You should eat,” he stated at last. He jabbed my bony arm, pinched a protruding rib. “Getting too thin. You look like crap, you know.”
He picked up the bag closest to him. Opened it up, waved it under my nose.
McDonald’s French fries. Hot and golden and salty.
I could hear my grandfather again. “Looky, kid, best thing on fries is mayo.”
I wondered if he was here to finally take me away. Except I didn’t want to go away with my grandpa anymore. I wanted to be right here, in this crappy room with this terrible man and these wonderful, greasy fries. Please, please, please let me eat just one single fry . . .
I’d do anything, be anyone . . .
The man was unrolling the top of the bag. Now he reached in. Now he lifted out a red container marked with a single golden M. Fries jostled loose from the open top. They dropped to the floor, the grimy shag carpet. I watched them land, fingers clasping and unclasping, my whole body tense.
He was going to eat them. He was going to stand in front of me and eat each perfect, salty morsel. Laughing, gloating, gleeful.
And I’d have no choice but to kill him. I would lose control, I’d attack, and he would . . . He would . . .
He handed me the container. “Here. Seriously. For fuck’s sake, put some meat on your bones.”
I grabbed the fries. Both hands snatching up the red box. It wasn’t hot anymore. The fries were lukewarm, grease starting to congeal. I didn’t care. I tossed half the contents into my mouth, swallowing faster than I could chew. Food, food, food. Needed food, had to have food. God oh God oh God.
He started laughing. I didn’t look at him, kept my attention focused on the bag. I needed to eat. I had to eat. My stomach, my body, every cell screamed for sustenance.
My mouth was too dry, the smooshed fries too thick. I tried to swallow, but only managed to gag until my eyes watered. I was going to be sick, I thought, except I couldn’t be sick; I couldn’t afford to waste that many calories. I tried to force the food down, a giant glob of congealed potatoes. My eyes watered, my throat constricting painfully. My stomach heaved in protest . . .
He placed his hand on my arm.
I stared at him, stricken. This was it: He was going to take the macerated fries right out of my mouth. Reach in a finger and scoop out the only food I’d had in days. And that would be that. He’d return me to the coffin-size box and I would die there.
“Slow down,” he ordered. “Get some water. Take some time. Otherwise, you’ll barf.”
He handed me a bottle of water. I took tiny sips, bit by bit, breaking up the glob of food, swallowing it down. When I finally reached for the next handful of fries, he took the box from me. This time, he separated out each fry on top of the grimy card table. One by one, I picked them up. One by one, under his watchful eye, I chewed, swallowed, chewed again.
When the fries were gone, he opened up the fried chicken and handed me a drumstick.