“Love the food, Walt. Hate the restaurants. Well. All but one.”
Beck and Walt both ordered the buffet and have now moved on to sweet and sour chicken. You gotta hand it to the Chinese; they’ve really perfected chicken varietals.
“Which one?” says Beck.
“What?”
“You said you only eat at one Chinese restaurant. Which one?”
“What difference does it make? They aren’t all the same. Most are like—” I point to the buffet in the middle of the restaurant, where a line of wild-eyed, overweight white men are jockeying for position.
Beck munches a piece of broccoli. “You’re quite mad, you know.”
“Pardon me for preferring my food unsullied.”
“Unsullied?” says Walt.
“Fresh. Untouched by gross, deformed strangers who pay five ninety-five a pop and eat enough in one sitting to last a week. A buffet is just—it’s not food, see. It’s a feeding.”
“I like feedings,” says Walt, just as my duck arrives. After finishing the last bite on his plate, he gets up and heads back to the buffet.
Beck watches him go, sips his water, and frowns. “I wish we could do something for him.”
I take a bite. It’s tough for duck, but all things considered, I don’t regret my order. “What do you mean?”
“I mean—the kid is homeless. What’s his endgame?”
To say I haven’t considered this would only be a half-truth. I’ve considered Walt’s endgame, just as I’ve considered Beck’s and my own. But until now, I’ve only let myself consider the fantasy. In the movie of my life, Beck and Walt and I form our own weird little family, where love and honesty trump all. We take Uncle Phil and drive coast to coast, picking up odd jobs where we can find them, flipping a burger here, mowing a lawn there. We stay in remote mountainside villages, and at night, we drink in pubs, rubbing elbows with innkeepers and artisans, local farmers and woodsmen, simple folk, folk of value, the kind of folk you read about in tales. Folk. Not people. Fucking folk. And if, in time, Beck falls madly in love with me, so be it. That won’t change anything (save the sleeping arrangements). Our love for each other would only increase our love for Walt. Under our roof, he would have fresh Mountain Dew aplenty. Under our roof, he would never miss a Cubs game. Under our roof, we would laugh and love and live our mother-effing lives. Under our roof . . .
The realities, I’ve spent far less time considering.
“I wonder if I could get him to Chicago,” says Beck.
I stop mid-bite. “Really?”
“What do you suggest? We just drop him back off in the woods?”
I swallow the bite, suddenly tasteless. “I’m not suggesting that. God, that’s—why would you even think I’d suggest that?”
Beck runs a hand through his hair. “Listen. Ultimately, you’re trying to . . . I don’t know . . . figure out home, right? What about his home?”
I say nothing.
“Mim?”
Walt rejoins the table, his plate piled high. “Hey, hey,” he says, tucking in.
I feel Beck watching me. “Mim,” he whispers.
“I’m not hungry,” I say, pushing my plate away.
Minutes later, the waitress comes by with the check. It’s on a little tray with a handful of fortune cookies.
Suddenly, I can’t breathe.
I pull a twenty and a ten out of Kathy’s ever-dwindling coffee can, toss the money on the table, and slide out of the booth, pulling my bag behind me.
“Mim, wait,” says Beck.
I don’t answer. I can’t. All I can do is put one foot in front of the other, faster now, head down, trying not to faint, trying not to cry, trying not to vomit, just trying to breathe—God, just to breathe.
September 4—late morning
Dear Isabel,
Some Reasons come up and bite you in the ass when you’re least expecting it. This one is odd, because while I can’t quite trace how it’s a Reason, I know it is. It’s like that tiny middle piece of a puzzle, the one you know is important, if only you could find the corners first. I don’t know if that makes any sense, but this Reason feels like that tiny middle piece.
Reason #8 is the tradition of Kung Pao Mondays.