Bailing Out

Despite Jamie’s missing tooth—two over from the front—and his love of country music, he was ridiculously handsome. Tall, ropy, with young Richard Gere hair. And the first time he kissed me, right on the grimy dance floor, I felt myself go liquid. Though that might have been the two-for-one Long Island ice teas. He lived with his ‘mama’ and they did everything together—cook, slow dance, and argue. They always seemed to be three fist shakes short of a domestic violence incident.

I had two things that earned my position wedged into the corner of their sofa next to the slumbering German Shepherd: a truck and an ATM card. I had about $1000 left in the account and I was feeling kind of itchy to just get it spent, so I would be forced out of the limbo I’d malaised myself into. I’d been fired from the bookshop I worked in (apparently, you can’t borrow books from there or show up drunk) and I didn’t know if it was worth it to pay the $600 rent due in four days because I surely wouldn’t have my shit together to survive the month on $400.

I brought over drive-thru barbecue dinners; the Styrofoam containers squeaked as I hit the potholes on the gravel road which led to their tiny house. I distributed the food, cutlery and napkins. They didn’t thank me, but they didn’t mind when I helped myself to a beer either. The room soon filled with the smell of grease and tang and the sounds of meat ripped from bones. The dogs whined and the air-conditioner rattled just slightly louder than the motors of whatever vehicles were going around in circles on the TV.

I could go home for $365, exit the square tube of the airplane into my mother’s waiting arms, sleep on a real bed, and watch crime-dramas like a civilised person. How did I get here on a battered sofa in the middle of nowhere in Texas? Oh yeah, I got fired for drunkenly stealing a book that I already had stowed away in my mother’s attic, went to a bar alone, and met a guy who said I was cute when I bought him a bottle of Coors. Jamie was a man of limited words and in general, didn’t look in my direction. Which suited me. If he didn’t look, he didn’t see and if he didn’t see, I didn’t exist. And I didn’t want to exist.

Jamie borrowed my truck to help his friend move something or maybe to go to Mexico or maybe to rob a bank. I don’t really know because as I continued to drink their cheap beer, I couldn’t really hear. I sat and pet the dog who looked at me with one eye open, head on paws, ears folded back, us both wary but lazy. I could have changed the channel on the giant TV but I didn’t. The cars continued to go round and round, the crowd hungry for a crash or a win; they were happy either way.

When I woke up, Jamie’s mother and another woman were looking at me. “You ready to keep the party going, Princess?” She hated me because of my college degree and flat Midwestern accent. But she knew I’d buy the rounds.

“Where y’all going?” my attempt at Southern drawl sounded drunk, which I realised I still was. The ladies looked like they were going to a rodeo.

“The Wrangler. But you ain’t goin’ dressed like that.” I was in all black save bright feather rainbow earrings that tickled my chin.

“No. I’m all right. I’m going home in a bit. Where’s Jamie?”

“He’s already there. He’s expecting you.” Translation: “He’s expecting your wallet.”

“I’ll meet up with him later. Y’all go on without me.”

“Lock the door when you go and stay away from the booze.” Thinking she was concerned about my drinking and driving, I smiled until she added:

“It’s for when we get back.”

They left a cloud of perfume as the door slammed shut.

The bottle of vodka sat on the countertop like a vase full of flowers, brightening the effect of the entire room. I had a headache and too many thoughts so I poured a plastic cup full of orange juice and the centrepiece and sat back down in my spot, which the dog had not stolen from me. I decided I was going to drink the bottle and leave it propped up in the paws of the dog before I left.

Three hours later, a collect call startled me and the dog awake. It was from the Harris County jail and the voice on the other side was begging me sweetly to come and post bond at the jail. Jamie had had an “alteration” at the bar when a fellow got a little too friendly with his mama.

“What about your mom?”

“She’s here too. We ain’t got that kind of money right now.”

“Ok, I’ll be there soon.”

Three things happened in the next ten minutes: I couldn’t find my keys anywhere. Second, while looking for my keys, I realised I could barely see straight and knew I wouldn’t be able to find my way to the highway. And three, I knew if I made it the highway, I would purposefully drive my truck right into the path of an oncoming semi. I played the scene out in my head like it was an upside-down bizzaro world car race show. I imagined the crowd cheering upon impact, my fist in the air for the victory, the sweet oblivion that would follow.

With only a purse and a book, I entered the mild Midwest 15 hours later with $400 and bad breath. My mother gave me a hug and a grimace. What we didn’t know then and for a long time after was that a bail out is only temporary. It gets you out of the holding cell, but not the prison.

 

Do Me a Flavour

On that first morning, the bacon and Swiss crepes tasted like the smell of an old sock. Normally, after a night of bar hopping, the trifecta was the only thing to raise Jess from the deadweight of a hangover. Jess spat out the rubbery contents onto the plate and shuffled back to the kitchen to check the expiration dates. Finding nothing past its prime, she tried to remember what swill she’d downed at the last club but could only remember walking down a long hall to the toilet, her right shoulder pressed against a red wall and keeping her from falling.

She grabbed a cracker and lavished it with a creamy dill spread but it tasted of sawdust and turpentine. The Fox’s chocolate chip cookies which were meant to get through the afternoon until she could order Chinese delivery tasted like cardboard laced with shoe polish. Unable to problem solve on an empty stomach and with a throbbing skull, she told the kitchen to “fuck off” and crawled under the crumpled bedding and went back to sleep.

That night she greedily grabbed the brown paper bags from the bewildered delivery driver and inhaled its oily sweet and spicy fumes before paying and sending him on his way. When she impaled a piece of General Tsao’s chicken and stuffed it into her mouth, she was horrified to taste vomit. She tried another piece with more of the sticky sauce and found the bile flavour intensified. The accompanying spring rolls tasted like plastic teething rings before they’re stuck in the freezer.

She jammed the cartons into the fridge and consulted the only expert she knew—the internet—which promptly told her she could be pregnant, have mouth disease, a cold, diabetes, anxiety, or cancer. After two hours spent in the on-line medical wormhole and deciding she would drop dead in two weeks, she went back to the kitchen. Within minutes the contents of the fridge and pantry were on the counter in a makeshift buffet. But the Serrano ham tasted like nylon; the expensive parmesan ham crumbled like chalk in her mouth; cheesecake had turned to urine, and Smarties were coal. Celery, Granny Smiths, and smoked salmon were flavourless and so edible. She stood in the kitchen, staring into space, saddened that the loves of her life had betrayed her.

For the next two weeks, the only foods she could stomach were celery, apples, fish, berries, and rocket. The internet continued to be 50/50 on whether she was going to live. Something started to happen in the third week. Compliments were accompanied by smiles and thumbs up and her ever faithful muffin top was shrinking. As she sat and forced down a “superfood” salad, minus the nail polish remover flavoured dressing, thank you, she realised she didn’t feel tired and her head was frighteningly clear. Though her synapses fired in the most pleasurable of ways, she longed for just one bite of a chicken wing dipped in bleu cheese or an onion ring.

At the end of the month, Jess was doing her usual on-line banking and noticed she had a charge from a place called “Hip-no Café” from the beginning of the month, around the time she and some mates had gone bar-hopping. But it wasn’t their style to go to a café after a night on the lash. She texted Sarah who replied that she’d never heard of the place and had she been doing drunken on-line shopping again?

Jess sighed and looked up the number, surprised to find it pop up first on her google search.

“Yeah. Hi. This is going to sound weird, but I spent 75 quid here at the beginning of the month and I’d like to know what the hell I got.”

“You a smoker?”

“No”

“Gambler?”

“No”

“Sex addict? Stalker?”

“What the fuck? NO!”

“Ah you musta got the ‘Slime to Slim’ special.”

“Huh?”

“You know we do hypnotherapy here, right? Have you lost weight recently?”

“Yeah, some.”

“Food tastes like ass?”

“Yes!”

“Dr. John convinced your brain that bad foods taste like shit and then you can’t eat those and voila, the weight comes off. Same method for smoking. Porn’s a little trickier.”

“Jesus. Can you reverse it?”

“So you WANT to go back to stuffing your face with cheese fries?”

“Well….”

“It only works about 10% of the time, if even that. You should be thankful and just get on with your life.”

“Is this legal?”

“You signed a waiver.”

“But I can reverse it, right?”

The man sighed. “Yeah, it’s a tenner, though. I can book you in for next week.”

“Ok.”

For the next week, Jess noticed how many surfaces reflected her image—windows, puddles, bus mirrors, and the weird globe sculpture outside the bank. She barely recognized the person gaping back. She found herself staring more than once at women who fell in the “slightly plump” category, trying to objectively gauge if they possessed the right amount of femininity. Weren’t they just normal beautiful women going about their day? But how far would they go to have this gift that unceremoniously dropped into her lap on a night on the piss?

But a lifetime of salad?! She was already bored out of her skull with every meal. Sure, the food didn’t taste like vomit or cleaning supplies, but there was a distinct absence of flavour. Even bright fresh blueberries tasted like little spheres of water. She touched the new curve of her waist, and rubbed the flatness of her tummy, but it was the sense of lightness and radiance, that made her want to run with arms flung wide.

A week later, Jess shifted anxiously on the slick vinyl of the diner booth. A cheeseburger the size of a tower was placed before her, cheese oozing down the sides and onto a wall of chips below. She could hear a faint sizzle and a meaty steam wafted towards her.

She closed her eyes, knowing exactly what she should do.