Every Friday, I join mobs of kids stampede out the classroom doors of my hometown elementary school, eager to free themselves of nights prepping for book reports and timed long division quizzes. We kick off the chaos by beelining to our moms, who wait in cliques beside their cars. We stretch out their tiny hands, begging for change for Eddy’s, our beloved mini mart across the school playground.
Every Friday, my mom lays down the rules: “One candy bar. That’s it. You all pay together, and if you don’t have enough, you don’t get it. You come right back here, give me the change, and we go home.”
My younger, bolder brother challenges. “But Mom, Ethan’s allowed to get chips and soda and –”
“I don’t care what Ethan’s allowed to do,” she retorts. “When you’re old enough to make your own money, then you can buy whatever junk you want. Until then, follow these rules, or it’ll be your last visit.”
I know better than to disobey her guidelines, her stern tone ringing in my ears as I enter Eddy’s. The idea of being banned from the store sends shivers down my spine. I lose my brothers fast, as they scurry to the sour aisle, their souls set on Lemon Heads, Fun Dip, and Nerds. I take my time that first visit, instant possibilities unfolding as I scour down the aisles. Flavors and packaging I’ve never imagined. Cool Ranch? Ketchup? What does All Dressed even mean? All types of textures, from smooth to ruuffled. To the left, a small fridge is stacked with Snapples and Gatorades and Minute Maids, vowing to quench the thirst inflamed by the tempting salty delights.
Eventually, my feet park in the center aisle. Square and rectangular bars and bags, in brown, orange, blue, red, yellow and beyond. Finally.
Chocolate. Sweet, silky, luscious. The only food my grandmother will eat. What are my brothers thinking, wasting time and money on Skittles and War Heads so tart their eyes would water, faces pucker, roofs of their mouths peel, when they could instead choose warmth? I love trying all the flavors, but gravitate to the M&Ms. I pick a brown bag, obviously, because peanuts are disgusting and just a gimmick detracting from chocolate’s allure.
We check out, walk back to the car together, and give Mom the change. But unlike my brothers, who immediately rip open the boxes and pop in their explosive candy, I wait patiently. The longer I hold out, the more I practice discipline, the sweeter it will taste when it finally dances on my tongue.
We veer up the steep hill and topple out of the car. My brothers head to the yard to play wiffle ball, picking up their wrappers off the car floor. I sprint upstairs, eager both to get my food and get away from everyone and everything. I drag the mini VHS player from the playroom to my room, and grab Cinderella, my favorite Disney princess movie. I head back to the kitchen, snag an Orville Redenbaucker bag from the Costco-sized box in the pantry, and nuke it. After emptying the piping hot bag in a giant bowl, I sprinkle the M&Ms on top. My heart flutters as I massage my hands through the bowl, preparing the concoction the same way I see my mom toss salad with tongs. My breaths get shorter, my skin burns up, my head rushes. I haven’t tasted anything, but knowing it will hit me soon revs me up and calms me down. I jog upstairs with my invention, queue up the video, and drape a blanket over the TV and me.
As Cinderella transforms, I reach into the bowl, shoving fistfulls of the popcorn and slightly melted M&Ms in my mouth. My love for each handful is met with fear as the bowl’s contents get smaller and smaller. I realize the slower I eat, the longer I’ll maintain the peace. Like Cinderella, I am untouchable, invincible when I have food in front of me. Whatever happened before, and whatever I worry will happen after, fade away. I watch as the clock strikes midnight, and Cinderella’s beautiful blue ballgown turns back to rags. So does mine, when inevitably, I reach down, the bowl ringing as my hand hits nothing.
And so a ritual forms. Saturday through Thursday, I abide by the rules. I eat whatever is placed in front of me. I clean my plate, not to satisfy my hunger, but to prove my obedience and worthiness of reward. I fall asleep Thursday to dreams of the delight I’ll choose. My one opportunity to consume what I want. By the time the bell rings every Friday, I know what I want, and don’t flounder through the aisles. I wait impatiently while my brothers pick. I’m always surprised they haven’t thought this far ahead. Maybe they don’t realize the magnitude of this decision. Maybe other people don’t think about food the way I do.
Every Friday, I fill my heart’s desire, but one bag of chocolate and popcorn can only last so long.
***
It’s Friday, but I take work off anyway. I go to therapy, and make a trip to visit a friend in Queens, and indulge in goodies from her favorite pastry shop. I don’t eat prior, so I can save room for whatever’s in store. We don’t end up getting sweets, and instead opt for sandwiches. I don’t tell her I’d had my heart set on cookies, brownies, cake, ice cream. She forgets it’s my birthday. I respond by finishing the sandwich, even after I’m full halfway through.
The thousands of faces I encounter in the subway stations on the journey home blur and meld. I try to fight the fatigue, but the devil dances on my shoulder, whispering to give in when I get home. It’s not like I have anything the rest of the day. I intentionally left the night wide open, so I could rest in prep for my birthday dinner tomorrow. Tonight, it’s just me, with nothing but time, alone in my apartment.
I collapse on my bed. I’ll doze off for a bit, awaken refreshed, exercise and make dinner, I promise to commit. My head hits the soft, cool pillow, and I fade quickly, blocking out the faint light peering past the white curtain.
I jolt awake an hour later. I’m alone on my birthday in my room by myself. The thought pierces my skin. What kind of loser spends their birthday by themselves? I think for a second about my scheduled cycling ride. But only for a second. I sweat at the idea of doing anything, especially physical. What’s the point in doing anything good for yourself, when you’re so pathetic you spend your birthday alone, with nowhere to go and no one to see?
It doesn’t occur to me that my inner critique grows more vicious the more rundown I get. What is clear, though, is how I can make all its nasty comments disappear, how I can become untouchable, invincible in this moment. I can make whatever happened before, and whatever I fear will happen after, fade away.
I beeline to the kitchen, open the candy drawer, and start shoving unwrapping red Lindt truffle balls. Milk chocolate shell, gooey center. I eat the remaining six I’d intended to stretch over the next week. I top off the rest of the Pirate’s Booty, its cheesy exterior staining my hands. I can’t breathe, when they’re both gone, because this can’t be the end.
My eyes glossy I saunter to Super P, my beloved mini mart just around the corner. Infinite possibilities unfold as I scour up and down the aisles, lined with chips in flavors and packaging I know all too well. I know the Ruffles, the Lays, Doritos and Cheetos. I know the Hershey’s, the Reese’s, Kit-Kats and Cadbury’s. I even know the Sour Patch Kids, the Sour Punch ropes, Air Head Extremes and Sweet Tarts from moments I’ve felt spicy and needed a kick. I’ve messed with every Kellog’s cereal, Oreo flavor, and Little Debbie cake, cookie or cream pie.
“When you’re old enough to make your own money, then you can buy whatever junk you want.”
This Friday, I go classic. Pirate’s Booty. A bag of Hershey’s miniatures. A box of Cinnamon Toast Crunch. Two cans of Reddi whipped cream. Then, out of left field, a wildcard pick: Keebler E.L. Fudge cookies, because it’s my birthday and my life is already in the gutter so why not. I use one of many crisp $20 bills.
I wait patiently on my brief stroll back, battling the urge to rip open each bag and start indulging right then and there. In a matter of minutes, I’ll be safe. Safe from the outside world, in my little apartment, where I’ll lay alone as dusk approaches, Love Island on my phone, my new spread sprawled all around me.
I unload and prep the second I’m through the door. I shoot sprays of whipped cream like I’m shotgunning beers. In one bowl Pirate’s Booty goes, Cinnamon Toast Crunch in another. I unwrap the chocolates, break the cookies in pieces, and disperse them amongst the popcorn. I keep all the boxes and bags nearby, so that this Friday, my hand will never reach down into an empty bowl.