| Here's Something |
[06 May 2009|10:54am] |
I knew him from the kitchen. He was always in there when I was. I'd make my healthy pancakes, and he would be making polenta. A lot of that man reminded me of me, when I first moved to the Balmoral. He had a 79 cent pan, a box of cornmeal, and water from the tap. He'd add a little sliced pepper to his meal, and I could tell, that was all he had in his tiny spit-corner room. He was a large man, not fat, just large--- over six feet tall, over 200 pounds, beefy. He had a face and beared like a tired worn out Santa-- one who was tired of checking up on good little boys and girls. He was from another country-- Something like Checklosovakia, and his voice was buttery and masculine-- thick accented.
And he annoyed people. I remember how he'd look at me weighing my food and point out to everybody in the hotel "She on a diet, eat-a only healthy. She-a trying to be skinny." And he was right. Sooo right. He always thought he knew how many calories my meals were. He'd see me making up a batch of shiratake noodles and he'd say, "That's about One-Hundered-And-Fifty calories," he'd state. "Actually, there's no calories--" And he'd cut me off right away. "Everything has calories. Even-a water have one calorie."
And he was analyzing all my food like this. But he would catch me in my vulnerabl moments. He caught me in the solitary quiet of the afternoon-- when most of the inhabitants of the Balmoral were out and about or taking their afternoon naps. At the time where there's no sun shining in the kitchen, and its only half-lit-- giving the granite countertops and steel-griddles and linoleum floors a cold metallic sheen. When you can hear the spatula scraping against the heated pan, and my meal portions would be so small. He would catch me in those moments when I would be weighing a tomato-- to make sure it was exactly 25 calories and trying to stuff those 25 calories into a 40 calorie slice of tortilla. And he would see me, with an ability to look into me and pinpoint the exactitude of loneliness and determination, he would give off a little snort then walk away... leaving me in that quiet solitary state.
One time, I made chicken soup for my boyfriend. This Check man entered the kitchen with a needle and some tattered thread. "I-a can't see properly, can you help me,"
I'm sure my boyfriend was a little more than annoyed, but I saw that he was trying to stitch up his best pants. I had to fight the urge to offer to do it for him, but I have learned from this city its best not to be nice to strangers-- but the seams around his waist were busted open-- it was a dress suit that could have been fifty or sixty years old, and the material of it was as old and tattered as the piece of thread. The end of it was frayed, so I asked for some scissors. He brought back some brass clippers, I chopped off the frayed end, and looped it through the hole. I don't know if he ever had the chance to sew up his pants.
One time, he told me he was married to a swindler. They set up internet scams and got hundreds and hundreds of dollars from people. They had set up a bank account with more than 80,000. Then one day, he went to withdraw some money and all of it was gone. So was his wife.
"So, I'm stuck here in this hotel." he told me. I acknowledged what he said with the very generic "Well, those things happen," which is probably one of my most used phrases.
But it struck me profoundly.
We mostly talked about food. He would always tell me, "Eat more polenta, very low calorie, very healthy for you. Every morning, I eat a big bowl of polenta or Corn Flakes-- also very low calorie."
One morning, I went into the kitchen to make pancakes. I saw the big bag of polenta sitting on the counter next to a huge box of cornflakes and a couple potatoes. I thought he would be back to collect his food or make a morning meal, but he didn't. Late that night, the food was still on the counter and his room was quiet. I took out my piece of tortilla, weighed my tomato, and slathered it with my wedge of laughing cow cheese -- a staple dinner for myself -- and while I was waiting for the pan to make my tortilla crunchy, I opened the box of corn flakes and munched on a handfull of them.
I thought about the man, how he came to the hotel, how his life was exasperatingly lonely, and how he knew as much about food as me. . . and wondered where he went. The ghostly crunch of the cereal left a sweet taste in my mouth, but my belly was still empty.
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