Little Rock (Final Part 3)

When we got to work, if Petey was unavailable, I would have to make Chad’s lunch, because the rashes on his legs made it almost impossible for him to walk, but every hour he somehow disappeared into the bathroom with our line producer for five minutes, locking all of the doors. When he came back he was happy and intense. A sort of bearded Sharon Stone he’d become as we pitched trash TV segment ideas to our boss, who also smoked indoors and called his own assistant either by his actual name (Eric) or “Faggotbreath” if he was in a bad mood.

We usually stayed well past ten-o-clock at night working, like a lot of TV people do. Our meals were always paid for by the network and they always got delivered to us, no questions asked. If it was CPK I usually ordered a Chicken Tequilla Fettucini and a loaf of Garlic Cheese Bread with three sides of Ranch. I never used the third Ranch, but Petey always wanted to share my ranch, and I hate sharing food. So I just started ordering him his own.

Our boss, who’s name had similar letters to the name Satan laughed as he told us we’d be working right up until December 24 that year but that we’d all get a bonus. In the past I’d gotten a hundred bucks here and there, but when the delivery of Razor Scooters came in, I was shocked. At my first big-time producing job, not only did we not get cash, but I didn’t even get a scooter. Satan knew I was watching my weight, so he gave me a gift certificate to Baskin Robbins, just to be a dick.
***


They called an ambulance to pick Chad up. He’d sort of passed out crying, and then laughing, and then crying over his crash. It turned out he needed stitches, so he spent a few hours in the hospital, where he was much safer than if he had walked out of the office alone without the cash from a bonus. Drug dealers don’t like to start the holidays off without their money.

On the way home that night I wondered how Chad came to be this crazy addict. Did our boss Satan just break him down over the years? Did he ever worry that drugs would kill him? Didn’t he want something better than just the Shingles and an assistant?

And How was I any different? What’s the difference between drug addiction and food addiction? I was powerless over ToGo’s the way he was powerless over those hourly coke breaks in the bathroom? Neither of us were living, really. So he couldn’t walk without being in pain. I couldn’t walk without being out of breath. He’d gotten Shingles from some crack whore, but I was set to be a lifelong virgin, too fat and too afraid to experience my body and another’s, without being consumed in shame over the possibilities.