It’s 7:30 am and I’ve slept terribly as usual. My back is sore and for breakfast I’ve slaughtered four raspberry pop tarts microwaved for 22 seconds each, and gulped down three tall glasses of soy milk before heading to work at NBC Studios. My boss, Leslie is a very healthy 40 something who looks like Wendy Mallick from TV’s Just Shoot Me, married and successful with no kids, and my poor health seems to have become her pet project. That’s why she calls me “Seanny-Boy.” She recommends foods from soy. I decide to power up by drinking a half carton daily. Chocolate soy, but we walk together every day, and you’d never believe it but I’ve actually lost close to fifteen pounds just from these walks. I’m not proud of it, because I’m still hideous, but I’ve kept it off at least.
When I leave the house on my birthday, October 19, 2002. I’m headed to work in the truck my parents bought me as a college graduation present. I was the first person from my family to finish college, and as I look down at the pop tart fruit filling on my black t-shirt I shrug. I cover it with my autographed Reba McEntire tour jacket, which is also black and is also stained from food. Black isn’t such a slimming color when it’s accessorized by last night’s Orange Chicken from Frontier Wok.
When I step in to the office this morning, which is a large mobile bungalow off Bob Hope Drive, Leslie has a wrapped gift waiting on my desk with a card that reads “HAPPY BIRTHDAY SEANN-Y BOY”. I open the box and it’s a book by Dr. Andrew Weil called, Eating Well for Optimum Health. She walks out of her office toward my cubical and I hear her voice before I see her grinning. “Seanny-boy, is that you?” She’s holding a cupcake with a candle in it. For the third time since puberty, I gulp back tears. I don't deserve this.
* * *
Leslie asks me to walk with her to the commissary for lunch. Usually I take a golf cart across the lot and pick up her order: One Chicken Quesadilla with light oil, add tomato. Leslie likes tomato because it has something called anti-oxidizers, or some bullshit that she says keeps her skin young. She gets light oil to cut the fat, whole wheat for fiber and chicken for protein. I usually get the turkey meatloaf with cheesy garlic bread and a smoothie, all for the fullness.
“I want today to be the first day of the rest of your healthy life.”
“Ok.” I answer. She’s the boss so when she talks about my health, I smile and agree and then I slurp down my beef juice.
“I mean it, Hetherington. You’re too cute for people not to see your cheekbones.” She says and strides toward the cafeteria gate. She wears aviator sunglasses, True Religion jeans, and a red silk cardigan. She’s wearing an NBC name badge that says “Dog Eat Dog, Line Producer” and flashes it to the security guard who has a similar frame as mine but darker skin. I see him check out Leslie’s ass as we walk through the double doors.
Lori walks too fast and as I trail behind her, my eye catches Enrique Iglesias, who is performing on The Tonight Show with Jay Leno tonight. I watch him eating lunch, a chicken Caesar salad with no croutons. Lori seems to see me staring, but kisses me on the cheek anyway, and says “Lunch is on me today, as long as it’s not anything made by the loaf.”
She winks at me and I pick up a Club Sandwich, tilting my head slightly to her like a puppy who’s learning how to not piss on carpet. She half nods and walks toward the desert tray.
“And we’ll share a strawberry cheesecake, Seanny-boy. Do you guys have candles?” She asks the busboy who is also ignoring her and staring at Enrique and his girlfriend, Anna Khournikova.
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