This is part 2. Part 1 is here.
I was 35 pounds away from healthy. But I was 65 pounds away from almost dead.
For that, I ordered pancakes. It was my treat.
I was staring at the street from the patio I was sitting on feeling very full of myself for my exercise, how I’d left LA, and would be returning for just a day and a half, having lost nearly 25% of my body weight. And it’s not that I’d quote that number to anyone, except Rich, if he happened to notice during our hug that I felt a fraction of my size (he was a mathematician, after all. I know he likes precise numbers).
Walking toward me as I sat was a girl about my age. She was dressed in a white sweat suit that seemed to be fitted by a tailor to her frame, a Self-Magazine type cover model girl, brought to us today by the good people at BeBe athletic Wear For Women. She wore a hat, so all I noticed were her freckles and that her hair was pulled back with a very basic rubber band. She probably had gotten up earlier than me to go running twice as far, and probably didn’t even like to listen to music while she did it, preferring to meditate in motion. This is how I thought people who did not have a weight problem experienced life—far less needy and far more disciplined than me.
If she had a boyfriend, I would find a reason to call her a bitch, under my breath.
Her boyfriend stumbled, sort of bowlegged toward a white plastic patio table. His sheer Sacramento King’s replica tank top was loose and it grazed my arm. This bitch sat with her back to me, so I got to stare at her boyfriend.
His tank top showcased his matching chain linked bicep tattoos. Oh wait, is that ink on his neck I saw, too? Oh Yes. It said “In memory of Baby Girl” across his larynx, though it appeared his tattoo artist hadn’t read Elements of Style, for “Baby Girl” was not identified with the correct capitalization. The real question now, was who is this Baby Girl, or was his tattoo in remembrance of all the baby girls of years past. It was hard to tell without spell check.
Inked up dudes with shaved head are very sexy in Sacramento. These are the guys who usually have trucks with decals for their own drywall business on the side of the driver’s seat. And some of these guys didn’t even inherit the business from their dads. They party hard at Irish pubs and pool halls on the edge of town and I had seen one in the gym a few days ago sticking a syringe in his butt. Maybe that’s why he walked bowlegged, or maybe it was because he was hung over, or maybe walking sort of like a lame horse was the irony I was missing at the time.
By the end of breakfast, I had figured out that this girl was probably some sort of lobbyist or engineer, because she bought breakfast for both of them, so she had to have a decent job and no dental hygienist or payroll specialist could afford Café Bernardo. Hell, I couldn’t either. This was just a special day, because I had gotten up so early and finished my run. Still, I was jealous of this girl, who had such a hot boyfriend but as my mother taught me from very young, when people had something I wanted, they were nothing more than lucky yuppies.
I saw a bruise on her arm, peaking under her Bebe t-shirt. It was think and purple, like a rotten plum. I was sort of staring at it when she looked over at me for a split second, or maybe it was a full second. Who knows that early in the morning after such an intense run on my own for the very first time? When I looked at the bruise she covered it by pulling her shirt down a little and turned away. The waiter asked her if she was done with her breakfast burrito. She hadn’t had more than two bites. “Oh yes, sorry,” she said . She pushed the plate toward him and leaned far back in her chair so he wouldn’t have to bring his hand to close to her.
I still had two pancakes left, but I was full. I could tell she wasn’t. Girlfriend looked sort of discontented. She sipped coffee quietly. He burped with his mouth open real loud, and she didn’t appear to be surprised by it. She signed the tab and they walked off, never speaking a word to each other during the meal.
I ate the rest of my pancakes for her.
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