Front Porch Review
A literary magazine for the young at heart and mind

            Kate was more than hungry. She was tired and hungry, which, according to the Target Buzz III Diet and You book, was one of the worst combinations. She knew she would soon be tempted to emotionally eat to fill her void, to stuff her feelings. Her hands shook in anticipation as she pounded down the hallway of her apartment building, keys in hand, pinching shoes pinching. What could she hold that couldn’t be used against her? A stalk of celery? A freshly popped can of Diet Dr. Pepper? Her jaws ached with the need to chew, and so she decided, as she burst through the door, threw her keys on the kitchen table, kicked off her shoes, flung off her coat, to accost the bag of Cheetos hidden like a bottle of vodka under the dishtowels in the bottom drawer.
            Kate crouched on the linoleum floor next to the dishwasher and fed herself the orange delights with the precision of a wood chipper operator. No pauses. No loss of momentum. No thoughtful moments to assess her appetite levels. No journal dialogue about comforting herself. No thumbing through the pages of replace this bad food item (Cheetos) with this good food item (carrots).
            She was half-way through the bag before she started breathing normally. Kate licked the cheese powder from underneath her fingernails and hoisted herself up from the floor. She got the two-liter bottle of Diet Dr. Pepper; she didn’t even buy the regular stuff anymore, unscrewed the cap with a fizzy whoosh, and settled herself at the table like a regular person with the bag and the bottle. She ate more slowly, but still with the precision of a wood chipper operator. Kate’s molars filled with cheese dust.
            She had a decision to make. She could finish the whole bag, or she could stop, with only a little more than half of the bag gone. That little more than half was moistening in her stomach, was ready to float through her digestive system, coat her arteries and plump out her hips. Or, she could stop. She could put the bag back in the drawer under the dishtowels to get stale or to eat another day. She could also throw the half bag in the trash, or grind it up in the disposal. Kate crunched Cheetos. She could sprinkle the half bag by the bushes in the park tomorrow on her lunch hour for the squirrels to fight over. She could bring them to work and lay them in the middle of the snack table. She could…
            Kate stepped on the foot pedal of the trash can and stuffed the empty Cheetos bag deep into the bin where Noah was unlikely to see it. She sucked the last of the orange powder from her fingers and cuticles and from under her fingernails. Her tongue worked the gummy cheese paste out from her molars, swallowing the little patties down one by one. She rinsed her fingertips and dried them, then rummaged in the refrigerator for a carrot, which she carefully scraped over the disposal opening. She was grinding the carrot peelings in the disposal when Noah got home. He shimmied out of his coat and hung it in the closet. “Hey, I saw you at Sixth and Washington.  Didn’t you see me?”
            “When?”
            Noah kissed her cheek. “About five minutes ago. You were just ahead of me. I honked.”
            “Did you miss the light?” Kate asked, cutting the carrot in half and handing him a piece.
            “Just.” Noah snapped the carrot between his front teeth. “Look at you,” he said, pointing his chin to the other half of carrot in Kate’s hand, to the Diet Dr. Pepper still sitting out on the kitchen table.
            Kate felt the weight of the Cheetos in her stomach and on her mind. She smiled in spite of it. “Fish for dinner?”
            “Whatever you want. I can poach it and make that mango salsa like I did last time.”
            “Just not so many onions.”
            “Deal.”
            The couple went into their bedroom where Kate disappeared into the walk-in closet.  Noah called comments about his day over his shoulder as he changed into sweats and his favorite Bob Marley tee shirt, then moved back to the kitchen and started his cooking routine of humming and chopping. Kate knew he was taking little sips of wine every time he picked up the remote and changed the song playing on the iPod unit. Kate stood in the closet in her underwear and bra, massaging her stomach and thinking about the Cheetos. She could throw up, but knew Noah would hear even with the music playing. She didn’t puke often, hated it, really, but was stunned thinking it had only taken her five minutes to eat the Cheetos and dispose of the bag.  What sorts of damage did she do on the days that Noah was a half-hour late? She knew she wasn’t always good, but what if she was more out of control than she realized? She shivered.
            Kate pulled on forgiving sweats and wrapped her body in a bulky sweater. She had been obese, by all official definitions, but was now only considered overweight. She was making progress. In the bathroom she washed her face with warm water and the expensive new soap from Penelope’s Pampering. She thought about sticking her finger down her throat. Maybe with the water running and the music? But, no, Noah would hear. On the other hand, maybe he was caught up in the cooking, the sipping, still proud of the carrot.
            A knock on the door made her jump. “Asparagus or snap peas?” Noah called.
            Kate took a shaky breath. “You decide.”
            There was a long pause.
            “You okay?”  Noah asked.
            Kate bit her lip and opened the door. “Sure. Just washing up. Can I help with dinner?”
            Noah breathed a funny sigh and shook his head. Was he on to her? 
            Back in the kitchen, Noah continued to chop and hum and sip. Kate sat in the living room’s cracked leather recliner, paging through a catalog that came in the mail. Did she stick the Cheetos bag all the way down into the trash can? Yes, and she covered it with the banana peel and coffee grounds! Had Noah looked under coffee grounds? If he had, then that was just sick and wrong. What right did he have to police her? She’d slipped a bit, once, and sure as hell wasn’t proud of it. It was a little misstep, a little back step, an error in judgment. Kate’s heart pounded. She felt her cheeks flush, and her jaw ached from clamping her teeth together. She knew she was spinning into irrational thinking. She should forgive herself and move on. To dwell on it gave it more power, could enable the whole cycle again. Maybe she should call Cindy.
            Cindy was steps ahead of Kate, had already met her goal and was thriving and beyond. Whenever Cindy and Kate met for lunch, Cindy would push the last bites of her salad around on her plate as she painted a wonderland in words – Cindy no longer felt hungry, really!  She honestly turned down gooey slices of cake not out of some warped notion of deprivation, but because she could feel it settling in thin, oily layers around her thighs. And the best part?  Cindy’s love life was amazing. Men swarmed around her – Cindy! Men had barely noticed her before, and now they swarmed. If Kate called Cindy, Cindy would help. She’d cite verse and passage of the Target Buzz III Diet and You book. Be gentle with yourself. Allow yourself to be human. Resolve to reduce setback damage. Kate knew the sections herself. She didn’t need to call Cindy. She could just look them up and get re-energized, refocused.
            But Noah would see her looking in the book. He’d know something was up then, might even search the trash can if he hadn’t already done so. Maybe Kate could get him to leave for a few minutes. Distract him long enough to fish the Cheetos bag out of the trash, stuff it into her messenger bag, and sneak a peek at the few really important passages she needed to see in the book. Sometimes he’d forget something vital at work, on his desk, right on top, and he’d have to quick go get it and then quick come right home, an hour round trip. Maybe today was one of those days?
            Noah came suddenly into the living room and perched a bright glass of red onto the table next to Kate’s chair. He grinned at her like he knew a secret.
            “What?” Kate asked.
            “Nothing. Just… bringing…you a glass. We’re having salmon. The tuna’s all gone.”
            Kate eyed him. What was he up to? He never brought her a glass of wine in the living room, especially after checking up on her in the bathroom. He’d found the Cheetos bag and was waiting for her confession. That had to be it. Well, she was a grown woman and could do what she pleased, could eat what she pleased. Her cheeks burned. “You know, I don’t really feel like fish after all.”
            Noah’s face fell.  “Oh, but it’s almost ready.”
            “Yeah, sure it is.”
            “What’s that supposed to mean?”
            Kate’s jaw pulsed. She tried to imagine the sections in the book she should be reading, the sections about irrational thinking and blaming others, but the thought of Noah digging through the trash can, spying on her, was too infuriating to allow any other images. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about.”
            “Kate.”
            “Don’t you Kate me. I’m on to you, mister, and I completely, totally resent how I’m being treated.”
            Noah’s hands shook. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I never. I never…“
            “Yeah, you never. You think you’re so smart. You think I have no feelings. That just because I’m a little overweight…”  Kate’s eyes grew moist.
            Noah slumped onto the couch opposite Kate. He looked entirely guilty, which infuriated her. It wasn’t like she had had a huge binge. She’d eaten one, one thing. One bag of Cheetos. And she hadn’t even thrown up. She was living with her mistake. Being responsible for it. Noah shook his head and rubbed his cheeks with his palms. It made her sick that he didn’t trust her. Had he been checking the trash regularly? How long had he been keeping such close tabs on her? Was all of his pride in her weight loss a façade?
            “I don’t like how this is spinning,” Kate said. “You’re treating me like a child, like someone who isn’t in charge of her own life.”
            Noah blinked back tears. “I am such an idiot. I am, and I know it. Here you are – a beautiful, wonderful woman, and what do I do? First, I insult you, and then I’m too cowardly to admit it.”
            Kate’s stomach flipped. It was true. How long had he been supervising her? Did he check her messenger bag for candy? Hunt through the trunk of the car for boxes of doughnuts? She squeezed her eyes in frustration. She needed her book, needed to call Cindy, needed something to fix this black fury shaking its way up her spine. “I’ve got to get out for a while. Get some air.”
            Noah tried to get Kate to stay but she grabbed her coat, shoes, bag, keys and stormed out the door with Noah calling after her. “Kate! Please. I’m so sorry.” 
            It was windy; a storm was blowing in, but Kate felt anything but chilled. She blazed with indignation. The nerve. The jerk! She squealed out of the parking lot, pounding the steering wheel and cussing out Noah all the way to Donutland. She’d show him. Upset?  Over a bag of Cheetos? Well, just wait and see what damage she could do if she really tried. He couldn’t control her, make her conform to social ideals of beauty, force her into some sort of mold that was just like all the other women coming and going. She’d lose weight if and when she wanted to, for herself. Or not.
            At Donutland Kate ordered a dozen of her favorites: two jellies (raspberry and blueberry), a lemon, chocolate glazed, two crullers, chocolate cake with sprinkles, cheese, vanilla cream, an apple fritter, a long john and a fresh-from-the-oven cinnamon roll. She ate them, one after another, with her right hand while steering to a 7-Eleven with her left. The wind picked up and blew steely clouds into each other. Thunder cracked, and rain would soon follow. The meager remains of the sun looked like it was making an escape, slipping quickly down between buildings of the darkening cityscape.
            At the 7-Eleven Kate piled her purchases on the counter, then thought better, and made a quick dash back to the freezer to return the half gallon of ice cream.
            The clerk rang up Kate’s food maddeningly slow, picking up each package, studying it as if she were reading the caloric values, scanning, then bagging. “Someone’s having a party.”
            Kate set her jaw. “My daughter. Sleepover.”
            The clerk lit up with understanding. “Ah.” She put the candy, Cool Ranch Doritos, Fritos, caramel corn, and two-liter of Dr. Pepper into bags. 
            “Make that a bucket of chicken, too,” Kate said. “They shouldn’t just eat junk.”
            In the car Kate set the bucket of chicken on her lap and spread the opened bags of chips and candy across the dashboard. The soda rested between her feet. She opened the lid of the chicken bucket, let the savory steam fog up the car windows. It was dark out, and occasional headlights swept down the road on either side of her, some swinging into the parking lot.
            Kate ate piece after piece of chicken, first tearing the crispy fried breading off with her teeth, drowning in the saltpepperherbcruncygolden batter. Juicy meat slid off bones down her throat all slippery and warm comfort. She crunched handfuls of chips to cleanse her pallet for more chicken, each piece better than the last, until, finally, she wiped her index finger along the bucket’s bottom and sucked up the last deep-fried crumbs. Next came a thorough wetting of her gullet with Dr. Pepper – the real stuff. God, it’d been so long. She’d almost forgotten the thrill of pure-sugar bubbles, the spicy snap of cold washing through her. Caramel corn and candy served as dessert – Reeses, Twizzlers, Milk Duds – all the favorites.  She chewed giant mouthfuls of chocolate and strawberry, like the most contented of cows.
            The rain came up suddenly. Five seconds of spatter, then a full-on assault. It was the kind of rain Kate worried would dent the car, the kind of rain windshield wipers shrank from. Kate felt peaceful, full and insulated from everything harsh and difficult. No headlights swam down the road. She was alone in the 7-Eleven parking lot, cocooned in dark and din, jaws serenely slack, stomach puffed, fingers oily and sticky. Kate rummaged a handi-wipe from the travel pouch in the glove compartment and methodically wiped her fingers and fingernails. This was a first step, washing hands and utensils, not licking them clean. She gathered the garbage together into the bucket. The Milk Duds’ box rattled when she moved it. Kate cocked her head. There were a few chewy wonders left! She breathed slowly, steadily, and pushed the box into the chicken bucket. Another good first step – leave some food on your plate.
            Pages of the Target Buzz III Diet and You book flashed before Kate, seemed to be propped on the dashboard where the bags of food had just been. Take first steps. Share your feelings. Don’t isolate, circulate. Suddenly, the good buzz was gone, evaporated, like alcohol during cooking. She should have stopped with the Cheetos. She should have stopped with the half bag, shouldn’t have opened the bag, shouldn’t have bought it and squirreled it under the dishtowels, shouldn’t have …
            The pit inside Kate grew darker and thicker, cancerous. She could throw up, but then she’d have even more to feel sick about. At least she was that far. At least she understood what she was doing, understood the emotional element, which was also a first step, one with a gold star beside it. The rain battered down, was still too bad for driving. Kate covered her face with her hands and shook her head, as if to shake sense into herself. She had to call Cindy. Cindy would tell her what to do. Cindy would find a way to rescue the situation, to make the shame go away, to make the finish line shine again.
            Cindy answered too quickly, breathless. “Oh, my God, Kate. Where are you?”
            Kate sighed. This was going to be hell to confess. “I’ve been driving around.”
            “In this downpour? Oh, Jesus, God,” Cindy murmured to someone she was with. “She’s been driving around. She’s okay.”
            “Who are you talking to?”
            There was a long pause. “I’m with Noah. At your place. He called me as soon as –”
            “Let me talk to her,” Noah said in the background.
            “I’m handling her fine,” Cindy said.
            “Let me just try.”
            “Will you hang on?” Cindy said to Kate. There was another long pause while Cindy talked, low and urgent, to Noah. Noah murmured back. They were talking about her, Noah and Cindy were conferring, together, about her. Kate’s brain spun like jackpot fruit. Cindy – their frequent tagalong to movies, restaurants. Noah – so understanding. Sure she can come, why not? And the love life! Men just swarmed. Did you see me at Sixth and Washington? I was right behind you – coming from the opposite direction of his office. The office where stacks of papers were lately forgotten. The damage that could be done when he was a half hour late. Cindy’s place five minutes away. Swarmed, Kate!
            Cindy finally returned to Kate, talked a mile a minute with Noah coaching in the background. Tell her. Ask her.
            Kate clenched her teeth. Finally she blurted, “Do you know what I did, Cindy?”  Her voice sounded far away. It echoed around the car. “Do you know what I did?”
            “What did you do?” 
            What did she do? Kate’s throat was tight. She swallowed hard. “I ate an entire bag of Cheetos. In one sitting, in about five minutes.”
            “Kate. It’s okay.” Then to Noah, “She said she ate an entire bag of Cheetos.”
            “She did?”
            Kate snapped her cell phone shut. The rain was quieting, and the night sky turned from ink to charcoal. Kate restarted the car. She tested the wipers. They gamely held up. She pushed the defrost button to clear the windows. While the fan blew, she grabbed her umbrella and the bucket of garbage and headed toward the trash receptacle in the corner of the parking lot. She watched her feet splash through puddles and avoid worms. The drenched world smelled earthy, clean. The fresh of it shocked her, agitated the grease and bulk inside her. She opened the lid of the trash receptacle and was assaulted by a wave of rot. Kate’s stomach churned, bile splashed upward. She threw the bucket into the can and clamped her hand over her mouth. She bit her lip, took puffs of air. But it was no use. Kate vomited, umbrella held high, face over the trash. For several minutes every time Kate thought she was finished, the stench would rise up, and she would start again.
            Finally, Kate retched up orange paste – the Cheetos. She blinked, and tears splashed down her cheeks. She knew she was done. She put the lid back on the trash receptacle and walked shakily back to the car, shoes soaked, face streaming, umbrella wilting. She closed the umbrella and turned her face to the starless sky, let the rain hit her full on. It wasn’t so bad, was refreshing, really. The cool water patted her temples, the bridge of her nose, cheekbones, lips. It rippled through her hair like fingers. Kate took another deep breath of the clean and shivered. She felt strangely empty, not just of food, but of emotion. Despite the rain. Despite the evening. Despite the personal chaos, the trigger episodes.
            Kate stood quiet and waited for the assault of desire that was her body’s knee-jerk response to trauma. Agitation equaled desperation. Desperation broke will power, which led to poor dietary choices which resulted in dissatisfaction which caused more agitation, more desperation and more and more eating eating eating. Kate pictured the circle diagram with the arrows going round and round, spinning readers into webs of hopelessness. She no longer cared.  She could eat or not, she could get soaked or drive home immediately. Noah would still have lied to her. Cindy would still have lied to her. Kate would still have lied to herself, sneaking the Cheetos and all the rest. But the truth was she hadn’t purged, despite feeling purged. She had fought it like anybody would have, and she didn’t ever want to have to do that again.          

By Debra Brenegan

Debra Brenegan has a Ph.D. in creative writing and is an Assistant Professor at Westminster College in Missouri.  She believes literature can help people make sense of themselves and the world and likes to write about typical people trying to cope with typical problems.  Character growth is an important element in the stories and novels she writes, and Debra finds inspiration for her work in everyday life.  She has recently had work published in Calyx, The Laurel Review, Cimarron Review, Milwaukee Magazine, Phoebe, RE:AL, The Southern Women’s Review and elsewhere.  Her novel, Shame the Devil, about nineteenth-century American journalist and novelist Fanny Fern, is forthcoming with SUNY Press. For more information about Debra or her work, check out her website:  www.debrabrenegan.com