The Glutton

The Glutton

by Robert Aquino Dollesin

Manny's at the tray slide again, heaping his plates with generous portions of crispy fried chicken, four-cheese pizza, and short ribs slathered in sauce and dripping with fat. He hadn't been to the buffet since his first wife died. And although Manny is healthier and leaner now, feelings of loneliness consume him.

As he heads back to his booth by the window, he can't help but notice all the couples who sit scootched up next to each other, laughing and talking. Manny remembers when he and his first wife, Dolores, used to come here regularly. But that was a few years back. Before she passed away. Before he remarried.

After taking a deep breath, Manny sets his tray on the table. He sits on the bench seat, takes a deep breath, and begins to wolf down the food in front of him.

He doesn't blame his new wife, Rose, for the way he feels. In fact, Manny owes Rose a great deal. Even his life, perhaps. Because of her persistence, he'd managed to shed nearly two hundred pounds since his first wife died. Rose believes in exercise. She doesn't eat red meat. A serious woman, Rose prepares meals from a fancy, live-longer cookbook. Together they take brisk walks in the evenings. Quiet, silent walks in which neither of them pay much attention to little things, like leaves covering the pavement. Or the sunset exploding in the sky.

With Rose, evening walks involve sweat, and picking up the pace, and pushing yourself to go a little further each time.

But with Manny's first wife Dolores, when she was still alive, the strolls they shared were less meaningful.

Dolores was a large woman who loved life.

Manny recalls her now. As he uses his fingers to pick the bubbly crisp skin off a drumstick, he pictures Dolores's face. He crunches down, savoring the greasy chicken skin before swallowing. He and Dolores used to come here a lot. McDonalds, too. On Saturday afternoons they used to dine at McDonalds. Manny smiles when he remembers how Dolores always laughed at his stupid jokes. The way her face reddened, and the fat beneath her chin jiggled. While she laughed, she dragged oily fries through thick puddles of catsup. Manny himself used to scarf down three Big Macs, a super-sized order of fries, and a large vanilla shake.

Using his teeth to scrape the tender meat off the bone of the red ribs, Manny recollects mornings spent with Dolores at the breakfast nook. He remembers the nothing-important conversations: a joke Johnny Carson told, or else how she gave a bowl of milk to a stray cat she'd caught rooting in her flower garden. Silly, unimportant things. She always talked with her mouth stuffed full of something or the other: blackened bacon, fluffy eggs, sticky pancake she'd forked off a high stack. She laughed a lot, Dolores did. And she always reminded Manny how lucky they were to be so happy.

For a minute Manny quits eating. He squeezes his eyes shut and lets the food in his stomach settle. When he's ready again, he grabs hold one of the thick slices of pizza on his plate. He clamps down with his teeth. Pulling the slice away from his face, some tears come to Manny's eyes. He and Dolores used to make a game of seeing who could stretch the stringy melted cheese on the pizza out the farthest before it snapped.

After sex, Manny recalls, Dolores always got hungry. She'd beg him to tromp down the stairs to the kitchen, and throw four or five frozen burritos into the microwave. Sometimes they'd sit next to each other in bed, their backs against the wall, and in between spoonfuls of hot fudge sundae, they'd nuzzle each other's necks with cold lips.

He misses Dolores. And it's not that Manny doesn't love his new wife, Rose, either. Things are just different. When Dolores died Rose was there for him, and Manny is grateful for that. She cares and she worries about him. Just this afternoon, while Rose stood at the kitchen counter slicing hearts out of artichokes, Manny came up behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He said, "Let's skip this healthy stuff today. Let's go out and grab some burgers.”

Rosemary twisted her face. "Are you crazy, Manny? You're lucky burgers didn't knock you dead." Then she reminded Manny about the clogged arteries that killed his wife. She turned away and said, "I plan on keeping you alive forever."

Manny went and sat down at the small table near the kitchen window. He listened to Rose dice mushrooms. Chop, chop, chop went the knife as it struck the cutting board. Just once he wished she'd agree to go out. To laugh. To stuff her face and be happy.

Just once.

Rose glanced over her shoulder. “Manny,” she said. "Could you run to the Safeway and grab some fresh carrots?"

He nodded.

On the way to the grocery store, Manny detoured. He headed to the buffet instead.

With his plates empty again, Manny closes his eyes. He presses his palm against his chest. His heartbeat feels steady, normal.

Manny shakes his head, then blots his face with his napkin. He shoves his dirty plates to the edge of the and slides out of the booth. Slowly, with determination on his face, Manny makes his way back to the buffet line.