How to Eat Your Heart: Part 1

AUTHOR’S NOTE

Please note that this was written in the year 2019, and we weren’t actively boycotting McDonalds at the time (that I knew of at least).

CONTENT WARNINGS

Disordered Eating

Negative Self Body Talk

Use of the word fat as a negative descriptor (towards the main character)

Disordered relationship with exercise

Binge eating

Talk of weight loss and the desire to lose weight

Descriptions of bodies in relation to size

HOW TO EAT YOUR HEART

Part One

Give me that bacon, egg, and cheese.  My brain is practically screaming at me.  

I’m at the McDonalds drive through, and the line is long for ten in the morning on a Tuesday.  You see, Tuesdays are my Mcdonald’s day.  As a kid, my dad would bring me to Mcdonald’s after my Tuesday piano lessons, and now, like Pavlov’s dog, I come trotting up like clockwork, every week, drool hanging from my mouth.

“You want the Happy Meal?” My dad always asked this first before pulling his forest green 1995 Dodge Caravan into the line.  My stubby legs were smooshed together on the gray cloth interior, the seat belt cutting an uncomfortable line into the squishy flesh of my belly.  I was eleven.

“No, I want the big size.”

“How about just the Happy Meal? It comes with a toy. A girl your age doesn’t need all that food.”

The tears would come almost immediately. “But I want the big sized meal.”

And then, my dad would relent with a put-upon, disapproving look in his eyes.

Even as a kid, I was always being told I needed too much.

I was decidedly not like the other little girls, birdishly pecking at their food with their naturally bony fingers. 

I was a black hole of need. Nothing was ever enough. 

Present day, I tense against the faux leather seat back of my car and push out a long, impatient sigh.  I look down at the now hard line of my taut, tan thigh encased in tiny, black North Face running shorts.  What are all these people doing here anyway?  Would it be wrong to assume that, unlike me, all the other normies in this line have regular jobs?  The kinds that keep them locked away every Monday through Friday, every nine to five, only tasting a semblance of freedom once their corporate overlords have feasted on their pound of flesh for the day.  

Enough is never enough for those overlords either.  

I guess we have that in common. 

The delicate sound of nails tapping at the inside of the passenger window interrupts my internal soliloquy.  There’s an ugly dog next to me with a hot pink bandage wrapped around his forearm and he would like my attention. 

“Well, excuse me, my good sir,” I mock bow in his direction.

Then, I roll down the passenger window so Gremlin can shove his flat, little snout out into the hot summer air, his nose excited by the intoxicating smell of grease and potatoes wafting in.

Me too, Gremlin.  Me fucking too.

We cruise up to the second window and the guy there takes my credit card; something on it catches his eye.

“April May…” he reads my name aloud, like a question.

“Yeah, that’s May,” The corners of my mouth lift into the facsimile of a smile and then drop instantly.  I’m used to this kind of attention.

“Seen you before.  You come here a lot,” he says as he runs the card, handing it back to me while producing my order.

“Ummm...yeah, no, I think you’ve got me confused with someone else…Sorry, bye!” Heat rises to my cheeks, and I grab my food, peeling out of the parking lot as fast as I can.  

Once on the road, I dig my hand into the heat of the bag, and satisfaction rushes through me even before I get to my sandwich.

But I vow to myself that I will stop this fast food habit starting tomorrow and promise that I will only blend fresh kale and blueberry smoothies in the morning from now on.  What the fuck did I buy that five hundred dollar Vitamix for anyway?

I pull off a bit of bacon to share with Gremlin, diverting my attention back to the mission.

“Remember this,” I say to him, as he delicately takes the food, eyes wide with wonder at his spoils. “Because you won’t like me so much in about ten minutes.”

---

 Gremlin is wary when we enter the veterinarian's office; his eyebrows are low, and he hunkers against the ground behind me before I can guide him through the glass doors.  I gently scoop him up as he digs into my shoulder with desperate, curled paws.

The woman at the front desk eyes me as I approach, but she recognizes the dog.  He is hard to forget.

“Where is your daddy, little one?” she asks, leaning over the counter to pet Gremlin’s apple shaped head.  I awkwardly hold his gangly body in my arms.  

Gremlin just isn’t built like other canines:  he’s small - twenty pounds all in - but barrel chested with long, skinny legs.  His head is tiny in relation to everything else on his body with practically no neck to speak of, and he’s got a snaggle tooth jutting out over the left side of his black lips.  It’s kind of like if a Gremlin morphed into a dog, but then gave up halfway through the transformation.  Or like if Kafka never finished that one book.  And, look, I’m not saying he’d win the Ugliest Dog In the World Contest or anything, but I’m also not saying he’d come in dead last.  

Nonetheless, he is loved.

“I’m his dog walker,” I say to the woman.  “But he stays with me when his owners are out of town.”

“Stays with” is an understatement.  Gremlin sleeps under the blankets with his head on my pillow, snoring snout pressed up against my face all night.  He’s my little spoon.

“He’ll be with you soon,” she says, referring to the veterinarian.

As we wait, I pull out my phone.

At the vet’s office now.

I send the message along with a sad picture of Gremlin to his owner, Jill, although technically the dog belongs to her fiance Jason.  They’re both lawyers at the same firm, and they’ve taken a pre-wedding vacance to Paris --- you know, the way that upper class people tend to do.  I assume the trip is to celebrate the special beauty that is their perfect, Burberry, Talented Mr. Ripley type of love or something.  Disgusting.

Although, to be honest, I’ve never even met Jason in the flesh, only Jill, and yet, I have an up close and personal relationship with his dog.  As a dog walker, I rarely see my clients in person.  Sometimes I’d barely even remember what they’d look like at all if it weren’t for family pictures hanging up on walls and the like.  

Their homes often tell the stories they’d never speak out loud.  

Jill and Jason don’t have a single picture of the two of them together.  But of course, Jill looks like a Madewell model and Jason...well, from the one single glance I got of him on Jill’s phone wallpaper, Jason looks like the kind of guy who plays a hot villain in a movie.  Tom Hiddleston much?  I almost begrudge how they are both such good looking people.  (Almost?  Ok, definitely.)

Typing bubbles pop up on my screen, and then a message from Jill:

Ugh, that dog is older than dirt.  If they want to do surgery again, I’ll just have to put my foot down.  Sometimes enough is enough.  Thank you for bringing him though, I know Jason appreciates it.  Any chance you can keep Gremlin an extra few days?  Thinking a quick trip to Belgium might be nice...

My stomach does a small flip at her text.  Gremlin is old, but he’s got life in him.  I rub the little bandage on his leg...a lot of life,  even with a sarcoma or two.  

A vet tech in lavender scrubs appears and ushers us into an exam room, taking Gremlin’s weight as we wait for the veterinarian.  I clutch my phone and reread Jill’s text just as the door opens again and my eyes almost drop out of my head.

Who dis?

A tall figure with broad shoulders engulfs the door frame.  He’s holding an old paper file, looking down at it with brows drawn.  My eyes scale him from the bottom up, and I brace myself for impact:  his shoes are worn out gray Converse, his jeans are frayed and hit right at that perfect spot at his ankle.  My eyes dart past the line of his belt and then the flat plane of his stomach, gonna go ahead and ignore those areas for now...  he’s wearing a faded black Yo Yo Ma t-shirt.  

My eyes dart again past the tanned corded muscles of his neck and shoulders...  And his face, hoooo boy, his face.  Scruffed, chiseled, angled...  Tons of black hair, longer on the stop with a fade on the sides.  He’s wearing one dangling small earring.  Perfection.  Cool as fuck.  So much cooler than me.  

It dawns on me that this is Gremlin’s doctor.

My hand shoots to my midsection as my stomach gurgles loudly.  Goddamn that bacon, egg, and cheese.

He glances up at the sound, my face turns bright red, but in recognition of my presence, he smiles.  Then the smile drops.

 “He’ll need surgery.” He says striding into the room more confidently than I’ve ever done anything in my life, flipping the chart shut.  “But I want to have another look at him to see how he’s been healing up since last time.”

The vet tech lifts a quivering Gremlin onto the metal table for examination.

“You’re Jill?” the man in the Yo Yo Ma t-shirt asks me.

“No, I’m the dog walker.  Jill and Jason are out of town.”  I attempt to smooth my unbrushed topknot, fly aways no doubt framing my face like a hairy sunset.  But what can you expect from me? It’s Mcdonald’s Tuesday.

He nods his head, while moving his hands around Gremlin’s little body, examining his legs, eyes, ears, gums.  I’m sure he’d examine his tail too, but Gremlin has none.  “A dog walker?  That’s a fun job.... ”  

Yes, and you also look like a fun job….

“Jason and I went to undergrad together, lived in the same dorm freshman year...”  He’s talking to me in an off-handed kind of way as he works.  He sticks an otoscope in Gremlin’s tiny ear, and I watch in rapt attention as his sleeve lifts an inch on a large, flexing biceps to reveal the black lines of a tattoo.  In fact, he has several tattoos snaking down the side of his other arm, and one barely peeking out from the collar of his shirt.  I bite my tongue at the sight of his neck.

 “I’ve never met Jill; Jason’s the one who comes in.  And before I forget my manners,” he looks up at me, and winks.  Winks!  “I’m Dr. Asher Malone, veterinarian extraodinairian.”  He chuckles at his own cheesy wordplay.

Dr. Asher Malone, sounds like an old timey Soap Opera name.

I can’t think of anything clever in the moment - bitch, where are your wits! - so I lift a hand in a weak wave, “April May.  Dog Walker... Pet Sitter... extraor...dinair...itter. ”  Oh no. I regret the words as they tumble from my stupid mouth.  

He raises his eyebrows for a moment then turns his attention away.  He and the vet tech exchange information about procedural things and she shuffles out.  He scoops a hand beneath Gremlins little body and hands him back over to me.

“He’s going to need to have this front left leg amputated eventually.  I wouldn’t recommend delaying surgery in a dog his age with this kind of recurrent tumor.”

My fingertips smooth over Gremlin’s round head, “They won’t be back for a few days.  But I’ll relay the news.  Will he be ok in the meantime?”  

Gremlin hasn’t been acting quite like himself which is why I brought him in the first place.  He just seems off, sad maybe.

Dr. Asher Malone reaches over to pet the dog’s head as well, and my eyes are distracted by the large, rough man hands coming my way.  My arm drops dead to my side to avoid collision.  His fingernails are unrelentingly close to my right nipple now as they ruffle the wiry fur at the top of Gremlin’s head.  I realize I’ve been frowning hard when my tongue darts out to lick my lips.

“I’ll tell you what,” he mercifully stops the petting, pulls a business card from his pocket, writing something on it against the metal table, “Because Jason is an old acquaintance, and Gremlin is our long term patient, and you and I are both in the business of helping dogs... I’ll give my personal number.  If anything worries you in the next couple days, contact me directly.”

“Oh no, really... You don’t need to do---” 

He presses the card into my open palm, “Any time.  Day or night.”  Was it just me or was there an emphasis on the word night?

My jaw hangs open a bit, “Uh...ok, then.  Thank you  I... I mean, um, Gremlin, appreciates it.”

Dr. Asher Malone rubs the bottom of his lip, as if lost in thought, then with a curt nod exits the room, leaving me almost panting against the exam table.  

A vision of Dr. Malone pushing me against that table, his hot breath against my neck, his dangle earring caught up in my long dark hair passes over my eyes like smoke --- Oh my god, what am I doing?  I give myself a rough shake. This is just pathétique.  Even for me.  Even for anyone.  My stomach lets out a digestive grumble.

When Gremlin and I make it back to my car, I pull out my phone again, preparing to give Jill the bad news.

---

“Ok, ok, so let me get this straight: you wanna bang your-out-of-town-client’s-dying-dog’s-hot-veterinarian?” 

That’s Aisha, my best friend.  She’s running out of breath, and so am I.  We’ve got twenty-five dogs between the two of us, their leashes divided and clipped to our specialized belts.  A three pound chihuahua named Keith is wrapped to Aisha’s chest in a Baby Bjorn.  We are making our daily walk through the shaded county park trails of Charleston.  My phone keeps vibrating against my waist in my fanny-pack, but when I attempt  to check it, the sweat from my face drips all over it, causing the touch screen to go bananas.  

Deal with that problem later...

“Gremlin’s not dying, Aisha,” I wipe the sweat from my brow.  But he’s too tired to do the pack walks with the other dogs.  And with three legs, he probably never will again.  “At least not anymore than the rest of us.”

“Ok, so you definitely want to fuck this guy, then.” She confirms.  “That feels new.”

I shrug while trouncing along the path and then check my FitBit pleased about all the calories I burn in a day. And, fine, so I may have, possibly could have, spent an inordinate amount of time describing Dr. Malone’s forearms to Aisha.  Afterall, it’s just been such a long time since I’ve felt anything...well, at all...  I reflect how pitiful but true that is.

Aisha must sense I’m zoning out, “This hot veterinarian better not make you forget about my gallery show tomorrow,” she says.  “You promised you’d be there.”

She has no reason to worry, I’ve always managed to turn up to Aisha’s galleries despite my general life malaise.  She makes it easy by being an amazing artist.  We were once college roommates - she, an art major, and me, a creative writing major.  

Of course, naturally, we now run a dog walking business together.  Technically speaking, it’s my business alone,Good Intentions Dog Walking. Aisha just happens to be available to help out in the middle of the regular workday.  Surprising, I know: an artist who works a day job.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

We lead the dogs over a marsh bridge, palm fronds bent over the pathway, brushing at our hot skin.

“That’s the problem,” says Aisha,  “I don’t think you value the world so much lately.  But, hey, maybe you can bring this hot vet along.  Does he appreciate post modern mixed medium abstract industrial art installations that comment on the perils of capitalism?”

“I mean, who doesn’t?”

“He gave you his number…” 

“For the dog.” 

“Lucky bitch, that dog.”  We exchange looks.

“You know…” Aisha removes the small chihuahua from her torso, and we switch turns with the Baby Bjorn.  “You could try writing again…”

She always brings this up whenever she gains any upward momentum in her career.  She thinks just because she has talent, that I must as well.  A generous friend, indeed.

Back in the college days, we yammered on about living out our big dreams.  Aisha’s parents, Gloria and Darren, would drive four hours each way to our small liberal arts campus in the middle of nowhere for her every art show.  Then, afterwards, we would all have dinner at our favorite Chinese restaurant where Gloria and Darren would graciously read my unpublished - and never to be published - short stories, gushing that I would one day be the next great American novelist. 

My parents had long since fallen out of the picture, so Aisha’s family was family to me, real family, for the first time kind of family.  Better than I ever imagined I deserved.  

“Whenever I sit down to write,” I say my voice trailing a bit...my mind wandering back to those days at that Chinese restaurant, everyone squished behind a large, circular table loaded up with dishes of dumplings, noodles, beef, and egg drop soup, “I just feel empty.  Wait no, not feel empty, am empty.  I just am empty.”

Aisha kicks the button of a low riding water fountain, holding it down with her Nike, the dogs line up to get their drinks, “Sounds like you need to get filled up,” she says.