Slim to None Page 8

  "Abbie, you’ve missed your calling. This is top-notch cuisine."

  "It’s nothing, really. But thank you for the compliment."

  It’s silent for a few minutes.

  "It’s none of my business, but do you mind telling me why you’re here—" I spread my arms out everywhere, "And not there? I mean, Manhattan’s lovely and all, but really. I wouldn’t kick Pound Ridge outta bed for eating crackers."

  George laughs, then shakes his head. "It’s complicated."

  I look at my watch. "Hey, I’ve got time. All the time in the world, in fact." Tomorrow’s the first day in my new job, and I’m in no rush to get going on that. Plus I’m not too jazzed about returning home to William, what with my starvation-induced spat and all. Maybe I should pull up my own copy of the Sunday Sentinel and sleep here tonight, in fact. Though it might get chilly, even with a blanket of newsprint.

  "I had it all," he says, taking a bite of salad then closing his eyes as a sublime look spreads across his face.

  "You like the dressing? My own recipe," I tell him.

  He nods his head. "It’s got something different in it, can’t quite put my finger on it."

  "Orange juice. Tiniest pinch of saffron."

  "Clever. Nice touch. That’s what I like about you, Abbie. You march to the beat of your own drummer."

  Wonder if William would agree with that. Maybe that’s true, I’m listening to the beat of my drummer, not ours. If one can extrapolate from salad dressing to bigger picture situations like career choices and child-spawning options. And dieting.

  "We lived the life everyone aspires to. The kids, the dogs, the girls had horses. Country club memberships. A household staff. Vacation spot on Mustique."

  He has a domestic staff? He’s eating my food as if he’s desperate for nourishment. Which would’ve made sense but for this revelation that is spilling out before me.

  "Mustique? Where Princess Margaret used to go?"

  "Yep," he says between mouthfuls. "Mick Jagger, too."

  "Mick? Scrawny in swim trunks?" Inquiring minds want to know.

  "Scrawnier still in none."

  I burst out laughing. Somehow can’t quite imagine Mick Jagger naked in the surf. Or perhaps I choose not to.

  "Sounds like a perfect life. What happened?"

  "I don’t know if something went wrong or if I saw the light," he says. "It started with the tennis pro on the island. Javier."

  "With your wife?"

  He looks at me, surprised. "No, no, no. Not that! Not at all. It was my daughter, Tamara."

  "Forgive me for my confusion but how did you go from a tennis pro hooking up with your daughter to living on a park bench?"

  He sighs. "It’s hard to say, really. I think it made me take stock."

  I offer him my bottle of water I’d tucked into my purse. He takes a swig.

  "It made it all seem wrong. It no longer made sense. I just realized I’d been working my ass off for what? So that my children could live this indulged life and my wife never bothered to talk to me and I realized one day when I came home from work that the only creature in the house that gave a shit about me was the dog. And then only because it was her dinnertime and she was waiting for me to feed her. So I called everyone together. Handed a file this thick with all the necessary paperwork to Sally—" he holds his hands about six inches apart to demonstrate. "It had information on bank accounts and insurance and accountants and lawyers, the usual stuff. And I said I was taking a hiatus from our lives. I needed to re-think things a bit."

  Jesus, what is with this re-thinking stuff? If this is what re-thinking looks like, I’m perfectly happy with my life and in absolutely no mood to re-think a thing.

  "So how long have you been here?"

  "Oh, two years, give or take."

  "Do you mind me asking why you didn’t choose somewhere more user-friendly to be homeless, like, say, Hawaii? I mean Hawaii would be much warmer. And it seems like such a friendly place. New York? Sure, we’re all as nice as can be, but really. Enough is enough. Then again, Paris would be lovely, too. I bet you’d get some wonderful leftovers there. But all the merde would be enough to keep me from choosing there."

  "Yeah, I though about going someplace warmer. But my wife persuaded me to stick a little closer to home. And don’t go saying I’m like a kid who runs away down the block."

  "I wouldn’t dream of it." It’s like he was dipping his toe in the ocean of escape, but not quite ready to swim too far off-shore. "So are you planning on staying here forever?"

  "It’s hard to say. Sally’s been forcing me to meet with a shrink uptown. Says she’s gonna leave me if I don’t."

  "You show up there with your cart?"

  He nods. "Took a while to convince the doorman to let me in. Now he greets me with an open door."

  "What’s it going to take for you to go back to your old life? Will you have a job to return to?"

  "I’m lucky. I never have to work another day in my life. I made buckets of cash, and invested well. Sally will never have to worry for a day in her life either."

  "But don’t you think she’s had to worry a lot—about you?"

  He looks at me, almost mystified.

  "Huh. She’s got her life. Her friends, the grandkids. She golfs every Thursday and plays Mahjong with the ladies in the neighborhood. She doesn’t need me."

  "I don’t know about that. Don’t you think she’d like to share her life with you?"

  "You got any dessert?" he interrupts me.

  I shake my head no. "Sorry. I’m dieting."

  "And this is your diet food?"

  What is this—a conspiracy? Did Mortie get a hold of him?

  "I only had a small portion." Oh, God. Who am I kidding? Small portion my ass. I think the only one getting small portions is my husband—small portions of me, that is.

  I look at my watch. "I’d better get going, George. My husband’ll be wondering where I am. Let me know how the book goes."

  "Good luck on the diet, Abbie."

  "Thanks. I need all the help I can get."

  Abbie’s Anal Retentive Salad

  I actually love salads, but somehow once I’ve gone to all the trouble to make them, I’ve lost interest in eating them. I’m very exacting in pursuit of the perfect salad, so I can assure you that you’ll love my salad, even if I don’t.

  ingredients

  Ideally the ingredients used in a fresh salad should be local and in-season. Obviously this is not always possible, so in that case, go for organic high quality produce when possible.

  Mixed greens, including arugula, butter lettuce, maybe some baby romaine and other tender baby lettuces

  3-4 radishes, finely grated on a culinary microplane

  fresh baby carrots, thinly sliced in rounds (I especially love maroon carrots because their gorgeous crimson color offset by the carrot’s orange insides is so beautiful when sliced)

  fresh bell peppers, in a medley of colors, depending upon what’s available in-season (I love purple ones in the early summer), diced. Slice three rings (in mix of colors) and set aside for garnish

  cucumber

  tomatoes—I’m sure you know that summer heirlooms are my preference, however if not available, I’d suggest going for a handful of grape tomatoes

  broccoli, in tiny florettes

  cauliflower, in tiny florettes

  Toss all of the above together, and then add any of the following:

  broken bits of crostini, for fabulous taste/texture

  smoked chicken (I often throw a couple of chicken breasts into a smoker) and you can find stovetop ones that work wonderfully—for an hour, and then use the chicken for add-ons in salads, or in chicken salad)

  caramelized walnuts

  marc
ona almonds

  dried sour cherries

  dried cranberries

  fresh blueberries

  crumbled goat cheese

  breaded sautéed goat cheese

  shaved slices of parmigiano reggiano

  dressing

  There are many variations you can choose for this, I’ll include options. I’m a guesstimator with amounts, so will give you rough ideas of them.

  About 1/2 c. canola oil (can use olive oil)

  1/4 c. red wine vinegar (can also use sherry vinegar, raspberry vinegar)

  1/2 clove crushed garlic

  splash of white wine

  1 tsp. Dijon mustard

  pinch sugar

  1/4 tsp. each of basil, oregano and marjoram

  dash each of herb pepper blend and seasoned sea salt from Sunny Caribbee spice company www.sunnycaribbee.com

  pinch of salt

  two twists of pepper mill

  Mix together, shake well.

  Now do you see why this is an anal retentive salad?

  A waist is a terrible thing to mind.

  Tom Wilson

  Stir in Abstinence, Reduce Calories by Half

  William’s sound asleep by the time I return home. In the morning he’s gone before I get up.

  Today I shun my coffee shop routine, opting instead for an early morning workout before I have to show up at the office for the first time since the Great Debacle. This should be rich. So rich that I’ll gladly divert to the gym just to avoid it that much longer.

  Thor is there, waiting to put me through my assigned chores. I haven’t felt this much dread since I took trigonometry in high school—it’s like I haven’t done the homework, don’t understand the questions and won’t be able to answer a thing when the teacher calls on me.

  "How goes the diet, Abster?" It appears he’s hung this moniker on me that I can’t seem to shake. Though I’m getting used to it. Abster. Sounds like something they’d sell on a late-night infomercial to help strengthen your core. I need something better than that. Like say, the Resolvster, to help strengthen my resolve. Otherwise what am I gonna do??? I haven’t got one iota of willpower in me.

  "Diet? Somebody say something about a diet?" I crack a smile, and Thor smiles back at me.

  "Not so good, huh?"

  I roll my eyes. "That’s being generous. If it’s any consolation, I’m really good at eating. I mean really good at eating. If there were an Olympic category for that, I’d be a gold medal contender. But the not eating? It goes against my grain. Against my very core—the core that’s not exactly strengthening, by the way. I hate it."

  Thor comes closer, puts his hand on my shoulder, drawing me into his confidence. "I think it’s time you stepped back and decided why you’re doing this, Abbie. Are you doing this for you, or are you doing it for someone else? Because quite frankly, unless you want to do something about your situation, nothing’s going to change. It’s all up here." He taps my head with his pointer finger. "Until you’re reconciled in your mind about all of this, it’s not worth your efforts. You call the shots, Abster. And you need to do this for you. Your body is a temple, so treat it with respect."

  Christ, if my body is a temple, it must be in honor of Bacchus, god of wine (and debauchery, but I wouldn’t necessarily put myself out on that limb). Or perhaps the Fallen Temple of the White Goddess—yes, that’s it! That’s me! White is blight. White is blight.

  I sigh. I think I’ve sighed more in the past week than I have in my entire adult life. "I know you’re right, Th—, er, Mark. Intellectually, I understand this completely. Emotionally? That’s another thing altogether. I’m tied up with food so badly it’s as if I’m married to it."

  "In that case, d’ya ever think maybe it’s a toxic relationship? Maybe you two need a divorce? Or at least some serious couples counseling?"

  I can’t help but laugh at him. I picture a cartoon image of me at a shrink’s office with a plate of pâté en croûte, a good old-fashioned rump roast, and a large serving of tarte tatin (à la mode) on the couch next to me, all of us turning a cold shoulder, our body language conveying our mistrust of one another.

  Thor’s not such a bad guy after all. Despite those calipers. I know he’s looking out for my best interest. Which means I’d better get working. We set about with my routine, and I hit a roadblock after about ten minutes the treadmill. You see, one of the benefits I can see to working out is I get to wear sweats. Sweats are good, because they hide a lot of flaws. They don’t look particularly attractive, but function over form or whatever that saying is. The only problem is, once I start to sweat, then my sweats are cruel captors, trapping me in a terrarium of heat and humidity. I think I could actually measure the heat index inside these puppies. But I don’t dare disrobe down to something lighter (and shorter) because no one, but no one, should be subjected to the sight of the likes of my enormous white legs and wobbly arms in the flesh. So I suffer through in overheated silence, gushing sweat into my eyeballs, ready to faint. Remind me again why people do this to themselves voluntarily?

  After my workout I shower and dress, feeling quite obese next to the host of slender, fit, naked women getting ready for work alongside me. The club-issue towels actually wrap around their bodies and then some. For me it’s as if I’m trying to wrap myself in a handkerchief.

  I just can’t see how I could ever look like these women—so why try? Why try? I’ll tell you why. Because you won’t keep the best job of your career if you don’t, that’s why. I swear I feel like I’m in a Bugs Bunny cartoon, with the angel bunny on one shoulder exhorting exemplary behavior while the devil bunny on the other shoulder is encouraging me to get my wild on. I finally decide to tell them both to shut up and leave me alone, then flick them each off my shoulders as if there’s a bit of dandruff there. Time for my day of reckoning to begin.

  I choose to walk the seven blocks to work: a sure sign that I’m in no hurry to get there. Normally the idea of trudging that far when there are taxis that can get me there quicker just doesn’t even cross my mind. But the sooner I get there, the soon I’m going to have to face the firing squad: colleagues who will be snickering behind my back, with my demotion front and center for me to contemplate. And that conniving double-crosser Barry Newman who will gloat himself into a coma, no doubt, at my very presence. We can only hope, because at least in a coma they’d be forced to replace him with another—better—food critic. Me.

  The walk turns out to be downright pleasant. I love springtime in Manhattan—everything seems especially alive and vital. People are practically smiling. There’s a sense of promise in the air.

  But then the promise of things to come is squeezed out by the reality of the present: the motion of my ample hips as I walk is shoving my belt right on up beneath my boobs. I don’t know why I even wear a belt—it’s not as if I have loose pants to hold up. It’s only there as a trompe l’oeil of sorts—anything that tricks the eye away from my misshapen self. I’ve become quite skillful at this over the years. I wonder if I’d devoted such time to ensuring that I not have to hide my figure, maybe it would have been time better spent. But it’s such hard time spent. I don’t know that I’ve got it in me.

  Today Julio is back to his usual wave and go, no great big greeting. That’s okay. I’m not in the mood for small talk, anyway. As people climb into the elevator I feign a search for some elusive necessity in my purse; the only necessity really is to avoid eye contact. The longer I wait till this dies down, the less I’ll have to confront it.

  The elevator door pings on my floor and I look both ways before getting off, hoping to avoid people. Too late.

  "Abbie! We’ve missed you! Where’ve you been?" Barry, the dirty dog, accosts me with a disingenuous hug. "Look here, I brought a surprise for you, just in case you showed up this morning!" He holds out the telltale bakery bag.
Even the damned bag is white!

  A half dozen zucchini-chocolate chip muffins, each one the size of a boxer’s fist, from the Muffin Top. My hands-down favorite muffin shop. For a minute I forget myself and start to reach into the bag to eat one of the things. I’ve got the paper peeled and the muffin so close to my lips I can taste it through the aroma alone. It’s still warm. But then I toss it back into the bag. How could I bite on the bait that easily? Am I that predictable? I’m almost ashamed of myself. Although zucchini muffins aren’t white, and they do have vegetables in them...

  I brandish a weak smile, the kind of smile that might arise when you find out your boyfriend just got engaged, to another woman. "Gee, thanks. So thoughtful of you Barry. I think I’ll wait till later."

  I spin on my heels the other direction and head toward my office, marching in and turning to close the door. Until I realize that my office is not my office. It’s been commandeered by none other than Barry of the betraying muffins. He has a poster of Corks from Around the World on one wall, and autographed photographs of Kylie Minogue, an Abba tribute band, and the Phantom of the Opera on another wall. Is this guy for real?

  I storm into Mortie’s office unannounced. "I lose my prestigious job and I lose my office? All in one fell swoop?" I ask him. "Maybe I should just don a hairshirt and self-flagellate while I’m at it. You got a whip handy?"

  Mordie holds his hands up in self-defense. "It wasn’t my idea, Abbie."

  "Then whose was it?"

  "Barry’s," he says.

  "He can just strip my office bare because he deems it appropriate?"

  "Well, you had vital things in there that he needed."

  "Vital things? I’ll show him what I can do with his vital things. Name one thing he needed from my office."

  "The refrigerator, for starters."

  "Why didn’t you just put one in his cubicle? Or take it out of mine and put it in his?"

  "You know his cubicle was too small for that. Plus you had the view. Barry said he did his best writing looking out the window. I figured you weren’t going to need that so much, only being in part-time. At least for the time being."