The Taste of Empty

I reckon folks with full bellies think food is about flavor. Fancy words like "notes" and "mouthfeel" and "presentation." They swirl wine around in a glass, close their eyes, nod real slow like they're decipherin’ the meaning of life from fermented grapes. They spend forty bucks on a steak no bigger than the palm of my hand, then tell each other how the chef "elevated" the experience.

Hell, where I come from, if somebody elevates your supper, it's because they dropped it on the floor and had to pick it back up. I ain't never understood people who take pictures of food. Maybe they're afraid somebody won't believe they ate somethin’ that expensive. Maybe they're tryin’ to convince themselves it was worth it. Food ain't art. Food ain't culture. Food ain't an experience. Food is survival. Or at least that's what it used to be.

Most nights I don't even notice what I'm eatin’ anymore. I open whatever cabinet still has somethin’ inside it, stare for a minute like the cans are gonna magically multiply, then grab whichever one expires first. If it needs heat, I heat it. If it don't, I don't bother. Some nights it's canned chili. Some nights it's ravioli with more sauce than meat. Sometimes it's frozen Salisbury steak where the potatoes come outta the microwave hotter than the beef. Sometimes it's crackers with peanut butter. Sometimes it's crackers without peanut butter. There've even been nights when supper was three cigarettes and two beers because that was cheaper than groceries.

Funny thing is...

I used to care.

Back when Ma was alive, Sunday dinner meant somethin’. Church ended around noon, Dad would still be sober enough to whistle while he took off his boots, and the whole house would already smell like flour and black pepper before we got home. Ma made pork chops the same way every Sunday. She'd dredge 'em in flour she'd seasoned herself, fry 'em in bacon grease she'd saved in an old coffee can, then lay 'em on brown paper grocery bags to soak up the extra grease. Mashed potatoes got enough butter to make a doctor cry, and green beans came outta Mason jars she'd filled the summer before.

Nothing fancy. Nothing anybody'd write about in a magazine. But for thirty minutes...

Nobody yelled. Dad hadn't found the whiskey yet. Bills stayed folded in the drawer. My sister still laughed with her whole face. Even the old mutt under the table knew he'd get the bone. Sometimes I wonder if that's the last real meal I ever ate. Not because of the food. Because everybody was still together. Food tasted different back then. Or maybe people did. Now the kitchen's just another room that's fallin’ apart. The faucet drips every six or seven seconds. I timed it once. Didn't mean to. Just happened.

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

Sometimes I'll sit there with my coffee before work and count. Twenty-seven drips before the furnace kicks on. Forty-three before a car drives past. One hundred and twelve before I realize I've been countin’ instead of thinkin’. Funny how a man can get used to anything.

Wednesday night I opened a can of beef stew. The picture on the label showed chunks of beef bigger than my fist. Carrots bright enough to hurt your eyes. Potatoes that looked like they came fresh from somebody's garden. Inside...

Gray. Everything was gray. Gray broth. Gray potatoes. Gray carrots. Gray meat. Like somebody boiled all the color outta life before they sealed the can. I dumped it into the saucepan anyway. Didn't even bother addin’ pepper. As it heated, little bubbles rose to the surface with soft wet pops.

Pop.

Pop.

Pop.

It reminded me of the mud pits behind the plant after a week of rain, where oily water pushes little gas bubbles up through the muck before they burst. Didn't smell terrible. Didn't smell good either.

Just...

Warm.

Sometimes warm is enough. I carried the bowl into the livin’ room. Didn't turn on the lights. Electric bill's high enough already. Halfway through supper I realized I hadn't taken a bite in several minutes. I was just stirrin’. Round and round. Watchin little circles spread across the broth. My reflection looked back at me. Only...

It didn't quite look right. The face seemed longer. The eyes darker. Older somehow. Meaner.

I blinked. It was me again. I laughed.

"Get a grip, Rick."

My own voice startled me. Didn't realize how long it'd been since I'd spoken out loud. House swallowed the words whole. I finished the stew after it'd gone cold. Didn't matter.

Hot.

Cold.

It's all the same once you stop tastin’ things. Thursday night I found half a loaf of bread with only one fuzzy green spot. Cut that piece off. Rest was probably fine. Probably. Funny how your standards change. Twenty years ago I'd have thrown the whole loaf away. Now mold's just somethin’ you negotiate with. By Friday afternoon I wasn't thinkin’ about beer. Not really. I was thinkin’ about Teddy's fries. Nobody goes to the Blarney for food. Hell, I ain't even sure Teddy knows when the fryer oil gets changed. Probably whenever it starts lookin’ thicker than the gravy. The fries come out crooked. Some burnt. Some limp. Some still frozen in the middle if he's busy. Half the salt falls into the basket instead of stayin’ on the fries.

Don't matter.

Every now and then, if Teddy figures somebody's had a rough week, he'll drop another handful in the fryer and slide the basket across the bar without sayin’ a word. Never asks if you can pay. Never keeps count. Just pushes 'em toward ya with that little nod.

That's Teddy.

I reckon that basket of fries has saved more lives than any preacher's sermon. Not because they're good.

Because somebody thought enough to make 'em. Heat matters. A hot meal tells your body somebody expected you to be alive long enough to eat it. That's worth somethin’.

I thought about those fries all damn day. Not because I was hungry. Because somebody was handin’ 'em to me. There's a difference. I don't think people understand that anymore. Anybody can buy food. Not everybody gets fed. You can sit in a crowded restaurant and eat alone. You can split a stale basket of fries with strangers and somehow leave fuller than when you walked in.

That's the trick nobody tells you.

The stomach ain't the hardest thing to fill.

It's everythin’ above it.

Then...

Like always now...

My thoughts found their way back to him. Kyle. I wondered what he ate. Places where the waiter introduces himself by first name. Places where the menu doesn't have prices. Places where they drizzle sauce around the edge of the plate instead of on the food where it belongs. Places where dessert comes with words like "deconstructed." I pictured him cuttin’ into some expensive steak while his friends laughed around him. Real laughter. Not the tired kind you hear at the Blarney. The easy kind. The effortless kind.

The kind that comes from never wonderin’ if your debit card's gonna embarrass you. Never wonderin’ whether the lights'll stay on another month. Never wonderin’ if you're one accident away from losin’ everythin’. Picture got clearer every day.

Too clear.

I started imaginin’ details I'd never seen. The silverware. The candles. The cloth napkins. The way he'd lean back after supper without a single worry in his head. I hated myself for knowin’ none of it. I hated him even more for makin’ it seem possible. Then it hit me. Not all at once. Slow. Like frost spreadin’ across a windshield.

I'd spent years tellin’ myself I came to the Blarney because of the beer. Beer made that easier to believe. Beer gives a man excuses. Truth was...

Beer just softened the edges.

What I really came for was proof. Proof I still existed. Old Chuck askin’ if I'd caught the game even though he already knew the answer. The construction boys arguin’ over whose turn it was to buy. Teddy rememberin’ I always wanted another Bullet before I even asked.

Little things.

Worthless things.

Enough things.

A man can survive on scraps if that's all he's ever known. Then Kyle walked through the front door. He smiled. Asked my name. Shook my hand. Looked me in the eye. Talked to me like I mattered. Maybe he meant every word. Maybe he didn't. Didn't matter.

For one stupid minute...

One tiny, pathetic minute...

I believed maybe there weren't two kinds of people after all. Maybe a man like him and a man like me could sit at the same bar. Maybe all those invisible walls I'd spent my whole life feelin’ weren't really there. Then they laughed on the way out. Maybe they weren't laughin’ at me. Maybe they were laughin’ because she almost tripped. Maybe they were laughin’ about somethin’ that happened hours earlier.

Didn't matter.

Once I'd tasted that possibility...

Everything else turned bitter. Teddy's fries. Ma's pork chops. Sunday dinners. Beer. Every memory I'd ever had. Ash. Funny thing about real hunger. It don't live in your stomach. It lives somewhere behind your ribs where no meal can ever reach. You can feed a man every day of his life. You can never let him miss breakfast or supper. You can fill his pantry until the shelves sag. But let him believe; just once; that he belongs somewhere. Let him think, just for a heartbeat, that somebody sees him.

Then take it away.

He'll spend the rest of his life starving. And after enough years...

A starving man stops lookin’ for food. He starts lookin’ for someone to blame.