In Wait, In the Diner
Betty, with seven other friends behind her, dutifully follows Esther, a petite, gray-haired Jewish woman, into a cinderblock diner attached to a La Quinta Inn in Long Island. The front doors are in the back of the building. Betty thinks it’s because diners might feel shame for gorging there. As she walks in, she’s hit with frigid, over-cooled air that smells of salt, cleaning supplies and cooking oil.
In a fridge by the door, gigantic cakes are being preserved. Each icing-covered cylinder stands a foot and a half tall. Each must weigh 40 pounds. An XXXL crowd stands chatting with each other in the waiting area taking turns pointing at the cakes.
Betty notices the cakes, but it’s the array of heavy, uvular old-lady breasts overpowering worn-out utilitarian bras that captures her attention. She imagines the breasts’ soft, white undersides chafing against the waistbands of their pants. The men have distended, hardened bellies. She pictures the flesh dented by the metal buttons of their jeans. Then she winces at her masochistic imagination.
Esther stops at the hostess podium, so Betty stops and turns around to her buddy Mark. She looks him in the eye, raises en eyebrow and with a small smirk makes the mutually understood gesture for fatso: open palm facing up, other hand on top closed with just the thumb and pinky sticking out like legs. She alternates touching the pinky and thumb against the palm of her hand. It reflects a wide wattle.
“Who me?” he jokes pulling on his suspenders. Belts could no longer fight the gravitational push of his belly.
Betty almost gasps from the sharp pang of embarrassment and guilt. Her pride in being a size 8 has exploded into shards by the force of her self-consciousness. Adrenaline pumps through her and burns her cheeks red. She forces a reassuring, friendly smile. “Of course not you. Look around!”
She’d known Mark for so long, she didn’t include him in her judgments. “These people are huge!”
Mark grins in relief, looks around and nods. “Yeah, this place isn’t great for your 30-year diet plan, nor mine!” he teases with a few quick moves of his hands.
She laughs with him.
Crisis averted, she turns back around toward Esther. But Esther is still talking to the host, probably trying to get the woman to honor their reservation even though they had shown up five minutes late on a busy Sunday evening. Betty watches the hostess shake her head with disapproval. But then the hostess looks directly at Betty in an inspective, critical way. She was searching for proof that Esther’s group has special needs. Betty instinctively drops her eyes to the floor. She won’t be forced to put on a self-deprecating show. Focusing on the pale grey laminate tiles and trying to avoid the hostess’ eyes, her self-confidence begins to erode. This moment is just too much like many others she wished she could forget. For so long, so long people so rudely, so unabashedly have stared at her inquisitively trying to figure her out like she’s some sort of spectacle. This is part of the uncomfortable fabric of my everyday, she broods.
