Milk Fed - Melissa Broder Page 0,17
myself down to that next tier of skinny without suffering more than I was already suffering. On the suffering scale, I was currently at about a seven-point-five. I felt unwilling to go up to a nine or ten. But when I observed the ultra-ultra-skinny, I forgot about that suffering and saw only the ways they appeared to be protected—cocooned by an absence of flesh—from judgment, hurt, or shame. When I looked at the ultra-ultra-skinny, I thought: safe.
Ofer acted like he was doing me a favor by bringing me along, as though I actually gave a shit about this circus. Once we arrived, he was in full networking mode and had no use for me. I tracked his bald head as he made his way around the room, sniffing out the dissatisfied talent: the actors and actresses whose managers weren’t doing enough for them—their eternal cry.
I was starving. I feared that at any moment my hand and mouth could form a secret shared alliance, wherein my hand would unconsciously reach out and make a grab for the butlered hors d’oeuvres: the pigs in a blanket, chicken-and-waffle bites, and small rustic pizzas that mined the whole room. I had my protein bar stashed away in my purse, ready to safeguard me from hunger. But I couldn’t just whip it out in the crowded room when there was so much other food available.
I would have to consume the bar in the bathroom. I had no qualms with eating in bathrooms, really. If given the choice, I’d much prefer to eat a protein bar alone on the toilet than do cocktail hour under the watchful eyes of others. At least a bathroom was a room of one’s own.
Unfortunately, this bathroom had two stalls. Another woman already occupied one of them. I entered my stall, sat down, and waited. I wanted to hold off until she left in case my chewing made any noise. The protein bar was soft, consisting of whey proteins, not loud like a granola bar, or anything in the crunchy family. Still, I craved total privacy.
When the woman finished peeing, another woman came in and took over her stall immediately. When that woman finished, a third woman entered. This third woman made no noise. She simply sat there silently for a very long time. I knew she was waiting for me to leave so she could do her business. We were locked in a stalemate, and neither of us was moving.
I was starving. It was now or never—I would have to let her win. As quietly as possible, I took the protein bar out of my purse. The wrapper made a loud crinkling sound when I opened it. I hoped that my neighbor would think it was a tampon wrapper. Gingerly, I took a bite and tried to chew quietly. The saliva in my mouth made juicy, squelching noises. It was time to just say fuck it and surrender. I took my next bite with more gusto, chewing heartily.
Suddenly, I heard a series of farts erupt from the stall next door, then the sound of shit plopping, unmistakably diarrhea, then more farts. I wondered if the woman felt ashamed, knowing that I was there to hear it. What an exciting feeling! I was happy not to be the one who was ashamed for once. Then the smell hit me. I didn’t know what to do. Should I finish the bar, steeped in diarrhea smell? Should I go back to the party light-headed with low blood sugar? As more shit fell, I was unable to continue eating. I swallowed my bite, put the bar in my bag, and flushed even though I hadn’t peed.
I washed and dried my hands, then took the remainder of the bar out of my bag, unpeeled it, and shoved the rest in my mouth. I swung open the bathroom door, mouth full of bar like a chipmunk.
“Hi, Rachel.”
It was Jace Evans. There was no way I could open my mouth. I already felt a little puddle of drool forming in the right corner of my lips. I gave him a little wave and tried to keep walking, but he stopped me.
“Is anyone in the women’s room? Some guy locked himself in the men’s for the past ten minutes,” he said. “I have to talk to media, but I really gotta go.”
“Mmm-hmm,” I said, lips still clenched and bulging like I had a mouth guard in. I held up two fingers to indicate that there were two people