Read Online The Makedown by Gitty Daneshvari - Free Book Online

reality is that my ability to survive at the job has more to do with my cheap rent than anything else.
    Feeling virtuous after eating a grilled chicken breast prepared by the health food Nazi, I board the L train with throngs of funky yet successful-looking Brooklynites. Most of them get off the L in Williamsburg, giving me room to regret drinking that last liter of water. Janice constantly pushes water on me, marking a chart every time I finish a bottle. “Do you really need to write down how much water I drink?” I ask in my “you’re so lame” tone of voice.
    “You are an investment. I keep track of all my investments. Stocks, bonds, art, and Anna.”
    “I feel so—”
    “Important?”
    “Not exactly,” I respond honestly. “More like com-
modified.”
    “Come on, Anna, you’re part of my team now. You reflect on me and I reflect on you. Plus, you’ll be happier. I cry a lot less now that I’m thin,” Janice says with a wink of the eye.
    Clearly, she realizes how asinine her “investment” conversation sounds, yet she says it. Part of me thinks I have wandered upon someone as lonely as I am, regardless of the fact that she’s married to some supposedly fantastic guy. She enjoys me, and the focus I bring to her life, a little too much. Janice has found a safe and productive manner in which to channel her control issues. And I have found an FG and mother figure.
    My own mother, it should be noted, always elicited a certain rebellion in me. Small things such as calling her the formal “Mother” were intended to irk her, although they didn’t. Numerous times, I pointed out the uselessness of her glasses in front of strangers, but again she paid me no mind. In Janice, I have an involved guardian, one who my rebellions would deeply upset. Therefore, when falling off the wagon, I go to great lengths to cover it up. An estimated two times a week, I indulge my love of junk. Today as I charge up the subway stairs, a strong aroma dazzles my olfactory glands. I breathe out sharply, trying to regain a semblance of composure. Now that I am staying in New York for an extended period, I have made the decision to at least try to be a bit healthier. When I thought I was leaving in two weeks, it was a free-for-all of fried foods, but after the introduction to inexpensive style at the Gap, I’m pushing myself to lighten the burden of self-loathing. It’s much more exhausting to hate myself and my body when my job forces me out in the world on a daily basis.
    After hopping up the stairs from the subway, I stop in front of my favorite pizzeria. I have come to know many of the junk food dealers on the street personally, and as I peer through the plate glass window, I spot my man with the mole. He’s the one who adds extra cheese to the pizza. Don’t, I tell myself, picturing how remorseful I will feel after stuffing my face. On the other hand, this is a special occasion; the man with the mole is here. This doesn’t happen every day. It’s better than a sale. And no one passes on their favorite items when they’re on sale, do they? If I don’t eat the mole man’s pizza, I will regret it. Maybe I’ll only eat half the slice. Yes, that is a fabulous compromise. I won’t feel quite as guilty, but I will still get to enjoy mole man’s extra cheese. Of course, I will have to buy the whole slice, since they don’t sell halvsies. “A slice of pepperoni,” I tell the mole man, my mouth dripping with anticipation. “What days are you here?”
    “Every day.”
    Why did I ask? I felt so much better when I believed this was a special occasion. Well, it’s too late now; he’s already handed me the slice. The tantalizing aroma of pepperoni, crisp cheese, and tangy marinara sauce distracts me. Dazed, I sit on a stool and fold the slice in half, letting the oil drip onto the paper plate. That must save a lot of calories. Buoyed by my calorie-cutting idea, I shove, swallow, and repeat. Drunk on pizza, I immediately order