A Million Little Pieces - James Frey [179]
I finish the steak, start breaking apart the lobster. I pull off its upper shell, pull the tail away from the torso. I cut open the soft underbelly of the tail and remove the meat in one thick piece. I hold it in my hand and I dip it into what remains of the butter. I take a bite. I hold the bite and I let it melt and I swallow it. I do it again and again. When I’m done with the tail, I break apart the claws. I pull out the meat and I eat it. The claws are as good as the tail.
I finish and I am happy and I am full. I stand with my plate and I look at the banquet tables there is more food on them. I don’t take any. I will resist my urge to eat everything I see, to eat myself into a coma, to eat so that I no longer feel anything, to eat until I’m beyond feeling anything.
I clear the scraps from my plate put the plate in a bin with other plates. I get a new plate with a new steak and a new lobster and a new potato. I want it so bad goddamn I want want want it. I walk to my room. I knock on the door, there is no answer. I open the door and I step inside. Miles is lying on his bed with his face in his pillow. I don’t want to disturb him. I set the plate on his nightstand and I walk out. I close the door behind me and I go back to my seat.
I look around me. I look at the other men, the bulk of whom are still eating. Most have food spread across their faces and down their shirts, most have forgotten their forks and knives, most are eating with their hands. They are tearing the steaks apart and stuffing them into their mouths, tearing the lobsters apart and stuffing them into their mouths, holding the potatoes in their fingers and eating them like apples. As they chew, they keep their mouths open and they stuff more food in before they swallow what they are already chewing. In the brief moments between bites, they wipe away the mess with the sleeves of their shirts, with the backs of their hands, with paper napkins so covered with stains that they are starting to disintegrate. They lick their fingers and their lips, lick the backs of their hands, lick the bones of the steaks, suck on the broken shells of the lobsters.
I laugh at what I’m watching. It is like something from Rome. An orgy of food and an excess of need and desire. An orgy of gluttony and greed and hunger. No one cares what they look like or how they are acting they just want more more more. No one cares about their addictions the addictions they are here to deal with and learn to control. The addictions have been unleashed. The food is a drug, a drink, a chemical, a substance. No one cares that they are getting all they can handle, that they have more than they need. If they could, the men would eat the furniture, the bookshelves, the plates, the napkins, the banquet tables, the coffee machine. They would tear up the floor eat the carpet, the glue, the nails, the floorboards. If it wasn’t going to broadcast the fight, they would probably eat the television. No ones cares what they are eating. They just want fucking more.
Leonard checks his watch. He stands, his white suit covered with stains, and he announces that it is getting close to fight time. The men rush down to get whatever seats are still available near the television, they rush to the banquet tables for a final frenzy of food. Lincoln walks over and he tells Leonard that he has to go Home. Leonard stands and thanks Lincoln for allowing this to happen and then announces Lincoln’s departure to the rest of the men. Lincoln walks out to a chorus of cheers.
As soon as he is gone, Leonard pulls out a huge roll of cash and a notebook and he announces that he is open for business. Men rush over and start placing bets, so many bets that Leonard can’t keep track of them. Fifty bucks, ten bucks, a pair of shoes worth fifteen bucks, a watch, a gold necklace, a bracelet, the orgy continues. One man wants to bet his wedding ring, but Leonard won