Chapter 6: The Old Memory

“Alright Allen. Yes, I’ll make that transaction for you shortly. Yep. No worries. A confirmation email to follow. Thank you for your business. Have a nice day.”

I hang up the phone on my desk and stare at the computer, looking at the client portfolio in front of me. Allen, one of my clients has just made a contribution to his investment account with us and is a bit of a Nervous Nelly.

He calls about once a month and, though I never dread our phone calls, they do leave me a little drained.

I look at his account and make the necessary transfer with the money he’s specified and hit enter. The program does it’s thing and the screen shows a ‘completed’ checkmark arrow. I open a new window and type a few lines and then enter Allen’s email and, after checking for spelling errors, I hit sent.

I lean back in my chair and let out a sigh. I press my knuckles into my eyes, feeling the gentle pressure as I rub away the experience. My stomach grumbles and, taking my hands away from my eyes, note the time on my computer: 11:17am.

I give my belly a soothing pat. I really shouldn’t be hungry at all, what with the enormous breakfast and added breakfast burrito Danielle had supplied me with only a few hours ago. ‘I’m probably still dehydrated,' I tell myself as I feel a low-grade throb of a headache over my right eye.

Reaching for the mug across my desk, I bring it to my lips to take a sip of water. My lips wrap around the edge and pull on nothing but air and a dribble of water. It’s empty.

I push myself back in my chair, the wheels rolling on the smooth carpet as I make to stand. The chair creaks as I use the arm rests to lift myself up, mug still in hand, in search of water.

Our office floor is easy enough to navigate and is essentially a giant rectangle. Two thirds of the floor that I work on are either offices, cubicles or conference rooms. Of the remaining third, half is dedicated to a staff lunch area, bathroom area and secretarial area which is next to the elevators and stairs. My office cubicle is essentially smack-dab in the middle of the office and to get to the water, I must pass Peggy at reception, where the water cooler is. Sure, I could just as easily nip into the lunch area, which is closer, to grab water from the tap, but next to Peggy is where the best water in the office is. That, and Peggy always has the best gossip and is never short on a story.

My feet tread on the well-worn carpet as I stride towards Peggy’s desk. As I navigate my way, I catch the odd person looking up and we exchange a nod or a waive. Turning the corner, I see that Peggy’s desk is vacant and so I stride past and around the side wall which separates her desk from the water cooler.

I’m the only one there and so there is no waiting. I bend at the waist and reach for the latch and press down, my cup already in position. The leather on my belt creaks and I can feel inches of my soft stomach folding over the material, the pressure noticeable. The water pours out in a slow stream and the cylinder that contains the water lets out a few bubbles. Cup filled, I bring it to my lips and take a few careful sips. The water is cool and refreshing and, enjoying the time away from my desk, I slowly drink the cup empty and listen to the faint music coming from the overhead speaker.

The mild throb of a headache has now evaporated, and the grumble of my stomach seems to have been quelled. I refill my mug and, this time, don’t bend over as far to fill it.

As I turn to head back to my desk, my nostrils suddenly detect the smell of bergamot, lemon, iris, jasmine, rose, patchouli, vetiver, opopanax, tonka bean, frankincense, sandalwood, musk, civet, ambergris, leather and vanilla. The fragrance is Shalimar.

I know this because it’s the scent Peggy wears at the office, and I’ve become rather fond of it. And, sure enough, as I turn the corner, she’s back at her desk, typing away.

“Hiya Theo.” She says warmly from behind the reception desk, pushing her overly large glasses up her nose, her other hand still poised over her keyboard. Peggy is the heartbeat of our office. Although in her forties, she’s got the experience and efficiency of a much older woman and the youthful energy of one much younger.

“Hey Pegs.” I say, holding up my mug and tilting my head over in the direction of the water cooler.

“How’s the level, does it need a new jug?” She asks, her heart shaped face looks up at me, her blue eyes questing.

“Um, no? About half a jug left.”

She nods, then turns her torso away from her computer and beckons me over with a crooked finger. Intrigued, I walk over.

"What's up?” I ask, bending over a little bit, careful not to spill my water.

She reached into a top drawer and pulls out a card and, looking left and right she says, “I’ve got a birthday card for Danielle. Yes—” She holds up a hand, “—I know it’s a week away, but—”. She slides it across the desk towards me, a pen is already in her hand.
It’s a formal card, but on the large size and I open it. I can smell the Shalimar more strongly as I open the stiff card and fold it open. Most of the office has already signed the card and so the space is limited. I quickly scan what’s already been written, not wanting to double down on the same sentiments. I spy a small square of space and, in my cramped handwriting write, ‘Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine. Happy Birthday. Here’s looking at you, kid’ ~ Theo.

I close the card, smirking at the line as it’s one from Casablanca, which happens to be one of Danielle’s favorite films.

“Thanks Theo.” She takes the card, efficiently tucks it back into the envelope and stores it back into her desk.

I give a nod and as I turn to walk away, she reaches out with a hand to stop me. “Oh, hey. Hold on a second. She lets go and disappears behind the desk for a moment and returns a second later with a large box wrapped in twine. There’s a gold oval label on the top with green gilded writing, Verity Rose Bakery.

Peggy gets up from here chair and walks around the desk over to me. We are the same height and the patterned dress she wears today clings to her body like a second skin, her toned body and exposed upper arms bulging with muscle as she hands me the box.

“Can you do me a huge favor and put this in the lunchroom? I know it’s on the way to your desk and I’ve got to run a fax upstairs.” Her eyes are kind and sweet.

“Of course, not a problem.” I say, adjusting my grip, the box is heavier than I was expecting. “What’s the occasion?”

“It’s a ‘Thank You’ box from McMurdo to the office. Just arrived about a half-hour ago.” She says, her eyes traveling form the box and back to me.

“That’s one heck of a thank you present. What the heck is in here?” I give the box a little jostle and a perfume of baked goods wafts out from within.

“I might have peeked in and retied the bow.” Says Peggy, a little conspiratorially, looking sideways down the hall.

I raise my eyebrows and she continues, “all assortment of biscotti: chocolate chip, hazelnut, pistachio, chocolate with coconut flakes, marbled, vanilla-almond and butter cookies filled with creams in the center or else jellies in the center. I just couldn’t’ keep the box here any longer.”

“I can’t imagine you with a sweet tooth.” I say, gesturing with my head at her physique.

“Oh, trust me. I can put ‘em away with the best of ‘em.” She puts her hand across her toned abdomen.

“Well, you’ve given them to the wrong person to take to the lunchroom. They may not all make it there.” I say, gesturing to my own physique.

Peggy considers, “No way. You’re a proper sized man.” She reaches out and squeezes my upper arm and raises her eyebrows. “I can see that someone doesn’t skip arm day. Now off with you.” She lets me go and returns to her desk with a smile and sets down back to work.

I let out a little laugh to disguise my slight embarrassment. I used to go to the gym, but it’s been ages and where a toned arm may have been, has been replaced with a layer of fat. Peggy surely knew this, but her winning smile and raised eyebrows has lifted my spirit. Just one of the 7,001 reasons everyone loves Peggy.

Taking the box, I walk back the way I had come and veer off towards the lunchroom. It’s vacant right now as I steer into it and although 12-1 is our official lunch break, it’s become more of a suggestion. I usually take my lunch 12:30-1:30.

Looking for a space to put the box, I notice there’s not enough room on the counter and so I put the box down on one of the center lunch tables, putting down my mug of water also. I make to untie the twine and grab a few small cocktail napkins small Styrofoam plates from one of the cupboards, grazing my belly against the counter in the process. In our office, an open box is an invitation for ‘come one, come all’.

I fold the lid of the box back and a most exquisite aroma meets my nostrils. The sugar-sweetness of freshly baked goods fills the room and my mouth instantly waters. My eyes take in the individual baked goods and one of my hands reaches out, instinctively grabbing a buttercream cookie. I bring it to my lips and put the entire thing inside and begin to chew, noting the creamy vanilla filling and soft, flaky chew of the cookie. I swallow and I immediately want another.

I surreptitiously look around feeling suddenly a little guilty that I have this entire box to myself. I do a mental head count of staff and then count out the baked goods. Would it be wrong to take a few more than I should? Not everyone likes baked goods, after all. I begin to mentally tick off co-workers who I know won’t be tempted as I pick up one of the Styrofoam plates and begin to select my bounty.

My stomach gurgles and I look down. The smoothness of my button-down shirt contours to the roundness of my belly and I am suddenly aware of the tightness of my belt at my waist. I wiggle my hips, deciding. Do I really need these cookies? Wasn’t I considering losing a few pounds anyway? I look at the belt I’ve chosen to wear today and note that I am already on the last notch. Still, the enticing smell of the cookies cannot be ignored. The battle of wills vs. willpower rages on, but my hand reaches out to select some cookies and biscotti. Six, seven, eight… the little plate piles higher and resembles a small mountain. Am I being greedy? I can feel a gentle pressure around my middle where my belt sits snugly against my waist and know that I am being a pig. Who needs all of these cookies and biscotti? Not wanting to put them back I begin to walk away but before I turn to go, my hand reaches out, quick as a snake to grab another buttercream cookie with vanilla center. I cram it into my mouth and chew quickly, not sparing a single crumb and hastily make my way to my desk. What the hell was that?

I sit down, realizing I forgot my mug of water, but the last thing I need to do is return to the lunchroom and be tempted by the baked goods once more. I look down at the small mountain of cookies and biscotti and snatch up one and begin to chew. It’s just the right side of crunchy without being too crumbly. The marbled combination of cookie and chocolate laced with slivers of almonds rounds out the flavor and in seconds it’s gone.

My hand instinctively reaches out for another, and I stop myself, fingers hovering over it.

‘What am I doing?’ I ask myself.

I force myself to push the plate of baked goods away, out of reach, leaning across my desk to do so. But the reaching motion forces my belly to squish against my desk. All of me pressed into the firm edge of the tabletop. I feel my softness wrap around the desk and I bite my lower lip, torn between eating more and wanting to throw them into the trash.

‘But what a foolish notion’, I think. I wouldn’t waste food like that. I have a sudden memory from childhood that flashes through my mind at warp speed.

I am eight years old and refuse to eat my dinner.

“Theo, eat your dinner.” My mom says from across the table.

“No. I don’t want to.” I say, pouting and folding my arms across my chest.

“Thesseus. You will eat your dinner this instant. It’s your favorite, Mac and Cheese. Extra cheese.” She says, more firmly now. I look over at her, and she takes a measured sip of wine form her glass, ‘Mommy’s Juice,’ she used to call it.

“No. It’s not the right kind of cheese.” I say, pushing my bowl away from me.

Across the table, my older brother Dillon observes this routine battle. He, meanwhile, was one of those kids who ate until he was full and always got to get up and go play after eating. The golden child of eating. Me on the other hand, different story.

My mother sighs and grinds her teeth together, she collects herself. I am not quite afraid, but I know I’m pushing against an invisible boundary that is nearly worn out. She reaches out a hand and puts it on my smaller one. Her pressure is gentle but measured.

“Theo, honey.” She scoots her chair closer to me, picking up the bowl and moving it a few inches away. “This is the best I could do with what we had in the fridge. Your father is on the road travelling and I just didn’t have time to go shopping. I am sorry honey, but if you don’t eat this then there is nothing else.”

I give a sniff and turn my head away, chin tilted in the air.

“Look,” she says, reaching over and putting a hand on my chin and turning it back towards her. I don’t resist and her touch is gentle, “there are starving children in Africa. They don’t have what we have, and food is scarce. That means that there is not much to go around. It would be wasteful if I had to throw this away and if I could mail them your dinner and give a starving child this meal, I would. But it would spoil before it even got there. So, please. Can you just eat this so we can wash up and go to bed? I’ll read you your favorite, Peter Pan, before bed.”

My eyes meet hers. She smiles kindly and I hear the scrape of the bowl as it’s pushed closer to me. I look down at the elbow-shaped noodles in their yellowed cheese bath. “There’s kids with no food?” I ask, turning the bowl around to point the spoon in the right direction.

“That’s right honey. Hungry bellies and never knowing what tomorrow will bring.”

This thought is almost too big for me to comprehend, and I begin to cry.

“Oh, sweetie!” She said, now reaching across to hug me tight, bringing me close so that I can smell her warm body pressing into mine.

We rock back and forth as I stifle sobs, the tears coming down like rain. “I don’t want kids to starve, momma.” I say.

She nods and strokes my hair. “I know, baby. I know.”

After a few minutes, I wipe my eyes on the sleeve of my shirt and bring the bowl close to me and, thinking of hungry children, I take the necessary bites until the food is all but gone.

The memory dissolves and I find that I have unconsciously brought the plate of baked goods back in front of me, like they have been magnetized into place. Something wells up in me, but the tears don’t come this time. They have not come for a long time. Slowly, carefully, I pick up one after another until the plate is emptied, my mind far, far away.

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