Friar Tuck's Virtual Roadhouse

Denver, Colorado USA	The Athlete by Tom Stockman Copyright 1995 It may be that the whole purpose of your life is to serve as a warning to others. - Unknown
	The craving hits me as I'm sitting in my bank, opening a new account.
	I fight it at first, telling myself I can be strong, I can resist.
	As I walk across the parking lot, I resolve to drive straight back to the office. I know if I give in to my inner weakness, I'll spend the afternoon in front of my computer terminal, exhausted and listless, unable to work, my mind in a fog.
	Telling myself this doesn't do any good. I find myself driving, not towards the office, but towards my connection.
	I'm caught up in the bitter-sweet feelings of anticipation. My body is already experiencing the well-remembered sensations of indulgence, while my mind dwells on the shame.
	What if my boss finds out? My co-workers? My friends? My...my parents?
	I drive through an alley and into a parking lot where I know I can score. I furtively scan the cars, ready to bolt if I see a familiar face...ah, good, the coast is clear.
	I pull up to the speaker box. "Welcome to Burger King*. May I take your order?" come the familiar words.
	"Two cheeseburgers, and a small fry," I reply.
	"Anything to drink today?" says the cheery voice, then, "Two fifteen at the window, please drive through," to my negative answer.
	I'm so worried about being revealed as a hypocrite, I almost forget to ask for catsup.
	I have to hide my habit. I've made too many comments to too many people about the evils of fast food.
	Back to the office...I'm already late.
	I hide the sack full of goodies in my overcoat as I enter the building. As soon as I reach my desk, I stash the bag in the bottom drawer, where I also hide the evidence of my pulp science fiction addiction.
	Once I'm safely back to my cubicle with a Dr. Pepper* from the coke machine, I give myself over to the illicit pleasure of sating my desire. I open the drawer to find my treasure undisturbed.
	I am quivering. My body shakes, despite all my efforts to quell my unconcious reactions.
	I snatch the napkins from the top of the bag, and throw them aside...squeeze the contents of the first package of catsup into the open envelope of fries...carefully, using all five fingers like a chinaman eating an egg roll, I tip my head back and stuff half a dozen french fries into my gaping maw.
	Magnificent! The tangy, sweet taste of catsup almost overwhelms the salty taste of fried potato.
	Another bite of the fries to prolong my anticipation, and then, on to the main course.
	I unwrap a cheeseburger. The smell of warm white bread envelops me, and the underlying aroma of the cooked meat stirs the hunger pangs in my belly into a ravenous, sensual need that demands fulfillment.
	My first bite tears away a quarter of the burger. Immediately, a tangy, spicy mixture of pickle, mustard, and catsup fills my mouth.
	The first swallow removes these flavors, and the subtler taste-textures of velveeta-like cheese and meat surface, almost bland in contrast.
	The second bite takes another quarter of the cheeseburger. My hunger is now large enough to consume the universe. The meaning of existence is to engulf.
	As I mash the bun in my mouth, it coats my teeth and gums with layers of bread that I could remove in a single piece, like the rings of shark teeth that adorn the walls of my grandfather's garage on the coast.
	I try to slow down by stuffing another handful of fries into my face, but it's a futile attempt at moderation.
	The rest of the burger is smashed down my throat in three more ravenous bites. My sensation of taste rapidly disappears under the bombardment of flavor enhancers and preservatives.
	I marshall my inner resources, and tear myself away long enough to slather the fries with the rest of the catsup; another handful quickly follows the first cheeseburger.
	I find the willpower to break away...I raise the Dr. Pepper to my lips. As I gulp down a third of the can, I can feel little bumps rising on the back of my throat.
	Something about fast food burgers, especially the inexpensive mustard and pickles, usually gives me an allergic reaction*. My doctor tells me it's sulfites. Something in the pop adds to that effect.
	Now, the real challenge begins.
	Quickly, I turn my attention to the second burger. I know I'm in a race against time--in a moment, I'll be unable to continue. Can I finish my meal before my body forces me to stop?
	I can. As I wolf down each mouthful, I try to keep the bun against the back of my throat, to prevent the mustard and pickle from contacting the hives. The rest of the fries and Dr. Pepper disappear quickly, too.
	Finished, I hide the sack and wrappers under some listings in my trash. My hunger sated, I turn my attention to the computer terminal on my desk.
	In another half-hour, my eyes make me think I've been awake twenty hours too long, they feel like they're sinking into my skull. My thoughts become clouded, my pulse pounds in my ears; a sweat breaks out on my forehead.
	I'm unable to make headway on my work. A moan of despair tries to surface to my lips--I suppress it. My stomach feels distended, like that of a horse that's dying from the bloat.
	A muscle deep in my thigh escapes my conscious volition and twitches heavily...then once again.
	And yet, in spite of profound discomfort, I feel a deep, inner relaxation.
	Some deep drive has been consumated, some part of me is glorying with the satisfaction of a Sir Edmund Hillary, meeting and conquering some momentous challenge.
	And I know that someday soon...next week? Next month? Despite the agony and shame, I'll do it all over again.



	Send comments to Friar Tuck, webmeister & proprietor, Friar Tuck's Virtual Roadhouse.

The Athlete