Stanley – Thuto Durkac-Somo

November 26, 2024

Remove the option to eat anything and the body finds ways to compensate. Fasting makes it sound like there was a cherry pie reward after starving for a few days. Stanley’s hunger was not tied to religion or exercise. Spices, seasoning—good food was still good. Until food itself was negligible. Stanley didn’t expect to last as long as he did. When he got to reading the language of living without food, the medical journals and PhDs diagnosed fasting as part of a complex system of ketosis, metabolizing, and the body entering toxin removal mode. What did the cavemen do when they couldn’t catch an animal? he thought, Generations of humans survived through periods of starvation. 

Stanley’s roommate Kate had a cat named Raya. Raya liked to throw up after midnight when the house was asleep. Stanley never saw Raya vomit but imagined her calico back pacing around sick until finally arching her spine and hurling a handful of half-digested canned food. Stanley’s journey began the morning he stepped in a pool of regurgitated turkey and beans. That morning, he rushed to get a haircut before work. At the barber, he caught himself hunched over in the chair, leaning forward as his stomach groaned and his head dizzied. When it came time to count out a tip, he had to check twice, confirming he gave 20 percent, not 20 dollars. He worked the end of brunch and a whole dinner shift, washing dishes at the French restaurant L’Arnoud. The first three hours of Stanley’s schedule in the kitchen overlapped with Leo who spent most of his hours streaming Arabic language soccer matches from his phone and flirting with the server Gabby during her cellphone breaks. If the two men did talk in the kitchen, the topic often circled back to speculative tattoos and summaries of last night’s drinking. But today Stanley wasn’t hungover and Leo didn’t show up so Stanley spent the night listening to his stomach while soaking beans and peeling the skins off roasted peppers. By the time dinner plates started coming in with scraps of tomato tarte tatin and grilled octopus smeared with apple chutney, he had forgotten all about having a bite.

The next day, Stanley’s hunger woke him up at 7 am. He walked to the nearest street cart and bought a coffee with milk and a Boston cream donut. If he squeezed half a lemon into a glass of water, chased with coffee, his stomach kept him upright all afternoon. Once work started, he never even considered stopping for a break. Working through the hunger became a competition and Stanley was proud of his tolerance as coworkers snacked throughout their shifts and complained about missing lunch. The margins of his body were narrowing.

After the first week of eating one meal a day, Stanley looked at people on their lunch breaks as societal anomalies. All that excess protein turning into fat. Executives waiting to pick up a sandwich that should really be shared by two. The grotesque amount of food people found necessary to put in their bodies. Stanley had long given up empty food like soda, candy, and chips. He became more certain of what ingredients satisfied his mind as much as his gut. Every Monday, he planned out a week’s worth of groceries or five to ten meals. Ordering take-out or eating at restaurants was forbidden. He placated hunger by creating strategies and rules. He slowly honed which foods made him full, and which ingredients left him hungry. Italian sausage with grilled potatoes and greens; cannellini beans with rigatoni and parsley; rice noodles and ground turkey. Any combination that can be stored for 3 to 5 days. He stocked the fridge and pantry with a rotation of foods that he was comfortable reconfiguring. He saved money not buying alcohol or desserts and soon his bank account rose like a spring tide. Stanley’s guilty pleasure became spoonfuls of peanut butter, which he occasionally dabbed with honey or tossed with dried cranberries. He was eating glorified kids’ food. Since dishwashers didn’t arrive at L’Arnoud until 6. There were days when he skipped a first meal entirely. Unless he was stocking the walk-ins or scraping food off plates, Stanley’s encounters with food were rare. Bits of pan-seared monkfish with potatoes, chicken liver mousse, creamy trout roe and crackers, golden beet and goat cheese salad: all went into a pile at the bottom of the dumpster. The food at L’Arnoud was too familiar to make him hungry anyway. Stanley savored the time organizing ingredients, cleaning the cutting board, sharpening knives, and arranging pots before family meal.

After three weeks, he starved every other day. He puzzled over the years when getting lunch meant spending twelve to twenty dollars every single day. Stanley was in a constant state of hunger but not hungry enough to eat. Just stupid plain hunger that made his memory fuzzy. In conversation his voice was softer, more neutral. His head was light but sharp. Dreams became more vivid and he glided through working hours. Stanley snapped out of it when he went three days without food and walked into a pizza shop because he liked the smell of basil. It was 1 am after his shift. He bought two dollar-slices, breaking his grocery rule that every dollar spent should account for one day of sustenance. (A three-dollar bag of spaghetti should last three days and so on.) The hot slices landed at the foot of his throat never finding the right pocket in his stomach that told Stanley’s brain he was full. Instead, the food lined his stomach like a first coat of paint and he knew that he would survive the day. Meals piled up with little resistance as Stanley’s jaws processed food with the unenthused efficiency of a dishwasher’s hands. Stanley could eat and wash his plate simultaneously. Eventually, the food began rolling off the pile in his gut and filled a pit where water, coffee, and wine washed over the mastication. The runoff processed over days, then weeks, and Stanley pressed his groin to feel a small lump of the visceral world, making its way out. Then Stanley would take a shit. Just like that, his body desperately removed any recollection of suffering.

After five weeks, Stanley had to tighten his belt. It was summer and he enjoyed biking to work. In addition to his commute, dishwashing kept him on his feet at least six hours a day. He never had an athletic build but he noticed increased definition around his abdomen and thighs. His senses buzzed with a new acuity. He noticed Kate’s plants take on a yellowish fringe as they fainted in the summer heat. He swept under the couch and found the tops of pens and husks of cockroaches killed by the cat. He wondered if his alertness would translate well to going on dates but immediately realized that couples often met over meals. Instead, he filled his free time with the New York Times crossword app and matinee movies. Stanley saw an opportunity to grow closer to Leo and started following European soccer competitions. The culture experienced through puzzles and La Liga subreddits provided a rich library of narratives to occupy his mind at work.

On Monday nights Kate cooked dinner with her boyfriend Alex. Sometimes Stanley showed up in time for leftovers. One week they brought out a box of stale shrimp crackers from a long ago birthday. The crackers were suntan beige, dry, and smelled like a stale vending machine. Stanley took a bite and muscled the cracker around his mouth before placing wine to his lips and inhaling the mixture before gagging.

“It’s fine,” Stanley said.

Alex took a bite. Kate took a bite. She squinted and stopped chewing. She let the saturated cracker fall from her lips in a stream of saliva that went unbroken all the way down to her plate. She gave a small cough and spit some particles into her napkin. The taste was already leaving Stanley’s mouth, but he could sympathize with the reflex to spit out every organic trace that lined his cheeks and hid between teeth. He thought about the slow dilution of flavor as food sits on the tongue and if Kate’s saliva tasted like shrimp mixed with the roast chicken red cabbage they all ate moments ago. He wanted to see her spit again, watch the liquid pool at the base of her lower lip and snap off in a spider’s thread. Soon enough, Alex would move his tongue over that lip and find whatever residue remained, Stanley thought.

“That’s disgusting,” Kate said.

The saliva-drenched shrimp chip reminded Stanley of the father sitting alone at a bar, biting into a live sea creature. Clutching the animal with both hands as its tentacles twist around his forearms in a constriction of death. One slimy arm pinching the man’s nose as its body slowly disappeared into the hungry mouth. Whose father, he couldn’t remember. The search for visual proof of the memory led him to videos of people self-documenting this meal. What Stanley saw ranged from amateurs taking videos on holiday in Korea, to cable television specials on rare delicacies from around the world. The octopus’ body might be the size of a fist, but its tentacles the length of an arm. Chewing the body was the easy part. The tentacles presented a challenge in patience. Curious customers took their time to break down the tentacles, separating the head from the limbs while the squeamish preferred to swallow sooner rather than later, chewing to get a grip of the animal before shuttling it into their stomachs. The creature’s flexible organs might cling to the customer’s palette and throat on the way down, risking suffocation or just a more intimate engagement with digestion.

The higher-budget mukbangs offered more sensory detail. As much as the octopi resist being eaten alive, they are quiet. The only audio in the videos emanated from the wet sounds of girls trying to keep the sea creatures in their mouths. Stanley’s obsession may have started with an octopus but the video recommendations fed him lobster tails, black bean noodles, braised oxtail and fish cake. The cuisine expanded from Korean fast food to include cheesy crust pizzas, twinkies, and spaghetti marinara. But the consumers always had a similar appearance. Glass skinned boys and girls, often wearing gloves, sometimes a full face of makeup, isolated in front of a monochrome background facing a table of food that barely fit in the camera frame.

He started propping up his phone on kitchen shelves so he could watch mukbang videos at work. Stanley found himself explaining to the line cooks why he was watching videos of 100-pound women eating a meal portioned for a 300-pound athlete. The cooks always had questions: Do they ever get sick? Why don’t they talk? Is this a sex thing?

During closing, Stanley mentioned to the bartender Ray that he had to watch the best video. “How’d you find this?” That was always the first question, but Ray was curious and stuck around as Stanley took a moment to type octopus mukbang into the search bar. Ray’s first response was incredulity, but inevitably his mouth turned to a smile as he waved his hand to get the attention of two of the servers. In the end Stanley told them, “The smaller ones can get stuck in your throat on the way down. The tentacles cling to the esophagus.”

“If she was wearing lipstick, this might turn me on,” said Ray.

“10 million views…good for her.” Gabby, one of the servers had joined the screening. It was five of them hovering over Stanley’s phone, six minutes into a fifteen-minute video.

Ray walked off and announced they were walking to a karaoke bar for a drink and told Stanley to hurry up with the dishes. Stanley’s last meal was five days ago but he agreed to tag along. In the past 72 hours, Stanley had ingested two sugar-free Red Bulls, 5 liters of water, and two tablespoons of peanut butter. 

Upon leaving the restaurant Stanley’s collar spiked with sweat. The L’Arnoud team split open a 24-pack of Modelos in the August heat. The beer was barely chilled, and turned to a golden syrup as Stanley swished it around his mouth. Such a foreign substance immediately triggered a pinch in his stomach. Ray had a cigarette. Gabby and the others had started a joint. Leo was holding two Modelos and asking Stanley what song he was going to sing.

“Whitney Houston,” said Leo, “Whitney forever.”

“Greatest Love of All,” chimed Stanley.

Leo’s eyes opened wide with recognition.

“I fuck with you, Stanley!”

Gabby patted Stanley on the head, “Good. Job.”

Stanley wasn’t used to clenching his sympathetic nervous system this hard. He followed in Ray’s footsteps, dealing ten singles onto the bar to help secure a room. Stanley pinched Ray’s shirt near the waist, holding on light enough not to lose him, the other hand cradling the two-thirds empty cardboard box of beers. The box broke just as they found the room, scattering sixteen beers across the carpet. Most disappeared in the black-light darkness and sticky gaps beneath rotting sofas. Leo slammed a binder of songs onto the center table, pushing several beers further into the corners. Stanley found himself cracking another beer, this one warmer than the last. Guzzling the beer to fill the pit in his stomach. Damn the urge to piss.

Trying to hold in the fluid from one beer caused Stanley’s muscles to flinch from bladder to the chin. Ray hit the final chorus…They say the devil’s water, it ain’t so sweet. After finishing the second beer, Stanley had a mild buzz that took some of the pain away.

Stanley shimmied out the door just as the group joined in for Chemise…When I saw you—last night. I could easily see… He stopped at the bar and wrote “Urgency by Foreigner” on a pad of paper next to his five-dollar bill. With his back straight, he pushed to the bathroom stall. When the door opened, Gabby walked out with a smile, ignored by Stanley as he cowboy-stepped his way into the stall.

Stanley looked down over the ridge of his ribs onto the valley of his stomach, flanked by hip bones, and at the base the head of his penis. Relaxing hurt almost as much as holding all the fluid in. Stanley leaned his shoulder against the stall door, supporting his weight just enough to let out the last drops. He forgot the last time he let anything out of his body? Had he used the restroom at work? Had he taken a piss when he woke up that morning? A nocturnal emission he didn’t know about? What was it his kidneys did anymore? His mouth was dry and all he could think about was how good a 99 cents pack of Hostess chocolate Donettes would taste right now.

The door opened and Stanley nearly bumped into Gabby for a second time. She smacked Stanley on the butt. Stanley spun in embarrassment before realizing they were the only two in the bathroom. In a moment of clarity, Stanley smiled and admired the scarf that was keeping Gabby’s hair out of her face.

To keep from collapsing, he stretched his left hand out to the opposite wall of the stall and his right grabbed onto his kidney as if to help his posture but this only caused his back to arch more as he felt himself go deeper into her mouth until he had nothing more to give. 

He looked down, and in the bathroom light could only make out the pale strips of flesh between parted braids on the top of her skull. With his right hand he squeezed his gut, thinking he had more to let out of his body. He breathed heavy. He heard her breathing faster through her nostrils. She pulled away and asked what was wrong.

“What’s wrong?” Stanley panted.

“Am I doing something wrong?”

She was tugging on Stanley’s cock but now he saw it had gone limp without his realizing.

“I don’t know. I thought–” Stanley blinked.

“What do you want me to do?”

She was wiping her lips and looking Stanley in the eyes. Stanley’s eyes panned from her face to his soft penis, up to his hand white-knuckled against the wall.  

“It was great, I don’t think I can keep going.”

“That’s not an answer to my question. You were enjoying it at first.”

“I was, yeah, I was-“

“So what wasn’t working?”

She wasn’t touching him at all now. No words came out of Stanley and with her still crouched, compressed in the stall, he couldn’t very well bend down to pull up his pants. He peeled his right hand off of his waist and felt between his legs, confirming his testicles were in the right place. He pressed on his bladder, which felt like a balloon the morning after a birthday party.

“Do you feel sick?” Gabby sighed.

“No, no.”

Gabby stood and kissed Stanley’s neck.

“I’m just hungry,” Stanley said.

Her lips were warm and the saliva smelled like vinegar.

When Stanley was in high school, a friend told him that Christian Bale ate one apple and a cup of coffee every meal to get his weight down for The Machinist. You can see the outline of every rib in that film. His stomach is pulled in so tight, you can make out his organs. Stanley took this anecdote as fact, not thinking to mistrust boys in his sophomore class. Stanley was on the tennis team in high school and believed those years were his physical peak. Not that he developed Michelangelo abs or a sculpted jaw, there was simply little excess to slow him down. At that age he believed the words of boys in his class like he believed in comments on MySpace or YouPorn, they were sloppy and rushed with trailing thoughts and bad language and it all felt authentic.