Wasted Beauty by Eric Bogosian Read Free Book Online

cab and that was the last time she saw him alive. Not only did Rick catch the patient, he had to spend an hour with the wife talking her down while waiting for the police.
    This morning, Rick is suspended in a thick jell of fatigue. He needs caffeine and food. He is ready to indulge himself in the ambrosia of a New York City brunch. He sips his freshly brewed, freshly ground Dean & Deluca coffee and enthusiastically layers the fish and cream cheese on top of a bagel.
    Laura says, “Save some for the kids.” She says things like this all the time. She is the guardian of food. Guardian of proper behavior and posture. Guardian of tooth brushing and warm clothing. So why does it hit him so hard this morning? It isn’t like he doesn’t expect it. In his heart, he knew as he laid the last piece of fish on top of the white tufts of spread that he was pushing it. I shouldn’t be eating all this. I’m getting older and cream cheese and Nova are not good for me. That guy last night was only four years older than I am.
    Isn’t it logical? Isn’t that what I should be doing? Watching my health? I’m a doctor, if anyone should know that all this shit is bad for you, it’s me. When I’m sixty, do I really want to be slumped in a wheelchair with a string of drool hanging off my chin? No, of course not. So Laura is right to be on my case, because she loves me. Plus she doesn’t want to be caring for a vegetable, either. And I took a bit too much. The kids need to eat. Laura needs to eat. But I’m hungry. And Trina doesn’t even like smoked salmon. Why can’t I just have what I want?
    The rightness of the morning disappears and in its place swirl clouds of irritations. Rick flicks the fish back onto the serving platter. It lies there, curled over, fragments of coarse pepper clinging. Spoiled. Everything is spoiled. And it’s her fault.
    Now Laura is saying something but Rick can barely hear her. “Well, not that much. You don’t have to be ridiculous, Rick.”
    The clouds swirl faster, coalescing into a major storm system. Words come before he can edit them. “No. No. You’re right.”
    “No, honey, take more. I’m just saying…” Laura’s eyes are not on Rick, they are on Trina.
    “I’m fine!” He sips his coffee. It’s gone cold, it’s too bitter.
    “That’s ridiculous. Trina, wipe your mouth.” Laura wipes Trina’s face.
    “Mom!” Trina wriggles, collapses into a sulk. Laura returns to her food, finds a forkful, lays it onto her tongue. She’s forgotten the conversation already. Or is pretending to forget it.
    Dark edges along the periphery. “What’s ridiculous is that you’re telling me, at forty-five years of age, how much food I can put on my plate.”
    “No, I’m not doing that, Rick.” Laura reaches for the pepper. “Henry, sit up.”
    “Yes, you are!”
    “I just said…”
    Either Henry or Trina say “Dad!” Which one spoke? Aren’t they all just the same person split in pieces? Or pieces of myself, like an arm or a leg?
    “Rick, take as much as you want! Don’t be a baby!”
    “You know what? I’ve lost my appetite.”
    “Rick!”
    Both kids definitely in unison now, more shrilly. “Dad!”
    But Rick is up, moving with nowhere to go. Laura addresses his back: “So you’re not having lunch?”
    “I’m not having lunch.” Just keep moving. Figure it out later. If I don’t keep moving, I’m going to pick up a plate and throw it.
    “But we just sat down.”
    “Dad!”
    Rick rushes up to the bedroom. He sees a door, goes through it and enters a walk-in closet. Faraway voices call out, “Daddy!”
    Close the door. Shut the light. Sit on the floor.
    In the gloom with the shoes and the stored Christmas stuff and the boxes of wrapping paper, Rick doesn’t give a shit about the fish. There are much larger issues here that need to be examined. Her presence. My inability to come to terms with her presence. Necessary, but chafing. Chafing and rubbing, hurting me. It comes down to