Blue Wolfe and Friends presents: Camp Here and There.
Episode Sixty: The Comedy of Hunger
[RINGING]
SYDNEY
It’s Monday.
I know it’s Monday because I last emptied my stomach on Saturday. I haven’t eaten in three days. I can see the curve of my clavicle like a sword driven into my shoulder. I can’t tell what time it is. The hours blend together in a sickly sweet haze, like honeyed fly-traps. I’m caught in the thick slurry, struggling to push my lungs through the mess of foggy suffocation. Floating bodies all around me. I’ve never felt so small.
There’s a man across from me at the table, tapping his nails on the yellowing doily. This is probably a dream. Or is it a dream…? I can’t tell anymore. I used to be able to look at my arms and count how many scars he’d given me. One by the river, two in the bathroom, three in his office, four by the river, a week’s, two week’s… I’ve lost track. Like the cars of the grinding behemoth in the field, I can’t remember what I was counting.
The man. He’s a handsome breed. I’ve come to recognize the intention of his appearance. His hair is such a familiar chestnut… That pleasant curve of fat below his eyes. It gushes up bile in my stomach.
He tells me my hair looks pretty. I have it done up. I don’t remember doing it. Maybe he did it. The dress I’m wearing is nice, but it’s tight around my frame. Maybe it’s a good thing, then, that I can’t stomach my dinner.
The room is full of mirrors. Paneled on the walls. I see us from every direction. At every angle, my shoulders get sharper. My eyes turn to rice grains. I wonder which version of me he prefers, or if he delights in the endless choice.
The server puts down a shallow dish in front of him, and on the porcelain lies a whole, dead bluejay. The neck is snapped neatly, and the wings are folded prim as a girl’s hands for a photograph. It comes with a single plastic pipette, artfully filled with something red and viscous— Juice? Blood? Sweet-and-sour sauce? He squeezes it over the corpse.
He smiles at me. Then he saws a wing free with a steak knife, gnaws it down to the ball joint, and licks the cartilage from the bone.
He splinters the breastbone next, peeling the skin carefully. The act is obscene.
He says, “You should eat something,” and gestures to my plate. It’s empty, save for a small note. The handwriting is my own. It reads: “Remember.” The letters crawl and rearrange like … little curls of…
He wipes his hands on the doily. The bluejay is gone.
While he’s speaking, there’s a noise at the edges of the room. It’s a high, scrabbling sound, like little claws on floorboards. I look for it, but there’s only the clatter of china as the server brings the next course. He sets it in front of me. A bowl of clear broth with a single ice cube floating in its center. The ice has something dark suspended inside. I feel afraid.
The man across the table watches me.
I take a sip. The broth is cold, then hot, then sweet, then so sour that my face starts to tingle. The ice cube turns and turns in the spoon, always showing a new face. I stare at it, then bring it to my mouth and let it melt on my tongue.
It tastes like the cheap lipstick I wore to the Homecoming dance.
He asks me if I’m happy.
I don’t know how to answer that.
He asks me again. I say yes.
He laughs, and the scrabbling noise gets louder. The table begins to tilt. The room slips with it, and the windows are brimming with rain, and I’m clutching the tablecloth while he sits prim and proper. I’m tumbling. His hand lands on top of mine, all five fingers ice-cold and pinning me to the world. I can’t feel my legs. I can’t feel anything, really, except the pulse at the base of my neck and the steady crush of his grip.
He leans in and tells me, “If you’re going to go, it might as well be with a full stomach.”
[RINGING]
At the table, he asks about my hair again. How did it get so shiny? What conditioner do I use? He’s stabbed his fork into a severed eyeball.
“Blood,” I say, then shake my head. That wasn’t a funny joke.
He laughs. His teeth are sheer, but I can faintly see a chip in one from when he once bit me hard enough to hit the bone.
He thanks me for the conversation, and for my company, and for being so agreeable, and so pretty, and so pleasant.
He takes my hand across the table. He presses my knuckles to his lips, then sighs. We’ll do this again soon.
[RINGING]
What do queen bees do all day, cased up in their honeycomb? Is it lonely to be surrounded by a million faceless workers? Laid back hour by hour, pushing burden from their bodies. Locked inside a house of waxy bars as the world sops through their ribs. Maybe she’s happier that way. I think I understand. The queen’s tiny feet tap the same hex over and over, always turning it into someone else’s honey. They hide her deep for her own good, for the good of everyone. I wonder if she dreams she is needed, and that’s enough.
They won’t let me near the children today. Maybe it’s a good idea. Last night, I tried to scavenge some tea from the kitchen, and Jedidiah found me drinking the water at a near boil.
This morning, they told me to rest. I can still hear the clatter of children from my window. I imagine it like a hospital ward.
I am at the nurse’s kitchen table, sipping honey straight from the squeeze bottle. Breakfast of queens. One more bee’s burden, slurped down my throat. I try not to think of the wings or fur left inside. My jaw aches. The honey’s too sweet.
But you can’t stop once you’ve started. That’s what queens do, isn’t it? Even when they want to sleep, or… stop…
I’m not supposed to eat that.
My vomit tastes sweet.
[RINGING]
SYDNEY
It’s Tuesday.
Jedidiah doesn’t know what the man is doing. But does he realize how alike they look? Even the ghost of his lips have a familiar chap in the middle.
It makes me so, so sick.
We still have our therapy sessions. At this point, it’s the only thing I’m allowed to do anymore. I know they won’t take it from me, because then, really, what would even be left? They took all my belts last night.
I am on the couch. My head’s laid on a napkin, and I am staring at the water-stain on the ceiling tile above me. It’s grown since yesterday, the brown, anemic edge seeping outward in a bruised petal. The flourescent lights are hurting my eyes. The man is perched across me, with his legs crossed primly.
ADAM
If you squint, what shape does the light make?
SYDNEY
I try to see it, but the pulsing, straining, mass is caving inward. It’s impossible. Sometimes it’s a rabbit, then a gallbladder, then a winding, familiar curl, then the slumped profile of a drowned man.
ADAM
I’ll describe some things. Say them back to me.
SYDNEY
I am so tired that my spit tastes metallic. Last night, I lost two pints to our latest discovery. I can still feel the cold water droplets on my skin. I’m clutching the knife we used to my chest. I curl up my knees, or try to. There is a hinge in my hip that clicks.
ADAM
Repeat after me. Smoke.
SYDNEY
Smoke.
The lights on the ceiling are swallowed in smoke.
ADAM
Sky.
SYDNEY
Sky.
I can see the cloudy vast.
ADAM
Static.
SYDNEY
Static.
And it all fizzes.
ADAM
Blood.
SYDNEY
Blood.
ADAM
What happened in the shower?
SYDNEY
It happened in the shower.
ADAM
You are a vessel.
SYDNEY
I am a vessel.
ADAM
Tell me what you are.
SYDNEY
I…
He tips forward. He works my face with his hands, stretching the eyelids, pinching the lips apart.
ADAM
[AMUSED SNORT] You’ve gone dull on me. I might start to worry.
SYDNEY
It’s not getting better.
ADAM
What is the solution?
SYDNEY
I am so tired that the conversation feels superfluous. He makes a face, then lifts the knife from my hand. He pricks it into my palm.
ADAM
Tell me what you are.
SYDNEY
I am a piece of meat.
ADAM
And?
SYDNEY
I am wasting.
ADAM
And?
SYDNEY
I am dead.
ADAM
Good.
SYDNEY
He presses the napkin to my hand.
ADAM
Would you like to stay for dinner?
SYDNEY
I do not want to stay for dinner. I do not want to see the dead birds. But I nod, because it is Tuesday, and there’s nothing else. He smiles wide. He helps me up. The room spins, and he holds me tight
[RINGING]
SYDNEY
I’ve noticed the man really likes food.
His hunger knows no bounds. Be it rice cakes, jelly beans, gummy worms, or discounted pork rinds. He puts it all away like a fledgling raven choking down the beaks of its siblings. I have seen him chew through a bag of uncooked ramen, teeth grinding against the brick, then chase it with swigs of vanilla creamer. I once watched him polish off a sleeve of orange-slabbed cheese, glistening with a sheen of artificial delight. He couldn’t stop if he wanted to, even as sweat beaded at his jawline.
He likes things in wrappers. Chips from bags, candies in foil, tiny cakes in plastic, dollar muffins in cellophane. The sound must be part of the pleasure. The tearing. The keen snap of sugar-stiffened bread as he gnashes his molars. Sometimes I catch him in the corner of my eye, licking the dust from his fingertips, or rolling a spent juice box between his palms.
I will say this for the man: he never judges. He laughs inappropriately, yes, but only because he finds it all so beautifully hilarious. He tells me stories about hunger that have nothing to do with food, not really. He tells me about saints who ate nothing but garden snails, and sinners who dined on their own kin. He seems to think there’s a lesson in it. I’m not sure.
Once, he offered me a marshmallow Peep. He said it was more nutritious than whatever I was thinking about eating. I hadn’t been thinking about eating at all. He held it out, pinched between his black claws, and its face sank from the pressure of his thumb. I shook my head, and he shrugged, shoving two into his mouth.
ADAM AND SYDNEY
“Suit yourself,”
SYDNEY
he said, and laughed with pink foam wedged in his canines.
It’s not lost on me that… I am shelf-stable.
There’s a part of me that wonders if he’d like to cut a slot in the back of my head, and break off pieces when he’s peckish.
When it’s just us, he likes to show off. He plates things up for play, triple-decker wafer towers, towers of stacked Pringles, a hot dog in a Twinkie bun. He dares me to try them, because “a feast is foremost for flavor,” and I refuse. It makes him happy to tempt me.
Sometimes I dream that the world is made of snack food. The trees are beef jerky, the grass is freeze-dried peas, the rivers run with chocolate milk. Everyone else gets to eat, but I am stuck in a dress, polyethylene-tied so tight that I can’t breathe. The man is at the end of the table, licking his lips, with brown sugar stuck to his teeth.
“What’s for dessert?” he’ll ask.
Today, he’s found a box of fortune cookies. He crushes them open, one by one, reading the fortunes aloud and laughing at the dull wisdoms. He piles the slips of paper in my lap.
ADAM
Have some culture!
SYDNEY
he laughs.
Every fortune is a variation on the theme: You are what you eat. You are strong enough to endure. You are not immune to poison.
On the last cookie, the fortune is blank.
ADAM
It’s for you!
SYDNEY
He says, and hands it to me.
ADAM
You get to write your own ending.
SYDNEY
I crumble the cookie and eat it.
Tomorrow is another day. Maybe I’ll try something new. Maybe I’ll let the man dress my hair up again, or try on his suit jacket. Maybe I’ll count the scars again, and this time, I’ll remember every drop on that tile.
I watch him finish the box, snapping the cookies sharp between his fangs.
I throw up the fortune cookie. That’s how I know it’s Wednesday.
[RINGING]
SYDNEY
When I open my eyes next, I’m sitting on the edge of a skyscraper. Clouds lap at the concrete below.
The world is gone beneath me, just a blank, empty blue, milked out to the horizon.
The man perches cross-legged nearby, flicking crumbs from a bag of Bugles off the ledge. They helicopter down in lazy spirals.
He asks if I’m hungry. I can’t tell if he expects an answer. Up here, hunger seems so decadent. I haven’t shat in three days. I’m clean. I ought to be above it.
My knees are raw where I hunker down on the roof. I press my face to the concrete. Under my nose, a centipede slides across the grit.
The man points with delight.
ADAM
Eat it.
SYDNEY
Eat it?
ADAM
Eat it.
SYDNEY
It looks up at me—or maybe that’s just projection—and then it doubles back on itself. The ends meet, tail to tongue, and it forms a ring, biting itself with a wet, sick crunch. It trembles, then splits at the curve. The head and tail each skitter away.
I poke at the two halves. They curl up tight, writhing away from my hand.
ADAM
You’re not living up to your potential.
SYDNEY
I wonder if he means the insect, or me.
I don’t think I’m supposed to eat things like that.
ADAM
You’re not supposed to do a lot of things.
SYDNEY
He picks up one half of the centipede and drags it across my lips. The legs clutch at my mouth, scrabbling about, until I flinch and stick out my tongue. It tastes like metal shavings and lemon from a bottle. I take the rest between my teeth, crunching down. The bitter inside is like thermometer syrup.
ADAM
That’s my boy.
SYDNEY
I’m tired.
ADAM
Of course you are.
SYDNEY
He nudges me, and shoves his shoulder into mine.
ADAM
You know, it’s not so bad. Half the schmucks down there would kill for a meal twice a week.
SYDNEY
He offers me the bag of Bugles, which I take. I stuff one on each finger. Skeleton hands. I point them at him like claws, and he laughs. He steals one from my hand and eats it.
ADAM
What do you remember?
SYDNEY
I can feel the splintered linoleum and the mold scraping its way through the grout.
I remember dripping. I remember a stinging, needly bead that popped every second, each time on my sternum. No. I mean the color dripping. The shower walls were bleeding, and each ooze was a different note. More purple than red. Like the curling, rippling insect, my vision was crowded with a kaleidoscope of lightning tendrils, each with a crawling gaggle of spindly legs.
My head felt like it was inside out. My tongue was too big for my mouth. My teeth started to itch with a noise. My vision went from a doughy beige to an endless strobe. Shapes layered over shapes until the corners of the shower were infinite. I could see myself in all of them.
Truth is, last night I bit my own tongue in half.
The taste of it filled my jaws, hot and wet and corny. I sucked on the meat for a minute. In the dream, the water ran clear, so I didn’t have to see where my tongue ended up. All the while there was a sound like a thousand moths in a sugar bowl, beating their wings against each other.
I can hear Jedidiah in the next room, practicing his apology with a metronome.
I’m not sure what day this was.
[RINGING]
SYDNEY
It’s dinner again. That means I lost time. Not much, maybe an hour, maybe a slice of day. The room smells like the inside of a balloon, rubbery and talcy. I am set up at the dining table. My hair is styled up again. I don’t remember sitting for it, but it stings.
I have a new dress, too. It’s frilly.
There are more chairs around the table this time. Each with the same place setting: a paper plate, a plastic fork, a drinking glass, and a bloody napkin. The guests start to arrive. I never see them walk in. Their faces are all jelly, sliding over one another in a blur of noses and eyes. Some are in business shirts, others in pajamas. At one point, I swear my adoptive mother is among them, but she immediately flickers into a math teacher I had in high school, who morphs into a twelve-year-old in a tiara, then back to my mother.
At the head of the table, the man is radiant. He’s found a red silk shirt and black velvet slacks. He approaches me and puts a hand to my shoulder, pressing me into my seat. He circles me twice, giving an appraising nod.
There is a minute of polite conversation. The man asks what everyone would like to drink. As he pours, his jaw tenses, veins rising and falling. He is clearly fighting off laughter.
When dinner is served, the guests all clap. I do not remember making the food, but there it is. Plastic slabs of turkey. Mashed potatoes made of cellophane. Corn glazed with resin. The man helps himself to a heap, then dishes my plate twice as full.
ADAM
You need your protein, after all!
SYDNEY
Someone tries to make a toast, but their words loop back and eat themselves. A mobius strip of “Here’s to…” … “Here’s to…” “Here’s to…” “Here’s to…” until the man raises his hand.
ADAM
Eat, darling.
SYDNEY
I carve the edge off the turkey. My knife squeaks against the plastic grain.
I pretend to chew, then mash the pulp with my thumb into the napkin.
The guests all eat in unison, hands lifting forks, mouths opening, heads bobbing as they chew.
The man finishes his first plate, then grooms my hair with his fingers, untying the bows, and retwisting them tighter. He gathers a little dollop of potatoes on the blade of his spoon and smears it on my right cheekbone.
I look down at my plate and find it replenished. The food multiplies as I eat. Try to. For each bite I take, two more appear, and the tower rises. The air is so thick with the smell of glue and processed poultry that my eyes water.
He picks up his glass and clinks it against mine.
ADAM
A toast. To Sydney!
SYDNEY
The guests all turn to me.
ADAM
You’ve made so much progress!
SYDNEY
The man sets down his glass and wipes his mouth.
ADAM
It’s almost time for dessert. Come on, Sydney. Take a bow.
SYDNEY
I try to stand, but the chair is a vice grip. The more I shift, the deeper the skirt cinches around my legs. The man shifts behind me and places his hands on my shoulders.
ADAM
You’re the reason for the season!
SYDNEY
He turns my head to the side and whispers into my ear…
ADAM
This will hurt less if you don’t think about it.
SYDNEY
I focus on the dying edge of the ceiling light, the bulb sputtering inside its globe.
He elegantly presses his palm to my face. He cups my jaw. I try to close my eyes, but his thumb is wedged between the cartilage of my temple.
Right. I remember now.
It was a Thursday. I know it happened on Thursday. It’s shocking at first, then it’s a grind of pressure. Up, up, up. It’s not the pain so much as the heat, the sudden rush of white and wet and winding starlight.
Right. We had therapy that night. I lay on the couch with my head in his lap. He braids my hair. I can feel the tug and snarl as his nails tease out the ribbons.
I liked the feeling, then. I am nothing but the corpse of a memory, lying dead in the shallows of moldy tile. And I liked that he braids my hair anyways. Maybe because. Maybe that’s why he likes me so much.
Which is why, when he asked if he could try something new, I said yes.
I can feel that the anticipation makes his hand shake.
He presses my head to the leather and asks for it then. Just be quick, please. He picks up a grapefruit spoon.
It’s like a tiny shovel. The edges are serrated. He leans over me and pries my eyelid back with his thumb and forefinger. He tells me to look at the overhead light, so I do. And it blooms into a white-hot coin.
He talks the whole time about the proper way to do this. How you shouldn’t try to pop it out all at once, how the nerves are like tinsel and you have to shave them gently, how the lens is the best part and must be kept intact for the flavor.
I feel the blade edge slipping under me. The sensation is so specific, and so new. Each touch is electric. And then I don’t feel it at all. I can hear him slurp in the back of his throat when the spoon finally pulls away.
He pauses, delighted, and asks if I want to see. I don’t.
The world goes half dark. The pain is… greedy, but not explosive. It’s a dull swell that eats everything else. But it’s over. My cheek is wet. He says it’s normal and grabs a napkin. He says I did great. He admires it for three minutes while he polishes it between two cloths, then lays it on his tongue and swallows it whole.
[RINGING]
[DOOR OPENS]
[FOOTSTEPS]
JEDIDIAH
My love. Uhm. I got you something. I remember you talking about how you— Uh. Oh, Christ. Hey. Uhm. Why are you … bandaged up? … did you get—get hurt? Somehow?
SYDNEY
Oh, it’s okay. I tripped and landed a bit funny. That’s all.
JEDIDIAH
May I look at it?
SYDNEY
Mm.
JEDIDIAH
Here let me see.
SYDNEY
No, that’s alright. It hurts. Please don’t touch it.
JEDIDIAH
No, then I should definitely see it. What happened?
SYDNEY
It’s nothing.
JEDIDIAH
Sydney, please. I can see blood.
SYDNEY
No.
JEDIDIAH
[DISPLEASED GRUNT] Come here! C’mon just… just… sit still…
[SHUFFLING AND GRABBING]
…
JEDIDIAH
OH… OH MY GOD… SYDNEY WHAT … WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOUR EYE!!!?
[CLICK]
Today’s episode of Camp Here & There was written and directed by Blue Wolfe.
The role of Sydney Sargent was performed by Blue Wolfe.
The role of Jedidiah Martin was performed by Voicebox Vance.
The role of Up and Adam was performed by Dio Garner.
With original music composed by Will Wood and produced by Jonathon Maisto.
Additional music composed by Kyle Gabler, and Another You.
Dialogue editing by The Leo!
Sound design by Blue Wolfe and Another You.
And a special thanks to Patrons for making this possible!
Special thanks to Finnn :), Smugandsad, and Not Leo.
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Thank you for listening to Camp Here & There! And remember: It begins.