COOKING FOR ONE

(Relies heavily on having seen ‘Aliens’.)

COOKING FOR ONE

           Scrambled eggs and toast. She actually cooked for a change, but only because she was out of cold cereal. Gloria took the dish to the couch where she was now in the habit of eating. She put her feet up, pushed play on the remote control, and settled in to watch ‘Aliens’ for the third time. Or was it the fourth? If anyone asked me why I like this movie, she caught herself thinking, I really couldn’t give them a reason. Encased in her forklift, Ripley forced the xenomorph out the airlock, hugged Newt, wrapped Bishop’s two halves in plastic, blew up the planet, and settled all four survivors in hyper-sleep chambers for the long journey home. Lots of death, gore, and fear, but we’re supposed to forget the people who died or their grieving families and call this a happy ending. So that’s life; the survivors just carry on like no one else mattered.

           Gloria left the dishes and the pan in the sink with yesterday’s cereal bowls, showered, and gulped down a Benadryl with hot milk hoping it would help her sleep. She needed to look perky at work in the morning. If one more person asks me how I’m doing, I just may slap them. It’s none of their bloody business!

           It is said that a death and a divorce carry the same weight of grief and stress. Some say divorce is worse because the one suffering the loss cannot find closure as one does with a death. To Gloria, it was immaterial. Suffering is suffering and it’s not a contest. She stopped at a florist shop conveniently located between her bus stop and the office building and bought a plant to put on the desk in her cubical. There, nice and cheery. So, just leave me alone and let me get my work done.

           Stopping for groceries after work was just too much of an energy output, so Gloria boiled some Raman noodles for dinner and settled in front of the TV to watch re-runs. I should have stopped to get some wine. No, I’d be using it to self-medicate; hopefully, I won’t find myself down that road. But it’s tempting.

           The climactic scene of her favorite re-run of ‘Vera’ was moments away when the phone rang. What the . . .? “Hello”.

As soon as she heard his voice, she regretted not looking at the caller ID.

           “I’m calling again about those papers. I need them.” Her ex’s request was also a re-run of a re-run.

           “I don’t have them. You’re the one who moved your things. You’ve been here twice looking for them. You won’t find them here because they’re not here. You must have lost them in the process of moving out. Larry, it’s been almost three years. Give it up; I don’t have them, and before you ask, again, if I destroyed them – NO, I did not.” Ask the little tart you left me for if she has them. How she wanted to say it, but she never did.

           “This is really small of you to be so vindictive, Gloria. You know how important they are.”

           ‘Aliens 3’, the xenomorph has escaped the universal void somehow and impregnated the three human survivors with monsters. There’s no end, Lord, I can’t take any more of this. “Larry, I don’t, I never did have your papers. Stop calling me.” Gloria put down he receiver and let the dam gates open. How in the world could I possibly still hurt over him? Why can’t I just get rip-roaring angry instead! She removed the cord from the phone jack in the wall to prevent his calling back. At least he doesn’t have the number to that twenty-nine-dollar cell phone I bought for emergencies. Now, I’d really like some wine.

           She watched Vera close her murder case, showered, reached again for the Benadryl, and tried to sleep.

           “Don’t get water on the desk with that thing.” The supervisor had noticed her cheery plant before Gloria even got settled at her desk the next morning.

           “I’ve got a bowl under it . . .”

           “It could tip over; take it home. No water near the computers. You know better. Get something artificial.”

           Gloria sighed, finished her shift, and took the plant home to a re-run evening.

           TGIF. Wonderful Friday, it was even better than the weekend because it meant something to look forward to. “I can’t keep a plant on my desk at work. I don’t want something artificial. Is there any such thing as a plant that does not need water?” She expected the clerk at the florist shop to laugh her out of the store.

           “There are air plants, but they can be persnickety; how about some cotton or pussy-willows?”

           “They don’t need water?”

           “Not a drop.”

           A lovely bouquet of pussy-willows in a South-Western design vase graced her desk Friday morning. The supervisor folded her arms and glared at it.

           “Not a drop of water; go ahead and check.”

           The supervisor checked. “This is a place of work, not home.”

           “Oh, leave her alone. We have no windows; we don’t see the sun all day – nothing but metal and plastic. A little something to remind ourselves there’s life outside the building is nice. Gloria, put them up where we can all see them when we give our eyes a thirty second break from the monitors.” Leroy was one of Gloria’s “How are you?” tormentors. Now he was her protector, and he had several other human robots murmuring in their cubicles.

The supervisor knew better than to make this one of her battles. “Something a bit smaller would have been more appropriate.” The airlock doors closed behind her as she walked away.

Gloria gave Leroy a smile and went back to her work. A bit of a victory. Xenomorph is gone.

“You’re coming.” At the time clock, Leroy tugged at her jacket and led her out of the building. “Just pizza at Rosella’s. The seven of us, and you’re the guest of honor.”

Oh, crap. I just want to go home. The traffic light changed, and Leroy and company rushed her across the intersection towards the restaurant. “Can I have a glass of red wine with it?”

“Honey, you can have the whole bottle. It’s Friday,” Loretta, who worked in the cubical in front of Gloria, piped up.

There were only two choices, go with them or listen to more lectures about getting on with her life. So, Gloria enjoyed two glasses of wine with her pizza and accepted a ride home in leu of the usual bus. She got home much later than she’d want, settled on the couch with the knitted Afghan and slept as soundly as Ripley in her hyper-sleep chamber.

No milk, no cereal, Raman noodles for breakfast? Gloria put on jeans and a long sleeve tee, put her keys and bank card in her pocket, dragged her folded shopping cart out of the hall closet, and walked down to the market. Milk, several boxes of cereal, bread, butter, eggs. She was passing the frozen food; TV dinners had made major leaps into the realm of edible. She dumped some in the cart. Mint/chocolate chip ice cream! It landed in the cart.

With everything paid for and bagged and put back into her cart, eggs on top, it was actually heavy to pull behind her and up the stairs to her second floor one bedroom flat that she used to share with her ex. As she ate that thousandths bowl of cereal, she regretted not buying pancake mix. “It’s cornbread, boy; eat it; it’s good for you.” The line from the movie ran though her head. I’ve got a cornbread recipe somewhere. Cornbread, baked beans, and greens.

#

Gloria was back at the market the next week looking through the glass doors at the frozen dinners. They hadn’t made such major leaps after all. Frozen vegies. Into the cart. Fish sticks – into the cart. Breaded shrimp. Tater tots. The usual milk, bread, butter, eggs, cereal, and now pancake mix, Jiffy corn bread mix and canned beans. She had to go back down several aisles to find the pancake syrup. A twist tied bunch of turnip greens was flopped on top of her cart.

The cart was hard to pull up the stairs. She washed the dust off the electric griddle and plugged it in the socket. She remembered to plug in the phone; Loretta had told her to report her ex’s harassing calls to the phone company – after she blocked his calls – and turn the thing back on so she could get through.

A double batch of pancakes with blueberry syrup and a pot of coffee, and Gloria was ready to binge watch season seven of ‘Shetland’, the previous episodes she’d already watched plus the final episode that was just aired. She was sad watching that final episode. Yes, it was a happy ending to a great series, but Gloria would miss having it to look forward to. 

Fish sticks and tater tots. I forgot to get catsup. Another re-run planted on the couch.

Gloria was TV’d out. She mopped the floors. She changed the sheets. She searched out the window spay and paper towels and washed the windows. As she stood in front of her mini-balcony she considered cleaning the outdoor furniture – the glass top table and two chairs. We used to eat out there on hot nights. She might have stood there mesmerized – or cleaned the outside of the windows and glass door, but the phone rang. It wasn’t her ex. “Hello?”

“Want to go thrift store shopping tomorrow? I’m sorry to call so late; I hope you weren’t sleeping.” Loretta had said she’d call. “I can hear you thinking up an excuse.”

Gloria was actually doing that. “Sure, why not.” There’s room to put things where his used to be.

“I’ll be there at – nine-thirty. That gives us time to sleep-in. I’ll make some muffins to bring for breakfast; you make the coffee.”

Loretta had never been married, almost once, but jilted. “Better find out that way than a couple years and a divorce later,” was all she’d ever said about it. Hicks should have been saving Newt, but he was too damaged by the xenomorph to be useful. Ripley was on her own.

#

Several weeks passed. The frozen vegies remained in the freezer. It was too much like cooking to prepare them. The turnip greens wilted in the crisper drawer and finally went in the trash. Gloria hyper-slept through the days and nights, but every so often, dream-like, she’d have little bursts, temporary bursts, of energy and interest. She even toyed with the idea of pulling out a recipe book and baking something. She thought about a roast and Yorkshire pudding. But they were just thoughts, because the xenomorph inside her killed any real motivation. What? Cook for just me. Sit alone with the pretty dishes and stare at the walls while I eat?

Cooking, baking, living was something she did for someone else – not for herself. She was little Suzie Homemaker. Perfect wife. Fancy cake decorator. Gourmet cook. Was. And now she was no one.

“Lose your eyes, baby.” The elevator was almost level with her platform. Newt clung to Ripley; the weapons had no more ammunition, Ripley flung them aside. The freight elevator door opened, the xenomorph started towards them. The phone rang. The caller ID read: Loretta. Gloria rubbed a tear off her face. “Hello.”

“Are you watching that again? You said it’s your favorite movie, but you must know all the dialog by heart already.”

Gloria pushed the pause button just as Bishop flew the drop ship next to the platform. “I’m working on it.”

“I want to go to Hobby Lobby tomorrow, I need more floss, I ran out of hunter green, and I want to finish this embroidery in time to give my sister for Christmas. You know I hate to go shopping alone. Nine-thirty again?”

“I don’t know;” Gloria’s auto pilot started to refuse. “Are you going to make more muffins?”

“How about scones?”

“I’ll make the coffee.” Gloria set down the receiver. “Ripley, come on!” Newt had scrambled into the drop ship, Bishop was looking at her from the cockpit window, the xenomorph was almost on her but Ripley was exhausted, weakened from the fight. “Ripley, come on!” Newt was reaching out her hand. Ripley groped her way up into the dropship and the door closed behind her. “Punch it, Bishop”, she yells, and the craft accelerates away from danger.

The better part of an hour passed. Gloria sat stoically.

Then Gloria got off the couch, went to the balcony door and looked at the weather dirtied chairs. She looked at the pots, the plants long since dead. “Ripley, come on!” Newt called. Ripley saved the child, preserved her life, her future, and almost gave up when it was time to save her own. 

Gloria dialed the phone. “Loretta, if you don’t mind going to the grocery store on the way home, I make a mighty good lasagna and home-made bread. I’ll cook Sunday if you want to come – otherwise I’ll eat it all myself and gain thirty pounds.”

“What time’s dinner?”

I haven’t made perogies since – since long enough. And coffee cake with poppy seed filling. Red lentil soup with curry. Sourdough bread. I should get some yarn tomorrow and make a new Afghan; that old one is falling apart. And if she doesn’t mind, I’ll stop at Ace and get some paint. I’ve always wanted a pink bedroom.

Gloria showered, set out an outfit to go shopping in tomorrow, and turned off the light. She did not reach for the Benadryl. She didn’t need it.