Hunger Pangs

Hunger Pangs

Somebody is shaking my shoulder and I wake up to see a pale, thin faced young man peering down at me. His thin, lank, dish water blond hair keeps slipping into his face and he pushes  it back over his ears but it refuses to stay in place. Serious looking blue eyes gaze at me through the thick lenses of his heavy, black framed glasses. 

My head is swimming and I hear him ask, “Are you hungry? I’m about to have some dinner. There’s plenty!” It’s as if he’s in a tunnel and his voice seems to echo. My eyes don’t want to focus properly and his face fades away and then returns. 

My head is pounding. Somebody is playing a kettle drum in my head and the tempo is rapidly increasing. My stomach feels like I swallowed a blender running at high speed. With no warning, nausea hits me and I struggle to sit up and I push the man away from the trajectory of the contents of my stomach.  Everything in my digestive tract escapes. I immediately feel relief and shame. 

Between the erupting waves, I croak, “Bathroom!” The fellow pulls me to my feet and throws my arm around his shoulder and half leads and half drags me across the room and down a short hallway and kicks open the door to a small bathroom. He flips on the lights and I drop to my knees in front of the toilet. I barely manage to lift the lid before another spasm brings up more. The taste and smell make me gag and this triggers another eruption. I’m so weak I rest my forehead on the rim of the toilet bowl. I moan softly. 

My benefactor steps away and returns with a wet wash towel. I gratefully wiped my face. The coolness soothes me better than anything else could. 

The mystery man excuses himself and steps outside of the room. While he is gone, I have a few cases of the dry heaves as my body is obviously trying to eliminate all traces of everything I have ingested since the third grade. Then, totally exhausted, I curl into a fetal position on the cold tile floor and drift back into a dreamless sleep. 

After an unknown period of time, I feel somebody tapping my shoulder again. It’s my unknown benefactor. “Hey, dude. Can you slide over a bit? I don’t want to spill any of this on you!”  In a fog, I slowly sit up and slide my butt a couple of feet across the floor. “Thanks, man.” and he tilts a blue plastic bucket and a stream of watery vomit and cleanser flows into the toilet. Pangs of guilt flow through me. This kind generous man has cleaned up my mess! I shut my eyes in self loathing. “I’m so sorry. I’m so very sorry!” I whisper. 

He gives a low chuckle. “Don’t worry about it. I was a medic in the Army. This is nothing. Truly. I’ve been absolutely soaked in puke, blood, piss and shit. I’ve had it in my hair, my eyes and even my mouth. Broke me from biting my fingernails, believe me!”  

His voice was low and gentle. He made me smile just a bit. 

Then it was like a lightbulb went off in my head. “Where the hell am I?” 

“You’re in my apartment! Welcome to my humble abode.” I glanced around the tiny bathroom.  It was old and worn but very clean. Exactly what you would expect from a former medic. There was a cracked sink with antique water stains in the bowl. A bar of Irish Spring soap sat in a saucer by the faucet. A sparkling clean water glass contained a well used toothbrush and a half emptied tube of a generic brand of toothpaste. 

The toilet was also sparkling clean, except for the remnants of my splatters. A half roll of cheap toilet paper sits on the floor.

A tiny shower occupies the opposite corner. A steady stream   of water drips from the shower head. A small shelf held more soap and shampoo and conditioner. A back brush hung from a nail. A second shelf held a comb, brush, razor and a can of shaving cream. 

There are water stains on the ceiling and the walls could use a coat of paint. 

Definitely a man’s bathroom. No feminine touches such as a basket holding potpourri, or small scented soaps or artificial flowers. No sign of feminine products. Nope, this was  spartan in its simplicity. 

My host peered down at me through those thick glasses, “Would you like to take a shower?” he asked. “You’ll feel better and frankly, you stink”

I nodded my head. Slowly. It feels like it’s about about to fall off of my shoulders, as waves of pain cause me to clutch the sides of my head. “Do you have any aspirin?” my desert-dry mouth whispers. 

“Be right back!” he cheerfully announces and he disappears out the door. 

I’m sitting on the floor clutching my knees to my chest when a horrifying thought crosses my mind. I raise my right butt cheek and feel my right hip pocket. I feel my wallet and quickly pull it out. I open it and relief washes over me as I see my cash and credit cards are still there. I wasn’t robbed. 

But I can not understand how or why I’m here with a perfect stranger. My memory is apparently on vacation.  

He returns with a glass of tepid tap water and a bottle of Aleev. He hands me the bottle and I shakily tap two into my palm. I swallow them with a gulp of the water. 

He then offers me a clean bath towel, an unopened bar of Irish Spring and a well worn sweatshirt.  “Take a shower but there’s very little hot water.” 

The shower was exactly what I needed. There was very little hot water but the cooler water helped to revitalize me and clear my head. When I left the bathroom, my host called out from his kitchen, “Are you hungry? I’m fixing a stew and there’s plenty! Come join me!”

I suddenly realized that in spite of my bouts of nausea, my stomach was growling and I was unexpectedly hungry. Ravenous even! I followed his voice to a small brightly lit kitchen. He is stirring a bubbling pot and the aroma is heavenly. I see a thick brown gravy and what appear to be potatoes, carrots, peas and thick chunks of meat. He sprinkles a few seasonings into the mix and stirs them in. 

“Lord, but that smells amazing!” I gasped. My stomach is now twisting into knots. 

He points to a small wooden table in the corner. “Have a seat!” There are two wooden chairs and I gratefully collapse in one. He carries two full bowls  to the table and places one before me and the other in front of the second chair. He grabs napkins and a pair of spoons and places them in the center of the table and motions for me to begin. He opens the oven door and pulls out a rack of toasted French bread. He spreads butter across each slice and then sprinkles garlic on them. Two mugs of steaming coffee complete the meal. I lift my mug and take a sip. It’s black and strong and perfect. I take another sip. I put the mug down and a sigh of contentment escapes from my lips. 

I ladle out a spoonful of the stew. I blow across it to cool it down and it enters my mouth. The unusual but delicious flavor makes me want to weep with happiness. I slowly and carefully chew the vegetables before swallowing. I pull another spoonful from the bowl and there’s a healthy sized chunk of meat in it. The meat is unbelievably tender and almost melts in my mouth. The flavor is superb and I wonder what is the source? Definitely not beef nor pork. Maybe lamb? I contentedly chew on a second piece of the meat and I pray he will share the ingredients and his recipe. I believe I could eat this meal three times a day without ever tiring of it. 

Suddenly I remember my manners. I dab my lips with the napkin before saying, “I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, generosity and hospitality. Especially for a stranger. And this stew is probably the best meal I have ever eaten. But I haven’t introduced myself.”  I extend my hand and I give my name. He blushes with pleasure and firmly shakes my hand. “It’s nice to meet you too!” he said. “My name is Jeffrey. Jeffrey Dahmer…”