I scan the counters as I cautiously walk through the kitchen. It’s obvious someone else has been here. There’s a spoon sticking out of an open jar of Peanut Butter. The yellow and brown of banana peels, coupled with those of the Mandarin Oranges, make the counter look like a Jackson Pollack painting. The chips are gone and candy wrappers are splashed across the floor.
What the hell happened here?
I run into the living room. The flat screen and DVD player are still there. I quickly scan the rest of the house for signs of a burglary but all the valuables remain. Nothing else has been touched except the food.
“Who would do this and why,” I ask myself, returning to the kitchen. “And where are my fucking rasins!?!”
I play through the foggy reels of last night’s film: I’m preparing the food. People arrive. I’m chatting it up with my friends and then flirting with a pretty woman. I smoke some weed. I’m in the hot tub heatedly arguing with someone about how to make the perfect PB and J. I get hungry, walk over to the food table, and then… and then nothing. The last thing I remember is walking over to the food table.
Well anyway, whoever this asshole is, he owes me two clusters of perfectly ripened organic bananas and a tub of cream cheese.
Wait a minute, I think. This has The Beast written all over it. All the tell-tale signs are present: The half-eaten breakfast burrito. The missing ham and pickles. The spatula handle covered in Nutella sticking out of a bag chocolate chips. Yes, of course! It’s The Beast!
My friends have been telling me about him for years. They say that a change occurs in me whenever I vote “Green” party. Everything is fine, just normal Brad hanging out. Then I start to complain of chest pains. My pupils double in size and suddenly stiff movements and grunts become my primary form of expression. Then, they say, an insatiable appetite drives me straight to where the food is being stored, the sounds of a rabid badger filling the air. That’s when they usher all the guests to the door and lock it on their way out saying, “It’s not safe in there.”
But I think their retelling is laced with exaggerations. If I don’t remember it happening, then it didn’t actually happen, right?
My first encounter with The Beast came with my introduction to the green plant. It was in Blaine, MN during my Sophomore year of High School, in the back of a buddy’s car at the drive-in theater. We caught the end of some film that I shockingly can’t remember and then came the main attraction: Erin Brokavich. That movie, to this day, goes down in my book as one of funniest of all time. For that hour and 30 minutes back in 2000, I couldn’t stop laughing at Julia Roberts’ clevage. But I digress! The food!
So midway through Pretty Woman’s Oscar-winning performance, there’s a rumbly in my tumbly that needs to be taken care of. The Beast.
I jolt upright with a breath of air, like a nightmare has just shocked me from sleep, and zombie my way to the concession stand. I study the wall menu for roughly 3.1 seconds and rapid fire my order: “Yeah, I’ll take two corndogs, nachos with extra Jalapenos, strawberry licorice, a medium fries, a large Sprite, and that box of Airheads.” Breath. I standing waiting, arguing with myself about adding a Pretzel to my order, when my number is called. I pocket the Airheads and Twizzlers into my cargo khakis and balance the other items in the crook of my arm. Holding the Sprite in one hand, and an already half-eaten corndog in the other, I turn to walk out of the concession stand, realizing I have completely forgotten where the car is. I piece together landmarks while carefully walking, a pothole, a fence post, and then I hear my friends all laughing at me. Friends meet Beast. Beast, friends.
I’ve just recently started to get better at managing my munchy monster:
I try to only buy healthy food. Yes I know that even too much of a healthy thing is bad for me. But five apples, a bowl of cashews and an avocado is a hell-of-a lot healthier than seven bagels and a bag of mini candy bars.
A friend reminds me not to inhale my food with a simple code phrase: “Tootsie Roll.” Stemming from a night at a game center where we cashed in all of our tickets for a massive handful of Tootsie Rolls. I was mowing down on them and he told me to stop and save one for later. So I did. We soon finished up our fun having and walked to the door. I reached my hand in my pocket, found the Tootsie Roll, and exclaimed “Tootsie Roll!” This sent my friend’s arm into his pocket where he grabbed his and yelled “Tootsie Roll!” A ceremony of hi-fives and giggles was conducted while we devoured our last treat. Now, by simply uttering the code phrase, he helps me to pace myself and maybe stash something away for later. And sometimes, if I’m not completely hunger-blind, I’ll say the phrase to myself.
And finally, I work out, a lot. That way if The Beast has a particularly successful hunt, slaying large quantities of the unhealthy, my belt loop stays in the same place.
But it’s been an absolute struggle, with some battles won and some battles wreaking of disaster. I guess if I want to control what lives inside of me, if I want to consistently beat The Beast, I’ll have to conjure some divine discipline, watching like a hawk during each high moment for the harbingers, and appeasing the crusade for carbs with healthy alternatives. I can do this.
I stop typing and notice I’m licking my fingers. Salty. I look down into an empty bag of Tostidos Scoops and an emaciated bowl of salsa.
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