Authors: The Hungry Years
It was extraordinary. I had never seen so many potatoes. On one side of me was a mountain of potatoes. Underneath me was a river of potatoes. Standing on a metal walkway, I followed the potatoes' progress through the factory. They flow into shiny cylindrical tanks that rotate while the skins are blasted off with steam. Then they are shot through `hydro-guns', forced by pressurised water through metal pipes at a speed of over 100 feet per second. At the end ofeach pipe is a grid of blades. This is the point where one potato becomes ten or more McDonald's fries.
Next, the river of potatoes becomes a waterfall of fries, a Niagara of what potato men call 'strips'. It is awesome. The strips are whizzed along on a holed conveyor, to ensure that small ones fall through, into the vast nether world below, the Hades of failed fries, fries that didn't make the grade. Making the grade, Thompson told me, is the crucial thing. Consistency is everything. People who eat fries want the fries they eat today to be exactly the same as the fries they ate yesterday and the fries they will eat tomorrow.
The fries flow past mounted cameras, which photograph any blemishes that might remain; in a breathtaking feat of technology, blades are programmed to pop up and slice off the blemishes. People want their fries to have cosmetic surgery.
When you're standing on a thin metal walkway at the top of a vast factory building, skidding on fat deposits, and looking down into a swimming-pool-sized vat of boiling fat, you understand what people put themselves through to arrive at the perfect serving of fries. You have plugs in your ears to protect you from the noise. `It's a very complex job,' Thompson told me. 'People think that making frozen fries is the easiest thing in the world. But it's not.' Later, the fries are tasted by a panel, some of whom are thin, and some of whom are not. One taster stands still, pushing golden fries into his mouth, small bright eyes darting around his large, pasty face. He is concentrating. He is the size of a black bear. He nods, satisfied, and picks up the next batch. It's thanks to him that the fries taste so good.
I could blame the advertising guy. I could blame Thompson. I could blame the man with the large, pasty face. I could blame the team of food scientists who devised the formula for the cooking oil. When I take a McDonald's French fry, and put it in my mouth, I could blame anybody, at any stage of the process I could blame the employees, or contractors, who have grown it, harvested it, trucked it, mechanically peeled it, skinned it, trimmed it, brushed it, blanched it, dried it, fried it, de-fatted it, cooled it, frozen it, bagged it, boxed it, X-rayed the box for foreign bodies such as coins or pens, trucked it to one of several distribution plants, from where it is trucked again to the car park or street by the golden arches in your home town wherever you live in the world, to be refried and sold by youngsters in cheerful aprons.
Have a Nice Day
The youngster in the cheerful apron says, 'Have a nice day.'
I take the box of fries. I nod at the youngster. I execute a swift turn. I push the thumb and first two fingers of my right hand into the box of fries, which are hot but not too hot. I am huge; the fries look tiny. I pick out a fry, and then another, and a third, and a fourth. I push the fries into my mouth. I exit the building.
The fries in my mouth taste of salt and fat and starch: they taste delicious, I could eat three or four boxes, they taste of my past, of the person I was when I ate fries and doughnuts and bagels and all the other things that made me hungry.
In what feels like a moment of madness, I walk ten feet anddump the fries in a bin, and, reeling, confused, I chew my mouthful of fries and I feel the grim tug of dread, and I actually wonder if I should walk back to the bin and pick my fries out, but I don't.
I walk on. I don't know what I'm doing. A torrent of emotion is passing through me, and I'm trying to dam the torrent with a single mouthful of fries, and before long, the mouthful is gone, and I am left with nothing.
Nothing, that is, except the prospect of being slim.
'I Recommend that You See a Psychiatrist'
I'm trying to remember what it was like to be slim, trying to imagine myself as I was in my early thirties, and, before that, in my early twenties, and I can't fix on the exact feeling, or sensation, of slimness. When I was slim, I didn't eat so much. When I was slim, I was more active. My clothes looked better. Sometimes I had a steady girlfriend; when I did not, I found myself driven by an urge to flirt with women. A relentless, nagging urge. At times I became promiscuous, gorging on sexual encounters in the same way that I had gorged on fries and hamburgers and peanut butter. I was voracious, I was carnal.
I remember one particular day. I was in my early twenties. I was a student. I weighed 185 lbs. Waist size: 30. I was having a drink with a friend. The week before, I had had sex with a girl at a party, in the bathroom, and left the party alone, and a couple of days later I had met another girl at another party and slept with her in her hall of residence, and a couple of
days after that I had met the first girl in a bar and spent a night with her, and psychologically, of course, I was a mess, a total mess, and I had a date with another girl the next day. If you'd asked me what I really wanted, I would have said that I was hungry, hungry for flesh. I don't think I fully understood that what I really wanted was not flesh, but something more complex and elusive.
I was in a bar near my parents' house. My parents were not at home they were thousands of miles away, living in a house I had never seen except in photographs. I was planning to stay in my parents' empty house, and catch the eleven-thirty train to London the next morning for my date, which was for lunch, at first, and then possibly an afternoon and an evening and a night.
My friend said, 'Don't you ever worry about your dick?' `My dick?'
`You know herpes. Everybody's getting herpes these days.'
I felt sick. I knew about herpes; to me, it was a black area of terror locked away at the back of my consciousness. I didn't think I had herpes but, on the other hand, who knew? The symptoms were awful painful crusty sores on the genitals. Sometimes the sores didn't arrive for a couple of weeks after transmission, sometimes not for years. My friend told me that, if you looked closely, you could definitely tell. What you had to look for were tiny red itchy spots. This was the beginning. After this, the sores became crusty. Then you were finished. The disease was incurable.
When I got home, I knew I would examine myself, and I knew what would happen if I examined myself. I tried to go tosleep and forget about it, and I tried drinking from a bottle of whisky, but I still could not go to sleep. I drank more whisky. I wandered around the house, lay on the sofa, made myself a cup of coffee, drank more whisky, looked at my sallow, unshaven face in the mirror. My eyes were distant, crazed, inaccessible.
I started examining myself. And there it was a tiny red spot. Possibly a mole, but possibly not. I poked at the red spot. Was it itchy? Yes. No. I poked a bit more.
A mole?
Or not?
I poked. I drank. The night slipped by in a trance of hysteria, psychological meltdown, insane feelings of guilt and self-loathing. I went to the kitchen cupboard, and found some spaghetti, and decided I did not want to eat the spaghetti, and, listless, tried to put it back in the cupboard, but dropped it all over the floor, and kicked the fallen strands into the sides and corners of the room, so as not to make a mess.
There was a point when I decided that it might be a good idea to see a doctor, just to get myself checked out, and a point, sometime after sunrise, when I began to believe that it was my moral duty to see a doctor. It struck me that there might be a doctor in the neighbourhood. I found myself reaching for the telephone book, writing down the number, dialling the number. It was 7.30 a.m. A man's voice answered.
`Hello?'
`Hello. Is that Dr Rosenberg?'
`Yes. Who is this?'
`Yes. I've just been checking, uh, I was going to, to see you.'
`Is this a medical matter?'
`Yes.'
`Have you made an appointment? Because . .
`I'm a neighbour.'
`Is this a serious matter? Are you the patient in question?' `Yes, I am.'
`Is it an emergency?'
`It might be.'
`Where do you have the trouble?'
`Where?'
`Which part of the body?'
`My, um, penis.'
`What has happened to your penis?'
`Well, you see, I wanted to get it checked out. I just live around the corner. I could come and see you.'
There was silence for a while.
Dr Rosenberg said, 'Well, I'm not at my surgery. I'm at home. This is my house.'
`That's fine. I could come and see you now.'
`Are you injured?'
`Well, I thought, you see, I could just ... pop round.' Dr Rosenberg said, 'If you're not injured, it can wait until I
get to my surgery. I have an appointment mid-morning.' `That's too late.'
`Are you a patient of mine?'
`Well, you see ... yes. I am.'
`OK. Just turn up at my surgery. You know where it is. Ask the receptionist for the eleven-thirty appointment. And if she can't fit you in and only if she can't fit you in I'll see you at eight-forty-five.'
`Could you remind me of the address?'
`It's 54 Castle Street.'
`Of course.'
I drank some more whisky, and drank some coffee, and then some more coffee. And then a nip of whisky, and more whisky. The red spot appeared to have got bigger. It felt itchy. There was something wrong with me. I put on my shoes and jacket and walked along the early-morning streets. My head was full of static. I was weaving slightly. People were calmly closing the doors of their houses, checking their pockets, opening and closing the doors of their cars.
At the surgery, Dr Rosenberg's receptionist told me that I could have an appointment at eleven-thirty.
`Ah,' I said. 'The thing is, I was talking to the doctor a few minutes ago, and he said it was crucial to see me at eight-forty-five.'
`Well, if that's what he said.'
At eight-forty, a small dark man walked into the lobby. The receptionist greeted him and he walked through a door, which he closed. The receptionist followed him into the room the surgery. I could not hear everything that was being said. One of the things being said was: 'But I told him explicitly. I told him ... half-past eleven. I told him explicitly.'
The receptionist reemerged from the office and sat down at her desk, head bowed.
The door to the surgery opened. Dr Rosenberg said, 'Well, you'd better come in.'
I walked in. The static in my head was increasing in volume. I felt a surge of joy, of liberation.
`You're not my patient, are you?'
`Well, yes.'
`You're not my patient, are you?'
`Well, not exactly. But I was about to sign up.' `Where do you live?'
`I've just moved into the area.' I gave Dr Rosenberg my parents' address.
Dr Rosenberg nodded. He moved behind his desk and sat down. 'OK. What's the matter with you?'
`I don't know.'
`You said it was your penis.'
`Well, I just thought ... I just thought I should get it checked out.'
Dr Rosenberg picked up a pencil and a pad of paper. `Have you had any discomfort?'
`I don't know.'
`Any discharge?'
`Well, not ... really. Not as such.'
`Any itching?'
`Yes. Possibly.'
Dr Rosenberg wrote on his pad. I moved towards him. `What are you writing?'
`Notes. Now. . .'
`What are you writing?' I moved across to the desk and looked at the pad. In a tiny script, Dr Rosenberg had written, `Penile itching?'
I could feel my small reserves of self-control slipping away, slipping away. I said, 'Penile itching? What does that mean? Is that bad?'
Dr Rosenberg said, 'Now look. You're not my patient.I'm doing this as a favour. I need to ask you a few questions.'
`Fire away.'
`Have you been having unprotected sex?'
`Yes.'
`I can refer you.'
`I just want you to check me out.'
`I'll refer you.'
Dr Rosenberg walked around the desk, and towards me, ushering me out.
`Just have a quick look.'
`No. As I say, I'll
`Please!'
`No!'
`It will just take a minute!'
Dr Rosenberg said, 'OK! Take your trousers down.' He took a torch from his desk. He checked me out.
`There is nothing wrong with your penis,' he said. `There's nothing wrong with me?'
`That's not what I said. There is nothing wrong with your penis. But your sex life has led to an extreme reaction. Your promiscuity is causing you mental problems. I recommend that you see a psychiatrist.'
A snapshot from the slim world. I was not fat. But I was the
same person who had got fat, who would get fat again. I backed away from the doctor. I felt joyful, unhinged. `So there's nothing actually wrong with me,' I said as I
backed into the waiting room.
`******* Atkins Diet!'
The waiting room of the Atkins Center is large, about the size of two squash courts, and exudes the bright, hopeful air of the 1970s. High ceilings, low furniture, white walls. The paintings on the walls are the sort of thing a rock star might buy huge canvases encrusted with jagged clumps of paint. Walking towards the reception desk I'm apprehensive, wondering if I look fat, wondering if people will think I've come to see Dr Atkins because I'm fat.
A cartoon has been clipped from a newspaper and stuck to the reception desk. It depicts Santa Claus, having come down the chimney, looking at a plate of food that has been left out
for him. The caption is, 4
.11.11 11, *
* Atkins diet!'
A woman arrives, introduces herself, and tells me that she will introduce me to Dr Atkins, and for a moment it doesn't occur to me that the unobtrusive, ghostly presence hovering just behind her might actually be Dr Atkins, so I say something about this being fine, and I nod, and I back away, distracted.