Chad

Dear Chad, 

You always arrive after dinner. You burst through the front door without an invitation. I expect you, dread you, and yet even though I hate when I hear your voice in the front hallway, I almost always let you stay. 

You never sit down, and you bring your own thirty pack of Miller Lite. You’ve been out all day, probably at a golf “fundraiser” at the wealthiest club in the area. You are in your early forties but you don’t have to work anymore. You’re loaded, always with money, and usually with booze, too. 

I have a love-hate relationship with all the food voices, but my most extreme love and my most extreme hate may be for you. You can be so charming, handsome, adorably flirtatious. But 30 minutes later, you crush my soul. 

No offense to lacrosse players, but you were the captain of your lacrosse team at Connecticut College. You aren’t very bright, but your family is old-money wealthy and you went to the best private schools growing up. You boarded in the prep school dorms since you were twelve, and growing up with only privileged white boys gave you a very narrow view of the world. You bring that view to my house every single night, which kills me because I spend every day trying to surround myself with people who think on a much bigger scale. 

After you barge in and hoist your thirty pack on to the island counter, it starts. Again.

“You want one?” you ask. 

“No, I don’t like beer,” I answer. 

“So have some dessert. I know you like that,” you say, revealing your perfect (fake, I think) teeth. Of course you’re right, I mean, we had this same conversation the night before, and nothing has changed. 

Other voices pop up, quietly. Send him home. He’s no good for you. 

But you’re more charming than they are convincing. 

“Don’t be such a prude,” you say. I smirk it off. 

“No, I’m not,” I argue. 

You nudge my shoulder with your forearm. “Then have a beer.” 

“You know I don’t like beer.”

“Then have something salty or sweet,” you say with a wink. 

“I don’t need it; I just ate,” I answer. 

“No fun,” you say, and you throw back the rest of your first beer. You seem sad that I’m not joining.

“I’ll have something small with you,” I surrender. “Nothing big.” I reach into the cabinet for the rice cakes and peanut butter, with plans to spread the peanut butter very thin. 

“There’s my girl. Boy, you really know how to treat yourself,” you taunt me. “Add the jelly, will you please? Just this once?” 

“But I did that last night,” I answer, remembering how delicious that combination remains despite decades of its glory and its torment. 

“And look at you; it didn’t hurt you much, did it?” you say, cracking your second beer. 

I smile, willing to pretend that it didn’t hurt me but knowing full well that it did. Or better yet--he’s right, it didn’t--but everything that came after did. I open the fridge for the jelly. 

As you enjoy your beer, I taste the perfection of the salty meeting the sweet. The crunch of the rice cake below (there only to hold the other two together). It’s not bread, I tell myself. You’re still being good. 

You start to tell funny stories about your day. I laugh. The kids think you’re funny, too. I relax for a minute. I love the laughter. The lightness of it all. 

But then something in you changes. You get forceful. 

“Have another one,” you tell me. “It’s a fucking rice cake. How can it hurt you?” 

“Please stop,” I beg. 

“Come on, we’re just having fun here,” you laugh. I can see you’re getting more drunk by the minute. “You don’t drink. You don’t do drugs. Can’t you just enjoy a fucking bag of chips?” you argue. 

Other voices whisper. Remind him that you can’t. But you’re the alpha dog. The fun one. The life of the party. And you bully the nerd into reaching for the snack cabinet. What can a few Fritos do? I open the bag and take a seat. The Fritos have never tasted better. 

“See. Isn’t that better?” you say. 

And it is. 

Until it isn’t. 

Because a few Fritos in, I can’t stop. 

That’s when you become the frat boy we see in the movies. Bullying me to step up to the funnel and chug, only I want to chug ice cream. And I do. And you cheer me on. And I like it. Even love it. “See, I’m fun!” I announce as you cheer me on.

“More, more, more!” you chant. And I keep going. Salty then sweet, and around again. Each chip soothes me. Each bite is like a warm blanket on a cold night. All of life’s stresses melt away. 

But then, you start to fade into the background. I’m still eating but you quickly grow tired, and within minutes, you’re blacked out on the couch. Despite having looked handsome and fit upon your arrival, you now look haggard and round. You still have an unfinished beer in your hand. And that’s when I start to hate you. And that’s when David shows up.