Starbucks Confessions
By Jafa

Cassie had long blond hair and a walk that reminded me of a three-year old. She sort of hopped on the balls of her feet. She stood, slender and a little sad, against the Hobart machine in a kitchen at a cafe I used to go to over on Amsterdam Ave.

"This isn't getting me closer to what I want to do," she told me.

What Cassie wanted to do was cook. But the thing that was getting in her way was her day job. She waited tables and sometimes ran the big dishwasher when Jamie the dish guy didn't show up. She had enrolled at a cooking school in midtown, and waiting tables help pay tuition and rent.

I knew Cassie's brother; he and I were in grad school together. I needed a part-time researcher for a project I was in the middle of, and I thought Cassie might like the extra work.

"I don't know. I've got to do what I want to do," she said. She slid a green plastic apron over her head.

"Isn't that shirt a little dangerous around hot water?" I asked. She wore this red champion tee that she had cut short so that it showed a perfectly flat stomach.

Cassie absently ran her hand across her belly. She said, "No. I'm good."

That was in February, 2000.

Cassie's brother Steve called late last night letting me know he was in town for the weekend. "I want to do the AIDS Walk," he said. "What are you doing for breakfast?"

"Working," I said. "I've got something due." I had screwed up a project that was due Monday. I'd been killing myself all weekend trying to get it right.

"Twenty-minutes, Dufus," he said. "Twenty minutes is not going to set you back."

How could I say no?

We met at Starbucks and talked about nothing until Cassie showed up with her baseball cap and her Sunday Times.

"Hey, Tubby," Steve said. He lifted his sister's sweatshirt. Cassie had become fat.

"Look at this," Steve said.

Now, I don't think I have to take a whole lot of space describing my quick pulse and shallow breathing. I shifted in my seat and tried to look disinterested.

"Shut up, moron," Cassie said. She looked at me and smiled. "Hey. Long time."

"How are you, Case?" I asked.

"I'm good," she said. "I'm cooking."

Cassie sat down and leaned forward to put the Times on the floor. She gave a small groan, then sat up straight, reached under her sweatshirt, and unbuttoned her jeans.

Cassie rolled her eyes. "Occupational hazard," she said.

Steve, none too thin himself, said "Yeah. Occupational hazard. I've been waiting for this for years. Now you look like one of the family.

Cassie ignored him. But she didn't ignore the bagels at the counter. She excused herself, then returned with two.

"Starving," she said.

"Where are you working, Cassie?" I asked.

"Union Square," she said. She gave me the name of some trendy place on 18th Street.

"She's good," Steve said. "She's the best advertisement for her own cooking."

"Moron," Cassie said. Then she looked at me.

"Ever find the help you needed?"

"What? Oh, the researcher. Yeah, thanks I said." I was staring at her stomach.

She looked at Steve, then back at me.

"Forty-three pounds," she said. "Okay? That is what you guys want to know. Isn't it?"

"I don't know if that's..." I started saying. But Cassie cut me off.

"Yes it is," Cassie said. "Steve told me about your fascination with fat chicks. That's why he wanted me here. To see if you'd get all bothered."

I looked at Steve. "Moron," I said.

"That's okay," Steve said. "Cassie likes really hairy guys. Everyone's got something." The hairy guy sitting at the next table got up and left.

Cassie narrowed her eyes and looked at Steve. "Would you shut up?" she said.

"So, tell me. What happened?" What did I have to lose? She knew. It seems everyone knew these days.

"What happened? I don't know. You work in a kitchen, around food all day, you eat a lot."

"And getting fat doesn't bother you?"

"Sure it bothers me," Cassie said. "But other things bother me more. War. Disease. Stupidity." She looked at her brother.

"Besides. It sneaks up on you." She was turning philosophic. She stared at the window as she absently spread a thick cube of cream cheese on her second bagel.

"We're always around food; everyone is talking about food. I mean, all the time. And then there's the uniform."

"What uniform?"

"Kitchen staff wear very loose fitting clothes, she said. "It's so you don't get burned or scalded if some sauce falls on you. The liquid gets caught up in the loose folds of the pants - it never hits your legs."

"I don't get it," I said.

"The pants don't bind. So you can eat forever and ever feel like you're growing out of your clothes. Until you do. Then it's 'oh, shit.'"

"And you never feel full?" I asked.

"No. Spend your day eating small amounts. You never get full. I don't, anyway." She looked back at the pastry counter. "I think I want something else."

Cassie stood, and walked over to the counter. I watched her and Steve watched me. Cassie ran her hands along her hips as she leaned over to look at the lemon bundt cake.

"You're sick," Steve said.

"Maybe," I said. "But everyone has something. Your sister likes hairy guys and you liked to be mothered."

"Shut up." Steve said.

I felt like I was back in seventh grade. Insults and infatuation were everywhere.

Cassie came back empty handed. "I've got to get ready for work anyway," she said. She looked at me.

"Interview over?"

"I didn't mean to pry," I said. "Besides, you seem to like talking about it."

"Why not?" she said. "I like food, I like the way I feel. I'm not afraid of a little fat."

Three teenage girls, thin as rails and drinking out of coffee cups that were way too big for them, looked over at Cassie.

"Gross," one of them said.

"Besides," Cassie said looking over at the girls. "It's every girl's secret desire to be fat. That's why I cook. To fatten them up."

Steve looked down at his own big belly. "Just like Mom," he said.