Sneak Preview: “A Night at the Automat”

For many months now, I've been struggling with what to do with this website. I've spent the past ten months working a (no longer new) regular Executive Assistant job while plodding through this novel I've been trying to get written.

What's that, a novel I'm writing? Yes indeed, I've been working on my debut novel, which I'd like to somehow complete within the next three months. I could go on about my writing process, but instead of making a pitch right now, I'm just going to share an excerpt that I'll call A Night at the Automat:

I’m constantly hungry but I never enjoy eating. By the time my weekly binge rolls around I’m starved and I stuff myself as soon as I get home. Tonight, Friday night, is no exception.

Amidst the neon-lit labyrinth of Midtown, lies a sanctuary of indulgence, both clandestine and conspicuous: today’s reinvented Automat. Not too far removed from the Horn & Hardarts of the previous century, this place encompasses the modernity and spotlessness, but also the seediness, of those archaic culinary establishments that shuttered long before I was even born. With its bright, eye-catching signage and sleek, minimalist façade, it is an aesthetic oasis amid the concrete shitpile. Inside, rows of gleaming, glass-fronted compartments stand sentinel, each harboring tantalizing treasures veiled in mystery and abject craving.

The Automat is a place I come back to time and time again. On Friday evenings I go to this location in Turtle Bay. It’s on the opposite side of the island from my office, and far enough from anyone I know that I’m comfortable enough to go in. Once I finally make it to 1st Avenue, I like to look out onto the East River and stretch my legs as I pass the United Nations building.

I spend the bulk of each week navigating the sterile corridors of corporate servitude, my hungers suppressed, my desires buttoned up tight. But come nightfall, when the city’s pulse hits a different rhythm and inhibition unravels, I surrender to the siren call of excess. As I hurriedly walk eastward from the office, I pull out a dark grey Uni Qlo hoodie from my handbag and put it on as I walk. As I get closer to my destination, I pull the hood up over my head.

Friday nights have become my bacchanalian pilgrimage, a ritualistic descent into oblivion which commences with a feast. I descend upon the Automat with a feverish hunger, my senses heightened by frenzied anticipation. My resolve begins to crumble like the multiple single servings of tres leches cake I will soon be indulging in.

The items on offer this evening sing to me from their gleaming glass cells, culminating in a symphony of temptation, each morsel a sin waiting to be savored. At long last, I succumb to the allure of comfort and familiarity, looking through the windows at the teensy trays laden with decadent delights: crispy fried chicken tenders, gooey macaroni and cheese, and black slices of chocolate cake beckoning with promises of euphoria.

If I were truly honest, I’d be able to own the fact that it is not merely the act of unbidden consumption that seduces me; it is that the act is one of rebellion that really gets me hot and hungry and oh so bothered. Each bite drowns out the cacophony of self-doubt and guilt, replacing it with a fleeting ecstasy, a momentary reprieve from the suffocating weight of my pathetic existence. In these moments I choose to defy the constraints of societal norms, of decorum, of my personal demons.

Beverages, too, play their part in this hedonistic symphony. I wash down my indulgences with the effervescent kiss of full-calorie cola, the sharp bite of caffeine-laced elixir fueling my nocturnal escapes. Each sip is a balm to my aching soul, a fleeting respite from the relentless march of time. I fill up a 30-ounce cup and then push the tray with my items toward the self-checkout. In addition to the gratis water and condiments, a major perk of the Automat is the self-checkout terminals. I can be here and not interact with a single other person. It feels… safe.

I pay and discreetly place my items into two gallon-sized Ziploc bags that I close and tuck into my purse. The anticipation has gripped me tightly now; hungry, thirsty, sleep-deprived and worn, I call an Uber and head home to stuff myself silly. I feel a tingle in my toes as I ride to my building in a well-maintained royal blue Honda.

Tonight’s menu is comprised of two mac & cheese krokets, one cheeseburger slider, one chicken pot pie, one roast pork bun, two pizza dumplings, one cup of glazed donut holes, and two slices of the tres leches cake. Plus, my Coca-Cola, the supreme beverage of bingers everywhere. I can barely contain my glee as I rush into my apartment like the fool I am.

And so, I feast and falter and fill myself to bursting, trapped in the vicious cycle of deprivation and excess, loathing and longing, never climbing down from the precipice of restraint and release. In the shadows of the city that never sleeps, I am both predator and prey, seeking salvation in the embrace of consumption, only to find myself lost in the labyrinth of my own desires… Every. Single. Time.