Chapter 5

“Is that your car in the parking lot?” a couple asked me as I was helping to ring up their chai lattes and warmed up blueberry scone. “Yes,” I replied without thinking about what car they were referring to. I automatically assumed they would be talking about my spearmint blue exterior, café latte tan colored interior, FIAT 500 pop. “Wow, a Mercedes,” they said. “No, I own the FIAT,” I said pointing at my car, slightly embarrassed. “Oh, that car is so cute! We noticed it too. Wow, a Fiat,” they said with the same inflection of awe in their voice. “Are you in college?” they asked. I told them I had a master’s degree already and was 32 years old. I quickly followed up by saying I was a writer. The shock in their faces was unmistakable: The slightly parted lips and the dilated eyes. What was I doing in an apron behind the cashier, listing off the non-coffee drinks we offered? Thankfully, the conversation veered off into the car lane again. “Did you just get it?” they asked. I told them I had the car for 5 years. “Still in great condition,” they said with admiration. I had to resume heating up orders so I broke off the interaction the way I did with everyone- your order will be ready in a few minutes and will be at the end of the bar to your left.

What the couple didn’t know was that I just received my car back from the workshop after I jumped the curb and crashed into a metal garbage bin belonging to a little Long Island hamlet. My front right tire busted and fell flat, my right light signal was cracked and the car’s bumper was off. My car was in the shop for almost three weeks and I am still terrified of driving. What they didn’t know was that I had gotten into a number of fender benders before that, resulting in my father bearing the costs of the repairs instead of going through insurance so rates would not increase. What they also didn’t know is that the car fueled my anorexia nervosa. Every time I would sit in the front passenger seat, the sign on the dashboard signaling absence of a person would enlighten. My weight was so low that I was not detected as a human being for years until I was slapped with an involuntary clause to pursue treatment in 2019 and began to restore what is now over 50 pounds.

No one at the coffeehouse knows that I have anorexia nervosa. No one knows that I eat a string cheese for lunch before working. No one is aware that I am triggered every time my manager tells another employee that to lose weight one must go on an all-liquid diet and go to the gym. I am tempted to tell them, but am just waiting until the time comes when I have to. For now, I have just declined participating in coffee tastings by saying that I medically cannot drink them. Human resources mandate that they not pry, and my exhaustion at repeating my entire story forces me not to elaborate.

What some of them know is that I am mixed. I’m a half Puerto Rican, half Punjabi native New Yorker. I was born and raised in the boroughs, not Long Island. I never drove a day in my life before I moved out to the suburbs about six years ago. I brought my biracial heritage, the other thing that set me a part, the other part of my identity beside the academic anorexic. I don’t look particularly mixed. Sure, I have non-uniform curly hair and eyes that turn slightly hazel every so often that is impossible to tell by my high prescriptive lens glasses, but otherwise I seem to look a good deal Punjabi.

“Are you Punjabi?” a young girl stepped away from the huddle of her high school brethren. I can tell by your necklace, she said. She was staring at my collar-bone length nameplate necklace that had my name written in the Punjabi script. I was taken off guard. It was the first time a customer had started to make conversation with me. “Yes,” I answered without thinking. I always state my full biracial identity but had failed to do so just then. I vowed to never let that happen again. I vowed to shed my hardened exterior without knowing how or if it could happen by sheer force of will.

“Are you Punjabi?” This time a young man asked me. He was tall and of an athletic build. How did he manage to eat a cheese danish so off-the-cuff? Did he thinking about eating the way I did? Did anyone who did not have an eating disorder think about food the way I did?

I recognized him from when I worked the drive-thru. He always ordered a food item in addition to a drink. He was always polite and flashed a smile that could make someone experiencing the worst day feel seen and heard. He drove a silver-grey car that looked like one of those Transformers model cars my brother used to play with growing up. It was always shiny and chic. I learned his name because we were told to ask for customers’ names as a means of forging connection. I could identify him in all these ways except for his eyes, which till this day, I still haven’t seen because he insists on wearing the shiniest of sunglasses, the lens of which one can only see their own reflection.

“Yes.” I paused before quickly saying, “I’m half Punjabi.”

“I can tell by your necklace,” he said. He was talking about the Sikh religious amulet I wore, a faith that originated in the state of Punjab. “I’m Punjabi too,” he said, smiling. I didn’t respond. I felt my stomach churn. I felt myself suddenly become warm despite always being cold. My legs felt like mush and I was falling. I was falling for him, until I caught myself and said, “your order will be ready soon.” I regretted it. Where was the vibrancy? Why didn’t I introduce myself? Did I lose my shot? How old is he anyway? I’m 32. He could very well be a decade younger than me. 

I’ve had crushes before. My last crush was older than me by four or five years, which was exactly what I wanted, basing what love was off of my parents who are five years apart. The problem was that he was of a nationality and faith at odds with my own. That is to say, our backgrounds made us mortal enemies according to history so my “love,” if that’s what it could be called, was forbidden. That and he already had a girlfriend. The whole scenario was unfortunate. We were all classmates in graduate school. He, his girlfriend and I all sat side by side in a lecture on the business of journalism because we were seated in alphabetical order according to our last name. I had not seen him since I graduated from journalism school seven years ago. I had not seen him since the anorexia took its toll on me physically.

I didn’t know that I was capable of crushing again now that my hormones are nonexistent. I not so secretly enjoyed the feeling of being flush, of feeling my always cold body go warm. I suddenly began to look forward to going to the café for my shift, just so I could see the tall, handsome man with whom I shared a heritage. A couple of shifts passed since he spoke to me. We hadn’t spoken to each other again ever since. I made a promise to myself to ask him something, anything just so I could restart a conversation. I wanted to take the initiative, even if this meant absolutely nothing more than me, a barista, serving him, a customer. This seemed to be the case with every passing shift that I just handed him his food or drink. “Thank you,” he would say before going on his way.