Breathe In, Cash Out by Madeleine Henry

Author:Madeleine Henry
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Atria Books

chapter 14

On the subway to Skylar’s, I earnestly try to recall my epiphanies. Oh, right, now I remember: “I’m not a complete asshole.” Groundbreaking.

With one arm, I cradle a crinkling Duane Reade bag full of snacks. With the other, I grip a subway pole to which arms are tethered like ribbons on a maypole. When the car shakes, my slippery pole hand slides up and down.

Every new AS full-time is assigned a “mentor” to help them through their transition to the firm. I got an MD named Nicole, who wears sequin-covered jackets and works out every night at midnight. Rumor is she “whips her husband’s noodle dick.” Nicole gave me a lot of advice during our one conversation in the Sky Lobby, including a tip to take public transportation in order to “stay in touch.” The memory comes back to me now. I’m still not sure what she meant, because I look way worse than everyone else on this fucking car. I would have better peace of mind taking cabs and staying in touch with a reward from my job.

Skylar has made more of an effort to help me in less than two weeks than the entire AS community has in two years. Your life advice for today: To select a whole row, use the shortcut SHIFT + SPACE BAR. At the threshold to her apartment, I knock and look down at the pale-pink woven doormat that reads SHANTI, Sanskrit for “peace.” I am so close and hug my snacks even closer: 5-Hour Energy drinks and the whole fucking candy aisle of Duane Reade. I’ve never had a 5-Hour Energy drink before, but my caffeine-withdrawal headache feels like a helmet two sizes too small. I need to down a few of these just to get back to baseline.

Skylar opens the door, cueing me to unwrap the small bottles. Without her explicit permission, I begin to suckle one of them as I stagger down her hallway. I never knew a concoction of unpronounceable chemicals mixed in a factory vat could feel so deeply nourishing. This highly processed whatever goes down as if it is the exact piece missing from my nutritional puzzle. Fucking tonic. I finger-tap tap the final drops stuck to the bottom into my mouth.

“Oh my God,” I say, relieved.

“You do not look good,” she says.

I lean on her marble dining table. She stands beside me in beige cashmere pants and a matching cardigan. I focus on the food. On the table in front of me waits an elaborate spread, apparently from the to-go counter at a vegan cafe: beet balls over squash spaghetti, curried pumpkin stew, a bunless tofu burger, mushroom-walnut pâté next to a fan assembly of Wasa crackers, and a bowl of fresh fruit. I don’t even like this stuff, but I fork a beet ball and swallow it whole. If she tells me to eat mindfully, I am going to fucking lose it. Why are yogis so afraid of food? They substitute the most common ingredients, as if everyone else is just fucking poisoned.

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