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Eating Hamburgers

Sabina Walser

    “Two mushroom hamburgers, please,” Alexandra says.
    “Anything else?”
    “No, that’s it.”
    Alexandra’s hands tremble as she fumbles with the money. She drops a dime. As she bends to pick it up, her hair falls in front of her face and she bumps into the person behind her. Then she drops her keys as she reaches for the bag of burgers.
    Walking out of the greasy spoon carrying the brown paper bag in one arm, her car keys in the other, she feels hyper and self-conscious. Her normal rhythm is forced so that her arm carrying the bag feels heavy and obvious, while the other arm hangs stiffly. She walks like a teenage boy carrying his first box of condoms. Awkward, nervous, embarrassed—but charged: the potential shoots through her, her face is flushed.
    In the car, she opens the window and the sunroof, starts the engine, and zips out of the parking lot. She drives too fast and too aggressively, changing the radio station often. When a Celine Dion song comes on, she punches in the cassette in the car stereo. The Beatles sing, plead—demand actually—“Why Don’t We Do It in the Road.” She rounds the corner, leaning towards the open window, her left hand on the wheel, the right shifting the stick easily. Her foot presses and releases the clutch swiftly. A Cool Driving Moment.
    At a red light, a handsome, stylish 50-something man crosses the street, glances at her, but doesn’t keep looking. Alexandra turns the volume down, then shakes her sunglasses off and squints into the brightness, ashamed that she wanted him to do a double-take, ashamed she doesn’t measure up, ashamed that for a minute she felt like hot shit. She worries she’ll reek of the grease from the burgers: dirty and smutty. She worries about sweat stains under her arms. She worries about the dampness between her legs, not that it would show, but she feels it.
    Running yellow lights so that she won’t be noticeably late, she thinks back to her dream about mushroom burgers, how there was little self-consciousness and no censorship in telling Dr. Engels the dream. A few years ago, she wouldn’t have been able to say out loud the words she needed to describe the dream (like “juicy”). Hamburgers themselves were indulgent and excessive—reminiscent of an adolescent’s appetite: huge, insatiable, unhealthy, pimple producing. Indecent.
    Her dream involved Dr. Engels working at Burger King. That in itself was a ridiculous and embarrassing image, conjuring up a stupid oaf in a silly hat with a high-tech headset. Thankfully, in her dream the Burger King was a rustic diner in the country and Dr. Engels wore a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. In the dream, she wanted to order a hamburger with mushrooms, but since Dr. Engels was working behind the counter she couldn’t bring herself to order it. Her mother, on the other hand, did order a burger with mushrooms and threatened to order one for Alexandra if she didn’t go up to the counter and do it herself. She obeyed but only ordered fries.
    She can analyze the dream herself: although she allows herself to fulfill her wishes to a certain extent, she’s still monitoring and limiting her true desires—someone else’s opinion makes her hold back. She fears being judged. And not insignificantly, her mother gets what she, Alexandra, wants which is apparently her father, definitely her shrink, and seemingly, most men; but wanting the adoration of men is complicated by the fact that as a child she didn’t understand she just didn’t have the goods to compete with her beautiful, blond mother, despite Alexandra’s frustrated, fruitless efforts. But for Alexandra it was progress that she even recounted the dream—and that she ordered the fries. She could’ve only had a glass of water, after all. Dr. Engels ended the session by saying her task at hand was getting what she wanted while being in his presence—with grease dripping from her chin, down her hands, onto her shirt—and face his reaction.
    Obviously, a metaphor. She totally and completely understands how being so free in front of one’s therapist so as not to worry about ordering, much less eating a messy mushroom hamburger, that that could signify an internal freedom. By not doing so, her super-ego restrictions are still in place.
    She gets it. She’s still uptight.
    But she didn’t know how that translated into her actual behavior in front of him. What would it entail to be in his office with metaphorical hamburger grease, what was that grease? Was it her sexuality in all its potentially messy, juicy forms? Her sexual feelings towards Dr. Engels? Or would it entail the emotional: crying uncontrollably, demanding the unreasonable, refusing to leave when time was up, slamming doors when she left?
    She parks the car, noticing that thankfully she’s two minutes late so she won’t have to pass another patient with her dirty paper bag in the stairwell, or stink up his quaint waiting room. She walks with purpose, like a woman on a mission, up the stairs. Her flip flops, to her irritation and regret for having chosen them, announce her arrival as if she were a teenager, carefree, casual, coming in from the beach chewing gum. He stands in the doorway and immediately glances at the bag. They exchange hellos. Despite herself, she starts smiling, which she tries to hide by turning her back to him. But she can sense him watching her. She swiftly walks to her chair, cringing at the smell that follows her, and sits down. As he turns from closing the door and slowly moving to his chair opposite her, before he even sits down, before he can question the smell and the heat coming from the bag, she blurts, “I brought some hamburgers.”
    “Oh?” he says, slowly settling into his chair, looking at her.
    “One’s for you,” she says. He doesn’t respond.
    Silence.
    “Do you want one?” she asks, getting red in the face. The redness snakes up her neck, and not only to the apples of her cheeks, but she flushes all over. Hot from the inside out.
    More silence.
    Oh shit.
    She wanted him to immediately lean over, gratefully take a burger and say, “Sure. That’s exactly what I’m in the mood for. Pass the mustard.” Instead, he says nothing and is obviously thinking over his options, stalling. The smell of the burgers hovers between them, like an awkward question hanging in the air. Her shame makes her scalp prickle. She interprets his silence as a heavy wall, with signs on it pronouncing Wrong, Over-the-Line, Inappropriate.
    More silence.
    She wants him to speak, to rescue her from this frantic, broiling shame. All that resolution, determination, that spirit and boldness she felt earlier is smoldering. Humiliation covers her like a heavy wet blanket. She’s pissed off at herself for wearing such glaring red pants, for exposing her toes—it’s too much.
    Finally, he says carefully, slowly, “Why should I eat one?”
    She hadn’t even thought he might refuse. “You don’t have to,” she says. “It’s just, um, I thought about my dream with the mushroom burger, remember? And you said I needed to be able to be in front of you with grease dripping onto my shirt. Do you remember?” She speaks with desperation, her voice rising, nearly hysterical, defensive. “I know it was a metaphor, but I wanted to test being in front of you with grease all over me, and I couldn’t think of anything else, other than—um, other than really having hamburger grease on me.”
    He considers her answer, then says, “But you need to test that theory. I don’t. I don’t need to be in front of you with grease dripping down my chin.” He is treading carefully, but also standing his ground. This is her thing, her need, her challenge, her investment. It is still therapy, not a date.
    “I feel so stupid,” she mumbles. Suddenly her thighs are fat and fleshy. She claps her arms across her chest to conceal her breasts. Through glazed eyes, she looks out the window at the lilac bushes, her hair half in her face. She knows, in other circumstances, all this heat, this shininess would be appropriate, a turn on. Here, it always sneaks up on her. Here, it feels cunning.
    “What was that smile about when you walked in?” he asks.
    “Nothing...I don’t know... I guess, something about this plan, and well, my red pants. Oh, it’s so obvious. I’m so obvious!”
    “What’s obvious?”
    “Nothing. Never mind.”
    “Do you mean there’s a connection between the hamburgers and the red pants?”
    Silence.
    “Why red pants today?” he presses.
    “I don’t know.” The familiar fire shoots through her, above her groin somewhere, deep inside. She senses his gaze on her legs.
    “Why the red pants?”
    “I guess, I was thinking I might not be able to go through with buying hamburgers, so this was my back up.”
    “Your back up?”
    “I don’t know. Yes...To show you something...”
    “Show me what?”
    “I don’t know...something about my sexuality.”
    “What about your sexuality?”
    “That it’s there! That I’m not just mousy and frigid. That some men—even if you don’t—might actually desire me. You know, that I could finally provoke you, and you’d say, ‘Ok, let’s do it. Take your clothes off. Lie down on the couch.’”
    He waits for a moment, until he says slowly, “I know your sexuality is there. And I have no doubt that other men desire you. But my job, as a therapist, is to be able to be your therapist for my entire life, and your entire life. I know you want to make love to me, that you want me to desire you, so that yes, in a fantasy, in Vancouver at a conference, we might fall into bed together, but in reality, my position as your therapist will never allow us to do that. It’s not an option.” He stops for a moment then resolutely he says, “Ever.”
    Instantly, a vivid image of them making love on a tacky bedspread in a Vancouver hotel flashes through her mind. She notices the pulse, just one quick, but distinct, pulse between her legs. Without fail, his saying the words “making love” provokes that sudden quiver. Years ago she denied it, or squeezed her thighs so that she could try to stifle it. Now she at least acknowledged it. Progress.
    “So, how about the hamburgers?” he prods.
    “I feel so obvious, so me! I’m so unsubtle.”
    “You’ve spent your whole life trying to be subtle. Don’t feel stupid. You took a risk. Now see it through.” He is smiling, amused.
    “I can’t.”
    “You can’t?”
    She waits for a few minutes, letting his words sink in, then finally says, “Okay... okay. Do you mind if I eat in here?” He doesn’t answer but continues to look at her. “Do you?” she persists.
    “Find out.”
    “You’re not making this easy.” He continues smiling. “This is so dumb. Your whole office smells.” Her discomfort is palpable, it competes with the sweet, heavy smell of the burgers.
    Dr. Engels shifts in his seat, crosses his legs. “Why did you bring them in today?”
    “Because ... I don’t know... Because... having hamburger grease all over me, you watching me eat this, it’s embarrassing, and to get over being embarrassed, it seems important, something I can cross off, I can say I did it, move on. It took guts to do this, you know. I’ve never been so nervous in my life,” she adds.
    “Yes, but why today?”
    “I don’t know. Why not today? I thought I could do it,” she says.
    “So?”
    “So, what?”
    “What are you waiting for?” he asks.
    “Okay.” She pulls one of the warm, soft packages out of the bag. The rustling makes her self-conscious, like someone is watching her undress in a harsh unflattering light. Dr. Engels sinks back into his chair, uncrosses his legs, rests his feet on the ottoman, and closes his eyes: patient, listening, waiting. He isn’t going to dissect or analyze this experience.
    She unwraps the burger, which sits expectantly on her lap. The top bun is soft, smooth, the light brown of suede leather; the bottom bun has soaked up the moist juices. She takes a contained bite, not too big, but not too prissy either. With the napkin, she wipes her mouth: she’ll eat the burger, but she isn’t going to be a slob and get grease on her favorite black T-shirt. As she chews, she inspects the burger. Ian had often pointed out her weird habit of examining her food before she bit into it, how she carefully scrutinized any item of food before it entered her mouth. She glances at Dr. Engels to see if he observed this quirk of hers, but his eyes are still closed. On closer inspection of the burger, the flesh of the meat is soft, plump, pinkish. She also spots the small nub of a mushroom showing—slick, shiny, glistening. She tightens her grip so there is no chance anything unsightly would slip out, stain the carpet, expose a wetness. The burger is sweet and salty, sticky and messy: hot, moist, thick and juicy. The gravy from the mushrooms oozes. But her nervousness makes her mouth dry. She wants water. She licks her lips, wiping away any sauce that might have stayed on her lips. After each bite, she wipes her mouth. She doesn’t know where to look and settles on the rug in front of her.
    Dr. Engels does eventually open his eyes, after he’s registered, perhaps digested, the fact that she’s actually taking this risk. He smiles. There’s no condescending sneer in his smile, no sense that this is inappropriate. Instead: a sense of relief—she’s done it. More importantly, his look confirms for her that this is doable, the sky isn’t falling, the floor isn’t swallowing her up, there is no sentencing, no one pronouncing her unfit for the world, unfit for her therapist. Here she is, at 31, with a husband, a child, two university degrees behind her, doing one of the most mundane yet momentous things she’s ever done—eating a hamburger in her therapist’s office—and her therapist, her window to the world’s reactions, merely watches and waits.
    Towards the end of the burger, there’s just bun with a light coating of sauce left. Her fingers are sticky. She wipes them on the napkin, then crumples the wrapper, the napkin and the bag. She sits back.
    “There. I did it.” Silence.
    More silence, he is waiting.
    She’s hot from having been hot, her warmth has subsided leaving her drained and feeling slightly disgusting—dirty and decadent, a familiar sensation after inhaling fast food. Her body is heavy, not only from the hamburger but from extreme fatigue like after a good cry or good sex, or like a sexually charged but tightly repressed session, like the ones she used to always have, never for a second daring to let go. Her legs ache. She can barely hold her head up. But she welcomes the silence—just sitting with her therapist—not gushing, exploding, complaining, demanding, desiring, agonizing, hiding.
    Just being here.
    The silence is interrupted by a low rumble from Dr. Engels’s stomach. It isn’t the first time it’s happened. Over the years, both of their stomachs growled at various times, and although sometimes embarrassing in length, or volume, they always acted as if it hadn’t happened and continued either with the talking or with the silence. This time, however, given the circumstances, Alexandra can’t help but smile. In fact, she chuckles and says, “You are hungry, aren’t you?”
    “It would seem so.”
    She gathers the bag onto her lap. The warmth of the burger seeps through. “Do you want this hamburger, then? It’s still warm.”
    “Why not?” Dr. Engels holds his hand out, accepting the soft package she hands him. She reaches back into the bag to give him some napkins—he shouldn’t have to embarrass himself with dripping mushrooms.
    He grins at her with his seductive smile. The smile he uses only when the sexuality in the room is so present, and she struggles to learn from it and he appreciates her efforts of not shying away from it. With that intoxicating smile, he looks at her while unpacking the burger. He then looks down and concentrates on picking up the potentially messy endeavor. His first bite is a big, hearty bite. Alexandra feels some anxiety at the prospect of sauce hanging on his upper lip, of him looking momentarily unattractive, even repulsive. She calms down when she notices he eats the burger with focus and neatness—not with greed or piggishness.
     Alexandra doesn’t feel awkward or shy. There’s still the heat inside her, but this time instead of embarrassing her, it invigorates her. In her exhausted, spent state she slowly looks at him, or sometimes out the window, or sometimes at the painting. Her slow, deliberate eyes match his slow, deliberate bites. He finishes in the same manner she had: wipes his mouth, crumples the napkins, tosses them in the small garbage can, sits back and closes his eyes.
    She, too, leans back and closes her eyes. A siren screams in the distance. She doesn’t know what to say, what to do. Is he waiting for her to say something? He was always waiting for her to say something. But this time the silence rests calmly—she can melt into it; they both can melt into it. Somewhere in the building a toilet flushes.
    Dr. Engels breaks the silence. “So?” he prods.
    “What?” Her voice has a hint of defensiveness. She’s done the hard work, what more needs to be said? He looks back at her, raising both eyebrows. They both know she’s stalling. They’ve played this game in the past, where she wanted to force him to be specific, but he wanted her to take the lead. She understands his question: So—what has been gained by this? Has it accomplished what she imagined?
    “I’m not sure what to think.” Actually, she does. She’s thrilled, bowled over, shocked that this exchange has happened. Something has changed between them. “I can’t believe I did this....I can’t believe you ate a burger.”
    “You’re surprised? You didn’t think I would eat it?”
    “No.”
    “But it was important to you that I did.” It isn’t a question.
    She shifts in the chair, uncomfortable at how transparent her desires are. “It’s sort of an obvious thing to say, but I hadn’t put words to it before recently. I realize how often I’ve been scared. So scared of my excessiveness, that my urges are too much—that you’ll be grossed out. Last time you were saying how I needed to stop asking permission, I needed to test limits—I could’ve asked you whether I could bring in the burgers...”
    “But you didn’t. You felt free enough to bring them in without asking permission, without making sure it was okay. You took a gamble.”
    “Yes.”
    “And?”
    “And what?”
    “I think you know what I’m asking,” he says.
    “I’m surprised at myself, and at you, for going through with this. It’s like we did something together, it brought us together.” She pauses. “It’s nice. I’ve always been so scared of that.”
    “Scared of what?”
    “Of being close. No, I mean, I’m not scared of being close, that’s what I want so badly. But of doing something so that we would be close. The fact that you also ate the burger means you were willing to play my game—to be close too. You didn’t reject me, or the burger...I mean, I think we both know the symbolism behind the burger, right?” she asks, terrified he’ll play dumb.
    “Tell me.”
    She shifts, pulls her knees up, arranges her naked feet on the edge of the chair. “Why are you making me spell it out?” She waits, then continues. “Okay, so, let’s say the burger is sexual—my sexuality. Well, you didn’t reject it. It wasn’t excessive, or repulsive. It was normal. Not too much, not too little. Do you get it?”
    “Yes.”
    “And that’s huge.”
    “I know.” They look at each other and both smile for what seems like a long time. She wants to hug him, but ironically not in a sexual way. She feels loved by him—and not because she wore red jeans, or because she was on time, or because she said something clever—but for being her, for acknowledging her desires, admitting and accepting them. For not apologizing for her desires. They both get it and there’s nothing reprehensible in what she’s done or what he’s done. In fact, all they did was eat a burger together (how much more ordinary could it get?), and yet, it was so much more.
    The sound of shoes clicks in the hallway. Someone else has arrived, it’s someone else’s turn. She dreads this moment, always, unequivocally. But Dr. Engels seems to be in no rush to announce that time’s up. Nor does Alexandra immediately pick up her bag as she usually does when she hears someone else entering the waiting room, never daring to demand an extra minute, an extra moment, eager to prove that she knows someone else would take her place. She lingers before he says, as he always says, “Well, I guess our time is up. I’ll see you next week?”
    “Yes.”
    As she walks out of his office, she can’t help but glance into the waiting room. She often resisted the urge to look, but today she caves. A pair of black high heels and slim panty-hosed, prissy legs dangle from a chair. Fuck. The woman sits forward and looks through the crack in the door. Alexandra makes a concerted effort to walk slowly, so the red pants can make their desired effect, and to saunter loudly with the flip flops. Since she has to surrender her place, she can at least try to announce to Ms. High Heels that she’s just had the session of a lifetime and that, she, Alexandra, doesn’t need pointy, come-fuck-me shoes to seduce her therapist. Tan, bare feet, she tells herself, are much more hot.
    As she crosses the street to her car, she notices a man, a professor type—pink shirt with linen pants, Birkenstocks, tan forearms, longish black hair, 50s, handsome—climb out of a green Volvo. Alexandra walks slowly. Her breasts feel perky and her ass slightly rounder, the breeze blows her hair. The man glances at her then back at his fumbling hands. As he takes the keys out of the door, he looks back at Alexandra, at her red pants. Slowly, his gaze travels up her body. His eyes smile. She stops at her car, about to fish out the car keys from her bag. Sweeping back her hair with one hand, she touches her face and smells the grease and the sweetness and the stickiness of the burger on her hands. The professor walks past her, keeping his eyes on her, Alexandra looks back, licking the tips of her fingers.

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