Zen, Matsuo and the Fat Elvis Experience.

Zen, Matsuo and the Fat Elvis Experience.

I really messed things up. With just one sandwich. One mad craving,
and really screwed things up.
I'd watched a program about Elvis and his eating habits and it had
inspired me to gather together the ingredients to make one of his
favourites: a fried peanut butter, bacon and banana sandwich.
I toasted both sides of a medium french loaf, split it and thickly
buttered the insides. I spread a thicker layer of peanut butter on both
sides and laid out a layer of a dozen slices of fried, smoked bacon. On
top of this, I piled as many rough slices of mozzarella and ripe
camembert as would fit and topped the lot off with three sliced
bananas. I then squashed the thing until it was flat and solid enough
to sit without toppling over&;#8230;and fried it over a very low
heat. In pure, salted butter.

It smelled delicious.

I grew impatient. Not so much with hunger, though my appetite was
immense, but with worry that somebody would come back early and see
what I was doing. I had five flatmates - three vegetarians, one Jew and
a Zen Buddhist. The latter was my girlfriend, Sara.
After around fifteen minutes the monstrosity seemed ready. I gave it a
final blast of gas on high to crisp it a bit, and lifted it onto a
plate. Grabbing a can of coke from the fridge, a towel from the rail
and a roll of kitchen paper, I carried my meal, on a large
willow-patterned dinner plate, to our sparsely furnished room. I think
I was beginning to drool. Once there, I swung the door behind me.

are you lonesome tonight?
do you miss me tonight?
are you sorry we drifted apart?

I had put Elvis on the stereo, wanted to do the thing properly. How
would it feel to totally pig right out? Could I experience what he had,
understand a part of the addiction that had helped him towards death?
The massive sandwich was still too hot to lift comfortably.

fate had me playing in love
with you as my sweetheart

I cracked open the bottle and it let gas escape with what seemed like a
glad fizz. I lifted it, took a short swig. Too cold and gassy for a
good gulp. A small belch erupted in my throat but didn't come out. Just
gurgled somewhere. I wanted that sandwich, its fat and salt. I drooled
a thin line of clear saliva.

you seemed to change
you acted strange
and why I've never known

I found myself rubbing my hands together and, laughing quietly,
shoulders shaking, I picked off a few pieces. I growled, pointing at
the sandwich.
"You talkin' to me? You're dead meat, punk. I'm gonna have your
ass!"
My eyes must have been bulging. I could feel them. As if praying, I
joined my hands, then spread the fingers of each as wide as possible
before gripping the loaf and lifting it from the plate. I opened my
mouth wide until it hurt, and sank my teeth into a million lovely
calories of fat, protein and carbohydrate. Mostly fat.
The noise as I closed my teeth surprised me. Like cutting through a
fresh iceberg lettuce with a blunt knife. Or pulling a Wellington boot
from mud. I couldn't quite place it, though it sounded good and
familiar.

Melted fat, glutinous cheeses and warm banana spilled from the sides
onto my hands and cheeks, into my nose and onto my shirt and jeans.
With the first bite. But, man: it tasted good. I growled again, louder
this time.
My eyes were half shut and I was nowhere near halfway. I carried on,
ignoring the mess on the small smoked glass table, the Chinese rug. It
was even in my hair. I grunted growled and ate, letting out louder
shrieks from time to time. Looking back, I think an overdose of junk
energy must have turned me into a temporarily-insane lard ass. I
didn't, then, have an inkling how much I would regret one sandwich. I
just pressed on, gorging myself, pushing bits of stray bacon into my
mouth with greasy fingers.

Sara's old record player was still playing the same single, the thick
plastic arm jerking back to the start again and again. I paused after
about half an hour, the unrecognisable remains of the sandwich in my
left hand. My right was now so greasy that it couldn't lift the coke
can, so I used the towel for extra grip and drank off the contents in
one go. I let out a cataclysmic belch, along with various flying lumps
of bacon and fried bread. I crushed the can and dropped it on the
floor. The clatter and my next belch were simultaneous.

you read your lines so cleverly
and yet never missed a cue

I was delirious, though had long since stopped enjoying what I was
doing; a pain in my swollen abdomen threatened. I was now looking
forward to lying down on our futon - to relieve the pressure on my
stomach. Determined, however, to finish what I had begun, I stuffed the
last few mouthfuls in, making involuntary noises in the back of my
throat, Homer Simpson-style. Swallowing, I pushed the chair back with
my calves and stood, bent almost double.

now the stage is bare
and I'm standing there
with&;#8230;emptiness&;#8230;all around

I loosened my belt and undid several buttons of my jeans. Clutching my
stomach as I straightened up a bit, I took three steps towards the
futon, groaning loudly. And collapsed.

And collapsed. And vomited over our black futon, Sara's pride and joy.
And grabbed her cut-crystal vase and vomited into that, over the seven
roses. It slipped from my grasp and smashed on the polished parquet
floor. I fell onto my back, closed my eyes tight, belched&;#8230;and
laughed hysterically.

and if you won't come back to me
then they can bring the curtain down

It was two days after I'd cleaned up that I received Sara's short,
handwritten letter. I'd decided to blame the broken vase on Matsuo, her
Siamese kitten, but didn't even get the chance to tell her. I read the
letter again and again.

"Tom. I was there, at the open door.
I was there for half an hour.
Goodbye.
Sara. x

She didn't even pack. Just took Matsuo.
She hardly had anything anyway.

is your heart filled with pain?
shall I come back&;#8230;again?
tell me dear
are you lonesome
tonight?