Thursday, August 14, 2008
Post-apocalyptic fatgirl superheros
My best friend Nikiala always has post-apocalyptic dreams.
It’s not that shocking considering our childhood. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, we watched grown men turn to hollow-eyed junkies and later, young ones turn to shoeless crackheads zooming through the gray grid on a rock mission. And then there was AIDS … and our weird parents … and being fat. A joyful existence, I tell you.
We ate our way through the ‘80s, sitting on stoops shoving Pretzel Nuggets into dry mouths. We stole boxes of chewy chocolate chip cookies, shoving them in either one of our backpacks behind grocery store cameras. We’d sit on the radiator-hot backseats of city buses, pushing cookies down quicker than our tight throats would allow, watching the city pass.
Nikiala’s latest dream cracked me up. A nameless disaster has hit -- nuclear attack maybe. The city is charred. Blackened, hollow buildings missing roofs dot the streets with miles of empty lots between. The sky is red. But somehow the projects that her Aunt Winnie lives in survive. It is our job to protect and defend them. They are a safe house for lone survivors. She and I must battle the evil that lies outside. We are the last stand.
We decide we will save the world one plate at a time. You can’t fight a war on an empty stomach, after all. We hatch a makeshift restaurant in the big silver kitchen of the community room in the center building and we are turning out tinfoil trays of casseroles by the dozen. People come in missing limbs and losing hair and we begin mechanically ladling lasagna into their faces. We will win this fight.
After Nikiala recounts the dream to me (or some version of what’s above), she says, “I don’t know, what do you think I was trying to work out in that one?”
It’s not that shocking considering our childhood. In the ‘70s and ‘80s, we watched grown men turn to hollow-eyed junkies and later, young ones turn to shoeless crackheads zooming through the gray grid on a rock mission. And then there was AIDS … and our weird parents … and being fat. A joyful existence, I tell you.
We ate our way through the ‘80s, sitting on stoops shoving Pretzel Nuggets into dry mouths. We stole boxes of chewy chocolate chip cookies, shoving them in either one of our backpacks behind grocery store cameras. We’d sit on the radiator-hot backseats of city buses, pushing cookies down quicker than our tight throats would allow, watching the city pass.
Nikiala’s latest dream cracked me up. A nameless disaster has hit -- nuclear attack maybe. The city is charred. Blackened, hollow buildings missing roofs dot the streets with miles of empty lots between. The sky is red. But somehow the projects that her Aunt Winnie lives in survive. It is our job to protect and defend them. They are a safe house for lone survivors. She and I must battle the evil that lies outside. We are the last stand.
We decide we will save the world one plate at a time. You can’t fight a war on an empty stomach, after all. We hatch a makeshift restaurant in the big silver kitchen of the community room in the center building and we are turning out tinfoil trays of casseroles by the dozen. People come in missing limbs and losing hair and we begin mechanically ladling lasagna into their faces. We will win this fight.
After Nikiala recounts the dream to me (or some version of what’s above), she says, “I don’t know, what do you think I was trying to work out in that one?”
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