Gluttony

By E.P. Lande

John invited me to visit him at his cottage on the Maine coast. We hadn’t seen one another in over 70 years, since we spent summers together at Camp Wannatoo in Maine, nor had we spoken over the years.

 His cabin was quite isolated, peaceful with Atlantic Ocean waves crashing into the cliffs a couple hundred yards distant.

We spent time reminiscing about the other boys that shared our cabin at camp.

“Tommy died in a truly tragic way,” John said as we were walking. “If you remember, he loved food ….”

“I recall he was always the first one in the dining room,” I said. The breeze off the Atlantic felt refreshing.

“Not only was he the first one, he piled his plate so high he couldn’t see over it when we all sat at the table to eat,” John continued, smiling at the memory.

“We all thought it funny, at the time.”

“But you see, Adam, it wasn’t at all funny. It was gluttony, pure gluttony.” John’s voice had become deeper and he seemed, to me, to be making a point — of what, I didn’t understand, then. In my memory, John vied with Tommy for who could eat the most. We continued walking in silence, with only the water of the Atlantic slapping the boulders below.

“Over the years, I would see Tommy, usually for a dinner. He knew I owned a pasta company and at one of our dinners he asked if he might visit as he was curious to observe how pasta — real pasta — was made. So, I invited him.

“When he arrived, he immediately asked to visit the factory where he made a beeline for the machine into which we feed the pasta dough, extruding it in different widths, depending on the type of pasta we’re making.” As John told the story, I gazed out into the sea, admiring the seagulls flying.

“I was explaining to Tommy the steps from which dough is fed into the machine, when one of my workers called me away to ask a question. That’s when it happened.” As John said this, I turned and looked at my friend.

“What happened?” I asked, an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

“Tommy must have leaned over the machine and lost his balance ….”

“You’re not saying ….”

“He lost his balance, and reaching for something with which to hold himself, his arm slipped in front of the grinder, pulling his body into the machine.”

***

“John, I need to rest; the drive here was very tiring,” Tommy said as he got out of his car in the parking lot of US Pasta, John’s company. John had insisted he visit the pasta factory that John had recently purchased.

“Come on, Tommy; you can rest after we visit the factory.” As it was noon, all the workers were having their lunch in the factory’s cafeteria.

“I wanna see how you make the dough,” Tommy said as they entered John’s factory.

“We’ll see that later. Come, I want to show you the extruder. I think you’ll enjoy watching the strands of pasta created from a mountain of dough,” John told him.

As they stood in front of the extruding machine, John turned on the machine, then placed a hand firmly in the small of Tommy’s back.

“Why are you pushing me?” Tommy asked.

“You’re a fuckin’ glutton, Tommy. You were always the first in line for dinner and you ate like a pig.” John’s hand pushed Tommy closer to the machine. “I hate gluttons,” and he pushed harder, until Tommy’s body was bent over the extruding machine.

“Fuck, John, stop pushing me. I’ll lose my balance.”

“This is what gluttons like you deserve,” and John pushed so hard that Tommy fell into the conveyor that was moving the dough into the grinder.

“John, stop …” were his last words as the claws of the grinder caught Tommy’s arm and pulled his whole body into the machine.

***

“The smell the ocean throws off always gives me an appetite,” John said. “Let’s return to cabin for lunch.”

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