Sorry for the Weight

One of the reasons that I chose my job was because I expected it to be easy. A long way from the cold cemented walls of the laboratories at school. My days at the University were filled with long lectures from egotistical professors and even longer nights filled with differential equations. My body accumulated extra weight as a form of self-defense during my tenure of being under duress while pursuing an education.

I couldn’t blame school entirely, everyone in my family was predisposed to be on the larger side of things and I had long since accepted my fate.

Still, I wanted to relinquish some of the unnecessary stress and pounds. So, as everyone else jockeyed for getting a summer internship at some of the most prestigious labs across the country, I opted to stay local and work at The Bennett, an upscale hotel located not too far from the college I attended.

It was a nice change of pace from my usual scenery that had become too terribly routine. The bright, fluorescent lights of the lab had changed to warm, ambient lighting and the cyclical noise of the centrifuge was now replaced by the general hum of patrons’ chatter. I conducted most of my work behind a check in desk, pleasantly smiling at each person and wishing them a wonderful arrival or thanking them for their stay.

But I soon found that it wouldn’t take long for old habits to emerge to the surface.

As an aspiring geneticist, I had a profound respect for identifying patterns. For the most part, DNA had taught me that there was no rhyme or reason as to how it was sequenced, some genes would ultimately be expressed, and others would not. Everyone was an intricate design of ‘selfish genes’ passed down from one generation to the next without a choice of their own in the matter. DNA today, flesh and blood tomorrow. I was captivated by the different idiosyncrasies that I was able to identify that were similar across gender, age, or race. And it was enough to keep me occupied, that is until another pattern caught my attention.

Mr. Paul Danson was a regular at the Bennett hotel and checked in every Friday between the hours of 11am and 2pm. He was tall, stoic, and obviously equipped with fortunate genes from his parents. By my estimation, he was between forty-five and fifty years old and worked in a position of importance. He was cordial, a cool distance from pleasant and checked in the same away every time.

“Good afternoon, Chelyna. Reservation for Danson.”

 I was never sure if he made sure to call me by name out of kindness or for formality’s sake.

Mr. Paul Danson never stayed longer than the weekend always making sure to leave on Sunday morning at 8am. He returned the room key the same way every single time, by sliding it across the table and offering a head nod as his way of saying goodbye. Even though, a ‘see you next week’ would have sufficed just as well. I don’t know what made me despise him more. Perhaps it was the way that he was able to just look past me or the way that he carelessly took his wedding ring from the pocket of his sports coat and slipped it back onto his finger just before he walked out the door. 

Yes. Mr. Danson was having an affair and according to my co-workers had been meeting with the same woman at The Bennett hotel for nearly half a year. I had seen her a few times. She was cool and slender blonde. Her chiseled face seldomly offering a smile as she made her past the desk to the elevator. Occasionally, the clandestine couple would come down and have dinner in the restaurant, gazing at each other under the soft lighting. I wondered if he thought about his wife or his family as he reached for her hand.

What was it that caused people to cheat anyway? Was it selfishness or a call of nature? Scientifically speaking, multiple partners would promote genetic diversity, which would in turn promote the survival our species, so why did the act seem like the lowest contribution to society? It destroyed marriages, splitting of families, and could eventually lead to the dissolution of communities. On the other hand, it was truly none of my business. Maybe this time away with her was the only time he smiled all week. I told myself that I had no right to judge his life no more than he had a right to judge me. What he ate wouldn’t make me shit.

That is until I realized that I was eating his secret.

I snacked mercilessly on anything that I could get my hands on- candy bars, pretzels, chips, pastries from bakeries. Mr. Paul Danson’s life became a show of mine to binge. At night, I developed storylines about his other life and the different ways they could intersect. I embellished it with details that would cause him the most ridicule. I wished them into being.

I wanted him to be caught.

I needed it.

I craved it.

But Mr. Paul Danson maintained his standing appointment and week after week his lady friend would appear. Never missing a date, never a hair out of place. Meanwhile, the buttons on my top became harder to fasten and the skin under my neck began to layer in folds.

Once, I tried to take matters into my own hands and tell him that there were no rooms available for him to reserve. It didn’t work. I was crushed under the weight of his secret with no way out. I tried to remind myself that summer was nearly over and that I would soon be back in the safety of my laboratory.

But I was wrong.

Because what I did not expect was that one day his wife would be standing in front of me pleading for her husband’s room number. She had been suspicious about her husband having an affair for some time and that even though she knew it was against policy, she had to get in that room as soon as possible. She had to save her marriage and that I would understand if I was in her position. I told her to give me a moment because I needed to ask my manager for permission.

But that was a lie.

I needed a moment to register the weight that was lifting itself slowly off my shoulders as a miracle intervention that I couldn’t even have conjured in my dreams happened right before my eyes. I no longer would have to stuff the shame that obviously belonged to him down my throat with double-stuffed Oreos. I could release it to her. I knew what was awaiting her wouldn’t be easy to bear. The price of the truth came along with anxiety-filled days and sleepless nights. And still, I knew what should be done. I walked back over to the desk and handed her a room key.

“Sorry for the wait,” I told her.