The Big One

The Big One

Only one person can break a record. People work their whole lives to break records- to set new records- that other people will work their whole lives to try and break. Some people are born to be record breakers. When Angus Whitworth took his first breath, he’d already crushed several. The hospital brought many lives in and out alongside the setting sun of the southern west coast. Doctors overseeing Angus’s birth all recalled hearing someone utter the phrase ‘The Big One’, like the fishermen of a nearby harbor hoping for the most impressive catch. Angus broke over 3 world records with his birth. Labor was so intense that it killed his mother, and his father was too disgusted by his son to remain in the picture. He was just over 30 pounds, and perfectly healthy, despite being 4 months premature.

Angus was like any other baby who cried a lot. Except his lungs held more air, and his limbs were too freakishly long to fit a normal swaddle. He saw more specialists than family as a child, and took more photos with medals than he would ever have with his own mother. The hospital was thrilled. They printed out 4 8 x 11.5” papers, glued them together over cardboard, and invited passersby to come visit ‘The Big One’.

Girlfriends would give their boyfriends a funny look. Husbands would poke their wives and giggle under their breath, “Could you imagine giving birth to that one?”

They didn’t know the woman who did was flown back to Wales to be buried near her family. Her older sister made sure to include the urgent desire to remove her from the country that the demon who burst from her chest would continue to live. Her brother-in-law didn’t think it was fair to call the baby a demon, but he did agree that having Angus’s mother buried in Wales would be best for every person involved. So, he let her deal with the case.

Angus Whitworth was a good foster kid. He never complained about his meals, or how the beds were always too short. His foster parents would often comment on his habit of contentedly curling up into the corner of the couch over a book.

“Angus never raises his voice or talks back,” they would say. “He really is just a darling kid.”

He would never cry when they would bring him back, and he was always kind to his new siblings, despite tripling them in size at half their age. When he made it to middle school, he had even made a few friends.

Early friends of The Big One were interviewed for a documentary years later. Brendan, who’d grown up to be a line cook in his mother’s restaurant chain, sat for a few questions on camera.

“What was he like as a young boy?” The interviewer had asked, pushing her blonde hair behind her ears and leaning into the microphone for a slight dramatic flair. Brendan seemed like he couldn’t decide between looking at her or the camera.

“It was odd,” Brendan shifted in his seat and looked up as if trying to remember. “For someone so large, his presence was so small.” The camera then cut away to graphics of average heights at age 11. They displayed a photo of a young Angus next to a young Brendan in comparison. It wasn’t difficult to see who was who.

If you asked Angus what his favorite period of life was, he’d probably say high school. He was signed on to the varsity basketball team after three days on campus. He was the center of every pep rally. He discovered eventually that his abnormally large build came with an increased tolerance for alcohol. Brendan didn’t go to the same high school as Angus, but the documentary still showed another clip featuring him, in the same chair with the same interviewer.

“He had a sort’ve notorious reputation around town. You never went shot-for-shot with The Big One. Not that I was ever into the party stuff in highschool- that much. Sorry mom!” Brendan said with a laugh and a pointed look at the camera. The camera flicked back to the interviewer, who was laughing as well.

She cleared her throat before asking, “So he had an early drinking problem?”

“I wouldn’t call it a problem. It was more like a talent.”

Basketball was the obvious future for Angus Whitworth. He played for two professional teams after high school, and his games sold out more tickets than the rest of the season combined. 4 years into his career, Angus suffered a severe neck injury after colliding with the post, and was medically disqualified from ever playing again. The Big One promptly departed the basketball scene. He saved plenty of money, and had enough media gigs, to continue living comfortably without the income. Ticket sales were once again spread evenly through the season.

“Once he retired,” Brendan said, looking intensely at the interviewer, “it was like he died already. You just didn’t hear about him anymore.”

Angus Whitworth, however, did not die. He just returned home, to his last foster parents, and took care of his aging parents. He ducked under every single doorway in the house, and slept in the spare bedroom, even though the pillow made his neck hurt and his ankles would brush the floor from time to time. He remembered the split pea soup recipe the old woman had used to make when his siblings were not feeling well and made it for them through the cold winter months. Angus would enjoy lighting up the fireplace and curling up on the couch with a book. Both foster parents had passed by the time the documentary was filmed, so the production team used the closest relative they could find.

“They always said Angus was a wonderful son,’ the woman said, with misty eyes.

“And how long did they foster him for?” the interviewer asked.

“Oh, well, they never really saw it like that. Like a timing thing. I don’t think he did either. I mean, sweet Angus is the one who saw them into old age. It was a beautiful relationship they had, really.”

The interviewer nodded sagely, “You definitely can see that, for sure.”

Not long after his foster parents died, Angus Whitworth, passed at 29 years old. The doctors cited the prolonged physical strain of his existence, coupled with the injury and his deformed skeletal structure, as the cause for overall heart failure. The production team couldn’t arrange an interview with the doctor who pronounced him dead, but he was able to send in a small video message for the film.

The doctor’s office was clean and organized. The man adjusted his glasses before beginning, “Unfortunately, with a body like that, he wouldn’t have lasted very long anyways. The heart just isn’t meant to keep up with someone that size, neither were his bones and muscles. It’s a sad reality that good people with medical abnormalities like his don’t get as long as everyone else.”

Angus Whitworth’s body wasn’t flown back anywhere to be buried. His body didn’t even remain whole for very long. His kidneys were flown to Albany to join a joint research operation on cross-species organ transplants. His bones were given to the Smithsonian, along with photos of his birth certificate and other documents that had been submitted long beforehand. His failed heart was sent to the CDC. They cremated the rest and donated it to his high school basketball team.

“It’s really cool, actually,” Brendan said, smiling and leaning forward, eyes locked onto his interviewer.

“The old teammates wanted to pay their respects, so they brought him back to the school and put his ashes on this new tree.”

A photo of the large oak tree was then displayed on the screen, along with the memorial stone beneath it, reading:

The Big One

May this tree grow as tall as you only.