Fat Town

I could still hear my leg groaning and barking at me, it felt like pieces of my femur were rubbing against each other, spurting off bone shavings into the nether regions of my body. It sounded like an old screen door at a beach house, withered away from years of salty air. According to the latest X-Ray, I was fully healed. Good to go was the term Dr. Thibodeau used. I asked him are you sure? He said yes. I asked for another X-Ray and he said no. I asked him to recommend another doctor and he told me to get out. 

             A broken femur is no joke, I’ll tell you that. Seven months later and I’m finally walking around without a cast, although I don’t think I’ll be playing any pickup games of basketball anytime soon. I walk around my own house like I’m trying to avoid landmines, terrified that one false move would leave me on the ground again, wondering how I got there and staring at the bloody shard of bone sticking out from my leg. I had just jogged to the top of the key, and I could see two steps into the future. I saw the way their point guard lazily floated that pass over Darryl, our tallest guy, in what was the sloppiest pick-and-roll attempt of all time. I saw Colin salivate at the opportunity, he slapped the pass out of midair, maintaining the dribble as he reversed direction, and overhanded a pass to me who had already retreated and waited patiently in the corner, my heels nearly touching the sidelines. Anyone who’s played five minutes with me knows that the corner three is my sweet spot. There’s something about catching that ball with my toes on the line with no backboard to help me. There are no lucky bounces there, it’s either shoot it pure, or watch it hit back rim and rebound straight back at you.

             I caught that pass in the corner and let out a small exhale as my knees relaxed. I spun the ball until my right middle finger was flush over the needle hole. Like I’ve done a thousand times before, I let the ball go at the apex of my flight. It looked perfect, I could already see the parabola’s path about to splash through the net. The next thing I remember is Darryl splashing water on my face and telling me not to look down. 

             For seven months I’ve sat around, letting the initial wave of depression morph into pizzas and Chinese food. The sight of the tiny, white boxes on the table next to yesterday’s pizza boxes as I scratched under my cast with a coat hanger nauseated me. I have a cushy work-from-home job and I haven’t bothered to weigh myself since I broke my leg. I would consider it, then opt to lie back down and let Netflix know that yes, as a matter of fact I am still watching this show. 

             The more mobile I became, the more I looked in the mirror, something I haven’t done in months. My chiseled jawline had vanished, it was an amorphous blend of stubbly skin that connected my former chin to my neck. When I wore something besides pants with elastic waists, I started to notice the red irritation around my beltline. I stood sideways after getting out of the shower and took a good look at myself in the full-length mirror. And no, not in the Christian-Bale-American-Psycho kind of way. I cursed myself while I looked at my turkey neck and patted my gut with both hands, watching it jiggle.

             That’s the thing about depression though, we don’t do the things we do thinking it is going to be a healthy coping skill. An alcoholic doesn’t speed down I-20 with beer cans spilling onto the freeway because he thinks it will make him forget that he caught his wife sleeping with the mailman. No, he does it because it makes him numb. I wasn’t able to drive for months so I opted for Ring Dings and chicken wings. That scale though, I saw it every time I needed a new roll of toilet paper. Propped up, hidden by various bottles under the sink. 

             Of course, non-government issued scales were outlawed two years ago. The only scales allowed in American homes were ones that maxed out at ten pounds, to use for weighing packages and whatnot. If found in possession of a personal scale you could be looking at jail time or at the very least a fine from the FDA and CDC. The homeless were the only ones able to skirt the system, but there was a good chance they weren’t obese anyways. Shortly after the new administration entered the White House, anyone that possessed an address and a Social Security number had a scale built around the circumference of their homes. You can’t see or feel them, they’re built right into the ground and announce on your way to the car Good Morning, you are 197 pounds. If you were between housing situations or if your scale was on the fritz, most Wal-Marts and pharmacies had government scales. As long as Uncle Sam knew how much you weighed at least once a week, you didn’t have a worry in the world. Unless your height and weight put you over that black line on the graph every citizen owned. The dark black area that was marked MORBIDLY OBESE. 

When I hobble to the outdoor scale to weigh myself, it would tell me good morning, read the weather forecast, and announce my weight. For the past two months it had an additional message for me. WARNING. WARNING. You are approaching maximum weight. Make immediate changes to diet and exercise routine. Residents had no control of the volume, and warnings were blared at a decibel that all could hear. 

With the sun still well below the horizon and every blind in my house drawn shut, I pulled the scale from under the sink like I was Indiana Jones trying to replace the golden idol with a tiny bag of sand. It hadn’t been touched in years and there was a thin layer of dust on the screen. It creaked under my increasing frame. I looked down and could barely see my feet. The needle jumped from left to right so fast it almost broke. It settled on an unsettling number. 275. Over the limit. 

In between the blinds and the window frame, I saw the towering walls that sat on top of the plateau in the distance like a medieval fort. Armed security guards roamed on the perches above, watching inward, never outward. It’s because they didn’t have to worry about invaders with catapults or flaming arrows, no one wanted to get into Fat Town, people only tried to get out. Most tried to get out the legal way, which was dropping to a weight the government deemed acceptable until they opened the gates for you. Others tried to get out in unconventional ways. Illegal ways.

I’ve heard from some who have done time in Fat Town, and I was not looking to punch my ticket there anytime soon. You were fed three microscopic meals a day, and every second of your day was mapped out. Even “free” times like watching television in the Recreation room found people tethered to treadmills. You were allowed to pick your speed, as long as you were moving. The Food Network and any channel that may feature some sort of cooking competition was blocked. Fat Town seemed to be somewhere between a Japanese internment camp and that scene in A Clockwork Orange where Malcom McDowell’s eyes are forced to intake images of violence. For all I know that could happen there. Except they are probably forced to watch reruns of Top Chef. 

  I’ll be damned if I’m going to be carted off to Fat Town. One step outside will sound the alarms, and the Fat Vans would arrive shortly after. The response time is impressive. Just a week ago, I heard the alarm down the block and the vans arrived three minutes later. Orderlies in white jumpsuits spilled out with cattle prods in hand. 

These thoughts raced through my head when I lifted the creaky window in my bedroom. Frigid night air filled the room and flooded my nostrils, sending a shiver down my spine. 3:37 A.M. I still had a little over two hours before my weigh-in was due. Later today, I was either going to be tied to a leash on a treadmill or I was going to be free. First, I had to jump off my roof without rebreaking my leg. 

Winter was approaching fast, and the angled eave outside my window was covered in frosted shingles that the morning rays have yet to thaw. If I could make my way down that, I would be on the flat-footing of my attached one-car garage. From there, I needed to jump into my pool without getting hypothermia. Day one without my cast felt strange, the entire area felt numb and itchy. It must have been quite the sight, me crawling out the window, turning around to grip the windowsill with my ass facing the world. I placed one foot on the eave and it slipped away from me immediately. I might have to hope for the best and take a slip-and-slide down my roof. I tried to center my weight before I let go of the windowsill, and I managed to slide down without any serious injury. Thankfully I landed on my good leg. My garage was covered with a gritty blacktop which usually would have provided good traction. Unfortunately for me, it was also covered with frost. A run-and-jump seemed out of the question. A stationary leap into the pool seemed my only option. 

If I come up short, my leg is likely broken again and I will set off the sensors on the scales. If I succeed, I will land in the frigid pool I have yet to drain for this particular scenario. My legs bent on the edge of the garage. My bones did not like the cold air and my leg creaked in response. A gust of cold wind rushed through, stealing my breath for a moment. Before I could think too long, I made the leap of faith and crashed through the black tarp on the pool. Freezing water enveloped me as I tried to suppress my gasps. I had anticipated this moment and changed into the dry clothes waiting for me in the shed. 

There are no scales in cars, but driving around as a known obese person is too risky. By now, they’ve certainly noticed that my car is in the garage and I have utilized other methods of transportation. For the past week, I’ve been traveling by night and resting during the day. The nights have been brutally cold, but I’ve been getting by. After freezing for six nights, I found solace in room 320 of the Econo Motor Lodge. Sounds irresponsible, doesn’t it? Why go on the run and then plop down my credit card and information at a motel? Because the Econo Motor Lodge has been closed for nearly ten years. For the last five it has been surrounded by one of those fences the bank puts up to keep squatters at bay. The Ritz-Carlton it is not, but it is warm and quiet. The only other guests seem to be the rats I can hear crawling behind the walls. 

My only hope is to locate the ironically named BMI. Otherwise known as the Body Morale Insurgence. A militia with roving sects peppered throughout this great nation. A group that will take any means necessary to combat the unjust weight laws. According to the news, and by good old-fashioned word of mouth, there is a known group in the area. Everyone has seen the footage of camps being bombarded in the dead of night with tear gas grenades. The perp walks of the fatties being led into vans with the remnants of Yodels and Hostess Cupcakes plastered to their faces in a do-or-die attempt to dispose of evidence. 

I had almost found sleep in this dank, musty room when I heard a crash in the bathroom. Did they find me? Are they tunneling through the adjacent room to ambush me in the middle of the night? I grabbed a small switchblade, the only weapon I brought with me, and a flashlight, and stumbled through the pitch-black room using the blade as my guide. I kicked open the door and turned on the flashlight simultaneously, ready to stab anything in my way. There was nothing new in this bacteria trap except a hole in the ceiling above the shower. A rat the size of a large cat fell through the ceiling and landed in the rusted, mildew encrusted bathtub. I squashed its tiny skull under my foot and it whimpered and squirmed under my boot heel. Right under the shower head, in permanent marker, was something I missed during my initial sweep of the room. It was the symbol for a male and female holding hands. Not the weird ones that Prince used, but the ones that you would find on a public bathroom door. Not identical to the bathroom sign, these ones had massive guts that poked out from under their shirts. Holy shit. The secret symbol for BMI. 

I checked out without tipping the maid, I couldn’t stay in one place for too long.

Behind the motel was a large dumpster, overflowing with motel furniture and various trash. Behind that was the faded remnants of a trailhead, leading deep into the woods. It was mostly overgrown, pricker bushes nipped at my heels from both sides. I walked until I couldn’t anymore, and started a small fire far enough away from the main road. 

I woke up shivering to a pile of smoldering embers and shooting bolts of pain down my neck from the awkward sleeping angle against my backpack. I must have missed it in the dark last night, but a large oak only ten feet from me was engraved with the BMI symbol. I walked over the crunching leaves to inspect it closer, and when I ran my thumb through the carving, something that felt like a snake wrapped around my feet. It lifted and launched me through the cold morning air. I swung like a pendulum upside down in the booby trap. With my swaying vision, I saw the image of a hefty man waddling towards me. He steadied me just before I felt like vomiting and grabbed my cheeks. There was crusted snot in his reddish-brown mustache and Oreo crumbs in his beard.

“Now just who in the hell are you? And why are you following us?”

“I’m Edward Leslie. I…I…”

“What the hell do you want?” he asked with a knife’s blade grazing my neck.

“I was looking for you guys. I’m not with them, I’m with you. Look at me! I’m fat!”

He lifted my shirt and gazed at my belly and growing breasts that sagged downwards. He lightly double-tapped my stomach with his bear claw of a hand and laughed.

“Don’t seem fat enough to me.”

“Believe me, I weighed myself last week. Twelve pounds over the limit for my height.”

“Leslie, you said?”

“Yes. Edward Leslie.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“What? Where are you going? You can’t leave me here!”

I only heard the fading sound of his footsteps and then nothing. A bird cawed in the distance. The blood flowing to my head made me feel woozy and at some point, I either fell asleep or passed out. 

“Hey! Wake up.”

He was back, this time accompanied by four large members of BMI. He slapped my face and his entourage chuckled.

“Leslie. We did some research and your story checks out. You’re definitely on their radar.” 

A short, stout woman with frizzy hair popping out from under her winter hat sauntered over. I heard the pop of her blade and the fraying sound of the rope when she cut me down. The first one I met picked me up and held me by the shoulders. 

“I’m Big Red. This is Ponch, Spuds, Tubs, and Omega-3. We will get you a nickname soon enough. Let’s get one thing straight. If we bring you back to camp, you’re one of us. If at any point we feel you threaten our mission, we will ditch you like a spoiled pack of salami. Understood?”

I nodded.

“Good. Now follow us and try to keep up.”

It turns out it was really easy to keep up, none of them were exactly fleet of foot. The camp was impressive, they had their own makeshift shelters with rawhide roofs and door flaps. Expired boxes of Twinkies and Ho-Ho’s sat in a bonfire pit. After my first night around the fire being regaled with tales of bravery against the Fat Camps and long-ago banned foods, Big Red wrapped his arm around me and led me past the camp, into the woods. 

“Come. I want to show you something.”

A short walk through the woods led us to a cliff’s edge. A calm breeze passed by and ruffled his beard. Over the valley, sitting on top a hill, stood the camp with its imposing walls. 

“You’re new, but you’re the skinniest of the lot. Reckon you’re ready to lead the charge at dawn?”

“I am.”

“Good.”

He handed me my official BMI-issued weapon, a metal spatula. 

“That ain’t for flippin’ burgers.” 

He laughed and patted me on the back. We sat on the edge of the cliff eating Twinkies, drinking wine, and gazed at the spectacular blanket of stars overhead.