I'm Not Sensitive, I'm Big Boned!

Maura Kelly writes a blog at Marie Claire. She made the faux pas of admitting she finds fat people kind of unpleasant looking. It’s not just the idea of watching two fat people make out – even watching a morbidly obese person walk through a room strikes her as kind of gross. It gives her the same feeling as looking at a drunk stumbling by, or a heroin addict passed out in a chair. Being fat is something you can control. Sure, it’s tough. Maura will admit that much. But you can control your weight, if you try.

Her blog post has resulted in an explosion of indignant rage across teh intarwebs:

How dare she be size-ist! Why, she’s nothing but a bully! This is a perfect example of how the fashion industry is biased against overweight folks!

The reaction caught Maura by surprise. She quickly penned an apology, and attached it to her original blog post.

That hasn’t helped. “Apology not accepted!” wrote one commenter. Another went so far as to demand she be fired.

Yoni Freedhoff -- an Ottawa nutritionist who I respect -- says it’s “the vilest, most weight biased article I’ve ever read.”

Someone on Yoni’s blog commented, “Imagine if you substituted the word ‘black’ or ‘muslim’ for the word fat?”

Seriously?

What the hell is going on here? I don’t get it. The seething, indignant fury is way over the top. What exactly did Maura Kelly do wrong? Don’t we all agree that being overweight is something best avoided?

***

I’ve had weight issues my whole life, ever since childhood. Or, to put it less politely, I have been fat. Very fat.

“You’re very close to becoming morbidly obese,” my family doctor once warned me. “You need to lose some weight.”

I understood exactly what she meant. I was at risk for stroke, heart attack, diabetes, and all those other preventable medical problems.

And I also understood that being morbidly obese is unattractive – at least in our cultural and historical context.

Mind you, I didn’t let my doctor’s warning change my eating habits. I was going to the gym. I figured that was good enough. It wasn’t. When not at the gym, I did things like eat ice cream for dinner. After going to the gym five days a week, for several months, I quickly burned out. And I quit going.

Meanwhile, I was having stress symptoms at work. Numb and tingly hands and feet, my nose going cold, borderline panic attacks – it was all too much. A nurse at my doctor’s office had this helpful advice:

“Maybe you need to see a therapist.”

If only someone had suggested that sooner. Because therapy changed my life. Suddenly, at age 40, I learned how to tackle my problems. I learned about me, and how I was missing from my own life.

Therapy taught me to take care of myself – something I never really did before. After getting my relationships in order, and tackling my financial problems, I looked around for other issues to deal with. That’s when I remembered – I was grotesquely fat.

I started food and exercise logging – writing down everything I eat and tracking my calorie intake and output. I found a website, My Fitness Pal, which proved to be extremely helpful. I turned to protein bars and protein shakes to fill out my diet. Most of what I eat now is fruits and vegetables, with the occasional “cheat meal” to remind myself I am still alive.

I started eating better in April. And now, in October, I am 65 pounds lighter. I went from weighing 280 pounds to 215 pounds. My goal is to reach 200 pounds, and then maintain the weight loss. I am certain I will do just that.

Let me stress this: without therapy, I never would have been able to lose the weight. Low self-esteem and emotional problems were keeping me trapped in fat. Overeating was a form of self-medicating – exactly the same way some alcoholics and drug addicts self-medicate. Therapy changed all that.

***

So, fat people – did you know you’re at risk for medical problems? Of course. And you know you’re a burden on the medical system – or may soon be? Right. You knew that. And you know people in our society find fat people less attractive than thin people, right? I bet that one is no surprise. And you know if you eat better and exercise more, you can lose weight, right? Of course you did. It’s not easy to do, but you know it, right? None of this is news to you.

So why is what Maura Kelly wrote coming as a huge shock? Why the offense? What she wrote is hardly news. It’s not even particularly insightful.

Okay, okay – she writes for a woman’s magazine. The fashion industry is Satan. I get that.

I’ve always been attracted to chubby women. I find scrawny “fashion model” women repulsive. I want a woman with heft to her. I am stunned at what the fashion industry calls a “plus-sized model”, because to me they don’t even look chubby. They look normal. Give me chubby, any day. Personally, I have no trouble watching two fat people kissing – unlike Maura Kelly.

My philosophy, back when I was dating, was, “If I meet someone, and she doesn’t strike me as physically attractive, give her a chance. Her personality could change my opinion. Genuine attraction is beyond the physical. Maybe we’ll click on a deeper level.”

But at some point, I don’t care what your personality is like. There’s chubby, and then there’s morbidly obese. At some degree of fatness, you reach a state where your personality simply cannot shine through to me. I’m human, and I have to say, no. I think every person has a point where they say, “Sorry, you’re just too fat for me.”

Is that offensive and shocking and terrible? I’ve probably been that fat – where people couldn’t see me for who I am. They just saw a fat man. Does that change the truth of what I’m saying?

***

P.J. O’Rourke once jokingly said it best. (I will paraphrase.) Don’t insult people based on weight, their physical appearance, or their handicaps. Save those insults for a special occasion. Because when you really want to hurt someone, nothing is more cruel than calling them a fat, ugly, crippled fuck.

Why is the obvious so insulting? Is it because we politely tiptoe around it constantly? People are so sensitive about their weight – we better not mention it. If we find them ugly, gross, embarrassing, or depressing, we should keep it to ourselves.

Fat people often complain that you can’t pick on anyone anymore – not for their race, or their religion, or their intelligence – but you can still pick on fat people. The obese are still fair game. Is this reasonable?

Jezebel, a feminist blog, comments on the Maura Kelly kerfuffle and asks:

“…how could she not know this [outrage] would happen? How could she think this was acceptable? It's that, as much as anything else, that's worrisome: that at a mainstream magazine with a wide reach and an ostensibly progressive outlook could think, in 2010, this was okay to write and implicitly endorse.”

I think of myself as a left-leaning, sensitive male. But I find Jezebel’s comments somewhat shocking. When did progressive come to mean politely tiptoeing around the obvious? Most people find fat people unattractive. Hell, fat people find fat people unattractive! Didn’t we know this already? Are we supposed to pretend this isn’t the world we live in?

***

Here in Ottawa, we’ve gone smoke free. It’s been that way for years. The restaurants and public spaces don’t allow smokers to light up. But back in the day, when the laws were still being debated, groups of people came together under the banner of “smoker’s rights”. Some of their arguments were just as surreal as what I’m hearing now about the obese.

“We’re not second class citizens! We choose to smoke! You can’t pick on us for that! We deserve respect!”

Ah, but smoking is bad for you. It’s a drain on our medical system. Everyone knows it’s bad for you, so why should we make accommodations for your addiction? Show some will power, and quit.

Of course, by the time we created anti-smoking policies, smokers were very much in the minority, so their complaints fell on deaf ears.

Do we have to be gentler with the overweight, because they make up the majority?

On The Moon

I’m not wearing a space suit. I can breathe just fine. The ground under my feet is gray and dusty. It crunches under my sneakers. There are craters all around me. The earth hangs high in the sky, shining blue and green.

My mother walks up to me. She’s a shrivelled old woman.

“We’re on the moon,” I say.

“Of course we are, Derek,” she says. “We live here.”

She points into the distance. I turn around to look. Our house is on the moon. The house where I grew up. It’s surrounded by gray dusty rock. The front yard is there. The garage. Some grass. A bush. But everything else is the moon. Gray rock and craters and dust. All around us.

“Why is our house on the moon?” I ask.

“Our house has always been on the moon. We’ve always lived here. You and me. On the moon. It’s where we live.”

“No,” I say. “That’s not right. I didn’t grow up on the moon.”

My mother looks at me like I’m crazy. “Derek. We have always lived on the moon.”

“That’s not right,” I say stubbornly. “I grew up on the earth.”

I turn around. I search the starry sky for the earth. But I can’t find it. I begin to panic. It was right there. The earth was right there. Where did it go?

***

I’m in a strip joint with the boss. It’s one of the clubs belonging to the syndicate. We’re at a back table. Mirrors everywhere. Dim lighting. The room smells of stale beer.

All the dancers look the same to me. Skinny. Blonde. Boring. None of them can dance. They strut. They spin around on the pole. Some hang upside down as they spin. They’re all going through the motions. Nothing sexy about any of it.

The music changes. A new girl comes out. A little plumper. All the blondes are rail thin. This woman has curves. Black hair. Taller than the others. Hasn’t shaved off all her pubes. More life to her. I take notice. She seems excited. Eager. Like she’s having fun, but we get to watch. Her dance is a bragging game.

Her body says, “Look what I can do. I’m doing this for you. For all of you. Aren’t I an amazing piece of ass?”

“That’s the one,” the boss says to me. “Her name is Sabrina.”

I nod. It’s dark in the club. I study her face. I get so I could recognize her on the street.

“She’s stealing from us,” the boss says. “I want her gone. Finished. Too bad. She’s a good dancer. Good money maker. Pretty. Has real talent. Smart, too.”

Sabrina spins around on the pole. Somehow, she owns it. That pole is hers. When she grabs hold, it’s different. It’s not bolted to the floor and ceiling. The pole comes alive. It wraps around her like a loving snake.

“She’s good,” I say.

“Yeah,” the boss says, a little sad.

“She steal a lot?”

“Enough for me to call you.”

When the boss calls me, somebody has to die. Some killers won’t do women. I don’t understand that. A kill is a kill. Just another job. Men, women, it doesn’t matter. They’re just problems to solve. Work to be done.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” the boss says. He slides an envelope across the table. “Two keys. One for her building. And one for her apartment. The landlord is a friend of ours.”

I pick up the envelope. The address is written on the outside. I pocket it.

“Nothing special,” the boss says. “Just kill Sabrina. No rush.”

“Right,” I say.

We watch Sabrina on the stage. She’s on all fours now. She’s thrusting her ass back and forth at us. It’s dirty. But she makes it seem fun and friendly. She looks back over her shoulder. And she smiles.

***

The house on the moon is filthy. Dust and dirt everywhere. Sand piles in the corners. I’m standing in the kitchen, looking around. My mother stands next to me. The kitchen sink is full of dishes. There are piles of plates. Multiple frying pans. Dishes galore.

“You have to do the dishes,” my mom says.

“Why?” I say. “They’re not mine. I’m a grown man. I don’t live here. It’s not my problem.”

I say all of this. But I start doing the dishes. I wash them, rinse them. I put them in a rack to dry.

“You have to help me,” my mother says. “I’m old. I need to be taken care of.”

“You’ve always needed taking care of,” I say.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’re high maintenance, mom. You drain everyone.”

“Don’t talk like that. I’m your mother. You have to be nice to me.”

“Why? Why do I have to be nice to you?”

“Boys have to be nice to their mothers.”

“I’m a man, mom,” I say. “I’m not a boy. I’m a man.”

“Just do the dishes. Afterwards, I have other little chores for you.”

I get angry, but keep washing. I scrub the dishes. She’s so small and shrivelled and weak. How does she make me do something I don’t want to do?

***

It’s Sabrina’s night off. I arrive at her apartment building at midnight. I stand on the street. I watch the window of her apartment. It’s dark. I stand around for an hour. Watching. The window stays dark. I figure Sabrina is asleep. Using my key, I enter the lobby of the building. Plastic plants and the smell of industrial cleanser. I ignore the elevator and take the stairs. Three floors up.

Brown carpeting in the hallway. The lingering smell of fried fish. The kind of smell that never goes away. Sabrina’s apartment door looks like all the others. No way to tell a talented stripper lives here. I put my ear against the door. No sound. I put the key in the lock. I turn slowly. I listen at the door again. Nothing. I turn the handle and open the door.

Linoleum floor leads to carpet. Apartment is one bedroom. Dark, but some street light leaking in. I creep through the living room. TV, couch, not much else.

Some men, I think, would find this sexy. Breaking in to a stripper’s home. Some men would think about sex. Maybe rape. Those ideas don’t ever occur to me. Until now. And now, it’s no temptation. It’s just a sudden understanding. A theoretical awareness. I saw Sabrina on stage. She was sexy. Beautiful. But I never thought of fucking her. The idea is in my head now. It would never happen. I don’t want it to happen. I have a job to do.

The bedroom door is open. It’s a hot night. Sabrina is in her bed, on top of the sheets. It’s dark. I can only just make her form out. A dark outline. She’s naked, on her back. I stare at her for a long time. She’s not moving. Sound asleep. There’s a fan on. It makes a dull humming noise. I creep closer. I’m standing over her. I reach out and grab her around the neck.

Her skin is cold and sticky. Something’s wrong. I turn on the lamp by the bed. Sabrina is dead. Her brown eyes are wide open. Her throat has been cut. Her chest, stabbed. My hands are covered in her blood. The sheets are covered in blood. Spatter on the walls. Messy death. Unprofessional. Passionate. Violent. Nothing like my work.

I quickly check the rest of the apartment. No one there. Whoever killed her is long gone. Whatever knife he used, he took with him.

I go back into the bedroom. I look at Sabrina’s dead, naked body for a long time. Am I angry? Am I sad? What am I feeling? I can’t tell.

***

“There are many things in the basement,” my mother says. “I need you to clear them out. You have to help me.”

“I don’t have to help you,” I say. “I’m an adult. I can do as I please. I have my own life, now. I don’t have to take care of you.”

Even as I complain, I comply. The basement is dirty, unfinished. The basement is full of junk. There are boxes of old books, magazines, Christmas decorations. Broken furniture. Dead electronic appliances. All kinds of crap.

I pick up a piece of junk. I carry it upstairs. I put it outside in the moon dust. Just past the end of the lawn. I go back into the basement. I grab another piece of junk. I carry it upstairs. I put it next to the first piece of junk.

“You’re such a good boy,” my mother says.

“I’m not a boy,” I say. “I’m a grown man.”

“You’ll always be your mother’s little boy,” she insists.

“No, mother. I’m not your little boy.”

And I keep taking junk out of the basement. All of it goes in the moon dust. It piles up around the house. It starts to look like a wall. I’m building a wall out of junk. I’m building the walls of my own prison. My mother and I are prisoners, in this house. In this house on the moon.

The basement seems to be full of junk. There’s more and more of it. The wall of junk surrounds the house. It gets taller and taller. I just keep building it up.

***

I meet the boss in a pool hall. We sit together in the back corner.

“Sabrina was already dead,” I say. “Someone else got to her. They cut her throat. Stabbed her to death. I didn’t see anyone. Might have been rape. A sex thing. Can’t say. She was naked. Dead. I didn’t stick around.”

“Huh,” the boss says. “Weird. Maybe she pissed off some guy. Some customer. Or maybe there’s a psychopath out there. Who knows. Anyway, she’s dead. Whether you did it, or somebody else, I don’t care. As long as she’s dead.”

I’m surprised. I thought he would be mad. I was supposed to kill her. Someone else did. I thought he’d want me to find the killer. I’m disappointed.

The boss picks up on these feelings of mine.

“Don’t get all romantic, Derek,” the boss says. “She was a thieving whore. Okay, she was a good dancer. I’ll give you that. But she’s dead. And she’s better off dead. Believe me.”

“I don’t like it,” I say.

“What don’t you like?”

“That someone got to her first.”

The boss shrugs, says, “What’s not to like? Someone killed her first. So what? He did you a favour. Saved you the trouble.”

“I guess,” I say, not convinced.

“Let it go,” the boss says. “These things happen. Coincidence, is all.”

We talk about other things. We watch the boring strippers. Waiting for something different. It never comes.

I keep thinking about Sabrina. Who killed her? Why does it upset me? I was going to kill her anyway.

***

“We should play cards,” my mother says to me.

We’re sitting in the living room, on the moon. It smells of cat piss. The furniture is old and musty. The carpet is dusty and gray. No one ever sits in this room.

“I don’t want to play cards,” I say.

“I’m your mother. And I say we’re going to play cards.”

She has a deck in her hands. She shuffles slowly. The back of the cards are blue, old.

“I don’t want to play cards.”

My mother ignores me. She finishes shuffling, then fans the deck in her hands. She holds them out to me.

“Pick a card, any card,” she says.

“You do magic now?”

“There are still some tricks in your old mother.”

I take a card at random. I look at it. It’s blank. Suddenly, I feel sick. Terrified. The blankness makes me want to throw up.

“Ta da!” my mother says.

There is something wrong with me. Like a disease. Or like being blind. And this card is proof. Like a test result. Or a birth certificate. I am blank. I am barren. I am empty. I’m not even alive. Dead inside. Cold and dead and white and old, like this card.

***

I go to the strip joint. I sit in the back. I don’t know why I am there. Sabrina, of course. The dead stripper. But I’m no detective. The boss didn’t exactly order me to leave it alone. He didn’t have to. I keep my nose clean. I don’t pry.

All the strippers are the same. Just like last time. Some dance on stage. Some naked women walk the floor. They sell lap dances.

One naked stripper comes up to me. Blonde, skinny. 23 going on 80. Her body looks young. Her face looks ancient. She has seen too much. Lived raw for too long. Drugs. Prostitution. Same old boring story.

“Hey, sexy,” she says to me. “Want a dance?”

I’m not interested. “Sure,” I hear myself say. I give her money.

She doesn’t seem to recognize me. Some people know who I work for. They don’t know what I do. They might have a few guesses.

“Hands by your sides, no touching,” she says. She tries to make the instructions sound sexy.

“Okay,” I say.

“My name’s Wanda.”

“Derek.”

She climbs on to my lap. She rubs her hairless body against me. She pushes her tiny breasts in my face. I’m not interested, but my body responds.

“Oo,” Wanda says. “What do we have here?”

And she grinds against my crotch.

She’s a terrible actress. The dance feels like it goes on forever. Maybe it’s five minutes. She climbs off me.

“You liked that,” she says. She eyes my crotch.

“Can I see you?” I hear myself ask. “Outside of work?”

“I could get fired for that,” Wanda says. She doesn’t sound too worried about it.

I show her some money, but don’t give her any.

Wanda says, “Meet me down the street. The gas station. Half an hour.”

“Fine.” And I give her some money.

I leave. I wait at the gas station. Twenty minutes later, she climbs into my car. She’s in a pleated skirt, t-shirt, and cowboy boots.

“Park around the corner,” she says. “No one will see us there.”

We park. She moves in close. I put my hands around her throat. And I start to strangle her.

I’m small. But I’m strong. No one perceives me as a threat. That’s why I’m such a good worker. And I always use my hands. I like to get in close.

Wanda’s eyes are blue. Her lips are thin. She has nice teeth. Her hands scramble at me weakly. She’s small, but scrappy. I can handle her. I hold on.

The people at the strip joint know who I work for. This will never get reported. There’s no danger, doing this. When I’m done, I’ll leave her in the alley. With the garbage. I squeeze harder.

But why am I doing this? What’s this all about? I don’t understand. I look at my actions with curiosity. Like I’m watching someone else. Or watching a movie. My hands tighten. Her eyes start to go cloudy. Out of focus.

It doesn’t make sense. Where’s the logic? No one is paying for this hit. Is this for pleasure? I don’t feel it. I don’t kill for pleasure. I do it for money. For the boss. There’s nothing inside of me. Nothing. I am empty. A machine.

Is this because I didn’t get to Sabrina? Someone beat me to her. Cut her throat. Is that why? A missed opportunity?

I was supposed to kill a stripper. So I’m killing a stripper. They’re all the same. Is that it?

But Sabrina was different. Special. Beautiful. Sexy. Wanda is just another dull, blonde stripper. Where’s the logic? What’s the reason?

I squeeze and I squeeze.

***

I’m in a house, on the moon. It’s the house I grew up in. It’s also a prison. My mother is with me. We’re in the living room. The playing cards are scattered all over the floor. The ones face up are all blank. The whole deck is blank. There was no trick. My mother cheated. And my hands are wrapped around my mother’s throat.

I’m squeezing. I’m strangling. I’m trying to kill her. She doesn’t die. So I keep throttling her. But she just won’t die.

I’m going to be stuck here, forever. Strangling my mother. In this prison of a house. Strangling my mother, forever. On the moon.

The Corner Store Hit

The corner store looks like an easy hit, and I’ve been meaning to rob the place for weeks. Whenever I duck inside for gum or a snack, I weigh how difficult it would be. Good location, tranquil neighbourhood – should be a breeze.

It’s a hot, lazy, summer afternoon, and it feels right. Today is the day. It’s quiet. They’ll never see me coming. Plus my desperation is bad enough. I need the money.

With my knife in my pocket, I walk in. A little bell on the door jingles above my head. It’s around lunch time, and I’m ready to make threats and run off with probably forty bucks or so. Not much, but enough for my immediate needs.

But everything comes to a grinding halt. I see the boy behind the cash – he’s maybe 14 years old. What the hell?

The store belongs to a Pakistani family. They each take turns running the place – usually a mother, father, and a grandfather. They have an apartment, above the store, and they all live there together. But I’d never seen this kid before. He never registered. Maybe he was always there, in the background, reading a comic book, but I just never took him in.

The way he’s sitting there, behind the counter, uncomfortable and proud, it’s clear he hasn’t done this much. He has this half smile, fading in and out, on his face. He’s a big boy, doing a big boy’s job. Right now he’s selling cat food to some crazy old bitch. You can see the dome of the woman’s head through a thin cloud of white hair. She’s paying with nickels and dimes – must have fished them out of a change jar at home. The coins spill down on the counter, falling out of her big, fat, trembling fingers.

All of this gives me time to think, to look around. My first thought: I can’t do this. I can’t rob a kid. I was ready to intimidate an old man, or one of the parents. This kid stuff is bullshit.

I’m mad, because they’ve put me in this situation. What kind of parents put a kid behind the cash, on his own? Don’t they know there are dangerous people out there? Don’t they give a shit? In a way, they brought this on themselves. This isn’t my fault. It’s theirs. I didn’t do anything wrong, here. Fuck them. It’s their own fault if this kid gets traumatized.

“How much is that?” bald cat food lady simpers. “How much more? Is that good?”

It’s like the two of them are doing calculus.

The store is old, and is never cleaned all that well. The corners always look a little grungy. On the wall behind the cash is a collection of ancient junk for sale: rubber bands, thumb tacks, nail files – the stuff no one ever buys. But what catches my eye is a hairnet. Judging by the faded colour of the packaging, the hairnet has been hanging there for decades. There’s a plastic bubble, the hairnet inside. The cardboard package shows a woman from the 60s proudly wearing the hairnet in public. Christ, how long has this thing been waiting for a buyer?

Cat food lady leaves. We have the store to ourselves – me and the kid. I step up to the cash. I take out my knife, open it, and show it to him. Before I can even speak, he’s begging me:

“No mister, no. Please mister. Don’t do this. My parents made me work today. It’s my first weekend on the job and I wanted them to see I could handle it. They went out for the afternoon. They made me work. Mister, don’t do this, please. My parents will kill me!”

Partly it’s the way he begs. Partly it’s the look on his face – so close to tears. I give up on robbing the place. My heart isn’t in it. He’s just a kid, after all. Without really knowing why or understanding it, I fold the knife and put it away.

“Forget it,” I say, a little embarrassed. “Forget the whole thing.”

“I will, mister. I will. I won’t call the police or anything.”

“Good.”

Instead of leaving, I just stand there. I don’t know why. I just stand here and look at the kid. And he looks at me. There’s still an uncomfortable tension in the air. I’m desperate to break it for some reason. I don’t understand my own thoughts and feelings.

“Look, I was going to rob the place,” I say, teasing. “I don’t want to leave empty handed. You’ve got to give me something.”

“What do you want, mister? You can take anything.” Then he quickly corrects himself. “Or, one thing. One of anything.”

“One of anything?” I say.

“Right, right.”

“Well, gee,” I say. “Anything, huh?” And I make a big show of looking all around the store, as though weighing my options. “Chips, maybe? A chocolate bar? Some milk? Hmmm. So many choices…”

But I know exactly what I’m going to ask for.

“Give me the hairnet,” I say, pointing at it.

The kid looks at the hairnet hanging on the wall, as if seeing it for the first time. Then he looks at me like I’m crazy. Or I’m pulling a mean joke.

“Come on,” I say, and I can’t help but smile. “You said I could have one thing.”

The kid stands on a stool to reach for the hairnet. He takes it off the wall, gets down, and hands it to me. He’s such a short, innocent little kid. Looking at him makes me hurt inside, makes me feel like shit. Was I ever so small?

I take the hairnet package, rip it open, and put the hairnet on.

“What do you think?” I ask, posing like the belle of the ball. I put my hands up under my chin. I flutter my eyelashes.

The kid bursts out laughing. It’s exaggerated, nervous. But I can’t blame him. A few minutes ago he thought I was going to stab him.

“That bad?” I say, smiling.

“It’s not that bad,” he says, trying to control his nervous giggles.

Now that I’ve decided not to rob the place, I feel protective of this kid. Who else is out there, casing this place for a robbery? I look out the window at the hot summer afternoon.

“So, why are you working by yourself? You’re just a kid. You shouldn’t be doing this, you should be out playing or something. It’s crazy.”

“My parents want me to be responsible,” the kid says, shrugging. “They want me to know how to work hard. It’s all they talk about.”

I shake my head in disgust. “You’re just a kid. There’s plenty of time for all that bullshit later in life. Hell, look at me! Do I look responsible? I’m 32 years old, and I don’t have a job. I don’t do anything I don’t want to do. The state gives me a nice check once a month. I’m on welfare. And I get that money just for being alive! Get it? They owe me. I don’t owe them anything. I didn’t ask to be born. And who says you have to work hard? I see people, in suits, struggling and running around like crazy, and for what? To buy shit they don’t need? To look important? What for? It’s all so phony and stupid.”

The kid is looking at me, wide-eyed, like he’s never thought of any of these things before. He’s eating it up. Obviously his parents have stuffed his head with a load of crap. And it’s the same crap my parents fed me. Be responsible. Work hard. Do your best. All that bullshit that doesn’t get you anywhere.

And I get this feeling like, I can help this kid. I can teach this kid. I can show him the life I know – real life. Not the life parents impose on us. Life as it really is.

We talk for an hour. I do most of the talking – more like lecturing. Mostly I talk about my life, my adventures, my sexual exploits. I keep it rated PG, but all the same the kid gobbles it all up. He asks questions. He’s interested.

Nobody ever listens to me. Nobody takes me seriously. But this kid does. And I feel this sense of responsibility and pride.

That’s how it starts, our friendship. I walk by the store, and if he’s in there, working, I duck in and we talk. We never mention that bit of unpleasantness – me pulling a knife when we first met. A misunderstanding between friends. And now that we are friends, I keep hoping some punk comes in and tries to pull what I was going to pull. Because I still carry my knife, and I’ll defend Charles to the death.

That’s his name – Charles. He’s a good kid, but dumb the way most kids are. He doesn’t know anything. Charles thinks his teachers tell the truth. He thinks school is about learning, and not about being programmed. Until he met me, he was a good little robot, without an original thought in his head. I open up his mind. I put him on the right path.

For starters, Charles doesn’t know how to swear. He doesn’t even know the words. This is the stuff he should be learning in the schoolyard, but he goes to some kind of sissy school where they all talk nice.

I teach him “fuck” and “shit” and “motherfucker” and “cocksucker”. All the good stuff. I teach him how to reach inside, for the worst word combination you can think of, and spit it out with all the force you can muster.

“Ass shit fucker fuck!” Charles blurts out.

And I laugh, and muss his hair. He gets it.

I give him books to read – Kurt Vonnegut, William S. Burroughs. I give him ripped CDs of the Dead Kennedys and other classic punk bands. Everything a rebellious young man needs to know about life.

Then, it happens. One day, I go into the store, and something is wrong. Charles has a black eye.

And I say, “How did you get that? Did you get into a fight at school?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, grumpy in that way kids sometimes get. It’s cute and sad at the same time.



“Come on. You can tell me. I’m your friend. I want to look out for you.”

There’s this long silence. Charles is struggling with telling me. I wait, sitting down on a milk crate near the cash.

“My dad hit me,” he says, the words flying out of him. “I swore, I said a bad word, and he just punched me in the face.”

I’m horrified. I’m on my feet in an instant. “What? Parents can’t do that. It’s not acceptable. There are laws. Fuck, man.”

“I hate him so much,” Charles growls, sounding like an angry puppy. “He’s so stupid. And he always makes me work in this motherfucking shit store.”

“Of course you hate him,” I say. “Why wouldn’t you? The man is a tyrant, a monster. He’s stealing your childhood from you. He’s draining the life out of you. He’s a fucking dickhead.”

And I’m so angry, I’m shaking. Charles is just a kid. You can’t hit kids. You can’t hurt kids. He’s my friend. It’s not right.

“Has he hit you before, your dad?” I ask.

Charles just nods dumbly.

“That is bullshit,” I say. “That is complete fucking bullshit.”

Charles is looking at me with awe, fear, worry. For a second I can’t figure out why, and then I look at my hands, clenched into fists, trembling and white-knuckled. I’m flying off the handle. If I stay in the store, I’ll start trashing the place. I’ll put my fist through the window and rip up my arm, bleed to death right there.

“I have to go,” I say, and I rush out into the street, and I run all the way home.

It stays with me, in my apartment – all afternoon and into the night. I keep thinking the rage will go away, but it doesn’t. It builds and it builds. The fury is like a hurricane in my body, moving around, swirling in my stomach, in my head, in my throat. I pace the floor. Maybe if I distract myself, I think, and I try to watch TV. It doesn’t help.

“I have to do something,” I say out loud. “I can fix this. I’m an adult. I’m responsible. I’m not just a kid. I can fix this. I can help Charles. I can save him.”

And next thing I know, I’m back on the street, going to the store. I’ve got my knife, in my pocket. Am I going to use it? What am I going to do? The store is closed by now. It’s late, almost 11. What am I going to do?

In my head, I see flashes of me stabbing the father, cutting his throat. I see myself screaming, “This is for Charles!” and plunging the knife into the man’s eye. “This is what you get for hitting kids!” And I see myself stabbing the guy, killing him dead, then lighting a cigarette and walking away. As cool and collected as a mafia hit man. Later, the police pick me up and I go to jail for a long time. But it’s worth it. It’s so worth it. To save that kid.

The whole story spills out in my mind like a movie on fast-forward. Is that what I’m going to do?

My rage has the controls. My body is not my own. I’m not in charge. I’m possessed by my own emotions, by my own past. My childhood, my helplessness, when I was a kid. Maybe this isn’t even about Charles at all. No, it is. It’s about him. But it isn’t. And… fuck.

I don’t want to think about that. I don’t want to think about me. I just want to do something. Fix it. Act.

I’m at the apartment door. I’m banging on it with my fist. I keep banging. The door opens, and there he is – the father. He has a big black moustache, and is wearing jeans and a plaid shirt. He’s shorter than me, stocky. And he’s looking at me, shocked, concerned.

“Yes?” he asks, a little timidly.

“You have to be nice to Charles,” I say. It was supposed to come out as a scream of rage, but half-way through, it breaks. It turns into something else.

“You have to be nice to him,” I repeat, and I’m crying. Tears are running down my face. What was supposed to be a violent fury has turned into helpless pleading. My voice is wracked with sobs. “You can’t hit your kids. You just can’t. You have to be nice to your kids. You have to be nice to Charles. You have to be nice to him. You have to.”

The father just stares at me, his face blank, his eyes wide. He has no idea who I am or what’s going on. I think I’m going to faint. I grab the edge of the doorway, and I sort of stumble. The father catches me as I fall forward. He’s holding me up, supporting me around the chest. I wrap my arms around him, and I really lose it. I sob, and I hold on to him, and it just pours out of me – misery, loneliness, grief, mourning. I feel gutted. Like I am vomiting feeling out of my eyes.

“You have… to be nice… to me,” I choke out. “You have… to listen… to me. Be nice to Charles. Don’t… hit him.”

I don’t know how long we’re like that. I don’t know why he puts up with it. Maybe he’s frightened. But at some point it dawns on me that this is the saddest fucking thing in the world – me bawling my eyes out on some man I don’t even know. And like that, I pull myself together. I stand up straight, and the father lets go of me. He’s looking at me with concern and nervousness, like he doesn’t know what I’m capable of. He thinks I’m crazy.

So I just run off. I leave. I run off to my sad little apartment. I collapse in bed. I sob, and then I sleep.

I decide not to go back to the store again. I won’t see Charles anymore. Because what if he saw me? What if he saw me, clutching his father, and sobbing? What if he realizes I’m no tough guy, after all? What if he realizes I’m just another scared little kid, like him? I can’t deal with that. I was his hero, his tough guy. What am I now? Who am I, really?

But after a week, I can’t help myself. I worry about Charles. I worry about his parents, and him working that store. What if no one is looking out for him? What if I’m not there for him?


So I go back.


The little bell over the door jingles. Charles is at the cash. He’s wearing a Dead Kennedys T-shirt. The sight of it fills me with pride.

“Cool shirt,” I say.

“Thanks,” he says, smiling shyly.

“Your eye looks better,” I say as I sit down on the milk crate. “Your parents don’t mind the shirt? They don’t find it offensive?”

“My dad bought it for me,” Charles says. “We went to this shop, downtown? They have all kinds of shirts with band names on them. I didn’t recognize any of the bands. And then I saw the Dead Kennedys shirt, and I told my dad I wanted that one. And he bought it for me! I couldn’t believe it. The guy at the store thought it was funny that somebody my age even knows who the Dead Kennedys are. It was funny. Anyway, my dad has been real nice to me, you know, since… Since the night you came, and talked to him.”

“Oh?” I say, and I can feel my face turning red.

“Yeah,” Charles says.

We don’t talk for a bit. At first the silence is awkward and hot, but then something happens – the silence flips upside down, opens up, and feels warm and nice. It’s like the warm, comfortable embrace of stepping into a greenhouse full of beautiful exotic flowers. I look Charles in the eye and he’s smiling, and I smile back. And everything seems to be okay.

“You ever heard of the band Bauhaus?” I ask, and take a ripped CD out of my coat pocket.

“No, what are they like?”

“More artsy than the Dead Kennedys,” I say, “but I know you’re going to love them.”