One Fat Summer

by Robert Lipsyte

  I was a little jealous. “How can he understand me if he never met me?”

  “Because it happens all the time. You’ll see, I’m still the same person.”

  “Except now you read Beauty Hints and you lost your sense of humor and you’re trying to psychoanalyze me.”

  “That might be a good idea. Maybe you should get psychoanalyzed.”

  “Maybe you should have gotten your whole head chopped off.”

  Joanie stood up. “This is ridiculous. Come back when you’re feeling like a human being.” She turned her back on me and walked into the house.

  I wanted to shout at her, “Come back when you look like a human being,” but I couldn’t.

  I stopped off at Marino’s Beach for a chocolate frosted and two glazed doughnuts. I wasn’t even hungry. Pete was on the highboard, just jumping up and down to test the spring of the board. How could anybody do that. Up so high. I’d be afraid of slipping. But if he slipped, he’d just twist his body into a dive and plunge into the water like an arrow. But he didn’t slip, he landed on the balls of his feet in the same spot on the board every time. What body control. What a body.

  I bought a Three Musketeers bar for the walk up the hill. Connie counted the change twice, as if she thought I was going to cheat her out of a penny.

  “Hey, big fella, how’s it going?” Pete was wet. I had missed his dive.

  “Okay.”

  “Hey.” He was looking at me oddly. He circled around me. “You losing weight?”

  My pants were feeling looser these days. “I don’t know.”

  “Open your shirt.”

  “Right here?” That must have sounded silly, everybody in bathing suits, Pete just wearing his tiny trunks, his medallion and a lot of drops of water.

  “C’mon.” He started unbuttoning my shirt. ’Marone! You on a diet?”

  “No.”

  “Whatever you’re doing, keep it up. Lookin’ good.” He slapped me on the stomach. “Next thing you know, you’ll be doing gainers off the highboard.”

  I don’t know which hurt my stomach worse, Pete’s slap or the thought of going off the twenty-foot board. “Not me.”

  “Sure you will. It’s the greatest feeling in the world. The moment of truth. You leave that board, big fella, and it’s all up to you—you’ve got one second to show the world what you’re made of, to show ’em you aren’t afraid, to make your moves, to tell that water coming up fast, Look out, world, here comes a real man.”

  “You don’t have to do that to be a real man,” I said.

  “It’s the best way to tell the world.” He gave me a wink and walked back to the boats.

  I didn’t eat the candy bar. I ran halfway up the hill before my legs slowed down on their own. I went right into the bathroom and locked the door. I took off my clothes. I tested the bathroom scale with one toe, like Pete testing the highboard. Ready, set, go.

  I stepped up on the scale, knees flexed, ready to bail out.

  Numbers rolled past the pointer, up to 195, then back down to 187. I jiggled the scale, but it always came back to 187.

  I checked the dial behind the window. The needle was properly set at zero. I climbed on again.

  187.

  Lookin’ good, big fella. I’ve lost at least thirteen pounds. Maybe a lot more. In one month.

  I grinned at myself in the mirror. I had dimples in my cheeks. I never saw them before. I made a muscle with my right arm. It popped up. An apple of muscle pushing through the flesh. I studied the muscle. A pale blue line crossed the top of the biceps. A vein. I had a vein.

  “A vein!”

  My mother pounded on the bathroom door. “Bobby? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You were yelling. It sounded like the word pain.”

  “No, no. Rain. It looks like rain.”

  “It’s a beautiful day. What are you doing in there?”

  “I’m…a…going to the toilet.”

  “Do you have cramps? Are you sick?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “When are you coming out?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll send you a postcard.”

  “You’re all right.” She muttered and walked away.

  187. And getting muscles. And veins. It was happening. I’m going to wake up thin someday.

  I took a shower and dried off and examined myself in the mirror. My belly was a lot smaller. My backside didn’t wobble so much. My legs looked harder. I flexed my muscles. There was no vein on my left biceps. Not yet. But there was a muscle all right. I wrapped a towel around myself and walked into my mother’s room. She looked up from her desk.

  “Don’t drip on the floor, Bobby.” She went back to her books.

  I cleared my throat.

  She looked up again with a false smile. “We’ll eat about six, all right? If you’re starving, have some fruit. There are some nice peaches and plums in the refrigerator.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t notice. She didn’t really look at me. Nobody really looks at people in their own house.

  I went back to my room and tried on a pair of old shorts from two summers ago. They were snug, but I could button them. I went through all my clothes. My new summer pants were loose. The chino pants I wore four weeks ago to the carnival slid down to my hips.

  On Friday, Jim Smith pulled me aside while I was sweeping the garage.

  “Rumson’s back in town,” he said. “Better watch out.”

  “Maybe he better watch out.” I thought I said it just right, not so tough that he’d think I was covering up feeling scared. But Jim just shook his head.

  “Oh, yeah, Willie’s real scared. Scared he’ll kill you next time.”

  “We’ll see.” I squeezed so hard on the broom handle that my knuckles turned white. Hey. I could actually see my knuckles poking through the flesh. I never saw my knuckles before.

  Jim asked, “You gonna tell him I helped you?”

  “I might.”

  Jim made a fist. I thought he was going to slug me, but he just rubbed his mouth.

  “Look, Marks, maybe I should of left you on that island.”

  “I would’ve gotten back. Willie would have brought me back.”

  “Okay. But I did come out to get you.”

  “You let him take me out there.”

  “What could I do?” He looked worried. “Willie’s crazy. I didn’t know he was going to do that.”

  “You’re scared of him.” I shouldn’t have said that. Jim glared at me, but then he nodded.

  “Sure I am. He’s off his rocker. He’ll do anything. He don’t care. You know why he joined the Marines? It was that or jail. He beat up a teacher. A woman teacher.”

  “His uncle got him off?”

  “Yeah. He’s got another uncle on the school board. So they gave him a chance to straighten up and fly right.”

  “They ought to put him away.”

  “Look, I’m just telling you all this for your own good. I talked to Willie last night. I made a deal with him. If you quit this job, he’ll leave you alone.”

  “If I don’t?”

  “You’re on your own.”

  “What’ll he do?”

  “I don’t know. He spent a couple of weeks hiding out upstate, busting his back on his brother’s farm. He hates that place and he don’t get along with his brother. He figures it’s all your fault.”

  “My fault? He’s crazy.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.”

  “Even if I quit, Dr. Kahn wouldn’t hire him anyway.”

  “Well, it’s pretty late in the season to get anybody else, and my father would vouch for Willie. He could talk Kahn into hiring Willie. Like on a trial. And even if it doesn’t work out, you’d be off the hook. Willie would figure you were even Steven. He wouldn’t bother you.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “He could make your life hell. Spend the rest of the summer looking over your shoulder. Scared all the time, never knowing
when he’s coming up behind you with a tire jack in his hand. He was talking about breaking your kneecaps last night.”

  “He wouldn’t dare. This time he’d go to jail.”

  “That’s what I told him. But remember, he’s crazy. He don’t care about nothing, he’s got nothing to lose. And what’s the big deal for you? You don’t really need the job. Your folks got all the money they want.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  “You better do it. Today. You quit today.”

  “Why do you care so much?”

  “Willie’s my cousin,” said Jim. “I don’t want to see him go down in flames over a slob like you. You do it now.” He stalked away.

  I was scared. Broken kneecaps. Maybe a broken head. Find me in that drainage ditch I dug. It was a lousy job anyway, killing myself for fifty cents an hour. Who needs it? Only about five more weeks till Labor Day, the end of the season. Hang around, read books, have a nice easy time. Dad’s got too much on his mind to bother me anymore. Too late to go to day camp. Even if I did, it wouldn’t be so horrible. Not with my new muscles. And my vein.

  And Rumson really needed the job. Maybe his folks were poor. Maybe he needed something to keep from getting even crazier. Working for Dr. Kahn might help him straighten up and fly right. I’d be doing a real service, like Mom did with the charity kids. And I wouldn’t really be giving up all that much.

  At three o’clock I went up on the porch to collect my money. Dr. Kahn was staring at me. “What were you talking to the Smith boy about?”

  “Nothing.”

  “I don’t like a boy who lies.”

  “I don’t even remember, it was something about trimming the bushes. He thought I should do it better.”

  “You’re quite adequate, improving measurably. I don’t want you listening to those irresponsible boys.” He opened the leather purse and counted out $12.75. I had never gotten around to correcting him. Well, it doesn’t matter now.

  “Dr. Kahn?”

  “What is it?”

  “Well, uh…”

  “Of course, how careless of me.” He fished out another dollar bill. “Have a pleasant weekend.” He had never said that before. He stood up. “Yes?”

  “Well, uh, it’s about the job.”

  “What about the job?” The shotgun eyes were boring into me.

  You do it now. Quit. But I didn’t want to. Why should I? I didn’t make Willie crazy. Who says working for Dr. Kahn is going to make him sane? Dr. Kahn nearly drove me crazy. And I want a vein on my left arm, too. I’m no beach ball. No Yo-Yo. Jim Smith and his crazy cousin aren’t going to jerk me up and down.

  “You owe me a dollar for last week, and for the week before, too.”

  “That’s right.” He fished out two more crumpled bills. “See you Monday morning. Nine o’clock. Sharp.”

  The Smiths’ truck was waiting for me at the bottom of the driveway. Jim leaned out. “Didja do it?”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s your funeral,” he said.

  His father started the truck. There. Who’s a beach ball now? But I wondered: Did I really do what I wanted to do, or was I just more scared of Dr. Kahn than of Willie Rumson?

  I saw Jim’s face as the truck turned onto the county road. He looked worried. I was worried, too, but I didn’t look it. I gave him a tight, tough smile like Humphrey Bogart in Casablanca.

  But I was scared.

  And tingling all over.

  16

  It’s sort of interesting being scared all the time. Good experience for a writer. You wake up in the morning, feeling good, happy the sun is shining, thinking about having breakfast, then suddenly—Boom! it hits you. You’ve got something to be scared about. I’ve read stories about that. A guy wakes up, has pleasant thoughts about what’s going to happen that day, then suddenly remembers he’s got a terrible disease, or there’s a war on, or somebody’s riding into town to gun him down. Spies must feel like that. The minute you remember you’re a spy—Boom! it hits you. Something to be scared about.

  And then you start hearing sounds; the house creaking, footsteps in another room, a car slowing as it reaches the crest of the hill, a plane flying low. They’re after me!

  It’s not as bad as it sounds. I mean, it’s not wonderful, but it’s not as if I was paralyzed with fear. Sometimes it feels good to be jittery—you really feel alive. Most of the time in my life, I always knew what was going to happen, and the only times I ever felt scared were when I thought I was going to be embarrassed. Somebody was going to make fun of my fatness in front of people I cared about. But this was a different kind of scared. Danger. Secrets. A madman out there coming after me. Willie Rumson was the hunter and I was the prey. I’d have to outsmart him.

  I once read a story, it was my favorite short story for a while, called “The Most Dangerous Game” by Richard Connell. It was about a man who hunted people for sport on his own private island. One night, the hero, who was a famous hunter and writer himself, fell off a yacht and swam to that island. When he refused to hunt other men, the villain decided to hunt him. That was pretty exciting, because the hero knew all the jungle tricks. He knew how to make a Malay man-catcher and a Burmese tiger pit, and how to tie a knife to a swinging branch with vines. After a while, the hunted became the hunter. Finally, the hero beat the villain in hand-to-hand combat. I thought of myself as the hero in that story, and Willie Rumson as the villain. I’d have to outsmart him.

  For starters, I never left the house without my old Cub Scout knife in one pocket and a handful of sand in the other. I imagined Willie Rumson swaggering up to me, never suspecting why I had my hands in my pockets, maybe even thinking I was gripping my legs so they wouldn’t quiver from fear. Then, just as he was about to get me—Whap! I’d throw the sand right in his face. Willie would be clawing at his eyes, and I’d have a precious ten seconds to break and run, or leap on him or pull out my knife. But then the daydream got blurry. The blades stuck, they were rusty, I’d never get the knife open in time, and even if I did, then what? I don’t think I could stab anybody, not even Willie Rumson out to break my kneecaps.

  I kept an eye out for Rumson all that next week, especially when I walked along the county road. Ran along the county road is more like it. The only time I felt completely safe was at home with the doors locked. When I talked with Pete at Marino’s Beach I felt safe because I knew that Willie was scared stiff of Pete, but I’d keep looking over my shoulder for the Chevy, knowing that as soon as I left Pete, I was on my own. I felt safe when I was mowing close to the porch with Dr. Kahn watching me like a hawk, because I knew Rumson was afraid of the old bird; but as soon as I started mowing lower down the hill toward the road, I got that jittery feeling again. It got worse the farther from the house I mowed.

  But I never saw Rumson that week, and after a while I relaxed. Jim Smith might have been pulling my leg. I didn’t trust him one hundred percent.

  Joanie called one night and we had a friendly talk. I went to see her the next afternoon and she had cookies and lemonade waiting for me on a table on the lawn, and she was really trying to be nice.

  “You look different,” she said.

  “I lost some weight.” It was the first time I told anybody. I weighed 180 that morning.

  “Are you on a diet?”

  “No. It’s the job.”

  “How much have you lost?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe twenty-five pounds.”

  “God, that’s a lot. How do you feel?”

  “Terrific.”

  “Not weaker?”

  “I lost fat, not muscle.”

  “But I’ve heard if you lose too much weight too fast, you get weaker.”

  “I feel fine.” Actually, I started feeling weaker just standing there listening to her.

  “Not weaker in strength, but weaker in your body’s ability to fight diseases. Like polio.”

  I was so weak I had to sit down. The word polio went into me like an ice pick.

&nbs
p; Joanie shrugged. “I’m sure it’s okay, but you have to be careful. You must really be working hard.”

  “It’s a big lawn,” I mumbled. I touched my chin to my chest. I always heard if you can touch your chin to your chest, you didn’t have polio, at least not in the spine.

  “How many hours a week do you work?”

  “Not counting my lunch breaks, twenty-seven and a half a week.”

  “That’s a lot of money. Twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents a week. You’ll have a couple of hundred dollars by the end of the summer.”

  I changed the subject. I wasn’t about to tell her I was getting half that much. She’d really make me feel like a rug.

  “Are you up for good now?” I asked.

  “I don’t have to see the doctor again until September. When do you want to start working on the project?”

  “Well, I don’t know. I don’t have a lot of time.” I suddenly just wanted to get away from her.

  “There isn’t that much more time. Maybe you don’t want to do the project anymore. It was your idea.” She was trying to make me feel guilty. “If you’re not interested, just let me know.”

  “I’m still interested. I don’t have much time.”

  “So? I’m supposed to hang around waiting for you to have time?”

  “Do you have any ideas?”

  “I might.” By the way her mouth snapped shut I could tell she wasn’t going to tell me what they were.

  “Why don’t you start without me?”

  “All right, I will.” It sounded like a challenge.

  “I better get going, we’re eating early tonight.” I didn’t know if we were or not.

  “I’ll see you,” she said.

  “See you.”

  I hit the refrigerator the minute I got back to my house. Didn’t even think about it. Jerked back the metal handle, pulled open the door, let the sweet cool blast wash over my body, then plunged into the racks of food. I had one hand on a glass bowl of chocolate pudding and the other on a package of salami when a voice said, “Put it down.”

  “Says who?” said I.

  “Says you,” said Captain Marks.