by Edward Goble
Less Of Me
Edward Goble
Copyright 2008 by Edward Goble
ISBN 978-1-4659-2003-4
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by Bluegrass Creative | www.bluegrasscreative.com
Chapter 1
Andy’s Weblog, November 1
Invisible
The worst part of being overweight and single is being invisible. As a kid the idea of being invisible sounds neat, sneaking into the girls locker room, eavesdropping on parents, real spy stuff. But now that there are a few years separating me from puberty I’ve discovered that getting what you pray for can be a real drag. How can people love someone they can’t see? I’m a paradox. I take up twice the physical space as most men, impossible to miss, yet somehow, completely invisible.
In the checkout line at the market my eyes never meet those of the checker. I am never given more than a glance, usually partnered with an edge of disdain as her eyes steer back to the belt full of food that, in her mind, is the last thing I need. Fat people shouldn’t eat. It’s worse at a restaurant. If I ever make the mistake of visiting a buffet-style eatery, any appetite I brought into the place is quickly squelched by the disapproving looks of both employees and patrons. They don’t see me, they see my waistline, they don’t see a man, they see an eating machine.
I know I’m not alone in this depressing dynamic. It’s the same for homely people, old people and even skinny people, the ones who get knocked around in a crowd and pushed off the sidewalk and whos clothes hang from spindly limbs. Actually, I wish I had some clothes that draped, mine cling to every bulge like plastic wrap. Skinny girls do okay if they have big eyes and high cheeks, boney legs up to there and a “screw you” facial expression. Look at any magazine cover. They might suck prunes all day, but at least they aren’t invisible. I guess my face says, “Look away now or I’ll eat you!”
I wouldn’t, though.
Andy
Andy tilted his head and imagined a band of ravenous fat people foraging through the mall like the zombies from Dawn of the Dead. The beep of his phone ruined the visual.
“Andy,” he answered, as usual.
“My man! How’s it going out there?”
“Oh, you know, doin’ what I do.”
“That’s what I like to hear, got a deadline to meet you know.”
“Yeah. I don’t know, Will... I might need a little more time.”
“Time is something we don’t have, my prolific pal. The publisher wants a manuscript by Thanksgiving. That’s November 24th, you realize - deadline for the catalog? We don’t deliver and they push us back another quarter - that’s bad karma, Big’n.”
“I’m not gonna send up a piece of crap just to make a deadline.”
“Of course you won’t. It’ll be brilliant. Just get it done on time, that’s all.”
“You know, your little pep talks don’t really inspire my creative side.”
“You want a cheerleader call your mother.”
“I need a new agent.”
“And I need a bestseller from my number one author.”
“Whatever.”
“Now, Andy, I’m being serious about this. You’re at the top of your game. We have to keep up the momentum right now, there will be plenty of time to slow down and write your opus. We’ve got to feed the appetite for Rance Broadback that you created—people want to know what happens next, people need it, they have to have it.
“You make it sound so serious. It’s not a polio vaccine for cripes-sake, it’s a friggin’ spy novel.”
“It’s an important work of contemporary adult fiction. How’s it coming, by the way?”
“I’ve got the pages all numbered, now I just have to fill in the rest,” he said, which was actually pretty close to the truth. The fact was that Andy had wasted six months and was now staring at a nearly impossible deadline. But his agent probably wouldn’t find any humor in that.
“Leave the comedy to Carlin, would ya?”
“It’ll be done when it’s done, all right?”
“Okay. I trust you... Did you hear that, Big Guy? I trust you.”
“Yeah, okay, talk to you later.” Andy clicked the phone shut and thought, “That guy really knows how to wind my clock.” “Big Guy,” he mocked, “Grrhh.” Sometimes he had to remind himself that William Heard was the only agent in New York that would even look at his first book. The others all had some reason why The President’s Reception wouldn’t work for them. Will took a chance, and it changed Andy Boyd’s life.
Pushing back from his computer desk, he stepped through the short hallway of his smallish, two story row house, just north of Fisherman’s Wharf in North Beach. The neighborhood had been hit pretty hard by the quake in 1989, but the restoration effort had been miraculous. He bought this place with the royalties from the second Broadback novel, A Ring and a Prayer, which was the first time his name appeared on the bestseller list.
Built in 1942 and updated in 1993 by the previous owners, the only thing he didn’t like about the place was humping groceries up the stairs. At least he had a garage, a luxury in San Francisco. He was one of the oddballs that actually owned a car, a 2001 Buick that provided a custom fit for his generous hindquarters. Most people used BART, bikes and feet for transportation around the city, which Andy envied, but could not imagine. Anything that put him in competition for space, like finding a seat on a crowded train or bus, made him nauseous. He once bought a ticket on Southwest Airlines to attend a book signing in Southern California. When he got to the gate and found out the plane was open seating, he cancelled the appearance. He couldn’t bring himself to board the airplane.
He entered the neatly kept kitchen space and pulled a clean glass from the strainer by the sink, filling it with crushed ice from the door of the refrigerator, he poured in a can of Chocolate Royale Slim-fast drink. He looked in the refrigerator, as he always did, as if it might contain something new since the last time he peaked, shut it and walked to the living room bay window, which overlooked Chestnut Street. He loved the city. It wasn’t really built for people of girth, but he loved it anyway. There was so much energy, so many unusual people, most of them focused and busy like they had been plugged in all night and had a full charge when they hit the streets the next morning. He could stand at his window for hours on end, nursing his diet shake and sometimes a donut or three. The street held his imagination like a child watching the presents under a glistening tree on Christmas Eve.
Andy sucked a coating of thick chocolate off an ice cube and splurt it back into his glass as he studied the street below him. The lunch crowd was beginning the daily walk-race to the local eateries, which was always fun to watch from above the fray, but Andy’s eye locked on to a bike messenger wheeling to a stop outside a little deli on the corner, just down and across from his place. The young man seemed extra cautious as he locked his Trek and retrieved a small package and clipboard from his backpack. He scanned the street in each direction before entering the shop. The messenger exited moments later, stowed the clipboard and pedaled away as the owner of the deli, Mr. Martin—pronounced Marteen, followed him to the threshold of the open door holding the small brown paper wrapped box. Looking back and forth down Chestnut himself, Mr. Martin finally moved the doorstop, a gallon can of Romano’s Tomato paste, allowing the door to swing shut as he backed into the shop out of sight.
Andy watched for a few more minutes while his imagination tried to convince him that the same dark Lincoln had passed conspicuously in front of the business twice, the glass on the sides and back of the car tin
ted darker than the charcoal paint job. “If I stand here long enough the next book will write itself,” he announced to the empty house as the ring of the phone once again interrupted his train of thought. It was his mother.
“I don’t know, Mom, I’m doing fine. I’m just busy.”
“Busy. I know. I think you’re too busy, if you want to know. I think you work too much.”
“Well, I don’t. Really. Compared to most of the people in the city, I’m an absolute sloth,” Andy said to his biggest fan.
“Creative work is different, Andy. Don’t feel lazy just because you are more introspective. You’re like a fine wine, if you want the good stuff, you have to be patient.” Janice Boyd was part mother, part Zen philosopher.
“Do you write your own material, Mother? Because that was just silly.”
“I just know you. You are brilliant, you are creative, you are thoughtful and caring. You’re one in a million, Andy. The world is a better place with you around.”
“Now you’re making me ill.”
“I read your blog this morning.”
“Mother. Why?”
“If you want your thoughts to be private then you shouldn’t post them...”
“But...”
“And - you shouldn’t have shown your mother how to subscribe. So it’s your fault. I read it with my coffee.”
“That’s it, I’m going into hiding.”
“Don’t say that. I love it. I can’t wait to read it each morning, but...”
“But?”
“Well, I’m concerned, that’s all...”
“Mom, I...”
“Andy, I just wish you wouldn’t dwell so much on your weight, you are a handsome, wonderful young man.”
“I’m a hundred pounds overweight.”
“You are not.”
“Mom, I don’t have time for this conversation. Really, I’ve got a deadline.”
“Okay. I’m sorry... Are you eating?”
“Mother? Geez. Can we talk about something else?”
“Well, Marg is taking me to San Jose to a religious crusade tomorrow night - that should be interesting.”
“That Jimmy Wheat thing? I got something in the mail about that.”
“Mmm, I think it’s his son.”
“Wait. His son? There are two of them?
“I don’t know. I suppose.”
“Is Marg driving?”
“Mhmm, I get lost down there. Why?”
“I was just going to tell you to leave your wallet at home, that’s all. They can’t take what you don’t have.”
“Andrew Peter!”
“I’m sorry! I’ve just heard about those big religious things. All the emotional hype, the pleas for money - and I guess they really rake it in.”
“Marg says these folks are doing a lot of good things down in Mississippi, Louisiana, building houses and all. They’re even in North Korea, invited in to build hospitals.”
“Somebody’s got to pay for all that.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m sorry. I love you, just don’t get crazy on me, okay?”
“It wouldn’t hurt you to read your Bible once in a while, would it?”
“I did. I remember the story about the fat King who was sitting on the commode and a left-handed assassin snuck in and killed him with a knife. Stabbed him right on the pot.”
“You’re making that up, that’s not in the Bible.”
“Look it up... Ask Marg. Ask Jimmy...”
“Well... I want to go, I really do. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to know if there is more out there, you know, after this life.”
“And I’m sure you’ll tell me if you find out.”
“Only if you want me to.”
“Mom, I’m just being a smart ass, of course I want you to.”
“Okay then... Listen, about your weight and all. Really...”
“I know. I love you. I’ll talk to you later.”
“I love you, too.”
Andy hung up the phone and looked at the time-stamp in the toolbar of his iBook, 11:48 am. He put both elbows on the desk and rubbed his eyes and forehead. He stared at the blue desktop of the computer, as if it might hold the answers to his weight problem and the more pressing issue of his manuscript deadline. It didn’t. After a quick shower he pulled on some sweat pants and his Alcatraz Triathlon t-shirt (Dig/Swim/Run), grabbed his wallet, keys and a windbreaker, and headed to Martin’s for a sandwich. The diet shake had made him hungry.