The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

And aside from the annual exercise in self-loathing necessary when I shop for a new bathing suit (I’m convinced those three-way dressing room mirrors are designed to inflict pain) I’m fine with my body. Just fine.

  I am one of you. You are my tribe. You body-positivity activists.

  But am I really? Am I actually positive about my body? As in, is there anything about my body I actually like? Or is my attitude simply one of powerless resignation, similar to the way I feel after watching documentaries detailing how plastic pollution is destroying the world’s oceans?

  Ugh. It’s maddening.

  At the same time, if I’m being totally honest here, I am seriously pissed off at all of them. I am as angry at the protesters as I was at the BestOfMyCountry.com people. Why do they have to be in my town? Couldn’t they take their signs and their yelling somewhere else?

  For the record, I don’t believe the pro-fitness faction (at least the people who are downstairs) really care about fitness at all. It’s about control. Telling other people what their bodies should look like. And on the flip side, why does it always have to be about weight? Why couldn’t the body-positivity activists give me a break and change it up a little? March outside plastic surgeons offices, shouting at people who go in to schedule nose jobs?

  Ten minutes before tonight’s public council session is about to open, Audrey and I get the call we’ve been dreading all day.

  Guy French.

  It’s too much for him. All the horrid media coverage over the weekend, the shouting and protests happening today. He’s says it’s undignified. Not conducive to a successful business atmosphere. Bottom line, it’s over.

  Canine Cuisine is officially out.

  NINETEEN

  The clock mounted on the back wall of Eaton’s town hall is old. A good hundred and fifty years old. A gift from the town’s founding fathers, the clock boasts a hand-painted porcelain face from which swings a long brass pendulum. The whole apparatus is fronted by a protective glass panel and encased in locally harvested black walnut that’s been polished to a rich, silky sheen.

  A thing of beauty, even if it lacks precision when it comes to keeping time. Depending upon what amounts to mechanical whim—or humidity in the air, or phases of the moon, or whether the milk of the local dairy cows is flowing well—the clock’s intricate gears turn at a rhythm that has nothing whatsoever to do with the actual passing of minutes and hours. Its lack of adherence to any reality but its own makes it the perfect spectator to the goings-on of the town council, or so the townspeople like to joke.

  A sentiment with which I, back when I was a member of the council, heartily agreed. I even chuckled about it as I was sworn in as mayor, silently vowing I’d show everybody how it was done. What utter hubris. Turns out I’m as good at leading this town as that clock is at keeping time.

  Once again the chamber is packed. Standing room only. Reporters and cameramen are crammed inside. Myra Kushner has flown back from New York, or LA, or whatever swank city she was in this morning when she did her on-air appearance. No more plain little hen. Not our Myra. Now she’s got auburn streaks in her hair, false eyelashes, and gobs of pearlescent gloss on her lips. And damned if she’s not preening around the room signing autographs. Good to know at least one of us is delighted by Eaton’s latest round of media attention.

  Ratnor is the first scheduled speaker. Which means that for the opening fifteen minutes of tonight’s council session I’m grilled about when the town will commit to upgrade the water main and other public systems on Church Street. It’s a continuation of our last conversation, but this time he wants a date certain for the repairs.

  Other speakers rise to comment. They’re all tenants who’ve recently set up shop downtown, filling the previously vacant spaces. Though their leases are short-term they’re thinking of signing on to stay, but only on the condition that something is done about the septic and related systems. Apparently the water pressure is notoriously weak. With everything going on, I’d completely forgotten until this moment that Esme had pulled me aside a week ago to discuss this same thing.

  Councilwoman Linda Mitby volunteers to bring the town engineer down to look it over and Councilman Tim Bridges agrees he’ll accompany them. They’ll look at the system and have a recommendation to present to the council at our opening session in January.

  Matter temporarily resolved, we move on. And just in time, too. There’s an impatient rustling in the crowd. Clearing of throats, shuffling of feet, shifting of bottoms. This infrastructure minutia is boring our audience. They want to get to the good stuff.

  Councilman Brett Alper raises his hand to be recognized.

  “How’s the challenge coming, Mayor?”

  And off we go. With the exception of the sudden buzz of equipment as cameramen flip their gear to record, the room goes still.

  “Very well,” I say, “We’re pleased with the results so far.”

  “Delighted to hear that. But I’m looking for numbers, Mayor. You got any actual numbers for us?”

  He knows I do. He also knows what they are, because the matter came up in our emergency council session yesterday afternoon. We won’t have another official weigh-in until Christmas Day. Jym thinks an interim weigh-in would negatively affect the drama and anticipation of our public weigh-in on Christmas Day. He’s right. It very likely would. (In Jym’s words, folks want to see the butterfly break out of the cocoon. The big, in-your-face miracle. They don’t want to see the gooey slop inside the cocoon that makes that transformation possible.)

  Hard to argue with that. So we came up with a compromise to track our progress. We asked participants to respond to an email survey—strictly honor code and as anonymous as we could devise—reporting two things: the number on the poker chip Jym handed them on Black Friday, and the weight they’ve lost (or gained) to date. Audrey spent yesterday morning collecting and collating the data.

  I force a smile and report, “To date, the citizens of this community who’ve agreed to participate in Jym Granger’s SlymFyt challenge report a loss of 439 pounds.”

  My announcement is greeted with a low smattering of applause. A flat tire.

  Alper cocks his head and affects a puzzled frown. “Let me get this straight, Mayor Presley. Did you say 439 pounds?”

  “Yes, 439 pounds. A very commendable number.”

  “Huh.” He turns to our audience and treats them to an expression of befuddlement. “Bear with me a minute here. You folks know I’m a CPA, right? That means I’m a certified numbers geek. So I want to take a hard look at the numbers here. Make sure I’m getting them straight. That all right with you, Mayor?”

  I see exactly where this is going, but there’s no practical way to stop it.

  Alper says, “Let’s start with the calendar. Today’s Tuesday, December 11th, is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “That means two weeks from today is Tuesday, December 25th, the day of our community weigh-in. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “So by my reckoning, we’re a little over halfway there time-wise. And to date, we’ve lost 439 pounds. Is that right?”

  “Yes, Councilman.”

  “So if we continue at this pace, just doubling that very commendable number of yours, we can expect to lose 878 pounds by Christmas Day.”

  I don’t respond. The truth is, Alper’s actually giving me a break. It’s only going to get harder from here on out. I know I’ve reached a personal plateau. I can’t get the numbers on the scale to budge. (And yes, I’m aware that pasta primavera with Alfredo sauce doesn’t help.)

  Alper scrunches his face and scratches his head. “Remind me again, Mayor? Will 878 pounds win us this challenge? Get our schools the money they so badly need?”

  Oh, for the love of—that’s laying it on a little thick, isn’t it? Eaton’s students aren’t exactly huddled around a stove in a one-room schoolhouse, scrawling out their lessons with chalk and slate tablets. The money is going to cover a gap in the re
creation budget. According to Mike, the school board is getting bids for installing a rock-climbing wall.

  “Mayor?” Alper nudges.

  I sigh into my mic. “No, Councilman. 878 pounds won’t do it. We need to lose one thousand pounds by Christmas Day.”

  “One thousand pounds. That’s what I thought. So we’re not—”

  “I saw Louise Lareau eating fish and chips at Marshall’s Diner last night!”

  This startling bit of information is volunteered by Penny Delgaudio, who lurches to her feet and points an accusing finger across the room at Louise.

  “With extra coleslaw and tartar sauce!”

  Carrie Vanderbush jumps up. “What about you, Penny? Huh? You think you’re so perfect? Did you or did you not ask for extra bacon in your omelet after our workout class last Thursday? It wasn’t even an egg white omelet! And I saw you sneak a pat of butter for your toast!”

  “Don’t you dare tattle on me, Carrie—”

  “Gail Richards bought two dozen cupcakes last week! Dark chocolate filled with peppermint frosting!” shouts Pete Nicholson. “I was right there and I saw it!”

  Esme promptly joins the fray. “Now you leave Queen of Tarts out of this, Pete!”

  “For my granddaughter’s birthday!” Gail shouts. “I took those cupcakes to school! Didn’t even try a lick of frosting!”

  “Wait just a minute,” says Alvin Lee. “Pete, you cancelled on me the last three times we were supposed to jog! Guess you changed your mind about losing weight, didn’t you?”

  Pete says: “I did not! There’s nothing I hate more than being fat!”

  “Oh, yeah? How about being hungry?! I reckon you hate that just a little bit more.”

  And so on and so forth. The body-positive activists, huddled together in the back of the room, get into the shouting. So does the pro-fitness lobby. The wheels come off the session in record time. People are pointing at their friends and neighbors, accusing each other of grave dieting misdeeds, while I’m pounding away with my gavel, shouting for order.

  It’s an ugly scene. And it’s Jym Granger, rather than me, who finally calms everybody down.

  He holds up his hands for silence. The look of heart-wrenching disappointment on his face turns his normally gaunt features even more solemn.

  “We cannot have this, folks. The reason you are undertaking this challenge as a community is so you can support each other. Help each other up when you stumble. And with all due respect to the folks who are screaming in the back of the room—mind your business. All of you. The people who signed up for this volunteered to do it. These folks want to succeed. And this negativity, this shouting and tearing each other down, all it’s going to do is to guarantee failure.”

  A mournful Lincoln in a tracksuit, giving the better angels of our nature lecture. Swish, swish, swish. The crowd settles. A few nod their heads and look ashamed. Others beam at him adoringly.

  Maybe I’m just cynical by nature, but I can’t help but see him differently. Because now I understand why he insisted this be a group challenge. He’s hedging his bet. For every person who shows up on Christmas Day having gained a pound, three people have to lose an extra two pounds apiece to compensate and meet our goal. We are all accountable to each other in the worst possible way. Imagine two hundred people floating in the ocean, a rope around their waists tying them together. If one person starts to sink, everyone near him has to swim that much harder to stay afloat.

  The council session gets back on track and lumbers toward the next item on the agenda.

  Councilman Gary Bleeker says, “Mayor Presley, last week you said you might have an exciting announcement for us regarding the vacant factory space?”

  “Right.”

  I shoot Audrey a glance for support. She stares back stoically. A might as well get it over with look. She’s right. As they say, bad news isn’t wine. It doesn’t improve with age.

  “Actually, Councilman Bleeker, we’ve had a bit of a set back. Regrettably, Canine Cuisine has informed me they are no longer pursuing that site.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  His face goes flat, as do the expressions of other council people. Except for Brett Alper, who’s trying and failing to hide his delight. He’s practically bouncing in his seat, as excited as a third-grader who’s the only one in class who knows the answer to the problem the teacher posted on the board.

  Alper says, “If I could have the floor, Mayor Presley?”

  I reluctantly give it to him.

  “I’d like to introduce Robert Borghese and his attorney, Henry DuChamp, to the council.”

  I recognize them as the men Alper was showing around town at the tree lighting ceremony Friday night.

  “Mr. Borghese is the owner and CEO of a highly profitable chain of stores known as Bobo’s Bargain Basement. Mr. Borghese has indicated a strong interest in leasing that factory space. Just moments ago his attorney, Mr. DuChamp, presented me with a letter of interest.”

  Alper lifts the letter and waves it triumphantly before the crowd.

  “I am honored to present said letter to our interim mayor and my fellow councilmembers, as well as to the citizens of Eaton.”

  Interim mayor. Cute. But I have to let that one go, because there’s a whole nest of nastiness buried beneath his announcement that’s more important. The first is that Alper once again broke protocol by not informing the council about his lease candidates before the session opened. Secondly, he is completely ignoring the fact that that site is zoned for manufacturing, not retail. Thirdly, by making the announcement here tonight, he’s assuming the council and I will buckle to public pressure and grab any tenant that comes along, just to fill the space.

  A word about Bobo’s Bargain Basement. They site their stores in vast warehouse buildings and perch huge plexiglass chimps—Bobo—next to the entrance. Their television ad campaign features a screeching chimp running down the aisles, frantically knocking merchandise into a cart as a voice-over shouts ‘Buy! Buy! Buy!’ That’s followed by a shot of Bobo banging away at a cash register. ‘Sell! Sell! Sell!’ The final message that greets viewers? ‘Save! Save! Save! Hurry in to Bobo’s Bargain Basement, because these deals won’t last!’ Cut to a happy Bobo at home cuddling his purchases.

  Frankly, I find it all very disturbing. I suspect I’m in the minority. Matthew and his friends love it. They think it’s over the top, campy fun. I’ve received photo Christmas cards with families huddled around plexiglass Bobo, smiling and wearing Santa hats. To each his own.

  “I’m delighted at your interest in joining our community,” I say to Mr. Borghese. “Be assured the council and I will lend our assistance in finding you a suitable space.”

  Borghese frowns. Shoots a glance at Alper before turning back to face me.

  “Finding me a space?”

  “The factory site is zoned manufacturing, not retail.”

  What follows is an uncomfortable back and forth between me, Alper, and the other councilmembers as we discuss the merits of the town’s zoning plan. I stress that districts received their zoning designations to ensure we attract a variety of businesses and stabilize our economy. Alper, on the other hand, is all carpe diem. He wants to approve Bobo’s Bargain Basement now and build on that success. He says it will be a huge leap forward for the town.

  A leap forward? Hardly.

  I ask Borghese, “What is your median employee salary?”

  “Nine dollars and eighty-five cents an hour.”

  “Canine Cuisine’s median wage is nearly double that.”

  Alper says, “And if we could get NASA to open a plant to assemble satellites here, we’d double that number. But that’s not on offer, is it? So let’s focus on what is.”

  “My point, Councilman Alper, is that if we flood this community with low-paying jobs, we won’t have much of a community left. We need to preserve our industrial spaces.”

  This is our first unofficial debate, I realize. We’re both mapping out our vision for the town.
Alper is coming across as a man of action, while I look stodgy and stuck in the mud. One candidate who’s forward-looking, one candidate who takes a more wait-and-see, Goldilocks approach.

  I don’t want that either, so I say, “I’d be delighted to welcome Bobo’s Bargain Basement to Eaton, but I move we table this discussion until the council and zoning commission are able to discuss this at greater length. There’s plenty of room for everyone. We can have our cake and eat it, too.”

  Alper leans into his mic. Winks at the crowd. “And here I thought you were on a diet, Mayor.”

  Ha ha. Funny guy.

  I bring down my gavel. Meeting adjourned.

  TWENTY

  Based on the way my life has been going, it should come as no surprise that my washing machine chooses this week as the perfect time to fail. Regurgitating water and soap bubbles all over my laundry room floor. And since my repairman can’t come out to fix it until after New Year’s Day, I get to pack up all my and Matthew’s dirty laundry and haul it over to my parents house to wash it there. Normally I would enlist Matthew’s help in this chore but he’s having dinner with his dad.

  So I get to pack everything up, lug it in and out of my car, then drag it down to my parents’ basement. Not the end of the world, but a pain in the rear nonetheless. My mother greets me at the door.

  “Rachel! I didn’t know you were coming over.”

  I explain about my washing machine.

  She’s delighted. “Isn’t that wonderful! Tonight’s our monthly church supper. Why don’t you start a load, then you and Therese can join your father and me for dinner.”

  Possibly. Beats cooking for one. “What’s on the menu?”

  “Glazed ham, homemade macaroni and cheese, green beans, salad, rolls, and brownies à la mode for dessert.”

  “What happened? You couldn’t come up with a more fattening menu? I guess you didn’t hear the entire town is on a diet.”

  “Diet, schmiet. You know what I say. This is the body the Good Lord gave me. Though I sometimes wonder—”

  “What I did to make him so mad,” I finish along with her. She’s been telling that same joke since Therese and I were kids.