Weighty Matters

"Eating." He points toward the building next to him. It's a diner. "Wanna join me for lunch?" (The old Fitz never would've eaten at this place. He was a salad guy.)

"Naw. I'm good."

He steps closer. I think he's pushing out his belly. Then, with a conspiratorial whisper, he says, "You know, it's really fun to just... let go."

What is he talking about?

"You remember my cousin Donny?"

I shake my head.

"He's 400 pounds now."

I step back a little. "Okay?"

"He's the reason I'm on the Gain Train." He says that like it's a phrase I should recognize. The Gain Train? Does that mean...? Is he trying to get fat?

He waits for me to respond. He wants me to ask him. He wants... Fuck. I have no idea what he wants.

This whole conversation makes me feel deeply uncomfortable. "Well, have fun with that. See ya around."

I rush out of there as fast as I can. As I round the corner, I see him step into the diner with a big smile on his face.

***

Years pass before I see Fitz again. I think about him sometimes (that conversation was too weird to forget), but when I ask around, none of our mutual friends have heard from him. He's kind of an enigma in our town. We all assume he and his husband choose to keep to themselves.

And then one afternoon, on the exact same street as last time, Fitz spots me leaving my yoga studio. "Benny! Wait up!"

I spin around and see a complete stranger waddling toward me. If it weren't for his voice, I never would've suspected it was Fitz.

The shaved look works for him, but that's the only improvement on his otherwise ruined body. He hangs out of his stained tank top, and his drooping apron sloshes around as he approaches.

Just 10 steps toward me and he's already out of breath. He wasn't even running!

"I... (gasp) wanted to... (gasp) say hi."

"Hi," I say.

There's an awkward silence between us until he catches his breath. He asks, "Are you mad at me?"

For gaining, like, 200 pounds? No. I'm just... sad, I guess. And confused.

"Why would I be mad?"

"Because you always ignore me," he answers. "You and the rest of the old crew. Every time I see you guys..."

I gulp. So I had seen Fitz in the last couple years. I just didn't recognize him. I look at his round face and try to remember. We must've crossed paths around town, but for the life of me, I have no memory of this. He was just another fat guy blending into the crowd.

Should I tell him that? I don't want him to think that I'm an asshole. "Sorry. I... never recognized you."

"Oh," he says. He looks down at his bulging gut and smirks, as if I'd just paid him the ultimate compliment. "Cool," he whispers, more to himself than to me.

This interaction is just as awkward as last time, but I can't walk away now. I'm way too curious.

"Are you trying to gain weight?" I ask directly.

"Trying and succeeding, my man!" He steps back and raises his thick arms, waiting for me to take him all in. The sunlight draws shadows along his stretchmarks.

"Why?" I ask.

"The Gain Train," he says, just like last time. "You don't know how wonderful it feels to make yourself grow. It's like I never had control over my body until I learned how to change it."

"Uh huh."

"Seriously. Add a few pounds and you'll see what I mean."

"Maybe..." I mutter, because I don't have the confidence to scream, "Hell no!"

He smiles. He actually thinks I'm considering it!

"Good answer," he says. "Wanna feel?"

He grips the drooping edges of his belly and wobbles it up and down. He wants me to touch that thing.

Jesus! I would never!

But...

God, I should've just told him no. And I can still tell him no.

So why is my hand reaching forward? Why do I place my shaky palm on his belly curve?

Why do I let it sink in?

Our eyes meet and I feel the heat from his skin. I'm not letting go.

"Careful," he jokes. "You know fat is contagious."

That gets me to jerk my hand away.

Fitz looks me up and down. "Well, man. Since you recognize me now, maybe you can come over sometime. The hubby's a great cook."

(I forget his husband's name. I only met him once. He was a tall, bulky guy, so if Fitz is this big, I can only imagine how big his husband has gotten.)

"Sure," I say. Why did I say that?

And why is my palm still tingling with his belly heat?

Fitz pats my shoulder. "Well, gotta head back. Call me sometime."

I watch him waddle down the sidewalk, his shapeless ass wobbling under his sweatpants.

I'm speechless.

Confused.

Weirdly nervous.

And despite all that, I feel hungry.

There's no way I'll make myself fat like Fitz. God, that sounds awful.

But then why am I walking toward the diner? Why is my stomach rumbling?

***

Five years later, I waddle down the same street. I'm going to the diner again. Fitz is waiting for me in our usual booth.

I'm already 20 minutes late, and I can't let him order before I get there. He might not ask for enough.

I pass by my old friend Jimmy. His eyes glance toward my belly before he looks away and keeps walking.

I'm not mad that he doesn't recognize me. It happens.

But the next time I see him, I'll make sure to have a little conversation. Tell him what he's missing. Maybe let him touch my growing belly.

After all, fat is contagious.

The End