| Everything I have ever written, from an early age until the last piece of fiction that I just finished, was meant to enterain YOU.
I sometimes wonder who you are?
He was a big man living in a small town. He was actually too big for his own skin. His morbid obesity was the reason why he did not have a job. He was born a normal size but started to put on extra weight almost every day after that. He was a lazy child and his parents were not motivational. His parents were obese themselves so they did not notice or care as their child grew fatter and fatter. Once he entered the school system, he did not respond positively to the ridicule of his fellow students. They called him names, mocking him for being fat and slow. He just absorbed their abuse as he continued to absorb unhealthy foods in double or triple the recommended portions.
He graduated from the school system, or was pushed through it like a piece of waste, and spent the next seven years in his bedroom. That bedroom would become the model of the next place that he would live, a single room occupancy hotel. It had a television, a small refrigerator and a toaster oven. On his little refrigerator he had cut out of a newspaper, book or magazine the phrase “LESS INSPIRATION AND MORE PRODUCTION”, but we do not know where he got it from. He never had a microwave, not because he could not afford one but because he was unfamiliar with it and was uncomfortable with changes. When his parents died and he was evicted from the apartment that they had been renting, he lost the television. After that, his only source of entertainment was his radio. He liked to listen to people talking about things. He found their opinions interesting, but they never sparked any curiosity in his dull brain. He did read five newspapers almost every day. He had a ravenous appetite for news as well as for fattening foods.
There was a job that he had once but he lost it for being too sick with the illnesses that morbidly obese people suffer from. In an odd coincidence, the same man that was his guidance counselor during his high school years had lost his own job at that school and was forced to work for the social services administration, continuing be an inept failure at giving guidance and never once noticing or recognizing any of the names on the list of subsistence checks that he issued every month.
Unable to work, and nearly crippled with gout, the large man led a simple life. He would get his check once a month and wait for it to come again the next month. The apartment building that he lived in was within limping distance of a small grocery store and a bus stop. From the grocery store he was able to feed both his stomach and his brain, with unhealthy food and newspapers. The bus stop was his gateway to the rest of the world. He lived not too far away from a big city, but he had only been there a few times in his life. He was afraid of the city, and the city people.
There was a horse racing track only a 30 minute bus ride away from where he lived, and he was fascinated with gambling on horse races. His father had told him “You have to be in it, to win it” which is always true. He did not understand that his father had lost the game of life, and he was unsure of the odds against becoming a millionaire by gambling a subsistence check at a racing track.
Every day, he would purchase his 5 newspapers and take the bus to the racing track. Most of the days, there was no live racing and he was watching horse races on televisions from other race tracks. He did not know where those racetracks were, geographically, but he did remember some of their names. He treated news and food the same way. He would read and purge. He might have read that the one of the countries in the world was at war with another one, or that the small town that he lived in had hired a new police officer that was the son of one of his long ago classmates, but he was not friendly with anyone from school. He was not friendly with anyone in the building that he lived in, or at the race track that he went to every single day. The people who worked at the track and at the store that he bought his newspapers and food every single day knew him but would be unable to guess what his age or even what his race was. He was simply the fat guy.
He was a failure at the one thing that he focused his attention on, horse racing. Most days he came home a loser, and on the days that he won a small amount of money he would celebrate by having sex. Not sex with a human. Instead of eating one of the slices of warmed pizza that was sold in the store next to his apartment, he would buy a second slice and let the cheese cool off, then lay on top of it until orgasm. He would throw that slice of pizza in the garbage afterwards. He never ate those slices. Anyone who would do that was a sick pervert! But, sometimes he woke up hungry and did take that slice back out of the garbage to eat. Sometimes was almost every time.
He lived in a part of the world where there were a few months of cold weather, and he hated those months. His obesity made that time of year unbearable and also the bus service was terrible, slowed down by the occasional snowfall. Cold afternoons at the bus stop for our hero. Shivering, aching and having trouble breathing while waiting for the bus to take him to the horse racing track. He might as well have been working in a coal mine.
One cold and snowy afternoon while waiting for the bus, something in him snapped. He could not bear it any longer. He had to get out of this life. He limped over to the store and bought a cheap plastic gun. He limped down the road to the bank. He had limped to this bank before a few times over the past several years. It was a long limping walk but he knew about a bus stop that was closer to the bank than the one near his apartment. That bus as going to be his getaway bus. He was getting out of here.
The bank teller could not understand his horrible handwriting on the note that he used to try and rob the bank. No one, to this day, can fully decipher what it said. Even after graduating 12 years of institutional education he could not correspond.
He stumbled out of the bank, with the toy gun in his hand, and was shot dead by the rookie police officer that his small town had just hired only two weeks ago.