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It happens, it seems, overnight. As if by magic. One day, he’s a sleek, slim, shining example of a fit, young Canadian male who grew up on hard work, exercise and meat and potatoes. The next day, he’s standing around at his place of employment comparing the size of his body with those of his fellow male employees. Specifically, the size of that part of the front of his body located between his belt and the third button down from the collar of his shirt. The part often referred to as the belly.
When five guys with thinning hairlines start arguing over just which one of them has the biggest gut, as if a prize awaited the winner, you know they’re fresh out of things to bicker about. You might think they’d all want to deny being the fattest, but lo, it’s hard to believe, they’re all of them keen to be judged the largest of the large.
“I’ve got to lose 30 pounds by tomorrow night,” says one with a heavy sigh (preceding pun unintended) to another while they work.
“You’!” exclaims the other. “What are you talking about, man? You’re not fat.”
“Not fat?” argues the first. “Not fat? Look at this!”
Up comes the first one’s shirt and out falls his soon-to-be-famous paunch. A hush falls over the shop and then a gasp and then four adult men are standing around him, staring in wonder. A woman from another department walks by, looks, turns red, and runs away. All she wants is to never find out what was going on.
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“Yup,” says the first one as he tucks his shirt back in. “I weigh 194 pounds.” He couldn’t have been more proud if be was announcing he’d just saved 194 lives or perfected his 194th invention.
“You? One-hundred and ninety-four?” says a fellow worker in disbelief. “You can’t be.”
“Well, maybe I can’t, but I am,” replies the first, with defiance.
“I’ll tell you one thing,” is the retort from the doubter. “I weigh 193 and there’s no way you weigh more than me.”
A wave of weight-announcing, denials and counter-denials erupts.
“I’m 148,” yells one.
“You are,” says another. “And my dog reads the comics.”
A few more insults yelled at increasing volumes and five grown men are on their way down to the basement for a weigh-in. Mr. 148 becomes 158 and is heard from no more. A couple of others are also quieter heading back upstairs than they were going down.
But 194 steps on and off the scales at 194 as does the doubter at 193.
“Well Porky,” says Worker A, who caused the entire scene, to Worker B. “Satisfied?”
“I can’t believe it,” B mumbles. Dethroned, the old king hangs his head. “Tell me,” needles the first. “Do you small guys have to go to special shops to buy your clothes?”
But all this bragging is only that and Worker A takes to the sidewalks now, after dinner every day, until his lunch hour ends. Walks like a madman around the downtown streets, passing joggers and kids on bicycles and creating a breeze from the speed of his gait. Walks any faster, he’ll need a licence.
Once in a while, he meets Porky hustling towards him, heading in the opposite direction. They nod, politely, and move on, both of them determined to become flabless by the time summer gets here.
So they won’t look too upsetting in their bikinis.
©1988 Jim Hagarty
