Fat Man

Look at how he sweats. Salt water running down his cheeks, ‘cross the forehead. His droopy chest is wet too. Broiling like a chicken thigh in 375 degree heat. He’ll be done in an hour.

The fat man wasn’t even moving. Energy was used just sitting there. Watching television. Swatting flies as they landed on the rim of his glass of Coke. Ice was melting.

A harvest moon was up in the sky. Yellow light shined down through clouds. Heat lightning was going off in the distance. You could hear a little thunder, but, not a drop of water fell. Windows were open. Fans were blowing. And the fat man flipped through channels. Jerry Springer was on. More and more about a man who cheated on his girlfriend. The man defending himself till an uncle or a cousin or a brother or a something comes out and beats the hell out of him. Fat man yelling at the TV, Get him boy. Get him, he shouted, opening up another soda; grabbing another piece of chicken from a KFC bucket. A ball of sweat dropped from his nose.

He fell asleep on the couch with a drumstick dangling from his fingers. Sound down on the television. People saying words in silence. Jimmy Stewart talking, but, nothing coming from his lips. Giving a speech to Congress in a movie; black and white. Piles of papers on his desk. You could tell he was upset about something. Looked like he was sweating too.

Fatty rolled over on the couch. Middle part sagged. His round face was turned towards the back of a pillow. Breathing heavy on the pillow. Snoring away. Loud. There was no one there to hear him. He was alone. He had always been alone. TV kept him company. He’d dream about shows he watched, movies, infomercials. Had visions of chefs making him food and trying to sell him a non-stick pot, a frying pan. Said the 1-800 number in his sleep. Talked out loud to a telephone operator standing by. Said he’d take one of everything. Pots, pans, plates, rotissery cooker. He had plans. Big plans.

He woke up in the middle of the night. Grabbed a piece of chicken. Turned the sound up. People talking with laughter in the background. It was Al Bundy trying to sell shoes to a fat woman. He laughed too. Then turned the sound down and cried in his sleep.

Published by:

dmseay

The writing is based on my surroundings and what I've been surrounded by. This language is coarse and politically incorrect; which I make no apologies for. These characters are not nice and to use any other dialogue would be disingenuine. That being said, I choose to roll the dice. dm seay

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