“Thick and syrupy, just like you like it, right? It’s coffee, not a milkshake, you fat ass!”
As he exited his home, he wondered whether or not he brushed his teeth. Conversely, Megan wondered what kind of slob leaves home without brushing his teeth first, as she knew beyond any doubt that he had skipped the task.
Sadly, the day did not cease to abuse Milton after he left home. Upon walking outside, he attempted to hail a cab but his foot slipped off the curb and he had a near collision with an oncoming bicyclist. It was possibly a messenger, but the few milliseconds which had afforded him the glimpse was not enough for him to make out any distinguishing features. The last thing he saw was a flash of bright orange and black as the cyclist sped off, his gear matching the paint on his ride. The sight startled him, causing him to drop his thermo. He watched, almost in slow-motion, as the cap cracked and the coffee spilled out onto the concrete. Having fallen directly in front of the bike, the doughy stuffing busted out of his doughnuts and the zip-lock bag as they were run over by the front and back tires. An expression of heartbreaking agony flashes across Milton’s face. The sentiment is accompanied by the growl in his stomach. He stares at the remains. If only the bag didn’t break, he thinks to himself.
Since, no available cabs would stop he was forced to walk to the subway station where more trouble would ensue, not to mention the chaffing between his thighs due to the constant friction of his legs’ fat rubbing against each other. At some point during his descent down the subway stairs, he missed a step. The impact of the slight misstep caused the pain in his lower back to flare up, sending cripplingly sharp pains down his legs. Wincing as he moved, he suspected that he may have slipped a disc in his vertebrate somehow. Walking fast so as to calm the flare which intensified as his pace slowed, he experienced yet another collision, this time with a commuter and his hot cup of coffee.
“Ahh, that’s frickin’ hot,” Milton bellowed before taking off, in hot pursuit after the man who had spilled the hot beverage on him. In his fury, Milton forgot about the pain in his back and ran, an activity he hadn’t done since he wrestled in college some fifteen years ago. An otherwise usually docile man, if Milton had caught the young man before he escaped into the train, he would have uncharacteristically beaten the snot out of him, or at least tried his best to. After all, the coffee was very hot and the man had spilled it all over his chest and belly. The sudden shock had pushed Milton over the edge.
As the train departed and Milton turned his attention back to the platform, he witnessed an awful sight, an old lady slipping and landing dreadfully hard on her back. Making it worse was the metal walker which landed on the old lady’s chest. Milton had no idea his incident and the lady’s accident were related until he spotted the culprit’s matching breakfast items: an empty Dunkin Donuts cup and a squished Dunkin Donuts sandwich. It doesn’t take a genius to realize the two belonged to the man in the suit who had escaped onto the train. He was the man responsible for scalding Milton’s torso and for dropping a sandwich. The same sandwich which an old lady had come to slip on only moments later.
Waiting around the platform for another train to pass, Milton watched as a blonde woman, of some form of authority, kneeled by the old lady before rising to address the crowd. After talking to a plain-clothed officer, the lady, who happened to be an assistant to the district attorney, was brought over to where Milton was standing.
“Sir,” she began, with an attitude. “I’ve been led to believe that you might have witnessed something and are holding information which might be of particular use to the investigation at hand.”
Milton sensed an insincere quality to her tone be gave her his testimony. He did so, however, while embellishing a few things along the way. Bending the truth, he told her that he chased the perpetrator after the old lady fell. However, the chase was over by the time he witnessed the fall. He was no hero, as he attempted to make himself seem. And while he doesn’t often lie without reason, it had been a particularly bad day so far, much worse than usual, and he could have used the boost to his self-esteem. All he really wanted was a pat on his fat back, since he hadn’t had one in so long.
“Let me get this straight, you chased the young man, but he got away?” she asked him.
“Right,” he confirmed.
“And you gave chase,” she began, air-quoting the word ‘chase,’ “because the lady fell?”
“Right,” he confirmed again.
The look on her face tells him that she doesn’t believe his story. His instinct is right.
“Where were you standing, in regards to the lady’s position, at the time of the incident?” She asked more forcefully.
“I was near her,” he replied.
“And when she hit the ground?”
“I was near the train,” he said, instantly realizing the flaw in the logic of the picture he had painted.
“So then,” she began her sentence with a slight pause. “Please explain how is it that you chased the man for a deed not yet committed? If you were already near the train by the time the lady fell.”
“Uh, ugh,” he said, stumbling over his words.
“I’ll tell you how that was possible. You chased the man before the fact. Now you stand before me like some super-obese Good Samaritan. Come to think of it, from what I understand, you’re partly to blame for the incident,” she snapped at him.
“What, no. Wait lady, you got it all wrong,” Milton pleaded. “I’m also a victim here.”
“A victim of cholesterol and diabetes, maybe,” she quipped. “I’ll tell you what, get your fat, cheesy ass away from me and I’ll think about not having cuffs slapped on you for obstruction of justice, you fat, fucking piece of lying shit.”
And with that Milton wobbled off, feeling embarrassed and in pain again. Because the adrenaline rush from the chase had long worn off. Luckily his train arrived, but atlas there were no available seats. After a transfer, he was finally on his way to his original destination.
His stop was Union Square and the train got him there traveling slower than it normally did, but without further incidents. Outside the Union Square station, a cab screeched by. The driver of the vehicle shouted obscenities at the passenger in the back.
“You! You will suck the cock!”
The driver screamed loudly enough that Milton and other pedestrians heard him clearly. Milton tried to get a clear view of the spectacle, but they were only visible for a blink of an eye before foot traffic impeded his field of vision. Therefore Milton hadn’t caught a good enough glimpse of them. Nevertheless, Milton shook his head at the shameful display, possibly doing it in hopes of randomly striking a good rapport with any of the offended pedestrians near him. Unfortunately for him, nobody so much as bothered to take a second gander at him, despite how agreeable his sentiments were. The problem with Milton’s faux defensive gesture is that most of the people near him weren’t offended. Surely, they were caught off guard and as thus, they were shocked. Milton’s mistake was in assuming that the initial shock wouldn’t soon wear off. A second or two later, the people near him became amused, giggling while they updated their social media posts to reflect the latest insignificant event of their recent lives. Milton’s hashtag: sadness.
This had been Milton’s day. It began badly and continued to worsen as the day progressed. It’s too bad that some days are just like that for some people; it’s even worse that most days are like this for Milton.
Approximately two hours has elapsed since he lost his balance and crashed into his wife’s lamp. He’s been plagued by excruciating flashes of sharp pain in his lower back. Pain which shoots up and down his upper leg. And last but not least, his chest and belly was scalded by a large cup of hot coffee. Worst of all, he lost his own coffee and donuts when he stepped out of his apartment building.
At the current and present time, the quality of Milton’s day shows no signs of improving, especially when one factors in that he has yet to clock in and start his work shift as a cellu
lar phone store manager, a job he has never enjoyed even though he’s become the boss.
Days such as these often cause their hosts to question the meaning of it all, but not Milton. No, Milton already has the answer to it all. That answer, for Milton at least, is food and lots of it. The urge brings him to the decision of calling in sick to work. Milton, in an audacious display of boldness, calls his job which sits right across the street with a large glass window compromising most of the storefront.
“Hey, Tommy? This is Milton. I’m won’t be in today, I’m sick.”
“Mr. Woodsmith, I can see you across the street,” the employee replies smartly as he looks out of the store window, pointing at Milton.
“That’s not me,” Milton lies.
“Uh, yeah it is. I see your lips moving to the sound of your words.”
“Look, I thought I could make it in, I can’t, I’m sick. Tell Javier that he’s in charge today.” And with that Milton hangs up and hails a cab. As his focus is set upon traffic, he’s oblivious to the obscene and disrespectful gesture his employee executes. Unfortunately for him, a visiting undercover, corporate employee does not share that same blindness. The gesture, Tommy pressing his exposed butt-cheeks against the store window, is secretly noted and neither Milton, Tommy, nor Javier will know anything about the impending reprimand, which generally falls upon the manager of a location, until the higher-ups come to visit the store. Meanwhile, outside of the store, Milton finally succeeds in getting a cab to stop for. After awkwardly climbing into the back, the driver asks him where he wants to go. He ponders it for a few moments.
“Take me to Eleventh and First Ave.”
Milton never bothers to look at the license, his mind being too preoccupied with food.
The driver, a Guido named Antonio Gordo Jr., obliges with a courteous nod in the rearview mirror. Meanwhile, he thinks to himself, “Fat fuck, bet ya going to the bakery, right?”
Gordo Jr. drives off, however an instinct forces him to take another long, hard look at Milton. He’s seen the man before, in pictures maybe, but cannot recall exactly where. The car reaches a red light and stops. The brake causes the little luchador bobble-head on the dash board to bounce back and forth. And back and forth. And back and forth…
CHAPTER 8:
The best cheesecake in New York City comes from Veniero’s on Eleventh Street; most New Yorkers will readily admit this, as long as they’re from downtown Manhattan that it. This is where Heather suggests, through a text message, that Ruth meet her. Ruth’s response is a single word, “Eh,” followed by another single word text, “Fine,” and finally an acronym, “lol.”
The newsstand where Heather had been when she met William not too long ago is turned over to the new owner in the few minutes following her text to her sister. The previous owner, a friend of Heather’s, had recently sold the place and could not be there to hand over the title deed and keys to the small business. She had volunteered for the task, literally, an eternity ago.
Heather takes the uptown bound 6 train and gets off on Astor place, right next to the spinning cube fancied by dirty drifters and happy hipsters alike. From Astor Place station, Veniero’s is only a few blocks away. She takes her time walking there, knowing that it will most likely be some time before her older sister arrives from her uptown home.
The bakery is packed. Yet, despite the congestion, the atmosphere inside the store is relaxed like it usually is. This is ironic considering the amount of sugar and caffeine being consumed by patrons at every given moment.
When Ruth arrives, the two sisters embrace, squeezing each other tightly for some time. A tear forms at the corner of Ruth’s eye which Heather wipes away when they come apart from their hug.
“Don’t be such a softy,” she tells her older sister, secretly reminding herself to take the same advice as she feels her own eyes water.
“I haven’t seen you in too long,” Ruth says.
“Way too long,” Heather replies, choking on her words. “But don’t make me cry.”
“Don’t make me cry,” Ruth replies whiningly, more tears forming at her eyes as she fans her face with her hand, as the effeminate do when they are being moved to tears.
The sisters walk inside of the bakery. Finding an empty seat near the back, they set their items down before they order.
“Want to be a bunch of fat asses and spilt a small cheese cake?” Heather suggests.
The proposal arouses a smile on Ruth’s face.
“Are you crazy? A small cheese cake still serves about eight people,” Ruth replies.
“So what? We can offset the calories by not eating anything else today,” Heather suggests.
“Or tomorrow. And possibly the day after,” Ruth adds, not sure if her estimate is an exaggeration or not.
“Well, I don’t want to count calories. Who cares if we gain a pound? Like, whatever.”
“If we eat that entire cheesecake, it’d be more like five pounds,” Ruth states, again unsure about how right she is.
After ordering their cheesecake, the two sisters catch up, gossiping about the many individuals they both know. The pastry arrives at their table, along with two lattes. Meanwhile the two are so enthralled by their snippy social commentary on the lives of others that they barely notice the large man sitting on the table opposite to them.
Milton, with his wet shirt still clinging to his fat body, takes a deep breath and holds it as he eases his gigantic posterior into the small seat. After successfully squeezing his ass first, then torso, in between the seat’s armrests, he finally exhales and opens his menu, sighing longingly as his eyes skim over his options. Less than a few seconds later he waves a waitress over and orders.
Heather is oblivious to the big man’s presence until a waitress crosses into her peripheral sight. Believing that the cake which the server carried toward them was for them, she ogles both the cheesecake and the girl bringing it over. It isn’t until the waitress places the cake in front of Milton that Heather realizes it is not for her. As she’s turning her attention back to her sister, her eyes catch a glimpse of Milton’s obese frame. Instantly, she’s struck by a déjà vu unlike any other she has ever experienced before. She’s almost certain that she has never seen the man before, but somehow she knows him. She knows that their lives are intertwined, but she cannot figure out the link they are bound by.
Heather watches on as the man lifts an unnecessarily huge piece of cake onto his fork and then shovels it into his mouth. She tries her best to place his face in her memories, but it is to no avail. A slight nudge from Ruth snaps her out of her current focal point.
“Didn’t know you were a chubby chaser,” Ruth says in a whisper, alluding to Heather’s unflinching gaze, mistaking it for attraction.
“What?” Heather responds, truly at a lost as to what her sister had just insinuated.
“Stop staring at him,” Ruth advises.
“Holy shit,” Heather says, finally looking away. “I didn’t even realize that I’d been staring at him.”
“Yeah,” Ruth begins with a smile. “Whatever floats your boat.”
Catching on to what her sister had been getting at, Heather smiles, breaking the solemnity of the moment, and plays along.
“Floats my boat? Look at him, he is the boat. I’d float on him.” The two girls laugh. This causes Milton to peer over at them. There is no way that he could have heard them, and yet he knows the girls’ giggles are at his expense.
Milton used to be self-conscious about his weight, but that was long ago, before the issue had gotten out of hand. Back before he was a “fat shit,” as his wife so often calls him, he had cared about what he ate and how much of it he was eating. Not anymore. Now he just doesn’t care about his steeply declining health at all. His self-esteem is the result of the reality he now lives. People refer to him as a “fat shit” because he is one, or at least he feels he is. Truth is, Milton had attracted this lifestyle. Though his thoughts and behaviors, Milton invited, into his lif
e, his present state of morbid obesity. All the negativities which bred more negativity had, at one point, been attracted to Milton’s existence through Milton’s own personal energy. If he had adopted a healthier outlook about his weight and his food choices back before he had ballooned to more than three hundred pounds, Milton’s self-defeating attitude might not exist today. Now, that same negativity is strong and consumes him entirely, much like the cheesecake he plans on devouring presently.
“You know, I have two pictures of us from our dance days. In frames. I’ve been meaning to hang them up since forever now,” Heather tells her sister.
The waitress brings over the girl’s order. As they eat, they continue their small talk. After a while, Ruth notices that Heather continues to peak over at the large male sitting at the next table over.
“Alright, seriously, you’re being rude now,” Ruth scolds.
“I’m listening to everything you’re saying, sis. I’m not being rude, I swear.”
“Not to me,” Ruth begins to elaborate. “To him. It’s obscenely rude to stare at someone like that, like you’ve been doing.”
“You’re right,” Heather says, agreeing with her older and, at the moment, wiser sister.
After asking for the check, Ruth retrieves her phone from her bag so that she can use the calculator feature to figure out what the appropriate tip is. Since she rarely uses her phone for any actual real life tasks, she has trouble finding the calculator application on the device.
“Shit, these phones are such a pain sometimes,” Ruth complains loudly.
INITIUM NOVUM: Part 1 Page 6
