The Thousand Pound Christmas

by Victoria Burgess

  “They’ve been running this all night?”

  “Yup. This is the third time so far.”

  “Wonderful.”

  “Hey. At least you look good.”

  “I look good? I look like an idiot. I was completely blindsided.”

  “Yeah, I didn’t mean you look competent or smart or anything. I meant, at least your new suit looks good.”

  I lift the remote and shut off the TV.

  “What are you working on?” I flick a glance his way. “Chemistry, I hope.”

  “Nah. Just tracking our rankings.”

  “Our rankings?” I peer over his shoulder. Filling Matthew’s laptop screen are the Chubbiest Town images. “You’re watching that? Why would you help drive traffic to that site?”

  “I’m not driving traffic to that site. This is YouTube. Someone uploaded the clip and it’s grown major legs. It’s already number one in all ‘fat people’ rankings.”

  Fat people…? I scan the column of videos to the right of the screen, cued and ready to be streamed with the push of a button. Fat people dancing, fat people falling, fat people eating, and so on and so forth. Matthew’s right, the Chubbiest Town sequence already has more views than the next three clips put together. In the span of one evening, Eaton has reached cyber celebrity infamy.

  “This is horrible,” I sputter. “I had no idea. I mean, can they even do that?”

  “They? Who are they? Mr. and Mrs. Internet?”

  I swat his shoulder. “You know what I mean. The people who run this site.”

  “YouTube? Five billion videos are viewed on YouTube every single day. Three hundred hours of video are uploaded every minute. I think they’re mostly worried about blocking porn and stuff. A fat guy falling off a chair isn’t exactly going to bring the site crashing down.”

  “That’s not the point, is it?”

  He glances up at me. “Mom, relax. Nobody takes this seriously. It’s supposed to be funny. There’s even a disclaimer at the bottom. Look.” He points to a scrolling line of text. No fat people were injured during the filming of these videos.

  “Wow. I feel so much better.”

  “You should.”

  I hesitate. Surely this is a teaching moment. Surely this sort of blithe indifference to the mocking of other human beings is X-man behavior, not my son’s. In fact, isn’t it reasonable to expect some sort of indignation from him, if not actual empathy? While Matthew isn’t fat—certainly not—he still hasn’t lost that distinctive layer of fleshy softness, or what some people might call ‘baby fat.’ There is an undeniable roundness to his hips, a thickness to his chest, and maybe a tiny bit of a belly if he doesn’t take care to suck in his breath when he wears his swim trunks. Not that it matters one way or another. He’ll outgrow it. But again, that isn’t the point.

  “You don’t find this stuff offensive?”

  “Are you kidding me? This is nothing. You should see the Darknet. That’s where the real twisted stuff is. The sicko stuff.”

  The Darknet. Oh, joy. Something I’d previously only been vaguely aware of. Now that Matthew’s brought it to my attention, as an elected official will I be expected to do something about it? Although as Brett Alper delighted in reminding me, I haven’t actually been elected yet. Possibly won’t ever be, judging by the way things are going.

  I frown at my son. “How do you know about the Darknet?”

  “Dad told me.”

  Of course he did. Now that makes sense. Ed Merrow, ex-husband and full-time cop.

  Ed and I met when I was fresh out of college with a degree in Communications and took what I thought would be a temporary job as a police dispatcher. Turns out, I loved the job, and was flattered when Ed, ten years older, good-looking, and possessed of far more life experience, asked me out. When we divorced eight years later, Ed began dating the woman who took my place as dispatcher. And though I harbor a strong suspicion he also dated the woman who came before me in that position, I’m too mortified to actually check. The bit about letting sleeping dogs lie applies to ex-husbands as well.

  The good news is that while Ed and I couldn’t agree on how to be married, we excel at being divorced. In fact, I consider us a shining example of the ultimate relationship oxymoron: a great divorce.

  Ed drives a muscle car. He likes to grill, play touch football, and look cool in front of his son, which means occasionally sharing things with him I think he shouldn’t. Drug busts. Traffic stops that spin out of control. Messy arrests. But that’s between them. What works for me is that he lives thirty minutes away. The perfect divorce distance. Far enough that I don’t bump into him at the grocery store or while picking up a prescription, but close enough to attend nearly all Matthew’s school events.

  Not only does Ed make a great weekend dad, he’s a better disciplinarian. He wasted no time putting the fear of God into Matthew as to what would happen if he ever got caught messing around with drugs, alcohol, or the wrong crowd. Particularly important now that Matthew has his driver’s license.

  Which reminds me. “Have you heard back from any of those places you applied to last week?”

  His attention focused on his laptop screen, Matthew lifts one hand and gives a thumbs up. “You’re looking at Santa’s newest elf.”

  I don’t bother to hide my surprise. “The Santa booth downtown? Really?”

  “Yup. really. I start on Black Friday. It’s all set up. I just have to drop by sometime after school and fill out one of those W-7 things.”

  “W-9,” I correct automatically. Then, “They’ll expect you to wear an elf suit, you know.”

  “Yeah, whatever. My job’ll be behind the camera anyway.”

  Now that he has his driver’s license, if Matthew wants to borrow my car, he’s expected to keep up his grades and contribute toward gas and insurance. So there’s definitely motivation to get a job. But a job that requires him to wear an elf suit? Where everyone can see him? This from a boy who’s so hyper-conscious about his appearance, I’ve watched him change his clothes nearly a dozen times before leaving for school in the morning.

  Feeling my curious gaze, Matthew gives a loose shrug, his eyes stubbornly fixed on his screen. “It’s fine,” he says. “Anyway, I know some other people who are going to be working there. There’s this girl in my English class, and she and her friend are doing it, and she thought it might be fun if I worked there, too.”

  Ah. The pieces start to come together. “Oh? A girl, huh? She have a name?”

  Matthew looks up at me. He inherited my dark hair and rosy cheeks, but his eyes come directly from Ed. Gorgeous eyes. Cornflower blue, framed by thick, dark lashes. By far his best feature. A few of my friends have boys Matthew’s age. They claim that when they look at their sons, they see a grown man where just weeks ago a boy had been. I don’t agree. It’s those baby blues. Yes, he’s grown taller, but I still see the same little boy I’ve always seen. A fact that would mortify Matthew to no end if he knew.

  “A name?” he says. “Nah. It’s weird. Her parents just call her ThatKidWeBroughtHomeFromTheHospital.”

  “Hah. Hilarious. All right, funny guy, I get it. I’ll back off.”

  “Thanks.” A pause. “Anyway, she’s just a friend, all right?”

  “Got it. Listen, enough of those videos. That chemistry homework won’t do itself.” I turn toward the kitchen, then stop. “I’m making brownies. Want one?”

  “From scratch or box mix?”

  Matthew loves my homemade brownies. But his attitude tonight hasn’t exactly endeared him to me.

  “Box mix.”

  He gives a noncommittal grunt as I move into the kitchen, stepping around two enormous lumps of threshold-blocking dogs to get there. Adopting a pair of male Newfoundlands was my first big solo parenting decision. Matthew was seven at the time and going through an intense Peter Pan phase. He’d begged for a dog like the one that belonged to the Darling children. While I, emotionally spun from my divorce and harboring visions of a kind, gentle,
female dog who was also part nanny (who perhaps even wore a delicate lace kerchief on her head like Nana, the dog in the book), had agreed.

  Except that when we arrived at the breeder there were no females left. Only a pair of male littermates whom Matthew was nearly hysterical at the thought of separating. “You can’t! They’re brothers! They have to stay together!”

  Overwhelmed by the sudden tragic realization that Ed and I would never give Matthew a brother, I caved on the spot and brought home two Newfoundland puppies—Hook and Mr. Smee—who have since grown to a combined three hundred pounds of slobber, fur, and lazy affection. (Leaving a trail of two wrecked sofas, five ruined rugs, eight crushed chairs, and who knows how many buried or swallowed shoes in their wake.)

  “Hey, Mom,” Matthew calls out.

  I poke my head out of the kitchen.

  He rolls over on the sofa. Pulls out his earbuds and looks at me.

  “Her name’s Hannah. But don’t make a big deal about it, okay?”

  I bite back a smile. “Okay.”

  FOUR

  I walk into my office the following morning to find the lights already on and the computers fired up. Audrey got there a full hour before me. She’s already sorted through the messages left overnight on the town’s answering service. Unwilling to face them without the fortification of caffeine, I pour a cup of coffee, add a generous dollop of half-and-half and a packet of sweetener, and settle in at my desk. Audrey steps in behind me. I glance at the thick wad of messages in her hand and brace myself.

  “How bad?” I ask. “Should I bother to read them, or just go ahead and drive a rusty spike through my foot? Which would be less painful?”

  She rocks her palm back and forth in a gesture that signals iffy.

  “Overall, not bad. A few rough ones that I almost threw out, but I thought you should see the whole range of responses before I started screening.”

  Fair enough. I hold out my hand to accept the messages. Audrey has organized them in batches. Nearly half could be described as lemons: furious outcry over the town’s online fat-shaming, coupled with demands that the site is taken down immediately. The next batch, the lemonade group, are excited to accept Jym Granger’s challenge and offer to sign up to lose weight. The third and final group, which comprise about five percent of the overall messages, are the nasties. The lemons that have been squeezed down to nothing but corrosive, knock the tartar off your teeth acidity.

  I lift one at random and read aloud, “It’s no wonder that Eaton’s being laughed at, with heifers like you and your fat cow assistant in charge.” I glance up at Audrey. “Wow. That’s nice. I don’t suppose he left a number so I can call him back and ask for his support in January’s special election?”

  “She,” Audrey corrects.

  “She? Even better. Nothing like women banding together and supporting each other.”

  “Ha. In your dreams. And no, she didn’t leave her name or number.”

  “Now there’s a surprise. Opinionated and brave.”

  I shake my head and look at Audrey. Today she’s wearing a form-fitting dress in candy-apple red. She’s got a leopard print cardigan tucked around her shoulders, a skinny black patent leather belt wrapped around her waist, and matching black platform shoes. She looks fabulous.

  The next message is more of the same. Just one word, repeated over and over. Piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy, piggy.

  Aw. Sweet.

  “What happened to being PC?” I ask as I crumple the paper. “Aren’t we all supposed to be PC now?”

  “Who are you, Rumplestilsken? Did you sleep through the last presidential election?”

  “I think you mean Rip Van Winkle.”

  “What?”

  “Nevermind. Anything worth reading, or just more of the same?”

  “More of the same.” She lifts the wastebasket and extends it toward me.

  I toss the nasties but keep the rest, dividing them into two piles: people who want me to accept the challenge, people who don’t.

  “You know what they say,” I murmur. “When life gives you lemons—”

  “You should pitch them at Brett Alper’s head.”

  Can’t argue with that. I decide I’ll read the actual messages later. For the moment I simply rifle through them, looking for names I recognize to see where the community leaders stand.

  I don’t get very far. A familiar swishy sound in the hallway alerts us to the arrival of company. Jym Granger stands in the doorway dressed in a bright blue tracksuit with bold neon striping down the outer legs and sleeves. Definitely flashier than the relatively subdued tracksuit he wore at last night’s council meeting. This leaves me to conclude he categorizes his wardrobe by occasion, the somber tracksuits reserved for weddings, funerals, and public speaking. The flashier ones are for amusement parks, monster truck pulls, and apparently, meetings with small-town mayors.

  “Morning, ladies,” he sings out as he strolls inside.

  I draw myself up. “I’m sorry, Mr. Granger, but I have a very busy schedule today. I don’t believe you have an appointment.”

  “I sympathize, Mayor Presley, I truly do.” He drops into a chair opposite my desk. “I’m a busy man myself. But don’t worry, this won’t take long.” He removes a sheet of paper from an inner jacket pocket and passes it to me. “Before this thing gets too crazy, I thought I ought to set out my terms.”

  “Your terms?”

  “Right. For the weight-loss challenge.”

  “You understand that the people of this town have not officially agreed to participate.”

  He waves that away. “Oh, they’ll come around. We’ve still got a few days to pull everything together. The important thing is to make sure we do this right from the get-go.” He points to the paper. “Everything’s right there. I kept it nice and simple. Participants must be over eighteen and in good health. They’ll have to sign a release stating I’m not liable in any way for any unforeseen medical consequences. Everyone must commit to being present both the Friday after Thanksgiving and Christmas Day. I’ll check IDs, so no sending substitutes. Last of all, this is a community weigh-in. A group effort. To earn the money, two hundred people must collectively lose one thousand pounds. I don’t want any finger-pointing, any of that who lost what nonsense. Destroys the morale.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before,” I muse, glancing at the sheet.

  He gives a loose shrug. “Not on this scale. Corporate retreats, mostly. Hospitals, a women’s volunteer organization out in Topeka.” He looks at Audrey. “What’d you do with my check?”

  “I gave it to the town treasurer.”

  “What’d the treasurer say?”

  “Nothing yet.” Audrey’s tone is unmistakably frosty. “It’s too early. She’ll verify funds once the bank opens. Make sure the money’s there.”

  “Oh, the money’s there, all right. You don’t have to worry about that. Drop in the bucket.” Granger settles back in his chair, props one ankle over the opposite knee and points to the paper he gave me. “There are provisions in there for that, too. I’m fine with the $100,000 sitting in a town escrow account, no interest necessary. You folks lose the weight, the money’s yours. You don’t, it comes back to me. Have your attorney write that up and I’ll sign it. Keep everything fair and square.”

  Put that way, it doesn’t sound so unreasonable. I eye Jym Granger curiously. What he lacks in dignity he more than makes up for in sheer energy and a nearly unstoppable force of will.

  I dragged my laptop into bed with me last night and did a little snooping into Granger’s background. According to his online biography, he was born in a small Appalachian mining town. At the age of twenty-two he was dirt poor, nearly illiterate, and weighed more than four hundred pounds. Desperate to change his life, he hauled what he referred to as his ‘flabby, useless, pathetic body’ to the top of a nearby mountain, where he experienced a spiritual epiphany of sorts, as the secret to losing weight and taking control of his life was been made clear
to him. Thus, SlymJymTrymFyt was born.

  A good story. Possibly even true. Though from my rather cynical point of view, the illiteracy part, or at least the spelling, still needs some work.

  In any event, Granger is the force behind a multi-million dollar health and fitness empire. He operates dozens of weight-loss centers across the country, has affiliations with scores of gyms, resorts, even cruises. In addition, he offers products galore, from weight-loss shakes to energy bars, CDs, at-home gyms, and workout clothing: mostly nylon tracksuits, all of which look guaranteed to make that same swishy sound when worn.

  I suspect that might be why his presentation last night was so cursory. He’s sort of a fitness guru. He probably expected everyone to have already heard of him. In fairness, most people probably had. I’m clueless when it comes to following dieting trends.

  “So this is a philanthropic venture for you?” I ask.

  “You mean charity?” Granger makes a sour face. “Hell, no. I’m not much for charity. This town wants my money, they’re going to have to earn it.” His gaze travels from Audrey to me. “You ladies ought to sign up. I’ll get you both slimmed down.”

  His remark is so outlandish I actually gasp. I look at Audrey, register the quiet fury on her face, then shoot Granger a steely glare. “You don’t find that statement just the teensiest bit offensive?”

  “Hell, I worry about offending folks, then I’m not gonna be able to help them. Can’t have it both ways.” With that, Granger rises to his feet. “The way I see it, this is a challenge. It’s supposed to be fun. Slym Jym Granger versus two hundred of the chubbiest, least-exercising, worst-eating folks in America. It’ll be my job to turn that around. Like training an elephant to leap through a fiery hoop.”

  “You know, comparing this town to an elephant may not be the best analogy.”

  Granger looks surprised. “Why, it’s the perfect analogy. The secret to a good weight loss program has almost nothing to do with the mouth, and everything to do with the mind. It’s about knowledge, training, and overcoming fear. Exactly like leading an elephant through a fiery hoop. It can do it, it just doesn’t know it yet.”