Like Dizzy Gillespie's Cheeks

Forty-nine

Liz left without me. Or should I say with one of Helena's sons. I suppose you could look at it as a Christmas gift—for both of us. I felt bittersweet about the whole deal. Lonely. Left alone. I could always count on Liz. It's about time I didn't. Liz hooking up with ... I don't even know his name, but whatever it was, he took whatever onus I felt off. So, looking back, I guess it was a good move to invite her.

These thoughts accompanied me, as did the sound of jingle-bells on the door, as I made my way into 7-Eleven for the last stop on my Christmas tour. I needed some orange juice. Helena's food made me feel better, gave me some strength, but I had a craving for orange juice. I'm convinced your body talks to you and tells you what you need at all times. It's just a matter of listening very closely. At this time, mine was telling me, "Get some orange juice, and get it now!"

It's not often that I think of people who are overweight, yet when one is standing in front of me in line at the 7-Eleven, I have no choice but to think of overweight people. And as it turned out, I had a lot of time to be with these thoughts, because the asshole took forever with his transaction. Not only was he stocking up for what looked like a very large Christmas party for one, but he was also buying lottery tickets. A lot of them. He was spouting off birthdays, anniversaries, days of dead presidents whose birthdays were in March, and other miscellaneous numbers that he thought were lucky.

Standing in line gave me more time to think about overweight people, thoughts like there are large people who can buy clothes at the large man (or woman) store, and then there are really large people who have their clothes specially made. As I looked this guy up and down, he was definitely in the latter camp. The camp where his rolls had rolls.

As my friend, "pudge-butt," as I so affectionately named him while waiting for my turn to buy orange juice, went through what seemed like every conceivable mathematical combination for the lotto, I wondered what it was like to be him. I used to play that game as a kid. Actually trying to imagine what it was like to be in somebody else's body or looking through somebody else's eyes. What would they feel, what would they see? How much of it is what I would see and feel? Would things be better or worse? All these thoughts would bring me to the point of, well, anxiety and all its glory, until I would snap back to being in my body.

All the tapping of my foot, the loud, breathy sighs, and jiggling of pocket change did nothing to move this process along. The Christmas skeleton-crew rule held true once more. One guy, two registers, lots of annoyance. I started to sweat again. I just wanted to buy this orange juice, get home, and crawl in bed.

"Why waste your time, big guy, you are not going to win anyway ... did I just say that out loud?"

Apparently I did, because pudge-butt turned around, probably faster than he'd had to in years, and stared at me for a good, uncomfortable twenty minutes. Or maybe it just felt like twenty minutes because I couldn't comprehend how flush with sweat my body could get in less than that amount of time.

"I'm almost done. Thank you for your patience."

I felt like a jerk. The oddly-colored knot on my forehead pulsated, causing my eyes to go half mast and appear a bit more beady from the pain. "I'm not well ..." I offered. "I apologize ... Merry Christmas."

With that, I stood quietly, waited, and wondered if extra-large men had a difficult time masturbating. Do they have to hold up a huge flap of skin to find their penis—as well as holding up the same flap when they actually whack it? If so, it seems more rewarding than a less-large man who has both hands free. Maybe they just have to lie on their backs and let the flaps move on their own. But then, can they reach it if they're on their backs? These thoughts left me as quickly as they came. Thank God, so did my friend, pudge-butt.

By the time I got home, it was close to eight thirty. I downed the orange juice and sat quietly at the piano. I could actually hear nothing. Silence was everywhere. It was a nice moment to cap off an otherwise shitty day. Because my energy was back, I convinced myself that the fainting had to do with a blood sugar thing—not eating all day, being stressed and overheated.

As I sat at the piano, plunking away at the keys, I thought about Lewis Nelken again. I wanted to be inspired by the man, his passion and commitment. But I couldn't muster up any inspiration. There was a wall. There always seemed to be a wall. And as with most walls, you can't go through them, over them, or around them. You have to remove them. Take them apart brick by brick. How was my life a reflection of who I was being at that moment? I sat alone, playing the piano in a dark room. What did I have? What did I live for? Where was I going? What did I love? Where was I grounded? Was this where I needed to be to best utilize the skills that I have? And what were those skills? I reevaluated my life in thirty seconds and decided I needed to get some of these questions answered, worked out—and fast. I needed to take the wall apart. I needed to answer the question, "Where's the passion?" Then I made a decision. I decided I hated reading the obituaries. Dead people made me feel inadequate.