This narrative contains adult subject matter. It should not be read by anyone who is not entitled to have access to adult issues under any and all laws that govern the reader’s rights and privileges. As it relates to transgender issues, those who find the subject matter offensive should stop now and read no further.

This fourth part of a continuing story is about a teenager with an alcoholic father. It may be read separately, but the context is enhanced if you read the prior three segments: ‘Changes, More changes and Some More Changes for the Better’.

 

Still More Changes for the Better            by: Virginia Kane

 

Chapter One.

I was back in the living room, in the easy chair, about to continue my reading about alcoholism; after writing the one word: yes, on the envelope that contained her note she left for me to find (see part three). I looked over her most recent list, and set the seven books from the library on the end table in the order she listed them. Then, I put the books we bought the day before in the order that she had listed them on her previous bookstore purchase list.

Miss Morgan certainly is thoroughly organized, unlike me. The progression of the books she suggested about alcoholism was plainly devised to support a clever plan to address any compulsive disorder, including weight control. Lucky I didn’t lose the two lists she made out. I’d have never guessed her intent without the accidentally comparing the lists to my own choice of reading order. I made that independently, from reviewing the books’ glossy paper coverlets or introductions.

The lists’ progression started with introductory, general data about alcohol abuse. From there, the books gradually became more and more advanced and complex.

She wanted to make it easy for me to get interested, before I progressed to any diverse concepts, to be prepared to help my dad recover when he was released from the alcohol abuse treatment unit at the hospital, or so I thought.

What she wanted me to do was become well versed on all kinds of substance abuses. I had read five; well I read three and skimmed two, without my knowing that she was also preparing me to deal with my obesity. Ugh, that word again!

No one ever cared that much about my weight. Not enough to devise an intricate plan of attack for correcting my disorder. Mom didn’t think being overweight was a problem. She should have. Her weight was a major cause for her heart attack and death. Dad’s depression over her death led to his alcohol abuse. Between the two, no, make that three if you include my weight problem, a happy family was on a slow, downward spiral to----what? Extinction?

She was determined. That’s for sure. If Miss Morgan had told me to read about weight control instead of alcoholism, I’d have pegged her as picking on me like everyone else and ignore her, just like I always do with hecklers.

She was due home soon. I decided to put off reading further until I was clearly aware of her true interest in me. What prompts a sharp woman like her to drop everything and thrust headlong into the life of a complete stranger, me, with a hospitalized alcoholic father? Why would she be willing to be my guardian? Not the bank’s risk? No, the bank holds mortgages on many homes. She can’t be a guardian over every mortgagor that becomes risky! It doesn’t make sense.

If she were a fanatic about helping others lose weight, she would be involved in an organized health program, as a counselor or something like that. No, she was a health freak, but she wasn’t dedicated to preaching about the evils of being fat.

What was her objective? Should I come out and ask her, plain and simple? No, she could easily lie or evade the issue completely, or give me that "once upon a time" fairy tale that she was fatter than me when she was my age. No way!

Sooner or later, she’s going to slip up. All I have to do is coast along and wait. If she has something sinister up her sleeve, I’ll be ready for it. In the meantime, a pretty lady is going to spend a lot of money keeping me happy. Why get bent out of shape over that? I could sure use the clothes, no matter what her weird tastes will dictate. I won’t mention my figuring out her undeclared, yet clear purpose for suggesting the list of books in the meantime.

She arrived, carrying in a gym bag. "What’s in the gym bag, ma’am?" She didn’t answer me, but went to the kitchen, instead. She was looking at the back door, but spotted the envelope on the table and the half-full garbage bag on the floor. "I cleaned out some of my old stuff. I was going to throw this load out, but changed my mind. I waited for you, to see what you think, instead" She didn’t reply, but picked up the envelope and put it in her purse.

"The gym bag contains a few changes of clothes, Donny. I stopped at Walmart on the way here." She opened the bag and pulled out a short-sleeved polo shirt and a pair of jeans for me. "2XL, and 44x30’s, right? You said men don’t need to try on the clothes they buy. Go see if these fit you. We were going shopping for more street wear for you this evening. Remember? At your age, wearing sweats all day will pass, but I’d like to wear a casual outfit, like I did last night, and I’d like you to dress in a similar manner while we shop. I picked out a shirt and jeans I think will please you, the kind you’ve worn ever since we met. Do you mind?"

"No. They’re fine. I don’t mind your advice or your opinions, but I’d rather pick out my own clothes. I’m not a little kid. I can be stylish, if I want to be, if I could afford to buy stuff, that is. I admit that I need the clothes, but if you think you can force me to wear what I don’t want to wear, let’s forget the whole thing."

"I told you last night, Donny. I apologized for trying to be too overbearing. If I get out of line again, let me know right away, but try not to bite my head off. Two can play, as you found out when we got back to my place. I can be just as obstinate as you are, but I’d rather not fight. Let’s try to reach a happy medium, okay?"

"That’s fine with me. I know you’re older and wiser, but you made me feel like I didn’t know anything last night, like I was a baby. As long as we both know where we stand, I can deal with it, if you can. It’ll be fun, matching wits."

Her eyebrows rose at that comment. "Okay, Donny. That’s settled. I know what I’d like for dinner, tonight, but I’d rather let you decide on where we should eat, after we finish shopping. We can talk about it along the way. How about taking turns deciding things. Will that be fair enough to suit you?"

"Take turns?"

"Sure! Even while we’re shopping! If I suggest a certain article, I’ll ask you what you think. If you like it, we’ll get it. If you don’t, we won’t. If you pick something I think is outrageous, I’ll tell you why I don’t like it. If you insist, we’ll buy it, but only if you agree not to wear that article when I’m around. How’s that? We can even take turns in picking out the stores we go to. Where do you want to start?"

"In my bedroom, trying on the stuff you just bought. It’s been so long since I got any clothes, I don’t know if they will fit. How did you know what size to buy?"

"Ancient Chinese secret. I looked in the hamper. It’s my turn to pick a store. We’ll go to Target, next. Objections?"

"No fair, Target was my next pick. Think of someplace else, while I change" My voice faded, as I ran up to my room. She made an excellent selection. The shirt was the perfect size, and the pants fit, tight, at the waist, but they fit well enough. That’s why fat guys don’t need to try stuff on. If the waist is tight, we can wear tight pants under the gut.

She was ready and waiting, in a pullover top and short skirt.

True to her word, we took turns. She tended to pick out flashy stuff, which would draw attention. I tended to pick blah stuff, to fade into the background. Between us we got a wide selection of clothes. I forgot all about getting expensive stuff to deter her zeal. I was too interested in my windfall of new threads. The hard part was convincing her I didn’t need a suit. We finally compromised. She bought me a tweed sport coat with two pair of coordinating dress pants, instead.

We hit a Bennigan’s for dinner after the stores all closed.

 

Chapter Two.

It was hard for the two of us to carry on a conversation over the din of noise at Bennigan’s. The place was crowded. We were seated at a table. We were both leaning forward trying to speak in a normal tone of voice, but we both had trouble hearing, without talking so loud that people at the adjacent tables could hear.

It was exasperating! We sat, eyeing each other, after ordering our food. We both wanted to make some headway, but knew the background clamor would keep us from getting anywhere, so we patiently waited for the food, discussing mundane topics about the news stories on the televisions strategically located throughout the restaurant. When the news was over, and our plates were empty, the crowd thinned. Our waitress offhandedly suggested they were closing down the section.

I decided to be blunt with her. "We haven’t finished our coffee. Do you mind?"

"Not at all. I saw the two of you trying to talk earlier, without success. The porter is going to start vacuuming this section. I can bring out some fresh coffee to you in the party alcove." She pointed to the empty alcove. "It’s empty now. It’ll be much easier to hear each other there. I would have suggested moving sooner, but we just finished cleaning it up after a gang of young kids having a party. I’ll bring you a full decanter of coffee and dessert, on the house."

After she walked away, Miss Morgan looked at me smugly. "You were out of line with her, you know. I took her aside and asked her to move us, earlier when I went to powder my nose. She agreed to find us a spot as soon as she could. She was being nice, and you bit her head off for it."

"How was I to know? Why didn’t you say something to me about asking her for a better table? Gees! It’s not my fault!"

"Fault? Why does everything have to be someone’s fault, Donny? Why is it, you feel people are blaming you for something all the time? Shit happens! We’ll talk more about it over there. Let’s move."

Just before we sat down in the alcove, I immediately clarified my defense. "You were the one that said I was out of line. All I did was tell her we weren’t finished with our coffee, yet. I thought she was being rude."

She just looked at me, calculating my mood. I knew it was a careless reaction to respond nastily to the girl. If I had known Miss Morgan asked her to move us, the incident wouldn’t have happened.

"I’m not worried about it. You’re under a lot of stress, Donny. If my dad was in a hospital, and I was up to my neck in bills and worries, I’d probably react the same way. Forget about it. She probably has already.

Waitresses are used to getting the blunt end from irate customers. You aren’t any different from anyone else that speaks before finding out the true cause for a set of circumstances, Donny. Happens all the time. Remember when your dad went off half-cocked at me, when he was trying to talk me into extending terms on the mortgage? I almost lost my cool, and was ready to foreclose. I saw you sitting so quietly, I forgot all about his tirade. Something about you made me want to look a bit further, beyond the obvious circumstances."

"Yeah, look where that got you. Now you’re strapped with me, a fat, ugly, pimpled teenager that has to beg for the clothes on his back."

"BEGGGH? You call our coming to an understanding: begging? Wait a minute!"

"I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant, Miss Morgan. I can’t help it if I don’t like that I have to accept charity from you. I know I should be more appreciative, but I need other things more than I need new clothes. Getting this stuff is great, but it won’t change my lack of sufficient means to keep the house. I’ll still lose everything in the long run. Can’t you see that?"

"Stop! Hold on and cool down, Donny. You’re getting way ahead of yourself. Try to sit back and give others a chance to explain, before you react. The girl knew I wanted a place to sit and talk. You overreacted. You are doing the same thing to me about buying you the clothes. Forget about the other problems and consider only why I’m willing to fork out the money for the clothes.

You forgot all about what I mentioned earlier. You need to look decent to expect to get hired by a prospective employer. I had to do the same thing. What makes you think an employer can take a chance and hire a shabbily dressed prospect; someone that would make his company look bad? Should he go out of his way to provide you with clothes to enable you to fit the image for a job he has available? Think again! You can’t go to a stove and say give me some heat, and I’ll turn on the gas! You have to provide the gas, or the stove doesn’t work. Get it?

"You lost me."

"I’m advancing you all the clothes, so you can get a part-time job, just like I’m encouraging you to lose weight, so you can be more socially acceptable. All I’m trying to do is make you more capable of standing on your own two feet when the time comes. That’s what a guardian is supposed to do. When you’re of age, you can be ready to move along, on your own, independently, in a year or so.

All you accomplish by questioning every move I make is only make it harder to make any headway. You said I was older and wiser, but then you question me at every turn. Give me a chance, will you? All I want to do is see to it that you don’t lose what little you have, before you can stand on your own."

"Why?"

"Keep your voice down. I already told you. Because ten years ago, I was exactly like you are: fat, ugly, uneducated, and all alone in the world. Both of my parents were gone. For the first time, since I turned my life around, I have a chance to do something positive for someone in the same position I was in. I don’t want to muff the job. I’m willing to do whatever I have to do in order to help you. It has nothing to do with what you need. It’s to satisfy my ego, to do what I wish some fool like me would have done for me back then. Call it self-justification, if you like."

"You said your uncles took you in."

"Oh, they took me alright. They took my self-pride, they took my body and twisted it to their liking, they took away my ability to think independently, and they made me into their slave, to sell me to the highest bidder. They took me. They sure did!

I want to help you establish your self-pride, rebuild your body into a classic form, to be admired, not abused, so you can change into a socially attractive human being, not a target for cruel jokes and abuse. I want to teach you to think on your own, encourage you to read, so you gain knowledge, and not react defensively at every turn as you do now. I want you to continue in school, and not worry about the house for a while. I’ll take care of it. Trust me. I can support you. I want to see you make something of yourself; become a success.

But, you won’t let me help. You think I’m trying to make you over into something else, like the slave I once was, maybe. This whole thing keeps getting out of hand. You can make me feel totally incompetent sometimes, Donny. I’m afraid I bit off more than I can chew. Help me out, won’t you?"

The waitress brought another carafe. She put a ten-dollar bill on the table. "Keep this, sister. I couldn’t help overhearing you two squabbling. If I knew this jerk was stringing you along, I wouldn’t have taken it in the first place. Let this slob pay for the dinner. He doesn’t deserve a hard-working girl like you. Don’t waste all your hard-earned money on this low-life. There are plenty of managers out there that know how to treat a lady with your assets properly. Get a man with some class to handle your appointments and protect you. Show this ignorant bum your shoe."

She turned around walked away without a reply. "She thinks you’re a hooker, and I’m your pimp; your kept boy-toy!"

"That’s what I mean. I can’t handle this! Why must people think the worst when they don’t know what’s going on? Let’s get out of here! I have to work tomorrow, and I got a feeling we’re going to be up half the night, again. We can’t address these issues in a public place anymore. People read all sorts of wrong things into what they hear, Donny. She got the wrong impression from what we said."

 

Chapter Three.

We unloaded the car at the house. I could see the curtains move at the Sullivan house next door, so there was bound to be questions in the morning about the loads of bags and the two boxes we carried in from the car. Had to figure out what to say, in advance so Nosy Rosie doesn’t blab the wrong message to her soul sisters about my new wardrobe. It wouldn’t be hard for her to conjure up a spicy story about the Henderson kid being "kept" by an adult woman.

Miss Morgan carefully took the price tags off the clothes and matched them to the sales slips. She folded the sales slips neatly and put them into her purse. "I’ll keep track of everything we spend, Donny. In case anyone has questions, I have a file in my desk to support what the bank has coming from you. I’ll add the cost of these things to the outstanding mortgage, to attest to their propriety. No sense adding fuel to rumors about our relationship. We’ll keep it strictly professional."

"Lot of good that will do, Miss Morgan. That waitress thinks the worst. Others will, too. They’re bound to talk. I think we both better think twice about what we say in public, and steer clear of the house when we’re together, until dad gets back."

"I’m not ashamed of what we’re doing, Donny. Are you?"

"I don’t know. It doesn’t look good. People have small minds. If I was a girl, and you were an adult man, the caseworker wouldn’t have considered you to be my guardian in a million years, would she?"

"Perhaps not. What do you think we should do?"

"I don’t know. We have to be sure they don’t think we have any personal interest in each other. They wouldn’t think you’d have a personal interest in me. I’m not attractive. So, it looks like I’m the culprit. That waitress looked at me as if I was a monster. She told you that you could do better, and she’s right."

"What are you suggesting?"

"I think you need a man of your own. If you were married and had a husband, no one would give the wrong ideas a second thought."

"What! That’s absurd! I told you. Donny. I don’t need that kind of love in my life, right now. Things are complicated enough without my taking on another man to look after. Get that idea out of your head, thank you. I don’t want a husband."

"How about a sister, or a mother figure? We need to get someone else involved in this charade. You’re alone. I’m alone. People are going to get funny ideas. We don’t want trouble, do we? We need to create a diversion."

"What are you talking about, Donny? What charade?"

"Face it. No matter how innocent we are, people are going to think we are doing something immoral, if I continue to live here in the daytime and sleep over at your place every night. We have to do something to dissuade all the neighbors from thinking the worst, like the waitress did. Everything you said was perfectly legit but it sounded as if you were keeping me, in clothes and in this house, like a hooker keeps her pimp. We can’t let the neighbors make that mistake about us."

"What do you propose?"

"I think you should go home alone, and let me remain here for a while. You can look in on me in the mornings in full view of Nosy Rosie next door. If you bring a man with you once in a while, I’ll tell the neighbors he’s your boyfriend or fiancée to keep them from thinking we have something going on. Sure, it’s ridiculous, to even think you’d have anything to do with a fat slob like me, but that won’t stop rumors from going around, anyway. People are goofy about stuff like that."

"I don’t think the neighbors care much what you do, Donny. As long as you take good care of the house, they’ll ignore what relationships you are involved in. Why should they care? Would you be upset if the neighbors think we two gradually become more and more ‘attached’, so to speak?"

"No, on the contrary. Nothing would be nicer, but they’d make fun of me if they knew that you think I’m a kid that needs to be watched over. I wish you’d show that you respect my judgment enough to let me act on my own. I can take care of myself, even if dad shows up. I’m used to him ranting and raving when he’s been drinking. You don’t have to protect me from dad. There’s no danger to me from him. Let me handle him."

"Hmm. Maybe you have a point, but not yet, maybe next week. It’s late. Let’s go. We can continue this conversation in the car." We closed the house and left.

She drove silently for a mile or so then resumed talking. "There is someone that I know well that might be perfect escort for me to dissuade your neighbors from spreading any rumors. We’ll continue staying at my apartment until the timing is right to introduce him to the scene. You’ll like his often-hilarious antics. He’s an actor and very gregarious. He’s fun to have around.

He’s in the market for a place to stay. Right now, he’s on the road, but is looking for a place to park all his things that he can’t lug around while he’s traveling. I can arrange for him to become a boarder at your house. He can stay with you when he’s in town. He has asked me out several times, but he’s not my type. He’s a good friend, so I’m sure he will be pleased to have a low cost place to crash and help us to dispel any rumors before they start. There’s only one catch."

"What’s that?"

"He’s gay."

"Gulp!"

"Donny? Are you okay? ---- Donny? What’s the matter?"

"If he’s gay, aren’t you afraid of him?"

"Why? Being gay isn’t contagious, unless a person is sensitive to the lifestyle to begin with. As for the increased risk of getting AIDS or other sexually transmitted diseases, as long as he doesn’t engage in careless sexual contact, and this guy never does, there isn’t a health risk. All we want is someone to act as my beau! What better candidate could we find? He’s an actor, Donny."

"I don’t know."

"Look. Some of his stuff is stashed away in my storage closet at the apartment. He was bunking with me for a while before you entered the picture. I know I can trust him, Donny. He’s my good friend. He won’t bother you.

I was considering how I was going to introduce you to him when he gets back in town. You can make room for him to stay there. That way, you’ll have a male image to influence you and you won’t have to worry about vandals."

" Yeah a GAY male image. How did you get to know a gay man?"

"I met him in college. What difference does that make? Can’t I choose friends if I want to? I don’t think a person’s sexual orientation is important to friendship. Why are you looking at me funny? Haven’t you ever met a person who is gay?"

"Are you kidding? I don’t have any gay friends. I have enough trouble with some guys making fun of me because of my shyness due to my weight. I’ve been called a fag because of it. Why would I make things worse by associating with ‘those’ people? I have a hard time with people without looking for trouble."

"Shame on you, Donny! That was a prejudicial slur! I ought to slap your face for being narrow-minded about something people have no control over. If you want to make fun of people, do it over things they can change, not what they have to live with. Gay people have some choices, but most of them didn’t choose being gay or the way they feel toward others. There is no known cure for being gay."

"I don’t want someone around that looks at me the way they do."

"You don’t have to worry, ‘Fattie’. You aren’t his type, I might have to worry about him, but you won’t."

"You? Why? He’s gay!"

"I should have suspected. You don’t know much about alternative life styles. Do you? Some gay men are attracted to women, too: or other men that try to look like women, Donny. Do you know what I mean?"

"Oh. Those."

"What does that mean?"

"I saw pictures of them, once. Guys in school had them. One guy had some of a young guy in girl’s fancy underwear; you know a scanty panty and lacy bra. He said a cute guy dressed up like a woman wants to be treated like one. That’s all."

"That’s all?

"He asked me if I want to try it, to see if I liked it."

"And---"

"And, nothing! I told him to buzz off!"

"You’re not telling me something----"

"There’s nothing to tell. I told him to buzz off, that’s all.

"That’s all."

"That’s all, except----"

"Except what, Donny?"

"Except the way I feel when I wear your pajamas and the new underwear you got for me, like I and wore last night with that black silk jacket!"

"Did you like them?"

"Yeah! Too much! I keep thinking about what the guy that asked me to wear a panty and bra would say if he knew what I was sleeping in now. If he knew about it, he’d want me to wear stuff like that for him, and maybe do other stuff together. Makes me wonder if I have problems."

"If he knew about it, would you?"

"Would I what?"

"Wonder if you would want to do other stuff with him? You know, kiss, and make out, let him touch you the way a guy touches girls."

"How should I know? If anyone found out, my name would be mud, or worse."

"So, you are curious about your sexual preferences."

"Curious? Me? No! Scared of what it means? Hell yes!"

"Scared? Scared of what, Donny? Don’t lie. I promise. I’ll never tell a soul."

"I’m scared of the way I felt when I wore your pajamas, if that’s how a girl feels."

"There’s nothing unusual about that, Donny. Most growing males wonder how girls feel. I see nothing wrong with wondering what it’s like to be on the other side of the gender barrier. It’s a normal part of growing up. Best way to solve the puzzle, is to try it out a few times under very safe conditions and see how it feels. Try to find out how deep your interest goes. Then you won’t have to worry and wonder any more. You’ll know."

"Sure! I’ll know something is wrong with me. What then?"

"Wrong? You’ll know what it’s like, not whether it’s wrong. Maybe you will like it a lot and want to continue the wearing soft, frilly things that most girls wear all the time. So what! It’s nobody’s business what you like to wear to bed at night. In some countries, it’s proper for men to wear sexy things when they are in private, making love to a woman. They wear short bolero jackets, tight sashes to pull in their waists and diaphanous leggings to accent their legs.

Did you ever see the cute silk shoes Arab men wear with soft soles and pointy, curled-up toes? Arabs wear the shoes to woo the ladies. They wear long flowing gowns at home all the time. It’s becoming the vogue in other countries too. Men in Europe and America wore nightgowns until the turn of the century. Men’s styles change. Gowns are cooler and more comfortable than pajamas or sweats.

Betcha a lot of guys would wear them here in the States again if they weren’t so paranoid about their precarious male egos. Did you ever see the short skirts the male Greek dancers wear? How about the thin leotards all male ballet dancers wear. Would you consider those things for girls? Certainly not! Care to hear me recite more examples for you?

We pulled up at her apartment building. I carried her gym bag for her while she fiddled with the elevator key card. She resumed talking when we got inside.

"Do you think anyone cares what you wear to bed at night now? Who could ever know? Why would anyone try to pry into your bedroom to find out? Maybe some perverts go around peeking into guys’ bedrooms to see what they wear. How many perverts do you know offhand, Donny? Are you going to invite any over? "

"But, wearing girl’s stuff is perverse."

"Says who? Magazine publishers that make it sound seedy, so they sell more magazines. Some men that would never look anything like a girl get off on seeing a guy that can wear them. Clothes are clothes, nothing more. It’s what people do that’s seedy and perverse, like selling dirty magazines, or dressing up as a girl to filch money off of the weakness and fear of others.

It’s the purpose not the deed that’s perverse. A lot of men wish they could wear silks and lace but live in fear of others poking fun at them. Others are lucky. They can successfully wear a girl’s outfit in public without others detecting there’s a man under all the frills. Others have little choice. They look so feminine; they get tagged as being gay dressed in male clothing, even if they’re not. So they dress in a manner suited to their features. That doesn’t make them perverse, Donny.

Men were first to wear silk stockings, underwear, and lace hankies, not women. Latino men still think silk shirts; tight pants and slick hairdo’s are mucho-macho. Do you need any more convincing that there’s nothing wrong with your simple bit of innocent curiosity?"

"I’m afraid of what might happen."

"What would that be?"

"That I’ll like to wear the stuff so much, I’ll turn into a queer."

"What you wear won’t change anything. If you have a skeleton in the closet, you might as well take a good look at it now and decide how to handle it, not hide from your inner feelings until repressing them makes you neurotic. Do you want to redirect your attentions to a serious diversion, something worse, like alcohol?

That’s what your dad did. The doctors feel his depression was caused by the loss of your mom. He may be suppressing inner guilt because he feels he should have done more to help her curb her compulsive eating. Maybe that’s why you eat so much, too. Are you suppressing your guilt, too, Donny?"

"You think I’m fat because mom died, and I feel responsible because I should have stopped her from eating herself to death? What sense does that make? I was a fat slob long before mom took ill. I was heavy ever since I was very small."

"Really? That explains why you choose overeating as the prime means of your escaping from the things that bother you. When did you begin to really put on the weight, Donny?"

"What difference does it make? There’s nothing wrong with my head, I just like to eat a lot, Miss Morgan. Why can’t we leave it at that?"

"I don’t agree. It’s dangerous and can be deadly. You don’t need to look far to prove that. There’s an underlying cause for the state your body is in, or you’d work harder exercising to burn it off, like most people do, like I do. I’m surprised that your dad didn’t make comments about your weight, Donny. I guess he had his own ‘curse’ to contend with---"

"He did make comments, Miss--- ma’am, after mom passed away, but I always got mad and wouldn’t talk to him if he did. He was half-drunk. Called me names. Told me I’d end up like mom if I didn’t listen. I’d lash back about his drinking. We got nowhere arguing, so we both avoided talking about it."

"Do you think his depression got worse, when he realized you were not going to heed his advice? Maybe his drinking spiral was intertwined with your eating. Did you gain much weight in the past year?"

"What? Are you trying to blame dad’s heavier drinking on me? I was born a fat baby, and never was a small kid. If he thought he could change the way I am, he should have talked to my great grandparents, long before I was born!"

"True, being overweight can be attributed to heredity and the eating patterns we learn when growing up. I’m not denying that, Donny. I’m trying to find out if your eating habits changed dramatically right after your mom passed on. Your dad’s drinking did. I’m curious to know if there is a direct correlation, that’s all. I’m not trying to place blame on anyone, I’m seeking a possible resolution. To do that, I need to know as much as I can about the problem."

"Well, hear this. I was always fat, and I’ll always be fat, because: no matter what happens, I eat. Good things, I celebrate with food, bad things, which I had quite a bit of lately, I eat to help forget about my rotten luck. What’s the use! You’re on a mission that’s bound to fail. I like being fat! I don’t want to be cured, and I don’t like your personal interest in my problem.

Now leave me alone. I don’t want to talk about my weight any more. Go to your computer and make up another list. I don’t want to join your ‘fat farm’ at the club and I don’t want you to stuff me full of any more vegetables. My sore guts are still boiling from the changes you made in my diet, already."

"Are you sick, Donny? Are you coming down with the flu or something?"

"No, I don’t think so. I had to run to the bathroom twice, this afternoon. I almost didn’t make it the second time. I’m not used to my stomach being so sensitive. Must be because of all the veggies I eat now. Can’t we eat pizza or something normal people eat for a change? You kept pointing to the healthy choices at Bennigan’s. You don’t realize it, but you don’t let up. I’m glad I don’t smoke! If I did, you’d be paranoid!"

"I suppose you think smoking is harmless, too: just a bad habit people have."

"I don’t give a---darn about what smoking is. All that I’m trying to deal with is an evangelist that’s dead set on converting me into a health freak. Yesterday you promised to back off. I can see how good your word is. Leave me alone!"

It was my turn to slam the door to my room. I paced the floor for several minutes, anger burning inside. I wanted to throw something! I threw myself across the bed and pleaded into the pillow. "Why? Why me? I don’t want to be saved! I want to die. Why does everybody have to give me a hard time about everything I do? I only want to be left alone. Why is everyone against me?"

I cried into the pillow for an hour. Finally, after I was cried out. I thought. She was only trying to help. I shouldn’t have yelled at her. I felt worse. I wanted something to eat. I knew there would be nothing in the fridge that would be worth sinking my teeth into. I had to use the bathroom again, so I got up and went to the door.

The lights were out and the apartment silent. I went up to her bedroom door and listened. I could barely hear the soft tapping. She was at it again: making another list. I lifted my hand to knock, but stopped. I had said too much as it was. What good would it do to prolong the argument? Maybe she was busy with something else. I can’t be the only project she has to work on in her computer. Interrupting her concentration would only make her upset. I turned and went to the john.

I wasn’t too pleased with the reflection. She was right. I did gain a lot of weight after mom died. Mom was gone. My increased need to stuff myself was over the mounting bills and dad’s increased consumption of alcohol, that’s all. How could Miss Morgan think my overeating was mom’s fault? Once you die, nothing that happens afterward is your fault. You’re gone! You’re out of the equation!

It’s my fault. I can’t do anything right. If I weren’t around, dad would still be in his sales job, making the money to meet the mortgage. He wouldn’t be a boozer, and he’d find another woman to live with. He’s still young. That’s what I am! I’m the troublemaker that drove him into the hospital, totally out of control.

What would dad think if he knew what we talked about tonight? If he discovered how afraid I am of being ‘different’ than other guys he’d die, too. I can’t let her talk me into wearing any more silky things. If he finds out, he’ll go off the deep end, for sure. I have to resist the temptation.

I can’t let him know about that. He’s a man’s man. If he finds out his only son likes soft and delicate things, the shock would kill him. I can’t let anyone know why mom had the heart attack and died. I can’t.

 

To be continued.

 

 

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