# Fifty Bucks



## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 15, 2006)

Dining, BHM, WG

*FIFTY BUCKS*
*by Big Beautiful Dreamer*​
The media attention was just too much. First of all, Aidan wasnt a hero, and he was getting tired of articles and interviewers treating him as one. As hed said to his best friend, Andrew, all hed done was be careless enough to be abducted while covering the Middle East and lucky enough not to have been killed before his captors had dumped him  emaciated, heavily bearded, filthy, and blindfolded  in an alley off a public square. CORRESPONDENT RELEASED, the newspaper had shouted. His networks evening news anchor was practically jumping out of her seat with relief when she announced Aidans safety, which  embarrassingly, to Aidan  had been the first item on the news that evening.

The terrific staff at the U.S. military hospital in Germany had helped him get cleaned up and given him a haircut and, thank God, a shave. Theyd held him for several days and treated him for whatever was wrong with him  nothing much that a return to America wouldnt fix, Aidan thought privately  and flown him back to Washington. 

As a journalist, Aidan understood full well that he was news. He was still weak and tired, however, and four or five days of countless interviews had exhausted him. His longtime friend finally took charge. I prescribe, hed jokingly announced, his soft Virginia drawl, music to Aidans ears after months of Arabic  I prescribe a long weekend at our house. And then, with a glance at his wife, Martha  a road trip!

Road trip, youre kidding, right, Aidan said, staring at Andrew and Martha.

Andrews eyes danced. Just the ticket, he said, flourishing a hand-scrawled itinerary. We gonna visit Mama and all my siblings.

All seven of them! Aidan yelped.

All seven, Martha chimed in. Three weeks at the best kitchen tables in the South.

And you need it, too, buddy, Andrew added. What did that Army doctor say you were at? One-ten? Even for your height, thats insane.

Aidan nodded. He wants me to get back to at least 150, he admitted. Unthinkingly, he laid a hand on his concave belly, hidden beneath the folds of a too-large T-shirt, and with his free hand hitched up his drooping sweatpants.

Well, then, Andrew crowed, Lets go! First stop, our house!

Were in your house, Aidan said.

No, Andrew said patiently. Were in our DC townhouse. But today is Friday, in case you missed it, and were headed for our HOUSE.

Oh, Aidan said. Andrew clearly meant the rambling log house on a dozen acres in northern Virginia, 45 minutes by car and a world away from the shark tank of Washington.

Still tired, he napped in the car, awakening as they pulled into the broad gravel driveway. The sun was going down. The first thing Aidan noticed was the fabulous smell that permeated the whole downstairs. 

Dinners ready, announced their housekeeper, Susan Macmillan, a retired nurse who had become a licensed private chef. She wasnt cheap  but Andrew and Martha, both political consultants, werent poor, either.

Aidan automatically headed for the stairs, to wash up and shave, but Andrew steered him toward the table. Come as you are, buddy, he said firmly, plopping into a seat to prove his point. Faint with hunger, Aidan followed suit. His eyes widened as he saw what was on the table. A mountain of fried chicken that must have represented several birds; deep steaming bowls of collard greens, broccoli with slivered almonds, pinto beans, silken mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, French-cut green beans; a platter of spiral-cut ham; yeast rolls, corn bread and garlic bread; tall glasses of iced tea that Aidan knew from experience would be achingly sweet.

O sweet Jesus, Aidan murmured.

Ayyy-men! Andrew replied. Now, eat!

Aidan ate. And ate. And ate. The sun went down; Mrs. Macmillan switched on lamps; Aidan piled his plate again and again. Enjoying the food and the company, he scarcely noticed how much he was eating and didnt even think about how much his stomach must have shrunk. When he finally came up for air  as Mrs. Macmillan set a cup of coffee in front of him  he was stuffed to bursting. Bloated and sore, his tummy bulged, a taut curve under the now-snug shirt. 

Whew (urp), he said, short of breath. Pigged (urp) out. He slapped his distended midriff, producing a hollow thud that made them all laugh.

You need it, buddy, Andrew said, slapping his own stomach, modestly bulging out over his waistband.

Slowly, carefully, a little stiffly, Aidan stood. His center of gravity had shifted and he clutched the edge of the table for balance and grabbed at his gut. Ow, he said involuntarily. Ate too much, he grunted. Stomach (urp) hurts.

Come on, baby, Martha clucked. Come and sit a while. She helped him to a recliner and got him settled. Leaning back, feet up, sweatpants waistband pushed down to ease his discomfort, Aidan felt a little better.

That, Andrew announced unnecessarily, was (urp) some gorge.

Some pig, Aidan said, echoing Charlottes Web.

Well, observed Andrew, picking up on the theme, you need (urp) to glut, glut, glut, glut if you want to get back to looking human enough to be on the air again. How much leave did they give you?

Six weeks (hic!), Aidan said. Exactly (hic!) half as long as (urp) I was kid  kid  napped. He was so full he was puffing, and a huge yawn also interrupted him.

Plenty of time, Martha said. After this road trip, youll be back in trim.

Back (urp) in fat, Aidan started to say, but it trailed off into a snore. He was asleep, his hand slid down the waistband of the sweatpants, his shirt rucked up, displaying a roundly bloated tummy full of good Southern cooking.

Andrew and Martha covered him with a blanket and let him sleep. Since he was in the living room, with one wall a set of French windows, the sun woke him. He stretched and yawned, the blanket sliding off him just as Mrs. Macmillan laid a tray with coffee and pastries on the coffee table.

Wow, breakfast in bed, Aidan joked.

Oh no, dear, this is just a warmup, she replied.

Before Aidan was halfway through his first cup, Andrew and Martha joined him. Both were casually dressed, and as Aidan ran a hand through his bed hair, Andrew said, You know how formal we all are around here. We insist on dress sweats for supper. The twinkle in his eye, and years of friendship, let Aidan know that Andrew had given him permission to hang out in T-shirt and sweatpants all weekend.

By the time the pastry basket was emptied, Aidans shrunken stomach was full, but by then, the smell of eggs, grilled onions, and sausage filled the room. Aidan stood, following Andrew and Martha to the dining room. Ill just pick at it, Aidan thought, but when he sat, his tummy growled audibly. 

Eat up, Martha commanded brightly. You need to start looking human again.

Aidan gulped, then plunged in, cleaning a large plateful of breakfast, with the help of several more cups of coffee. Stuffed, Aidan managed to stifle a huge belch as he stood.

Grab some shoes, Andrew suggested. Well go for a walk. The steady hike through the acreage to a clearing with a pond felt good after such a big breakfast, and Aidan was relieved to be getting some exercise. They dropped without speaking onto a large fallen log and sat for a long time, gazing at the water, listening to birds, frogs and crickets, sighing deeply, saying nothing, communicating in silence the way friends do. Eventually, they both rose and strolled back. Andrew whipped Aidans tale in two games out of three at ping pong.

Out of shape, Aidan puffed, scrubbing his sweating midsection with the loose cloth of the T-shirt. Too fat.

That reminds me, said Andrew, recovering his breath, arent you supposed to weigh yourself every couple of days?

Yeah, Aidan said. Got a scale?

In the guest bathroom, Andrew said, laughing, so I wont have to look at it.

The scale was relatively new and gave him a digital readout.
One-eleven, he reported, sitting down with the newspaper. Good, Im off the front page, he added a minute later.

Lunch was no pickup affair of cold sandwiches but spaghetti and mildly spicy meatballs, a big salad of fresh greens and warm garlic bread. Aidan began to understand why some Southerners called the midday meal dinner. He loved spaghetti and ate a huge plateful, along with a heaping plate of salad and several thick slices of bread. Comfortably stuffed and drowsy, he pushed his chair back with a grunt, pulled himself up, and plodded out to the porch for a snooze in the hammock. His modestly bulging tummy rose and fell in rhythm as he slept.

Supper, so lavish that Aidan would have called it dinner, was a thick juicy roast, buttery new potatoes, asparagus, sliced tomatoes, butter beans, and smooth, pure vanilla ice cream sprinkled with cinnamon, the perfect ending to a good meal. Having been comfortably stuffed most of the day, Aidan was beginning to lose the anxiety and perpetual starvation that had marked three months in captivity, and he ate more slowly. He ate well, though, and discreetly slid the waistband of his sweatpants below his swelling belly to ease the pressure. When he stood, the T-shirt still covered everything, but it wasnt nearly as loose as it had been.

The rest of the weekend at Andrew and Marthas house followed a similar pattern. Good steady hikes, an occasional swim in the pond, fierce ping pong matches, naps in the hammock, an occasional trot through the woods on Andrews gentle old Saddlebred horse, helping Andrew clean the attic and repaint the living room  and lots of good home cooking. By Monday morning, when they set out on their road trip, the scale read 113. 

Slow and steady, Andrew said, clapping Aidan on the shoulder. Thats the way to do it. 

Andrew and Martha split the driving. You are the guest, Martha said firmly. And we are on a mission, Andrew said in mock-end-of-the-world-preacher talk. Chatting, dozing, taking spontaneous tourist side trips, the three meandered through Virginia, North Carolina, westward and into Georgia. At each stop Aidan was fêted like a conquering hero. They stayed two or three days at each place, here and there a whole week. Aidan ate as if making up for lost time, and the scale climbed and his waistline thickened.

From 113, Aidan saw the needle march upward: 120, 130, 132, 139 (that was after hed made the mistake of challenging Andrews brother to a pie-eating contest. Hed won, but only just managed to avoid throwing up). He wasnt very tall, and the newly acquired weight didnt have many places to go. 

In Ball Ground, Georgia, at Andrews older sisters house, hed awakened early one morning and given himself a long, pleased look in the mirror of the guest bathroom. His hollowed, haunted face had filled out. Pads of fat pouched under his large brown eyes; cheeks rounded into pink apples; his firm jawline was softer and a double chin hinted.

His chest definition had blurred and softened, spreading downward and outward. His armpits had acquired a little cushioning and his ropy upper arms were bulkier. His belly curved outward instead of inward, a smooth round expanse lapping into cushy love handles. His thickening waistline was beginning to flop toward his privates, and his previously bony bottom had gotten a little padding. His thighs now spread when he sat, and hed bought some boxer shorts to ease the cutoff of circulation and hot, itchy chafing hed begun to feel down there. He drew a deep breath and stepped naked onto the scale: 145. If I get much fatter, he thought, they wont let me back on the air. For men, although less so than for women, good looks and a passable figure were important on TV news. 

Pulling on a T-shirt and shorts  had the waistband always pinched like that?  he started up his laptop and checked his e-mail. Yow, one from his boss. Was he being fired?

Dear Aidan, it said, We are pleased to announce that in light of your long experience and skillful teamwork we are offering you the job of newsroom editor. This will mean more predictable hours and a salary of $____. Please reply with your acceptance. Sincerely yours.

Aidan had been wanting this job for five years. Woohoo! His second thought, immediately on the heels of the first, was: Its an off-air job. No one will care how fat I am. I could be as fat as  as fat as  Tony.

Tony Mueller was the retiring newsroom editor. Fifty-nine years old and 5 feet 10 inches tall, he tipped the scales at 275 pounds. A cheerful German with an Italian mother  a war marriage  he loved to cook and bake and was always bringing in zimstern, springerle, lebkuchen, and cannoli. He was never on the air, and rather than criticize his weight, the executives joked with Tony about it.

Hey! Hey! Aidan trotted into Andrew and Marthas room.

What? Andrew answered muzzily, struggling upward and running a hand over his thinning hair. Blinking dopily, Martha sat up and put on her glasses.

Sorry, Aidan said, not really meaning it. Waving the printout, he shoved it at Andrew. Look.

Yahoo! Andrew crowed. Hey, buddy, we gotta celebrate. Ill call Mama and make sure she knows this isnt just a visit, its a party.


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## Big Beautiful Dreamer (Apr 15, 2006)

It was a long drive to Andrews widowed mamas house. Miss Dabs, a nickname so old that no one remembered its origins, stood waving at them from the porch as they pulled in some time around 5:00, stiff, hungry, and tired.

Yall come in the house, she called. Suppers hot.

She embraced Aidan, whom she hadnt seen in more than a year, with fervor, nearly smothering him. Youre so skinny! she clucked, holding him at arms length and looking him over.

Not anymore, Aidan said, laughing, slapping his modest pot belly.

Miss Dabs clucked some more. Little bitty thing. Youre a growing boy, child. We need to fatten you up.

Supper was huge, enough food to feed a dozen adults squeezed onto the long, well-worn walnut table. Miss Dabs piled Aidans plate high, deaf to protests. Aidan cleaned his plate twice; stuffed, he undid the button on his new khakis. Another round, and stifling a huge belch forced the zipper halfway down. Puffing, his bulging belly swollen and aching, he slowly forked the last scraps of a fourth plateful into his mouth. He patted his lips with a worn cloth napkin and took a large swallow of cold sweet tea, enjoying the feeling as it descended into his taut abdomen and coated his full tummy. Discreetly, carefully, he pushed his chair back a little. His bloated waistline was scraping the edge of the table.

Miss Dabs took Aidans plate away and laid a tower of strawberry shortcake and a cup of steaming chicory coffee before him. Andrew also got a slab of cake; Martha escaped by helping with the dishes.

Aidan closed his eyes. He attempted to draw a deep breath, the start of a sigh, but he was so achingly full that he hiccupped loudly instead. Opening his eyes, he instinctively rubbed his distended midsection, taut and sore. He coaxed up a belch, which helped, and sipped at his strong coffee, which also seemed to help. Finally, he picked up his fork.

Dig in, buddy, Andrew said, mouth full.

Stuffed, Aidan grunted. He hiccupped.

Its good for you, Andrew insisted. He patted his own stomach and belched. Mamas right; youre too skinny.

Not  anymore, Aidan said, out of breath. He took a bite of shortcake and paused, waiting to see if it would slide down. It did.

Doesnt matter now, Andrew mumbled through another mouthful. He took a swallow of coffee. Hot. Mm. Now, he continued, waving his fork at Aidan across the table. You just got promoted to an off-air slot, right? Doesnt matter if you get a little thick in the middle. Stretching, he patted his own spare tire, which was visibly thicker.

Besides, Andrew said, eyes brightening, dont you have the hots for Melanie?

Yeah, Aidan said, taking another bite, buchee  miffl  eye-okay. He swallowed and tried again. She wont give me the time of day.

Exactly, Andrew said, hot on the trail of making his point. Whos she dated since she started working at the network?

Aidan took a bite and thoughtfully chewed. Rick Pietersen, he said, fishing for names Bert Hauwee, Steve Milner.

Bingo, Andrew said triumphantly. Every single one of those guys is over 200 pounds.

Holy crow, Aidan said, his eyes widening. 

Andrew has a point, Martha said, sitting down with a cup of coffee. There are women out there who really love big guys. You watch when you go back to work and see if Melanie doesnt start getting friendlier.

The bigger your tummy, Andrew predicted, the friendlier shell get.

Bull, Aidan said thickly through the last of the strawberries and whipped cream. Bet you 50 bucks.

Pushing back his chair, Andrew stood, stretched, and leaned across the table. Deal, he said, grabbing Aidans hand.

+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

A year later, Andrew was once again shaking Aidans hand, only this time they were dressed more formally. Grinning from ear to ear, Andrew pulled Aidan into a bear hug, getting as close as he could. Aidans belly got a little in the way, carrying as it did the bulk of his 200 pounds. 

Aidan, Melanie, Andrew murmured, drawing Aidans new wife into his embrace. Love you guys.

Hey, he added, pulling back. You owe me fifty bucks.


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## herin (Apr 15, 2006)

Great story! :eat1:


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