Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
Dining, BHM, WG
The media attention was just too much. First of all, Aidan wasnt a hero, and he was getting tired of articles and interviewers treating him as one. As hed said to his best friend, Andrew, all hed 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 networks evening news anchor was practically jumping out of her seat with relief when she announced Aidans 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. Theyd held him for several days and treated him for whatever was wrong with him nothing much that a return to America wouldnt 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, hed jokingly announced, his soft Virginia drawl, music to Aidans 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, youre kidding, right, Aidan said, staring at Andrew and Martha.
Andrews 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, thats 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, Lets go! First stop, our house!
Were in your house, Aidan said.
No, Andrew said patiently. Were in our DC townhouse. But today is Friday, in case you missed it, and were 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.
Dinners ready, announced their housekeeper, Susan Macmillan, a retired nurse who had become a licensed private chef. She wasnt cheap but Andrew and Martha, both political consultants, werent 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 didnt 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 Charlottes 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, youll 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, Aidans 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. Ill 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. Well 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 Aidans 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, arent you supposed to weigh yourself every couple of days?
Yeah, Aidan said. Got a scale?
In the guest bathroom, Andrew said, laughing, so I wont 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, Im 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 wasnt nearly as loose as it had been.
The rest of the weekend at Andrew and Marthas 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 Andrews 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. Thats 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 hed made the mistake of challenging Andrews brother to a pie-eating contest. Hed won, but only just managed to avoid throwing up). He wasnt very tall, and the newly acquired weight didnt have many places to go.
In Ball Ground, Georgia, at Andrews older sisters house, hed 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 hed bought some boxer shorts to ease the cutoff of circulation and hot, itchy chafing hed 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 wont 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: Its 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 Marthas 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. Ill call Mama and make sure she knows this isnt just a visit, its a party.
FIFTY BUCKS
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
The media attention was just too much. First of all, Aidan wasnt a hero, and he was getting tired of articles and interviewers treating him as one. As hed said to his best friend, Andrew, all hed 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 networks evening news anchor was practically jumping out of her seat with relief when she announced Aidans 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. Theyd held him for several days and treated him for whatever was wrong with him nothing much that a return to America wouldnt 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, hed jokingly announced, his soft Virginia drawl, music to Aidans 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, youre kidding, right, Aidan said, staring at Andrew and Martha.
Andrews 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, thats 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, Lets go! First stop, our house!
Were in your house, Aidan said.
No, Andrew said patiently. Were in our DC townhouse. But today is Friday, in case you missed it, and were 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.
Dinners ready, announced their housekeeper, Susan Macmillan, a retired nurse who had become a licensed private chef. She wasnt cheap but Andrew and Martha, both political consultants, werent 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 didnt 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 Charlottes 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, youll 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, Aidans 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. Ill 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. Well 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 Aidans 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, arent you supposed to weigh yourself every couple of days?
Yeah, Aidan said. Got a scale?
In the guest bathroom, Andrew said, laughing, so I wont 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, Im 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 wasnt nearly as loose as it had been.
The rest of the weekend at Andrew and Marthas 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 Andrews 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. Thats 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 hed made the mistake of challenging Andrews brother to a pie-eating contest. Hed won, but only just managed to avoid throwing up). He wasnt very tall, and the newly acquired weight didnt have many places to go.
In Ball Ground, Georgia, at Andrews older sisters house, hed 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 hed bought some boxer shorts to ease the cutoff of circulation and hot, itchy chafing hed 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 wont 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: Its 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 Marthas 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. Ill call Mama and make sure she knows this isnt just a visit, its a party.
