Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
BHM, Eating, WG
Note: This story is a slow-paced, realistic WG one. It is in four parts. Part one is entirely expository (background, buildup, etc.), but it's background necessary to understanding the Brendan who inhabits parts 2 through 4. I hope that it proves to be worth it!
One final note: The use of the Rhodes Scholar program is only a handy fiction. I do not purport to be an expert on how the program works, and it doesn't figure that prominently in most of the story. I intend no disrespect!
All the best, BBD
----------------------------------------------------
Brendan Miller smiled as the plane lifted into the sky. After a miserable 25 years, he was free at last. If he never spoke to his mother again, that was fine with him. She'd made his every waking moment horrid. His stomach growled quietly, reminding him (as if he needed reminding) of how it had started.
His earliest memory of his mother was of her teasingly poking his tiny baby tummy, cutely round and full of rice cereal. "No more cereal for you," she'd said. "Don't want Baby getting fat!" He'd been too young, of course, to tell whether her tone was teasing, but she wasn't smiling. She never smiled. His father, of course, said nothing. A silent, compliant, bread-winning cipher, he rarely let loose a dozen words a day, if that.
Brendan was six and sneaking a handful of cookies from the cookie jar when his mother's voice made him jump. "Brendan Miller!" He turned, small hands full of treats. "Put those back." His brown eyes brimmed with tears. Softening a little, she patted him, not on the head, but on the stomach. "Don't want to be a little piggy."
Brendan was 10 and had watched his father hand his plate to Mother for seconds.
Brendan handed his own plate over ... and Mother took it to the sink. "Uh, Mother," he ventured. "Could I have some more chicken?"
"Better not, Brendan," Mother had said. And that was all.
Then there was the day seared into his memory, the day his mother's subtle campaign had come into the open and made his last decade a living hell. She'd opened the bathroom door without knocking to bring in some fresh towels ... and found Brendan without any clothes on, about to get in the shower. Brendan jumped, and his mother's glare bored in on his stomach.
Like most 14-year-olds, Brendan was going through puberty and his body was going through some changes. He had bulked up a little but was still only 5 feet tall. His mother was only 5'2" and his father 5'6", so Brendan knew that the basketball scholarship was a no-hoper. Still, going through puberty without getting any taller invariably means getting a little plumper.
His mother set the towels on the bathroom counter and poked with a perfectly manicured nail at Brendan's slightly softening waistline. Only his mother could have called it fat ... and she did.
"Tsk. Brendan. Fatties don't get the girls, you know." She frowned. "We'll have
to start watching your weight."
We? Whaddya mean we? Brendan soon found out. Mother weighed and measured him, doled out his meager portions, restricted his spending money, informed him coldly that she would pay only if he went to college locally (fortunately, "local" meant "Georgetown," and Brendan was no dummy ... just henpecked), and insisted that he live at home, not only through college but also when he found work at the National Urban League.
He was now all of 5'6" ... and all of 140 pounds. Perpetually hungry, he drank lots of water to keep his stomach from growling, and lied about all sorts of food allergies to avoid going out to group lunches, embarrassed to admit that he didn't have the bucks. And every day ... every week ... if Brendan so much as raised an eyebrow at the mashed potatoes, Mother would clear her throat. It was almost Pavlovian.
But now! At last! Brendan's boss had talked him into applying for a Rhodes scholarship ... and, improbably, he had been one of only three dozen or so Americans selected. For two blissful years he would be an ocean away from his now-widowed mother. The stipend even meant he'd have a little money in his pocket. He smiled again, remembering the scene.
"If you leave," Mother had screamed, by then beet-red, "don't come
back!"
"Fine," Brendan had snapped. "I won't."
Sweet words! He'd packed his few belongings, sold his ratty car, and paid cash for two years' worth of a self-storage unit in Bethesda.
Brendan quickly got over his mild culture shock and found that he was thriving in Enghland. The intellectual atmosphere was challenging, the learning stimulating, the centuries-old campus breathtaking, and the absence from his mother ... priceless.
He also discovered that the English ate five times a day, or at least four. Breakfast, elevenses (eaten at, oddly enough, 11 a.m.), lunch, tea and sometimes dinner. If no dinner was intended, tea was more substantial.
What's more, freed from his mother's disapproval, he eventually shook off his built-in guilt and allowed himself to enjoy eating. English cuisine is not known for its delicacy and variety, but it was good, cheap, and benefited from the infusion of other cultures, including Indian and African.
Hours of study and permission to eat for once, of course, had their effects. By the first Christmas holiday, Brendan had put on 20 pounds. As short as he was, there weren't many places for it to go except his belly, which is where it went. Chips, biscuits, ale and fried fish gave him a steadily thickening waistline and a burgeoning pot belly.
It would also give him a girlfriend.
Olivia West-Jones was in one of his classes. It took Brendan a long time to clue that she always managed to sit next to him and shyly greet him. One afternoon, her peaches-and-cream complexion reddening, she spoke to his shoes. "Would you, eh, would you care to come out for, ah, a drink or so?"
Something in Brendan took over. It was not the shy mama's boy who answered but an Inner Brendan he'd never met. He cupped her chin in his hand and gently raised her pretty face so that her eyes met his. "I would love to," he said firmly.
Years of nagging fell away that evening. Within a week, he had moved into her flat. Within a month they were lovers. And then he felt her cooling, looking at him with bewilderment; once he found her finishing up a cry but she wouldn't tell him what she was sad about.
Brendan had topped off at 165, giving him a modest spare tire and a small paunch that bulged outward just a little under his shirts. Maybe Olivia wanted him to lose weight. He quit drinking and dropped 10 pounds. Apparently, that was a mistake, because now Olivia's behavior was harder to read than ever.
The old Brendan was used to impossible women. The Inner Brendan, however, brought home roses and a bottle of wine and after dinner led an unprotesting Olivia into the living room.
"What's wrong?" he asked bluntly. "Does this" -- patting the diminished pot -- "bother you?"
Olivia burst into tears. "Just the opposite," she sobbed. What? Brendan was really confused. "I, erm, I love cuddly teddy bears of guys," she said, sniffling.
Brendan gave her his handkerchief and she quietly, in a very discreet English way, blew her nose. "I didn't even notice you until you'd been here a while."
Brendan was not the slowest horse in the shed. "Until I got fat," he said slowly. "You like me fat?"
The Inner Brenden
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
Note: This story is a slow-paced, realistic WG one. It is in four parts. Part one is entirely expository (background, buildup, etc.), but it's background necessary to understanding the Brendan who inhabits parts 2 through 4. I hope that it proves to be worth it!
One final note: The use of the Rhodes Scholar program is only a handy fiction. I do not purport to be an expert on how the program works, and it doesn't figure that prominently in most of the story. I intend no disrespect!
All the best, BBD
----------------------------------------------------
Brendan Miller smiled as the plane lifted into the sky. After a miserable 25 years, he was free at last. If he never spoke to his mother again, that was fine with him. She'd made his every waking moment horrid. His stomach growled quietly, reminding him (as if he needed reminding) of how it had started.
His earliest memory of his mother was of her teasingly poking his tiny baby tummy, cutely round and full of rice cereal. "No more cereal for you," she'd said. "Don't want Baby getting fat!" He'd been too young, of course, to tell whether her tone was teasing, but she wasn't smiling. She never smiled. His father, of course, said nothing. A silent, compliant, bread-winning cipher, he rarely let loose a dozen words a day, if that.
Brendan was six and sneaking a handful of cookies from the cookie jar when his mother's voice made him jump. "Brendan Miller!" He turned, small hands full of treats. "Put those back." His brown eyes brimmed with tears. Softening a little, she patted him, not on the head, but on the stomach. "Don't want to be a little piggy."
Brendan was 10 and had watched his father hand his plate to Mother for seconds.
Brendan handed his own plate over ... and Mother took it to the sink. "Uh, Mother," he ventured. "Could I have some more chicken?"
"Better not, Brendan," Mother had said. And that was all.
Then there was the day seared into his memory, the day his mother's subtle campaign had come into the open and made his last decade a living hell. She'd opened the bathroom door without knocking to bring in some fresh towels ... and found Brendan without any clothes on, about to get in the shower. Brendan jumped, and his mother's glare bored in on his stomach.
Like most 14-year-olds, Brendan was going through puberty and his body was going through some changes. He had bulked up a little but was still only 5 feet tall. His mother was only 5'2" and his father 5'6", so Brendan knew that the basketball scholarship was a no-hoper. Still, going through puberty without getting any taller invariably means getting a little plumper.
His mother set the towels on the bathroom counter and poked with a perfectly manicured nail at Brendan's slightly softening waistline. Only his mother could have called it fat ... and she did.
"Tsk. Brendan. Fatties don't get the girls, you know." She frowned. "We'll have
to start watching your weight."
We? Whaddya mean we? Brendan soon found out. Mother weighed and measured him, doled out his meager portions, restricted his spending money, informed him coldly that she would pay only if he went to college locally (fortunately, "local" meant "Georgetown," and Brendan was no dummy ... just henpecked), and insisted that he live at home, not only through college but also when he found work at the National Urban League.
He was now all of 5'6" ... and all of 140 pounds. Perpetually hungry, he drank lots of water to keep his stomach from growling, and lied about all sorts of food allergies to avoid going out to group lunches, embarrassed to admit that he didn't have the bucks. And every day ... every week ... if Brendan so much as raised an eyebrow at the mashed potatoes, Mother would clear her throat. It was almost Pavlovian.
But now! At last! Brendan's boss had talked him into applying for a Rhodes scholarship ... and, improbably, he had been one of only three dozen or so Americans selected. For two blissful years he would be an ocean away from his now-widowed mother. The stipend even meant he'd have a little money in his pocket. He smiled again, remembering the scene.
"If you leave," Mother had screamed, by then beet-red, "don't come
back!"
"Fine," Brendan had snapped. "I won't."
Sweet words! He'd packed his few belongings, sold his ratty car, and paid cash for two years' worth of a self-storage unit in Bethesda.
Brendan quickly got over his mild culture shock and found that he was thriving in Enghland. The intellectual atmosphere was challenging, the learning stimulating, the centuries-old campus breathtaking, and the absence from his mother ... priceless.
He also discovered that the English ate five times a day, or at least four. Breakfast, elevenses (eaten at, oddly enough, 11 a.m.), lunch, tea and sometimes dinner. If no dinner was intended, tea was more substantial.
What's more, freed from his mother's disapproval, he eventually shook off his built-in guilt and allowed himself to enjoy eating. English cuisine is not known for its delicacy and variety, but it was good, cheap, and benefited from the infusion of other cultures, including Indian and African.
Hours of study and permission to eat for once, of course, had their effects. By the first Christmas holiday, Brendan had put on 20 pounds. As short as he was, there weren't many places for it to go except his belly, which is where it went. Chips, biscuits, ale and fried fish gave him a steadily thickening waistline and a burgeoning pot belly.
It would also give him a girlfriend.
Olivia West-Jones was in one of his classes. It took Brendan a long time to clue that she always managed to sit next to him and shyly greet him. One afternoon, her peaches-and-cream complexion reddening, she spoke to his shoes. "Would you, eh, would you care to come out for, ah, a drink or so?"
Something in Brendan took over. It was not the shy mama's boy who answered but an Inner Brendan he'd never met. He cupped her chin in his hand and gently raised her pretty face so that her eyes met his. "I would love to," he said firmly.
Years of nagging fell away that evening. Within a week, he had moved into her flat. Within a month they were lovers. And then he felt her cooling, looking at him with bewilderment; once he found her finishing up a cry but she wouldn't tell him what she was sad about.
Brendan had topped off at 165, giving him a modest spare tire and a small paunch that bulged outward just a little under his shirts. Maybe Olivia wanted him to lose weight. He quit drinking and dropped 10 pounds. Apparently, that was a mistake, because now Olivia's behavior was harder to read than ever.
The old Brendan was used to impossible women. The Inner Brendan, however, brought home roses and a bottle of wine and after dinner led an unprotesting Olivia into the living room.
"What's wrong?" he asked bluntly. "Does this" -- patting the diminished pot -- "bother you?"
Olivia burst into tears. "Just the opposite," she sobbed. What? Brendan was really confused. "I, erm, I love cuddly teddy bears of guys," she said, sniffling.
Brendan gave her his handkerchief and she quietly, in a very discreet English way, blew her nose. "I didn't even notice you until you'd been here a while."
Brendan was not the slowest horse in the shed. "Until I got fat," he said slowly. "You like me fat?"
