The New Normal (~BHM, Mutual, ~MWG, Romance)

[Big Beautiful Dreamer]

~BHM, Mutual, ~MWG, Romance - The stress of designing a building adds pounds to an architect

The New Normal
By: Big Beautiful Dreamer​

It was finished. The best part of six weeks of long days that blurred into long nights that became long days again; six weeks of erasures and crumpled paper and heated arguments about hypocausts vs. wall vents, non-glare glass vs. mullions, friezes vs. lanais. Finally, finally, we had done all we could do and the thing was in the hands of the board. We’d been pacing and biting our nails for eleven endless hours, each hour that passed the start of another spirited debate about whether their taking so long was a good sign or spelled certain doom.

The phone shrilled. We all jumped a foot. Claire stretched out a hand, took a deep breath, and answered calm as pond water. “McCaskill and Associates, may I help you?” She pushed the speakerphone button.

“Brian McCaskill, please.” I moved over to the phone.

“Brian McCaskill.”

“Mr. McCaskill. Ted Thurgood from the board.” He didn’t have to say which board, but it irked me a little that he knew he didn’t.

“We love your design. We love it so much,” –chuckle– “that we’ll even meet your price proposal. We’ll courier over an agreement in the morning. Have a good evening.” He hung up before, I hoped, he heard the audible catch in my throat.

McCaskill and Associates, all six of us, jumped up and down, thumped each other’s backs, garbled inarticulately to no one. We’d just won our first major bid, and if it got done right, prizes might even follow, but more work certainly would follow. I was finally a working architect. In the first moment of calm that followed, my stomach growled so loudly I felt it in my toes. Claire giggled.

“That’s what you get for not snapping up your share of the doughnuts,” she said dryly, and everyone, even me, laughed. The final ten days had been absolutely down to the wire, and we’d all but taken to sleeping in the office. (I actually had.) We ordered in Chinese, we ordered in pizza, and someone periodically made runs for doughnuts, coffee, and breakfast sandwiches. I was too tense to partake of any of it. I’d been running on gallons of coffee and the occasional handful of popcorn. A quick glance around the circle showed a little waist pudge among the rest, but I hadn’t had the time or the inclination. I scrubbed my face with both hands.

“Okay. Everyone scatter – we’ll meet in an hour at the Chop House and dinner is on the firm.” More cheers.

I went home for a hot shower, a shave, and a change of clothes. After showering, I gave myself a long look in the mirror. I looked like hell. I’d been slightly built for my height – coltish, almost – but the ten days running on nerves, adrenaline and caffeine had shredded me. My stomach was actually concave, and the trousers I pulled on bagged. I had to poke a new hole in my belt.

At the Chop House, we toasted one another and ordered lavishly. I knew without Thurgood’s being so crude as to have mentioned it that along with the couriered agreement would be a $3,000 bonus for having submitted the plans ahead of schedule. That bonus would be picking up the tab for the dinner.

I hadn’t had an appetite in several weeks; now it came roaring back. A couple of times I found myself eating like a wolf and had to pull up short and remind myself of my manners. I tore through a monster-size 16-ounce steak, baked potato with butter and sour cream, creamed spinach, caramelized onions and mushrooms, four or five rolls from the replenishing bread basket, every bite of a huge apple tart, and three vodka tonics that were weak on the tonic.

We slowly digested over coffee and built castles in the air, arguing about turrets and keeps. Finally I paid the bill, tipped well, and stood.

“Hey, look.” Claire giggled again. “Brian, you ate so much your stomach’s sticking out!” She pointed, her cheeks flushed with several glasses of wine.

I glanced down. My previously concave belly was indeed distended, protruding well past my belt, which desperately wanted loosening. I stifled a large belch. “Making up for lost time,” I said as casually as I could manage. “Lost ... lime. Hic.” Those vodkas were having an effect. I was vaguely aware of being uncomfortably stuffed but couldn’t care less. How much had Claire eaten? Her familiar khaki skirt was visibly strained, her twin set pulled snug against a little pillow of tummy.

Taxis were scarce, and Claire offered to share since we were headed the same way. I gladly agreed.

In the taxi, though, my heart skipped a beat when I felt her fumbling with my belt.

“Shhhh.” She undid it skillfully and let it out three notches. Ahhhhh. I hiccupped.

“Th–hic–thanks,” I managed. I gingerly patted my bloated stomach. I was beginning to sober up and beginning to realize just how much I’d eaten. My gut was hard as a rock. Gently, very gently, Claire massaged it all the way home.

What was Claire doing in my apartment? Making coffee, it appeared.

“Go. Get your jammies on.” She shooed me toward the bedroom. I obediently peeled off my clothes with a deep breath of relief at the sudden easing of pressure on my ballooned and achingly full gut, and pulled on loose cotton shorts and a ragged Cooper Union T-shirt.

The next morning I woke to the scent of coffee – fresh coffee – cinnamon rolls, and a note.

Brian,

I didn’t have the heart to wake you.
Congratulations to the best architect
in the city. See you!

Claire.

The cinnamon rolls smelled heavenly. I ate six of them. Then I whistled all the way to the office. We had a ton of work ahead of us.

The others straggled in one by one. I certainly wasn’t going to say anything about that. Not today. With the first flush of excitement still fueling us, we tended assiduously to our respective tasks. Around two, it occurred to someone to send for Chinese.

“I shouldn’t,” Claire groaned, even as her stomach growled. “I’ve been packing away the doughnuts.” She rubbed her sweater-clad tummy, an oversize sweater today, chosen no doubt to hide the roll of belly beginning to develop.

“Ugh, me too,” Jason chimed in. Jason was of Chinese descent, short and slight, but his khakis and polo shirt revealed a little pot, the legacy of too much takeout in the last couple of weeks.

I shouldn’t have either, not after gorging myself last night – and six cinnamon rolls – but I was hungry and everything smelled good.

We all emptied the containers with disgraceful speed and got back to work. Later – much later – Claire phoned for pizza. We finally hung up our pencils about 8 o’clock.

When I got home, I was still stuffed full of pizza and was glad to peel off my clothes and change into the shorts and T-shirt. I sprawled onto the sofa, rubbing my stomach to get rid of the red mark the belt had pinched into me, when I spotted the leftover cinnamon rolls. I’d covered them with plastic wrap, but they were still some fourteen hours cold.

I ate one while watching SportsCenter. Then another while I channel surfed. Then two more while watching the last third of I, Robot. The last two looked lonely, so I scarfed them during the news. I fell asleep on the sofa.

We couldn’t sustain the pace of the last six weeks. Nor would we have been doing our best work. The atmosphere eased, everyone returned to brown-bagging it or taking lunch breaks, and life got back to the new, better normal, the normal of a fledgling firm with its first big bid. I found myself, in the new normal, noticing when Claire’s temporary doughnut-pudge shrank and her waistline resumed its reasonably trim proportions. What was that twinge of regret? I found myself missing the little bulge, the pull of the skirt I’d seen.

The others slowed down, but I had too much at stake. I kept long hours, fourteen-hour-plus days, and nutrition became a matter of grabbing a bag of food that had to be unwrapped. I was getting to be something of a connoisseur of burritos and Chinese food in the neighborhood. Claire, who was second in the firm in name only, was my early-morning and late-night office companion. We’d shared classes together in college but had gotten to really know each other during a fourth-year elective in advanced environmental systems and design integration. Afterward we’d each served a few years in large firms, biding our time and saving our shekels, and we’d opened up our own firm, which Claire insisted be called only “McCaskill and Associates,” not “McCaskill and Hunterson.” Matter of time.

But as Claire’s eating habits returned to the sensibility that kept her skirts fitting, mine continued their nosedive. By the time the foundation was poured, I was wearing my belts on the last hole, and that would do the trick for only so much longer. I had developed a visible spare tire that didn’t go away when I stood up, and when I sat down my thickening waist was starting to lap over that belt.

I was sweet on Claire, but she’d never seemed to reciprocate – except for that one night, when I’d eaten so much I’d fallen asleep just as I got the two of us alone in my apartment – and the foundation being poured seemed to call for a celebration. I invited Claire to the Chop House.

“Oh, you have to have the same thing,” Claire insisted. “It’s good luck.” Gamely, I ordered the same thing. This time, I wasn’t coming off ten days of a coffee diet, and I wasn’t nearly as ravenous. The steak seemed enormous, the baked potato on steroids.

I ate every scrap, though with only one vodka. Didn’t stop me from feeling achingly, dopily stuffed, stupefied with food, feeling my belt creak with every shallow breath. This time I made no objection when Claire undid my belt in the taxi, though it didn’t help much. This time when Claire came up to the apartment I stayed awake after changing into something more comfortable and she changed into my ratty bathrobe. We both sank onto the sofa. Claire leaned her head against my chest and her hand drifted to my aching belly, which was embarrassingly distended.

She began to massage it, very gently. It felt wonderful. I suppressed a couple of belches. She giggled. Just as I was feeling relaxed enough to melt into the sofa, Claire leaned back and undid the tie of the robe. She let the sides fall open, covering her top half but revealing an undeniably full tummy. Round and peach-smooth, it looked as taut and firm as mine. I began to massage it, surprised at how full it felt to my hand. She got the hiccups, which made her giggle, which made her belly shake, which made her groan, so that my massage of her bloated tummy was accompanied by a strange musical rhythm.

Afterward we sort of helped each other into bed ... and fell asleep.

We made love in the predawn, drowsy and rosy and rumpled, conscious of nothing but each other.

Over coffee, leaning against the counter, she haltingly tried to explain.

“I like you ... I’ve always liked you ... but you know, you’re nice looking, just not really my type. But since we got the bid, you know, a few doughnuts ... a little Chinese ... you get handsomer by the day.”

“Wait, so you like Chinese doughnuts?”

She giggled.

“It’s okay.” I pulled her toward me and we made love again. I tried not to let the implications of her comment distract me.

We were careful to arrive at work separately. I worked, but with only half a mind on my efforts, which hampered my effectiveness. Was Claire saying she liked me better with that little junk-food belly? Which was no longer quite so little.

Once a week or so, we ate out after work. We were both moving cautiously, not wanting to wreck both a solid friendship and a solid working relationship. But while Claire encouraged me to eat myself stuffed on these dates, she nibbled, left her plates half filled, never ate dessert.

One evening I eased the robe off her (by this time I’d bought her a short one of champagne silk that she kept in my apartment) and laid a hand on her tummy, which was looking very run-of-the-mill.

“You seem to like my ... bay window,” I said. She giggled and pushed on it, coaxing up a fair-sized belch. I pressed on her tummy.

“How come you won’t put on an addition for me?”

Claire drew back and stared at me.

“Girls aren’t supposed to get fat,” she finally said, blushing.

I pressed on her tummy again. “But I like your ... bonus room.” I was racking my brain for housing terms.

She tickled my belly button. “And I like your three-car garage,” she said, sliding her hand around to the back and managing a grab.

“Stop diverting,” I ordered. I tried to pinch an inch on her waistline. Couldn’t do it.

“You don’t want me to get fat,” she demurred.

“Just a little ... gazebo.”

She giggled. I silenced her with a kiss.

Six months later, the representatives of McCaskill and Associates were present at the opening of the new building. McCaskill and Associates would not be changing its name to McCaskill and Hunterson – because Claire Hunterson would soon be changing her name to Claire McCaskill. She squeezed my hand. I grinned at her.

I was wearing a new suit from Casual Male Big & Tall, an expanse of chalk-stripe charcoal that draped my two hundred and eighty pounds rather well, I thought. The new shirt actually fitted below my double chin and de-emphasized the flabbiness of my pecs, and the jacket, even when buttoned, laid smoothly over the swell of my belly, firm and full of a lavish board-sponsored lunch.

Claire had enjoyed the lunch as much as I had, but her outfit was a little less forgiving. Her cherry wool wrap dress laid smoothly enough over her swelling bosom, but the waist was pulled very, very snug and did little to conceal the thick pudge of her belly, now stuffed with oysters, artichokes, quiche, roast chicken, and two large slices of red velvet cake. The skirt draped, clinging, over her increasingly bountiful backside in an enticing fashion that made it very hard for me to keep my hands to myself, and below the skirt, nylon-encased legs showed plump, tempting curves.

Once Claire had realized that what was good for the goose was equally good for the gander, and once she’d gotten over feelings of inferiority that society endowed on people of size, she’d seen that her rolls of flesh and mounds of rosy belly appealed to me as much as my soft chest and increasingly burgeoning midsection. The fact that the building had won an award had done wonders for her self-esteem as well.

Amid the applause, I whispered, “I can’t believe things will ever be back to normal.”

And she whispered back, “This is the new normal.”

 

[Madeline Maple]

 

[Tad]