Sam Weller - Shadow Show

And it wasn’t only the fat man’s audio narrations, it was also the sounds he made while eating; it was almost like music: the wet smacking noises made by his large lips accompanied by the timpani sounds of silverware; the basso profundo of his occasional belches; the long notes of a melancholy oboe whenever his stomach rumbled; and the final, triumphant glissandos of a pianist at the finale of a symphony as the fat man put down his napkin, eased back, and released a pleasant sigh.

This meal was no different, except today the fat man seemed to glow from within with each bite taken, each morsel savored, each crumb licked from his fingertips. The little boy thought he’d never seen a happier person, until, just for a moment, the fat man paused near the end of the feast and seemed to be staring at something really depressing a hundred yards away.

“I must say, boy, this was without a doubt the finest last meal a man could ask for, and a man could expect no finer a companion with whom to share it than you.”

“Last meal?” said the little boy, feeling his stomach tighten and something grip his throat from the inside.

“I’m afraid so. Time to sleep the big sleep, go toes-up, get the oxygen monkey off my back, heed Nature’s signal of retreat, buy the farm and turn in the warranty card and dance the meat-freeze mambo. Would you be so kind as to hand me that black case on the nightstand?”

The little boy did so, asking, “What’s in there?”

“As far as anyone will know or care, it’s my diabetes medication.”

“But it… it isn’t, is it?”

The fat man grinned. “See? You just keep proving that I was correct in my conclusions about you. A fine, smart boy you are. And so kind, so brave, the way you know all those shortcuts to get here and not have them spot you and follow along. Were they ever to enter this house and behold that I have become the size of a small planet, they would realize that I’ve not made effort one toward becoming more aesthetically agreeable and place me under arrest. And don’t think for a moment that you would escape severe punishment, dear boy, though I imagine nowhere near the level of that which would be dropped on my head like a curse from heaven. Undoubtedly arrangements would be made to knock down a wall or two so a crane could be more easily employed to lift me away and then deposit me in the bed of a tractor trailer. I refuse to chance that sort of public humiliation, being airlifted like some Vietnamese elephant so they can haul me to one of their ‘readjustment facilities,’ where I would subsequently be put down like some stray dog. None of that for me, thank you very much.” He opened the case and removed the first of three hypodermics. “If that must be my fate, then I will exit stage left under my own direction.”

After injecting the contents of the first syringe into his system, the fat man looked at his last-dinner companion and friend and said, “May I be permitted to say that it has been a pleasure and a great honor to have you as companion, bagman, and best friend?”

“Really?” said the little boy. “I’m your best friend?”

“As best as they come,” replied the fat man, sinking the plunger of the second syringe. “And I shall miss you until time and space are no more.”

“I’m gonna miss you, too. You’re the only friend I’ve ever had.”

The fat man’s eyes were starting to glaze over. “Dear me, that pusher fellow wasn’t having me on when he said this was the strongest stuff available.” He held the final syringe in his hand. “Listen to me. After I fall asleep, do not tell anyone for at least a day. Promise me?”

“I promise.”

“And I believe you. I want you to have enough time… enough… time…”

“For what?” said the little boy, his voice cracking like the weak ugly crybaby everybody said he was. “Time for what?”

The fat man grasped a thin, long, silver chain that hung around his neck and gave it a firm tug, pulling it free. A single key dangled at the end. He handed it to the little boy. “Time for you to take anything and everything you want from this house. Books, movies, the stereo, anything. And after you do that, you take this key and go to the bank. I’ve already made arrangements. A man will take you to my security deposit box. Use this key to open it.”

“What’s in there?”

“Three things—oh, speaking of three…” He emptied the last syringe. His entire body shuddered, and kept on shuddering. He reached out and took both of the little boy’s hands in one of his. “You’ll find three things: an envelope containing money, a lot of money—it’s been so long I don’t recall the exact amount, but, trust me, it’s quite a lot, and it’s all yours. And you will find the two things I’ve treasured for all of my life: an ancient book with my grandmother’s handwritten recipes and poems, her lovely, funny, sad, lonely poems; and a slightly torn black-and-white photo of a little boy not unlike yourself, standing with his beaming parents before he leaves for his first day of first grade. He looks happy and strong and ready to take on the world, because, you see, his body is aesthetically agreeable, and all of his dreams and goals are waiting for him to catch up to them. He’s ready to take on the world, to have a life chock-full of adventures. He’s ready to wake up every day laughing and fall asleep singing, never stopping, never sad, growing up running at full speed so he can chase the horizon like a joyous fool and drink down the sky from a golden chalice. Nowhere in his eyes do you see any hint of evil glands that will later slow him and then stop him altogether. I want you to have it. Put it in a nice frame, not ostentatious, and hang it high on a bright wall where everyone can see his face and hear the morning song and the evening laughter. Will you do this for me?”

The little boy couldn’t speak, so he nodded.

“Of course you will. I had no doubt.” His grasp weakened, his hand slipping quietly down to his side. “Falling asleep now.” His head tilted to one side, but then his eyes snapped open. “One last thing,” he whispered. “Always remember that no one will dare mock you if you know how to throw your weight around. Ha! I knew I had one more in me.” And with that, he fell asleep, humming a song the little boy did not recognize.

After a few minutes, the little boy wiped his eyes and blew his nose, lifted himself on the bed just high enough to kiss the fat man’s cheek, and quietly left. But not before grabbing the remaining slices of the last pizza.

The fat man would have hated to see any food go to waste.

I have been a reader of the Great Man all of my life. He’s never failed to amaze, move, or pointedly disturb me. He taught me the grace of metaphor and the importance of never standing at arm’s length from your own heart. I hope my contribution here evokes the wonder of false mummies, heartbroken sea-beasts, and those who make tragic discoveries long after midnight.

At the county fair, MacGregor bought a long strip of tickets from a man with one arm, and he and Silvie Ross climbed aboard the Tilt-A-Whirl and then the Zipper, the Starship 2000 and then the double Ferris wheel. They swooped, circled, and spun so wildly that they all but set themselves free from gravity. As they perched momentarily at the top of the Ferris wheel, MacGregor kissed both of Silvie’s flushed cheeks, then her lips. Beyond her pretty bare shoulder he saw the whole world stretching out, full of possibility. Then the huge contraption heaved them toward the earth, and MacGregor, caught up in the excitement of falling, shouted, “Marry me!” He didn’t even consider that they’d only been dating a few months or that he had no ring to offer her. Apparently Silvie didn’t think of these things either, because at the bottom, she said yes. The embrace that ensued on the way back up nearly knocked off MacGregor’s glasses.