They headed west toward the museum courtyard. California Tower, attached to the museum like a steepled phallus, speared the sky as they approached. Emmett looked up to admire it: the three tiers framed by arches and intricate carvings, the vibrant blue-and-yellow-tiled dome matching the more expansive one rising over the main building. The museum offered guided tours of the tower for an additional fee, but Emmett had never done one. He wasn’t afraid of heights—he used to love roller coastersback when he could fit on them—but rather of how grotesque he’d look after climbing five flights of stairs to the public viewing deck more than halfway up the tower.
The pair entered the museum, showed their IDs to the ticket seller, and went in. The main hall was airy and palatial, white walls flowing up into soaring arches and the octagonal opening of the magnificent dome.
Growing up, Emmett had known it as the Museum of Man. The name change had been controversial—a capitulation to political correctness, some said—but Emmett liked the inclusivity of “Us,” a theme that carried through the museum’s exhibits. Past the towering carved stelae of a Mayan peoples exhibition were others dedicated to the humanitarian crisis at the U.S.-Mexico border, Southern California lesbiana, and the culture of the Kumeyaay Nation, on whose “unceded ancestral homeland the museum acknowledges it resides.” As they passedRace: Are We So Different?Emmett found himself imagining what a similar display dedicated to fat might look like, wondering if it deserved a place here. Was it fair to compare fatness to race, sex, nationality, queerness? Many would argue fatness was a lifestyle choice, not an identity. Body type wasn’t even a protected class. In the eyes of the law, discriminating against fat people was still fair game.
The pair moved deeper through the maze of exhibition halls into a section of the museum so dusty and forsaken they wondered if they’d wandered beyond the boundaries of public access. Perhaps not. Here was another exhibition, one they hadn’t seen on the map. Its lurid subject felt oddly out of sync with the rest of the museum.
SAVAGEHUNGER
A History of Cannibalism
“Oh hell yeah,” Lizette said, throwing Emmett off as he tried to hold her back.
“Lizette, wait.” He didn’t want to go. He had a weak stomach for the ghoulish and macabre. But she disappeared inside, forcing him to follow.
At the end of a hallway lined with images of pop culture cannibals—Patrick Bateman, Hannibal Lecter, Sweeney Todd—he emerged into a space somewhat more mundane than the exhibition’s name hadsuggested. Staid exhibits composed of text-heavy panels told a story dating back to the Crusades of the dehumanization of alleged “man-eaters”—often a ploy by European nations to subjugate foreign peoples and justify their enslavement. One panel described the dismay of the Spanish conquistadors after marching on Tenochtitlan and observing the Aztec rituals of removing and eating hearts. A glass case displayed a handful of weapons used by the inhabitants of Erromango, an island off of modern-day Vanuatu, which British explorer Captain Cook had attempted to land on and, after being driven off with violent force, claimed was inhabited by “savage cannibals.”
“This is boring as fuck,” Lizette said.
“Can we get out of here?”
Emmett scooted her along, but he slowed as he noticed an oil painting in an ornate gilt frame.
The subject—an English nobleman, chubby by modern standards, grotesque when he lived—was pale and corpse-like in his expression, his face textured with delicate craquelure. The white ruffle at his neck, bright against his dark costume and the dingy background, was flecked with blood, which also dribbled from the corner of his mouth and gave him the look of a seventeenth-century vampire. A glass vial and goblet rested on a table, adding interest to the bottom corner.
Emmett’s eyes scanned down the text beside the portrait.
Sir Percival Blount, 1st Baronet of Devonshire (1642–1671), is among the lesser-known figures of cannibalistic history, but was infamous in Stuart-period Britain for his claims of having regularly consumed the bodies of commoners.
After seeking medical treatment for chronic pain and fatigue, Blount claimed to have received from his apothecary a medicinal tonic that cured his condition but left him ravenous for human flesh. He asserted that he had murdered and eaten several men and women, even his servant’s young son, who had recently disappeared from the grounds of Blount’s estate.
Because of Blount’s status as a European nobleman—the opposite of the prevailing image of the uncivilized brown-skinned cannibal—the claims were largely treated as an eccentric joke. Still, he continued to espouse the health benefits of consuminghuman meat until he was found dead at age twenty-six, stabbed to death by the mother of the vanished child.
Prior to his murder, Blount commissioned an unknown artist to completePortrait of a Man-eateras a wry celebration of his own self-professed depravity.
“All right now,” Lizette said, standing behind Emmett. “This dude I fuck with.”
“Wouldn’t be my first choice, but I can’t really afford to be picky.”
She rolled her eyes.
Finished with the exhibition, they completed their circuit of the museum before heading back toward the front, passing a few people on their way in. A voice rang through the hall like the sound of church bells tolling through the courtyard outside.
“Emmett? Is that you?”
He turned to face the speaker. As if a floodlight had been tripped in Emmett’s mind, a blast of recognition lit him up and stopped him in his tracks.
“Aaron.”
“My god, you—” Aaron broke off, and Emmett’s mind filled in the rest.You look terrible. You gained so much weight.A dagger of shame buried itself in the chafed red crease under his breast. “It’s so good to see you.” His eyes on Emmett’s hair.
“I know, I need to dye it.”
“What, no you don’t.” Aaron’s horrified expression suggested he’d misheard:I need to diet.His ear following his mind’s train of thought.
Emmett wanted to disappear, but also keep looking forever. Whatever attractiveness Emmett had shed in the past five years, his former crush had gained double. It was the same Aaron but a shinier, more grown-up version. His once-shoulder-length hair was cropped short, his button-down and chinos crisp and well fitted. He’d put on ten or twenty pounds but wore it well; his was less a body gone to seed than one settled into its optimal weight.
“I thought you moved back East,” Emmett said.
