It was late afternoon. He’d worked more than a full shift and still had over an hour to go. His shitty sack lunch was a distant memory. The vending-machine trail mix he’d later scarfed had barely made a dent. His usual quantities of food were no longer enough to tame his hunger. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt truly satisfied.
It was worth it, though. That morning he’d weighed in at 199 pounds. He hadn’t been under 200 since he was like, what, thirteen?
It was hard to say; for a few years there he’d refused to step onto a scale, refused to acknowledge his body’s growth by any measure other than the clothes that no longer fit and the cruelty of the taunts that hounded him across the Meadowbrook Middle School campus. Fries hurled at his head at lunch. Gum ground into his hair while waiting for the bus. Names like Porkémon and Titty Truesdale shouted by boys he barely knew, whose brutal deaths he idly fantasized about from the back of the classroom, and whose shirtless bodies, glimpsed in the locker room after PE, he held in his mind as he masturbated at night.
It wasn’t just worth it to be this size, but lucrative. Ever since he’d surpassed five thousand Instagram followers, brands had been reaching out, offering to pay him to promote their products. He turned most of them down. He wasn’t interested in hawking protein powder and vitamin supplements. What he wanted was to educate, to inspire. For that reason, he started offering remote personal coaching services, providing space for people like him to express their struggles and fears, giving advice on staying resilient in their journey to self-actualization. He was fully booked, but mostly his clients wanted his diet and exercise secrets. He advised them to cut out sugar cold turkey.
Emmett’s stomach yowled like a randy tomcat. Pretty soon, he wouldn’t be responsible for his actions.
A call went out over the radio: customer requiring assistance in thefreezer section. He was passing that way anyway. His chinos sagged as he clipped the radio back on his waistband. He’d have to ask Lizette to take them in again.
When he reached the aisle, he was greeted by Myra astride her mobility scooter, a lilac muumuu stretched taut between her splayed legs. Her sides poured out from under the armrests, her enormous belly making the T-shaped steering apparatus look as tiny and funny as a toy.
Emmett strode into the aisle with a tight smile. “Hey there. Need some help?”
“Yeah, I was— Heyyy,” Myra said, her small, piggy eyes sparkling with recognition. “Is that who I think it is?”
“What’s left of me.”
“Gosh, you got so skinny.”
He preferredYou look greator evenincredible, but it was something. Lizette barely acknowledged his weight loss at all. “I don’t give a fuck how much you weigh,” she’d said when Emmett pressed her on it. “I’m not gonna say ‘You look good’ like I thought you looked bad before. And anyone who does is an asshole.”
Emmett wondered if she wasn’t a little jealous.
“How can I help you?” he said, and Myra directed him to a family-size sack of frozen French fries on the bottom shelf. “No, two,” she added when he began to close the freezer door.
A variety of frozen meats, and a pizza, and ice cream. It was always like this: he helped her out with one thing, and he was her personal shopper for the day. He’d never minded before, but things were different now. He kept having to master his expression. Twobags of French fries?he thought as he schlepped them into her basket.Thetriplechocolate ice cream? Does she really need all this junk?
He batted the thought away. Who was he to judge anyone for their food choices?
Then, as he cleared the shelves of Heinz cocktail sauce on her behalf:Maybe if she lost some weight, she could get it herself.
Smash!A bottle slipped out of his hand and hit the floor. “Damn it.”
The gruesome-looking splat triggered him unexpectedly. At once his mouth flooded with saliva, hunger sizzling a ragged hole in his stomach. Weird—he didn’t even like horseradish.
“Butterfingers,” Myra jeered.
“We’ll get that cleaned up. Is three enough?”
He loaded her up and radioed an associate to clear the mess. The bottle was solid and thick, broken into a few large pieces. He collected them barehanded. “I should take care of this, if that’s everything.”
“You go. Don’t go dropping anything else, butterfingers,” she said and motored off.
Emmett gazed after her, stifling a slur.
Having disposed of the glass at the nearest waste station, he wiped his hands on his shirt and changed out the bag. His stomach howled as he walked the glass-filled bag back to the dumpster.
After, he headed for the break room in search of a stale muffin, or even better, something savory. He ached for a rare burger, a blue flank of carne asada. Chewy and fatty and practically raw, juices running red down his chin.
By the time he got back up front, Myra had checked out; he spied her zooming through the automatic doors, Jazz calling out from her check stand, “Ma’am, you left something!”
Seeing she had a line of customers to serve, Emmett said, “I got it,” took the bottle of cocktail sauce, and stalked after Myra.
Appendix Q—Health Journal
PARTICIPANT DETAILS
