The Pathbeater

“Hey Tee-im.”

It sounded vaguely like someone with a thick southern accent was calling my name.  I had a class to get to (it was the mid-1990’s at UMass-Lowell), so I continued walking.

“Tee-im!”

I turned around and did a double-take when I saw the tall African-American man smiling at me.

“Dwayne?”

It was Dwayne.  Holy cow.

I should explain.  I met Dwayne while the two of us were stationed at Keesler Air Foce Base in Biloxi, Mississippi in 1989-90.  Dwayne, who was from Alabama, was the shy type, but with a great sense of humor and an infectious, almost guilty laugh.  I was (am) your typical wise-acre and spent my time trying to make him spray soda from his nose.

Living in the dorms on Keesler was fairly uneventful.  We trainees went to class, kept our rooms clean, and went to bed at 11pm.  Other than the occasional game of ping pong or pickup basketball, there wasn’t much to do.  Dwayne and I would kill the hours sitting around his room, talking about the future and listening to music.  Our futures, in the short term anyway, looked to be quite different.

He was in the regular Air Force, so upon his graduation from Keesler he would be assigned to a base somewhere to begin serving his 4-year hitch.  He was hoping for Hawaii (everyone hopes for Hawaii) but had accepted the probability that he would end up in Nebraska, where his Alabama blood would have to adapt to the cold.

I was going home, and I told him all about how I planned to go to the University of Lowell (as it was known then) and become an electrical engineer like two of my brothers.  The Air National Guard was going to pay my tuition and life was going to be good (note:  I graduated with a business degree).

The theme music for our conversations was generally provided by Dwayne.  He introduced me to Public Enemy, Luther Vandross, and the Isley Brothers; all on tape, as the only radio options in Biloxi were 896 country stations and 1 classic rock station.

When we needed more music, or when we wanted to go to all-night weekend parties at the local motels, we would venture out into Biloxi.  This was a little more exciting than it should have been, since the local Racist White Men with Long Hair and Pickup Trucks Association didn’t like any of us Air Force boys.  The rumor on base was that the local men hated us because their women loved us - if only because we represented a potential escape from Biloxi.

The fact that Dwayne was black did not endear us to the locals any more, but luckily he was also 6’2 and had muscles in places where most people didn’t have places (to steal a line from the late Ron Luciano).  A stern look from Dwayne was usually enough to keep the confrontations verbal rather than physical.

My days in Mississippi came to an end in March of 1990.  I heard that after I left, Dwayne and some other Airmen rented a van and drove it to New Orleans, where it was promptly stolen, along with all of their clothes.  After that, I didn’t hear much from Dwayne.  There were a smattering of letters, and I would talk to him on the radio from my National Guard base once in a while, but soon we had lost touch.

Then, more than 4 years after I had last seen him, Dwayne was standing in the Registrar’s office at UMass-Lowell, shaking my hand.  He had remembered my plans; so when his Air Force hitch ended, he moved up to Massachusetts, joined my Air National Guard unit and enrolled at Lowell; just like that.

We made plans to get together, and I ran off to class, feeling a bit shocked and thrilled.

But, it didn’t work out.  I was busy with the social side of school, and Dwayne and I only got together a few times.  He was quiet and shy, and no matter how many times I invited him to hang out at my fraternity house, he just never made it over there.  He was in a strange place, and taking classes that were extremely challenging.  Soon, he joined a local religious group.  He was excited about the group – they were quite friendly - and tried to talk to me about it.

But, from my days working as a Resident Advisor, I knew that the group had been classified by the University as a cult.

I was alarmed and tried to warn him away from it - but he wasn’t interested in my advice.  We stopped talking so much, and the months flew past faster than even one of those Mississippi afternoons.  I was busy, he was busy.  When the semester ended, Dwayne dropped out of school, left my National Guard unit, and went home to Alabama without leaving a phone number or address.  I have not seen or spoken to him since.

What might have happened if, very early on, I had taken him home to meet my family and to enjoy a dinner; if I had really tried to help him adjust to life in a strange place and to feel at home?  What if I had just been less stubborn about walking over to the dorms instead of insisting that he come to the fraternity house?  What if I had been less busy with things that I can’t even remember today?

I’ll never know.  I miss Dwayne sometimes.

Ok, it’s time to lose some weight.  I say this not only because of the multitude of health risks associated with being overweight, but because of the many social indignities that fat people have to endure.  It’s funny, really, but despite all of the news reports that express alarm about how overweight our society is, the society itself doesn’t seem to be changing with the population’s weight.  I’m not fighting for fat people’s rights or expecting special treatment, but I have noticed some interesting ways that society reminds us that, well, we don’t fit in.

For example, don’t be surprised if you see a number of large men walking around wearing golf shirts but no pants.  No, it’s not because you have inadvertently chosen to take a trip to Provincetown during Bear Week; it’s because the local mall stores do not sell pants to fat guys.

I know this because my wife and I went shopping not long ago and found that while most of the stores in the local mall carried a variety of golf shirts in size XXL, none of them carried pants or shorts for men of that size.  My guess is that they are catering to the bodybuilding set; since there are so many more people with huge chests and tiny waists than there are guys with a weakness for baked goods.  Don’t the executives from these stores watch the news programs?  Don’t they see the footage of fat people walking around all over the city, and hear the statistics that the trim news anchors relay in their “troubled” voices about the US obesity percentages?

Speaking of people who don’t read the obesity percentages, how about the owners of our beloved Boston Red Sox?  They added seats to the Green Monster, they upgraded almost every part of Fenway Park, but they left those <bad word> blue seats in the Reserved Grandstand?  The rows are not made for anyone over 5’7”, never mind someone who tips the scales more than the average fan did in 1912.

Sitting in the reserved grandstand involves placing one’s rear onto the seat handles (there for your comfort!) and then wiggling until the larger part of the bottom can be worked clear of the handles and into the seat.  Getting up is a similar process, which removes even the option of participating in The Wave.  By the time I finally achieve the standing position, the wave has already rippled past.  After several innings of this, my legs and hind quarters are good and truly bruised.

On the MBTA ride home (or during my morning and afternoon commutes), if there isn’t an end seat available, I generally choose to stand.  I don’t want the guilt of taking up two seats or of making the people around me uncomfortable.  Of course, these same people are often reading newspapers and spreading their arms into another seat area, but I digress.

It’s obvious why these environments have been slow to change.  Changing the seats in places like Fenway Park, on trains, and on airplanes (another beacon of comfort for the gravitationally challenged) costs the host organizations money.  Making room for fatter people means fewer people and fewer people means less income; I get it.  I don’t have to like it, but I get it.

What I don’t get is why, whenever I’m standing on a crowded train and someone in the car floats an air biscuit, I always feel a number of accusing eyes on me.  What?  Thin people don’t fart?  Sure, on a day to day basis I’m probably eating more than the skinny woman next to me, but the remains of her pickled egg and haddock sandwich are right there on her shirt.  Also, the guy standing next to her, the one holding onto the bar with his arm raised, is clearly is allergic to both showers and deodorant.  So stop staring at me.

Seriously, though, in a way I can understand the thought process of the people who stay inside and eat until they can’t go outside any more.  It’s embarrassing to be fat and to try to function in a society that isn’t tailored to people of my size.  In a way, I suppose that is motivation to lose weight and to fit in, but in another way it could easily discourage people from making the effort.  It’s easy to get tired of the embarrassment you feel when meeting new people (yeah, sorry, I’m fat) and when trying to fit into a world made for smaller people.

It’s a choice, really.  I am working to fit in and be healthier, but until I get there, please, just sell me pants.