Less Of Me

  Chapter 5

  Andy stretched his fingers and balled his hands into fists, in and out, working the blood and muscles around. The sun was down and he felt pretty good about the opening volley in the new book. A spy drama set, eventually, in the hills of Appalachia. Nice.

  Without a television, Andy Boyd tended to spend quiet evenings surfing the Internet and eating, though not necessarily in that order. The refrigerator and freezer held the promise of another calorie-filled night alone as he peered inside, the glow of the 15-watt bulb the only light currently burning in the little kitchen. He shut the door. This was too hard. Not five hours ago he made a conscious decision to begin a disciplined lifestyle of good choices, and already, he felt compelled to reward himself for such a blazing start to the new Rance Broadback adventure with a pint of Cherry Garcia and a box of Oreos. “That would not be a good choice, my portly friend,” he murmured to himself.

  He took a seat on his sofa looking out at the lights of the city; grey clouds had rolled in to shroud the buildings in a foggy mist. His chubby fingers tapped the back of the couch. His generally fertile mind stalled, refusing to budge until he gave in and followed the normal evening pattern. “Two can play this game,” he said out loud, stubbornly holding his ground against the strength of desire. Five minutes gave way to ten as the silent battle raged in his mind. Slowly, voices of compromise began to mediate, offering alternatives to the food / no-food skirmish.

  “I guess if I just have a bite, not the whole pint, it would be okay... One bite of ice cream, and maybe one cookie.” He considered the compromise. It sounded reasonable. After all, he had to eat something, and if he could moderate the amount, then, he could eat almost anything. One bite, two at the most.

  The epiphany caused him to nearly leap from the couch, as if leaping were possible for his gravity-stricken legs. He hiked up runaway sweatpants and made a beeline for the utensil drawer. He needed a spoon, a big one. The first bite of ice cream tasted like what he imagined sex would be like. Sensual. Lighting up his lustful taste buds and soothing a conflicted mind, “Ice cream is our friend,” he whispered, smiling, his eyes closed as he licked the stainless steel of the tablespoon. The dilemma of returning the little tub of ice cream to it’s spot by the others in the freezer became a rather moot point, as the second heaping bite was followed so quickly by others that Andy stood holding an empty container in a matter of moments. Without ice cream, he was forced to wash down the dry Oreos with a quart of low-fat milk. Then, a bag of unsuspecting Doritos was needed to offset the unwelcome, lingering sweetness in his throat.

  He sang and danced around the living room singing the Keith Partridge song at the top of his lungs while courting the chips. He caught himself as he drank the last of the Nacho Cheese crumbs from the empty, cavernous bag. He let out a sigh that was an even mix of defeat and satisfaction. The house was quiet again, leaving just Andy, a belly full of junk and a head filled with the song that wouldn’t end.

  He clicked on Z-103 “Yesterday’s Hit’s from the 70’s 80’s and today,” a tag line that he made up, and loved. Don Maclean and Janis Joplin evicted Keith Partridge from his mind. “Something that should have been done hours ago,” Andy thought.

  Andy sat down heavily in his favorite chair. It matched the expensive sofa, with generous, over stuffed arms at just the right height, and a soft headrest that allowed Andy to slouch into the perfect position. On a full stomach, breathing came easier when sitting, as opposed to lying down, and his chair provided the perfect angle. He sat with arms sticking out like wings, resting on the sides of the chair, with his fingers draped over the front edge like a NASA test pilot, strapped in and ready for countdown. He stared through the big window and let his head fall gently back against the soft cushion of the seat back. He closed his eyes and began to cry. It was a silent cry, but the tears were as real as rain, pooling up above his quivering cheeks like little mountain lakes. He splashed the water out of both of them with the heel of a hand and looked again outside. “I can’t do this,” he said to the empty room. “I can’t become something I’m not. I can’t just decide to change, and then - bingo. I’m a loser. A reclusive, lonely, lard-ass, loser with no friends and no life.”

  As he sometimes did, Andy began to recount the things in his life that kept him from jumping off the Golden Gate Bridge. The Why Not List always began the same way;

  “Number one, I probably couldn’t get my fat butt over the guard rail.” A fact that always gave him a paradoxical smile. “Too fat to kill myself.” The older he got, the shorter the list became. A few years ago, after a brief relationship with the girl that did his mothers hair, the list was longer than it was now.

  Her name was Thui. She was a slightly built woman, several years younger than Andy. She had emigrated from South Vietnam with her mother when she was five years old. They were hustled aboard a plane by her father, an officer in the army who saw the writing on the wall for his hometown of Saigon and wanted a better life for his family. He promised to join them in America, but never made it. It was no easy life for an immigrant from South East Asia, especially in the 70’s. Thui compensated by being compliant and sweet. She grew up in the salon where her mother worked, and, after graduating beauty school, started cutting and styling hair in the booth previously occupied by her own mom. It was the only job she’d ever had. Mrs. Boyd loved Thui. Andy’s mom always rooted for the underdog and when she heard the story of Thui’s family, while having her hair done one day by her regular stylist, her heart went out. Like a dog lover who can’t pass up a stray, Mrs. Boyd couldn’t pass up the chance to love a survivor. She told her stylist that she was going to start seeing Thui, “Just to help her get started. You know me.” And with that, Mrs. Boyd started taking her appointments across the room with little Thui Guyen, pronounced, Twee Gween, which, to Andy, sounded like Tweety bird and Sylvester—“I t’ought I t’aw a puddy tat!”

  Andy was early for lunch one Thursday and arranged by cell phone to meet his mother at the salon from which they could walk to their favorite little Thai cafe, (Pad Thai, three star, double portion. Oh baby!) which was probably why her son was early. Mrs. Boyd had told her son Thui’s story, giving Andy’s fertile mind a picture of a raggedy little girl in a refugee camp. She was anything but that. She was five feet tall, maybe 100 pounds, long black hair and eyes that were as close to black as brown can be. She had an easy smile that seemed playful and shy, a little flat nose and beautiful creamy brown skin, “Like JIF peanut butter,” he thought, hating himself for comparing everything to food. Andy was pretty sure there were no Geisha girls in Viet Nam, but knew that this is what they must look like. She was an angel. Andy’s mom made his first appointment for a cut; she said he needed to clean up his act a little. Her son’s eyes had betrayed his thoughts. He didn’t mind that she noticed.

  On the occasion of his third haircut, Andy was planning to ask Thui out to a movie, the type of date that, in his mind, was a lot safer than a meal. He would be much less self-conscious in a dark room where he and his date could avoid eye contact. He had it all planned out; he would be a perfect gentleman during his cut, go to the counter and pay, then bring a generous tip back to the booth and ask her if she wanted to catch a movie sometime. It was a perfect plan. He sat nervously in the chair as she tended his hair. His brow was heavy with perspiration. He hated that, but couldn’t stop it. He would occasionally wriggle an arm out from underneath the barber’s apron that she’d draped over him and wipe his forehead.

  “Andy, you sick? You sweat,” she said.

  “No, I’m okay. I’m sorry.”

  “How your mom? She sweet.”

  “Thanks. She’s good. She’s great.”

  She finished her work and spun him around in the chair, stepping to the side, smiling and looking into the large mirror along with him. He didn’t care what his hair looked like; he was looking at her. He wanted to ask her right then, he knew there were others customers waiting, someone might be in the chair already
when he returned with the tip. That would be too intimidating. He needed to improvise.

  “Thui?”

  “Uh huh?”

  “Would you, uh, could we…” He took a deep breath, “Would you like to go to a movie with me sometime?” He said it. He did it. He asked a girl out on a date, a real date. The words were out there, floating somewhere in space. Sound travels fast, it must have hit her ears quickly, there was no reeling them back, they were cast forever in space and time like the stones in the Great Pyramids. Their relationship would never be the same because he had now betrayed his feelings and things would be different—either good different, or weird different. He looked for clues in her sweet little face. The first one was promising, an excited smile.

  “Movie? Oh!” She seemed agreeable and quickly turned towards the waiting area and said something in her native tongue. She was smiling, so it must be good, although he couldn’t tell from the inflections in her voice. “I’ll have to learn the language,” he thought, “or at least try.” One of the customers, a young man about her age, responded to what she had said, only in a tone more like a policeman ordering a bank robber to stop or he’d shoot. Andy glanced over at the guy who kind of looked like he might shoot. Thui looked back into the mirror and cocked her head.

  “You mean date?”

  Andy hadn’t anticipated this complication. “Uh, yeah.”

  “Oh, Andy,” she said, smiling, her head ajar slightly. She turned and said something else to the guy, who stood and came to the booth with serious eyes that never left the reflection of the man in the chair.

  “This, Tom. He my, uh,” she stopped, searching for the right word.

  “Fiancé’,” Tom injected in perfect English, his eyes still locked on Andy’s in the mirror.

  “Yes,” she said, reaching to the counter in front of Andy and retrieving a small gold band with a shiny speck in the center that Andy assumed was a diamond. “We marry. Next year,” she said, smiling up at her Tom.

  “I’m sorry,” Andy said to both of them, mostly Tom. “I didn’t know. Uh, congratulations.”

  After that disaster it was back to Super-cuts for Andy Boyd. But his almost-relationship with Thui Guyen actually helped him, eventually. After a double Pad Thai and order of Cashew Chicken, Andy drove straight to his house, stopping only briefly to pick up two pints of Ben and Jerry’s and a bag of Chip’s Ahoy. He didn’t leave his place for two days; afraid someone would see him and recognize him as the loser who tried to get a date with his nearly married hair stylist. It was one of the first times he’d considered what the world might be like without Andy Boyd around, taking up space, and he wrote out, with actual pen and paper, his first Why Not list.

  Why Not?

  1. I need to outlive my mother. It would kill her if I did something like that.

  2. I love my mother. I like being with her. I would miss that. (Would I actually miss anything? - theological/philosophical question)

  3. I like writing. I enjoy discovering stories and bringing them to life.

  4. I love the city - the sites, the sounds and the food.

  5. I like my house. Not that living quarters would be an issue any longer.

  6. I like people, I really do. I just wish I knew more of them.

  After a few days he slowly decided to focus on the things he enjoyed about life and begin to change the things he didn’t like, the things having to do with him self.

  Tonight the list was short, shorter than ever. “It would kill my mother. I could never do that to her,” he thought.