Many told Bernard Hamm that he would never amount to
anything. They told him he would die in his twenties due to his obesity. They
told him he was too lazy to get anything done. And yet, here he was sitting at
a booth at the Paulson City Public Library signing copies of his debut fantasy
novel “Memento Mori”. The crowd was modest in size, but Bernard didn’t mind.
The fact that he got his novel out there said something to all of his haters:
that he was here to stay despite being over three hundred pounds.
Mr. Hamm looked the part of a professional author in his
beige polo shirt, black slacks, and thick-rimmed glasses. He also felt like one
when his massive autographing hand was getting tired. He gripped his wrist and
rolled his hand around as if that would give him any circulation. He had to put
his exhausted paw to use once again when he wagged a finger at a teenaged girl
trying to take pictures of him, to which she apologized and walked off.
One person Bernard kept his eye on was a caramel-skinned man
with puffy black hair and a white tank top. The familiar figure kept looking at
his dying cell phone and cursing loudly, to which the librarians had to shush
him. Bernard shook his head and continued singing autographs until the last of
the small crowd had dispersed for the day. The tubby author clutched his wrist
and rolled his hand around some more. He even opened and closed his fingers
while the puffy-haired gentleman asked the clerk loudly for internet access.
Not wanting to draw attention to himself, Bernard kept his
eyes down and fiddled with his hands some more, a sure sign that anxiety was
building within him. Maybe it was time to get the hell out of this library for
the day. But first, Bernard cracked both of his wrists and popped his fingers,
as if this would alleviate some of his nervousness. He also took deep breaths
due to his heart racing inside his massive body. Just get up and walk casually
out the door.
“Barney-Boy? Is that you, buddy?” said the loudmouth from
across the library. The shit-eating grin on his face put a saggy frown on
Bernard’s. “Remember me, big man?” said the man as he approached the author’s
booth. “It’s your boy, Diego Martinez! We used to go to school together! Holy
shit, man! You ain’t changed one bit, buddy!”
“Some things never do,” said Bernard with his chin
shamefully tucked against his chest.
“Holy shit, I gotta get a picture of this. This is gonna go
live, man! You’re gonna be famous!” said Diego as he pulled out his cell phone.
“I still got some juice left. How did that happen? Let’s snap a few of these
bad boys!”
“Put the phone away, Diego. I don’t allow pictures at my
book signings,” said Bernard with a lack of conviction, still keeping the
shameful look on his pudgy face.
“Hey, it’s a free country, man. I’ll take a picture of
whatever I want. Besides, you want people to buy whatever the fuck you wrote,
right? Well, you gotta put yourself out there, big man,” said Diego before
snapping the first few pictures and yelling “OH!”
“Put the goddamn phone away and stop taking pictures of me!
Don’t you have any respect for privacy?” said Bernard as his tone grew more
aggressive with his sausage fingers clenched.
“Man, you ain’t gonna get no sales sitting behind a booth
all day. Trust me, buddy, you need those sales for some kind of gym membership
or something,” said Diego while snapping more pictures.
Bernard’s chubby cheeks were burning bright pink. His short
fingernails dug into his palms. Sweat poured from his face like a rainstorm
with plenty of thunderclouds. “I’m going to count to five. If you don’t put
that goddamn phone away, I’m going to bend you over this booth and shove it up
your ass!”
“Man, why the fuck do you care about stupid shit like that?
That bullying business was a long time ago. Ain’t nobody gonna care if you’re a
big guy. Your doctor might, but I don’t think anyone else will. Seriously, man,
I’m doing you a favor. You need some motivation or something,” said Diego while
once again snapping photos with the frequency of a machinegun.
“That’s it!” shouted Bernard as he bulldozed the booth and
charged at Diego, who was too busy playing the role of paparazzi to notice the
three hundred pound juggernaut was ready to strike. Diego snapped out of his
Face Book-addicted trance long enough to feel boa constrictor fingers around
his throat.
Everyone around the library went from anxious ignorance to
fleeing panic, screaming as they ran away rather than doing something to help
Diego. The librarian behind the desk fumbled with the phone cradle as she
punched three familiar numbers. Her speech was reduced to stuttering gibberish
as she fearfully related the incident over the phone.
As the purple-faced Diego was on his knees trying to pry
Bernard’s fingers loose, the heavy hitter bellowed, “I told you not to take any
fucking pictures, you stupid son of a bitch! I don’t like being fat! I don’t
like being bullied online! I don’t like…!”
The fading Diego used the last of his strength to uppercut
Bernard in the balls, forcing him to release the chokehold and stumble on the
ground holding his family jewels. The wannabe photographer rolled on his side
and coughed up a conservative amount of blood before taking labored breaths in
and out that felt like swallowing knives.
As soon as he got an adequate amount of oxygen in his lungs,
Diego pointed his finger at the downed Bernard and said, “You know what? I
tried to help you! I tried to put the good word out there! I tried to help you
get some motivation to get your fat ass off the couch! Now I’m gonna sue your
ass!” He pointed at the shivering librarian and said, “You’re gonna be my
witness!”
The librarian crouched down on the floor in the fetal
positions and stuttered, “I…I can’t do that, Mr. Martinez. I…I just…I can’t!”
Diego leapt to his feet and sucked down a whirlwind of
precious oxygen. “You saw what that fat fucker did to me! You’d better
cooperate! I’ll sue this whole damn library if I have to! What’re you guys good
for anyways?!” He slowly stalked the cowering librarian like a tiger on a
wounded animal. “You think either you or this fat bastard over here are gonna
get famous with books?! Nobody cares about books no more! I came in here to get
some free internet and you’re gonna give it to me, bitch!”
Bernard held onto a nearby bookshelf to try and pull himself
to his feet, but he kept his legs crossed due to the searing pain in his balls.
He fell over on his side and watched Diego hold a hand up like he was going to
slap the librarian for not doing her job. Mr. Martinez shouted, “Come on,
little lady! Be a woman! Do what I tell you!”
Bernard got on his hands and knees in another attempt to
pull himself up, but he fell over once again, the pain in his groin too much. Diego’s
shouting turned into a cacophony of gibberish, which meant the corpulent author
was fading into darkness. He heard the sound of skin slapping skin and that was
enough to wake him up in a burning rage.
He slowly stood up while trying to ignore the pain in his
nuts. Diego was a blur from where he was standing, but he was enough of a clear
shape for Bernard to unleash his pent up anger. So many times he’d been called
out for being fat. So many times he was called a loser. So many girls refused
to go on dates with him. Those that did ended up doing it on a dare. And now
this piece of shit known as Diego Martinez was going to bring those nightmares
back to life like a necromantic apocalypse.
Bernard grabbed a hardcover book off of the shelf and tried
to focus his eyes on Diego, who was screaming more gibberish and slapping the
librarian in short bursts. The good thing about being this massive was that it
gave Bernard a liberal amount of strength. He raised the book over his head
while the pain in his nuts got hotter. Even with a testicle injury, Bernard
threw the hardcover book and dropped to his knees in pain.
He heard a loud thud before his vision became somewhat dark.
The last thing he remembered hearing was the sound of a body dropping on the
floor. Even with blurry eyes opening halfway, that hairdo of Diego Martinez was
unmistakable. Even little spots of red danced across Bernard’s eyes.
The hardcover book found its mark: right in the back of
Diego’s head. Why lift weights when the strength was already there? Why change
who he was when his inner strength was more impressive than his physical
strength? Bernard would have loved to tell Diego that, but both men were too
unconscious to have a real conversation.
The next couple of days were a blur for Bernard Hamm. He
spent some of that time in the hospital and was too sedated to remember it all.
He stayed at home recuperating and dreaded getting out of bed one morning
because his computer was right there. With computers came internet service.
With internet service came trolls. With trolls came pictures snapped by Diego’s
phone.
Bernard’s stomach was in more knots than a hangman’s rope,
which he was certain he needed once this day was over. How many days had it
been since the incident in the library? Two? Three? Seven? Surely that amount
of time was long enough for a few fat pictures to circulate.
The author slumped out of bed, but slowly, not only to help
him recover, but also to delay having to see the inevitable. He sat down at his
desk with ease and powered on his computer. As the machine was booting up, so
was the cold feeling in his veins and the ill feeling in his stomach. He broke
out in an icy sweat and took note of his rapidly beating heart. And then the
computer was fully functional.
Bernard took labored breaths before opening Google Chrome
and checking his Amazon page. Sure enough, the trolls had come out from under
their bridges. One-star reviews, fat jokes until the end of time, and
Photoshopped pictures of Bernard as Jabba the Hutt from Star Wars. Tears welled
up in the author’s eyes as he grabbed a nearby tissue and blew his wide nose.
What he saw next brought even more waterfalls to his sore
eyes: five-star reviews to counteract the one-star hits, book sales doubling,
and comments about Bernard Hamm’s heroism in the library when he knocked out
Diego Martinez long enough for the cops to take the obnoxious punk to jail.
Bernard’s chest was soaked with tears and snot. He couldn’t
blow his nose fast enough to keep all of the emotion from flowing out of him. For
every Diego Martinez in this world, there was an angel from the heavens. For every
anti-fat bigot, there was a beautiful soul. For every poorly-spelled message on
an internet board, there was a copy of “Memento Mori” sitting on a bookshelf
waiting to be read. For the first time in Bernard Hamm’s life, he was free.
