It seemed like a good idea at the time. I’d just come back from India and had lost a lot of weight on account of a worm I’d picked up there. Ten, fifteen pounds, gone in a matter of weeks. I copied a bunch of signs and stuck them on telephone poles around the neighborhood: “Eat as much as you want; lose weight fast; new diet pill just in from the Orient.” I didn’t know whether India was in the Orient or not but figured it didn’t matter.
My first customer was an extremely large woman hauling a baby carriage. She was wearing a bluish over-sized pants-suit-thing that looked like it was made of a blend of polyester, Glad sandwich bags, and bubble wrap. All shiny, crinkly, and thick in a way that implied it could be used as a survival suit on Mars. Her infant was tucked away in an old-fashioned carriage, like what my little sister might have used to push around her baby-wet-her-pants doll in the 1980s. The customer sat down in the metal fold-out chair I’d placed in front of my desk, which I’d garbage-picked the day before.
“How can I help you?” I asked, trying to look concerned, but professional.
Her eyes darted around my apartment, checking out the stacks of old magazines, piles of dirty clothes, and “found art.”
“Uh, well, I’m here for that diet pill you advertised? You know, on the telephone poles?”
For a minute I envisioned my tattered signs stapled to the shredded wood of creosote-soaked telephone poles, and thought, ‘what am I doing?” But I said, “Oh yeah, the new diet pills that I just picked up in the Orient. Sure, sure. Would you like to buy, ah, purchase some from me?” I nodded my head ‘yes,’ and she responded by doing the same.
“Yeah, I mean, that’s why I’m here.”
She made it sound as if there couldn’t be any other possible explanation for her to be in my apartment. Her eyes wandered over to my collection of bottle caps – I had hundreds of Mr. Pibb, RC Cola, and rare regional brands – and then darted back to me. All the while she kept nodding. She flung her hands down on her ample lap.
“I had a baby a few months ago and can’t seem to lose the weight. I’ve tried everything; Weight Watchers, Nutrisystem, vomiting. Nothing seems to work.”
“Uh huh,” I said, reaching into the back of a desk drawer where I’d hid a vial of weight-loss remedy. I brushed past old rubber dinosaurs, movie stubs, and campaign buttons.
“Well, here we go.”
I leaned towards her, my arm outstretched, a small caplet in my hand. “Take this, and call me in the morning.” I winked.
She stared back at me without moving. I noticed that her eyes bulged, like the eyes on the rubber fish squeeze toy I bought at the aquarium.
“Um, here.” I walked over, squatted, and put the pill in her hand. “Take this with some water. In a week or two you’ll lose the weight.” I jumped up and clapped my hands twice. “That’s it.” I nodded again. She nodded back.
“Are these things safe?” She squinted at me.
“How do you mean, safe?” I leaned against the front of the desk, trying to look like one of those doctors pitching prescription medicine on television.
“Safe. You know. Safe. For me to take.” She was still nodding, but her face jiggled a bit, as if for emphasis.
“Safe, sure. It’s made of all natural, all organic ingredients, imported from the Orient direct to your, um, my door.” I almost winked but decided I’d better not.
“Okay.” She seemed satisfied with my answer, which was good, because it was the only one I had. “How much do I owe you?”
“$20. American.”
She bent over, rummaged through her Hefty-sized purse, and pulled out two crumpled bills.
“I hope it works.” She grunted.
“It will, believe me, it will.”
I licked my thumb, counted the tens, and stashed them in the desk drawer.
“Now, call me in a month for a follow-up appointment; I like to make sure my customers are fully satisfied.”
I sat down and smiled. She didn’t leave her seat. I nodded my head in the direction of the door, like my friend Fred’s imitation of a doll I’d picked up at free Bobblehead day at Oracle Park. She remained immobile.
“Well, you’d better go clothes shopping; you’re going to need a whole new wardrobe!”
She scowled at me, heaved herself up, stuck her purse under her arm, and wheeled her baby out the door.
Business was brisk for a couple of weeks. Three, already too-skinny teenage girls, giggling as if the air itself was funny; a business man with no chest and a stomach that jutted out like he’d swallowed a bean bag chair; two middle-aged women of typical dimensions; a thirty-something professional woman who reminded me of my sister; she had the same blond/brown hair, cut short. I told her she didn’t need to lose any weight; she looked great. But she just frowned and handed over the money. All of them except one of the middle-aged women made purchases, after which I’d ask them to call me in a month. I made $120, and then the traffic stopped.
Girth Worms continues in the next issue