Bradbury, Ray - Chapbook 18 Read Free Page B

up, clap the fat man’s
shoulder, and inquire as to how he’d gone about impounding his bones. Yes, the
fat man’s skeleton was luxuriously closeted. There were pillows of fat here,
resilient bulges of it there, with several round chandeliers of fat under his
chin. The poor skeleton was lost; it could never fight clear of that blubber.
It might have tried once—but not now, overwhelmed, not a bony echo of the fat
man’s supporter remained.
                 Not without envy, Harris approached
the fat man as one might cut across the bow of an ocean liner. Harris ordered a
drink, drank it, and then dared to address the fat man:
                 ‘Glands?’
                 ‘You talking to me?’ asked the fat
man.
                 ‘Or is there a special diet?’
wondered Harris. ‘I beg your pardon, but, as you see, I’m down. Can’t seem to put on any weight. I’d like a stomach like
that one of yours. Did you grow it because you were afraid of something?’
                 ‘You,’ announced the fat man, ‘are
drunk. But—I like drunkards.’ He ordered more drinks. ‘Listen close, I’ll tell
you. Layer by layer,’ said the fat man, ‘twenty years, man and boy, I built
this.’ He held his vast stomach like a globe of the world, teaching his
audience its gastronomical geography. ‘It was no overnight circus. The tent was
not raised before dawn on the wonders installed within. I have cultivated my
inner organs as if they were thoroughbred dogs, cats, and other animals. My
stomach is a fat pink Persian tom slumbering, rousing at intervals to purr,
mew, growl, and cry for chocolate titbits . I feed it
well, it will ’most sit up for me. And, my dear fellow, my intestines are the
rarest pure-bred Indian anacondas you ever viewed in the sleekest, coiled, fine
and ruddy health. Keep ’ em in prime, I do, all my
pets. For fear of something? Perhaps.’
                 This called for another drink for
everyone.
                 ‘Gain weight?’ The fat man savored
the words on his tongue. ‘Here’s what you do: get yourself a quarreling bird of
a wife, a baker’s dozen of relatives who can flush a covey of troubles out from
behind the veriest molehill. Add to these a
sprinkling of business associates whose prime motivation is snatching your last
lonely quid, and you are well on your way to getting
fat. How so? In no time you’ll begin subconsciously building fat betwixt
yourself and them. A buffer epidermal state, a cellular wall. You’ll soon find that eating is the only fun on earth. But one needs to be
bothered by outside sources. Too many people in this world haven’t enough to
worry about, then they begin picking on themselves, and they lose weight. Meet
all of the vile, terrible people you can possibly meet, and pretty soon you’ll
be adding the good old fat!’
                 And with that advice, the fat man
launched himself out into the dark tide of night, swaying mightily and
wheezing.
                 ‘That’s exactly what Dr Burleigh told
me, slightly changed,’ said Harris thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps that trip to Phoenix ,
now, at this time—’
                 The trip from Los
Angeles to Phoenix was a sweltering one, crossing, as it did, the Mojave Desert on a broiling yellow day. Traffic was thin and inconstant, and for long
stretches there would not be a car on the road for miles ahead or behind.
Harris twitched his fingers on the steering wheel. Whether or not Creldon , in Phoenix ,
lent him the money he needed to start his business, it was still a good thing
to get away, to put distance behind.
                 The car moved in the hot sluice of
desert wind. The one Mr H. sat inside the other Mr H. Perhaps both perspired. Perhaps both were miserable.
                 On a curve, the
inside Mr H. suddenly constricted the outer flesh,
causing him to jerk forward on the hot steering