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Fat
is Contagious PAGE
TWO: Once in a while I receive a smile, but I'll never know which ones are pitying my perceived stupidity, or, like a particularly handsome man peeking over the top of a Wall Street Journal with a knowing twinkle in his eye, seeming to congratulate me on a cleverly-executed hoax. On two separate occasions, I spied women sitting opposite me jotting down the title and author on the back of a phone bill or a drug store receipt, scrawling hastily between surreptitious glances from beneath an overhang of hair. I wondered: were these women seeking to learn which trendy nutritional supplement would protect them from the perils of infectious fatness? Or were they burning to write a venomous letter to the author, verbose in its feminist ideologies? One day I overheard a young woman on the bus phoning a friend, making no special effort to keep her voice down. "Cheryl, it's me. Listen. I'm on the 79 bus and I'm sitting across from this woman who's reading a book called, Fat is Contagious, How Sitting Next to a Fat Person Can Make You Fat. No, I'm serious. Yes. I know it's mind-boggling. Should I ask? O.K., well, can you check Amazon for me?" One middle-aged man sat beside me, took one good look at the book cover, and literally ran to the back of the bus! After witnessing a wide variety of entertaining reactions to Fat is Contagious, I finally received one concrete answer to my original question: What are people thinking when they choose not to sit beside me on the bus? I got an answer that was true, uncensored and specific. One woman responded out loud on behalf of everyone who'd ever intentionally avoided, snickered or sneered at a fat person, giving a real voice to so many of those riders still tethered to the handrails in standee silence. And ironically, it all happened before I'd even managed to pull Fat is Contagious from my messenger bag. I'd just finished a long day of jury duty and all I wanted was to head home and lose myself in a good book. I climbed onto the bus and sank into a seat on the end of a row of three. A statuesque, capable-looking woman with skin like bittersweet chocolate sat on the other end. I was rummaging in the bag on my lap when I heard a belligerent voice spit, "Excuse me!" I looked up to see another woman glowering down upon me. I'd classify her as "an older woman," but she had the sort of haggard features that often make you believe a woman to be older than she actually is. She was tiny and slight in an oversized coat that hung heavily from her narrow shoulders. Her skin appeared tough and slightly yellow, and the auburn hair that showed from beneath her woolen cap looked brittle and lusterless. She scowled at me through Coke-bottle glasses. I had no idea what she wanted. "Yes?" I asked. She pointed to the middle seat. A fringed triangle of my shawl had fallen into it. I reached down to lift it into my lap and she quickly snapped, "Oh, never mind!" She turned to the woman on the other end of the row and spat, "If some people won't lose weight, they should have to pay for two seats!" To this cranky little woman's dismay, she encountered no support. "What are you talking about?" the seated woman replied in a melodious Caribbean accent. "There's plenty of room for you in that chair! And what are you saying, lose the weight? There's nothing wrong with this lady! She's just fine the way she is!" Two plump women sharing a family resemblance and identical ponytail holders sat snugly against one another in seats across the aisle. Their eyebrows shot up beyond their bangs. "Oh no she di-in't!" they chorused. "Did that lady just say you need to pay for two seats? Who the hell she think she is?" The self-righteous little woman (I'll call her Ms. Hostility), sensing her viewpoint was unwelcome in the back of this particular bus, moved towards the front. Seconds later, it seemed she'd engaged a stranger in conversation about me, or they with her, because I heard Ms. Hostility argue, "Well she should want to lose the weight, for her health!" Here
I thought I'd been minding my own goddamned business. But just like
that, my weight had become the sizzling debate-du-jour on the M15
bus from Center Street.
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As
I ride up, down, and back and forth across Manhattan, I work my
way through Fat is Contagious (or rather, whatever cleverly
cloaked tome I'm currently reading), one twenty-minute ride at a
time. Even when I appear completely engrossed in its pages, I'm
aware of the dozens of people who strain their necks doing double,
triple, and even quadruple-takes to read and re-read its cover.
Wherever my book is in clear public view, someone inevitably notices.
Some people appear absolutely stunned, mouths comically agape; still
others can't conceal their absolute horror. Many look just plain
dumbfounded, a little goosed perhaps, and undeniably confused. I'm
telling you, the looks alone are priceless. Pure entertainment.
