BODY PARTS-Chapter 4

A Short Story

He wasn’t fit. He wasn’t fat. He was short. Somehow short and unfit amounted to not well, not where he lived, these days. Where he lived people veered away from any hint of unwell and they veered away from him in droves. He was a despised form.
“You should run more…. Grief I have to run now! See you later, maybe.”
In his social interactions, mostly consisting of superficial friendships with other busy parents, he was always the one left, not so much standing as blind-sided, winded, and bemused.
“Raining again.”
“Yes.”
“Still the flowers must apprec…”

When the parents of his eleven-year-old’s friend, Davis, saw him pull in to the school forecourt one morning as he dropped off his kid, the parent burnt rubber, pulled away from the curb, turned her back. He wasn’t being paranoid. She saw him and she looked away.
In the Diner, jobless, he nursed a coffee for too long (the waitress scowled at him and kept wiping his table with a dirty cloth) and wondered about why the parent would do such a thing. He always came back to the same answer. He needed to exercise. That was all. His failure to do so reflected badly on his diminutive person. Only he slept until seven. He was never up and running with the dawn, or planting the first seeds of spring like all the others. Even his wife was beginning to have second thoughts, not that she’d ever admit it. She maintained she was perfectly able to be objective. She’d return from Jazzercise and say: “You need to shape up. You’ll feel better. You’ll have more energy. Maybe you’ll no longer forget to pack the kids’ lunches. Maybe you’ll pay the bills on time though with what…but that’s a whole other matter. I don’t mean to be mean.”
She’d said: “I don’t mean to be mean,” at least three times in the past week alone and he’d pointed it out saying: “You have a tic.” Her repost: “You are a tic.” She tended to be over defensive and he tended to wish he hadn’t spoken up. A week later she’d actually commented on his size, the first time she’d ever done so in a less than flattering way. There’d been no warmth or affection and it had left him very low.

In the Diner he nursed an empty mug.
“Another cup or get out,” said the waitress.
He ordered another cup thereby choosing to ignore how rude she had been. He’d shame her by leaving her a big tip. Coffee soothed the soul.

“You’re short, too short.” His doctor had said that after a hurried examination—possibly the most harrowing pronouncement ever aimed at his person—a sharp arrow slung with the best of intentions.
“I could pussy foot around the issue but I believe you deserve more than that. I’m giving it to you straight." Did his doctor smirk? He couldn't be sure but he wasn’t simply being paranoid.
“Really! You need to stretch-stretch-stretch, and exercise. You need to get to a point where it becomes second nature.”
The doctor took off his rubber gloves and dropped them gingerly in the waste disposal.
“Get out. Go for a run. Here’s a prescription. Check in with billing before you leave."

“Sorry Mr. George. Shortness is definitely a pre-existing condition. Your wife’s insurance won’t cover. You are lucky you need no pills. The deodorant and gloves are a quarter as it is.” She meant $250. He knew that from past experience.
She’d been very, very rude. She’d said: “$250 you moron midget.” Clearly she didn't remember him.
It wasn’t as if he’d grown shorter with the waning years. He nursed a third cup of coffee. It was mid afternoon.
“Why does everyone hate me?”
He said it to nobody in particular but it came out loud. The waitress answered for everyone:
“You are too short—too short.” Turning her back she banged her head as she ducked to go into the kitchen. A dirty plate fell from her tray and crashed to the floor, breaking. Irritated she turned and scowled at him. He thought she was pretty, and her prettiness was only enhanced by the line of deep bruises on her forehead. He sprinkled a big tip on the table and decided to go for a walk. He needed a good stretch.