Head-wrap Laugh
I was hunched over, my lungs expanded and contracted as I quickly tried to catch my breath. I felt a bead of sweat roll down my forehead and saw it drop down to the cracked rubble of the tan track floor. I stood up straight, still holding my side where the throbbing pain ceased to ease. I took off my glasses and rubbed the sweat from my face with my forearm. I placed my glasses back on and looked around; the gray bleachers were empty, reflecting the bright sun into my eyes. There was no one else on the track but my PE teacher and me. The rest of the class had already finished their mile run and went to the lockers to get changed. Mr. Smith quickly jotted down my mile run of thirteen minutes and eight seconds on his clipboard. I had just failed the quarterly mile run in PE…for the third time this year.
Mr. Smith had his usual outfit on: athletic sneakers with black high calf socks, faded short-shorts and a white polo. He was about half a foot taller than me with graying hair and a bold mustache. He looked down at me and shook his head.
“C’mon Rick, don’t you have any self-respect? I know you can do better than this. You have got to try harder.”
It became second nature to just tune him out after hearing the first three seconds. I hated hearing this lecture. It never changes. I already knew what he was going to say. Mr. Smith has been my PE teacher for 3 years now, and he used the same monologue every time I fail my mile run every quarter. I stood there quietly and looked up past his ear to the blue, cloudless sky behind him. It made it look like I was paying attention as I nodded my head every few seconds.
After he finished rambling about health in the long run, he dismissed me and left for the changing room lockers. I slowly followed behind him and walked along the black, hardened tar towards the lockers as the ground slowly cooked the soles of my sneakers. I stared at my lumpy shadow as the sun’s rays reflected from the floor to my face. The rusted latch squeaked as I opened the door to the locker room. The sweaty musk of the humid air and urine pierced my nose as I entered. Just about everyone had their backpacks on and had already changed out of their PE clothes, ready to leave. I preferred it this way anyway. I always felt uncomfortable changing in front of everyone. Sometimes, I felt like some of the guys stared at how my belly engulfed my belt buckle or how my thigh fat created a small wave when I’d try to slip into my pants. I waited a few more minutes to change as I scanned the room. There were a few guys huddled together talking next to the adjacent bench a few yards away. A guy wearing a muscle shirt and blue jeans picked up his backpack, getting ready to leave. I noticed how his biceps bulged as he flung it over his shoulder. He was short and wide, but looked incredibly strong. I envied his flat stomach as the group walked and talked past me. I quickly undressed and changed realizing that I was the only one still in his PE shorts. The faster I changed, the less time people saw me. It is best they don’t take a good look at what’s underneath, I thought to myself.
The after school bell rang, ending sixth period and releasing all of Bosco High’s students from their classrooms. The sea of heads all varying in height bobbed up and down as I spotted my locker past the hallway outside, next to the front gate of the school. I weaved my way past the crowd of students, the methodic push and shove against the student body became a necessary skill to make your way around. There were so many people in my way! It was already hard enough for me to make my way around everyone. Couldn’t you have just made a giant circle and talked with all your friends outside the narrow hallway? People are just so inconsiderate sometimes. Annoyed at how long it took to squeeze pass the crowd, I finally made it to my top locker. Kristy, the girl who owned the locker next to mine, had her cell phone out and was talking unreasonably loud. “Oh my God! Aren’t you so excited? Tonight’s going to be so awesome! Trust me, he is so cute, plus I saw him at the gym the other day. His abs are smokin’!” “I bet the guy is totally cocky and would only talk about himself. Nothing’s going to happen between them anyway.” I thought. It seemed like everyone was hurrying up to meet with someone and go and do something. Well… not me. Lying on the leather couch next to the air conditioning vent with my PSP and a chilled Coke sounded quite appealing at the moment.
I laid my backpack below my feet as I reached my top locker and entered my combination. I struggled for a few minutes turning the dial to the right numbers; the sunlight had faded the grooves of the numbers and my pudgy fingers blocked my view of my number pad. When I finally managed to open my locker, I slammed the door open in my frustration. The locker door reverberated against the shut locker next to it; my magnet mirror hanging on the inside fell to the ground with a shatter. Anger swelled inside me. I never really liked looking at that mirror anyway; I didn’t need it nor did I ever use it. I irritably stuffed my double pocketed Jansport shoving my books inside like a boxing glove hitting its mitt. My shoulders felt the weight of my four AP text books as I strapped my bag on my back.
I walked past the school’s main gates, my assorted collection of lead pencils rattling against my pencil case with each step. A cloud of exhaust fumes blew towards my face as each car revved pass. I saw Larry, our school’s lineman drive off in his truck with two other cars trailing behind, a Scion TC and a faded black Acura. “Whoo! Beach trip!” one of the guys yelled, sticking out his head from the window of the TC. I heard a few girls laugh inside the car.
I walked towards my usual destination after school, the bus stop. The bus bench was crowded with people waiting. The bench had no open seats and there were a lot of people standing around. It was next to an overflowing garbage can and had a thin plastic roof and three dirty walls holding it up. The two side walls were fading in color. The walls had scratched and Sharpie graffiti on top of the movie advertisements. One side read “Ninja Assasin” with the letters written in a bloody, bold font and a crouching ninja holding a sword. The action and nerdy theme of ninjas appealed to me, but I didn’t have a job or the money to go watch it anyway. “That’s the dumbest, most redundant title for a movie I’ve ever heard anyway. I bet the story will be overly cliché with poor foreign acting,” I thought to myself angrily. I sat down on the dirty cement floor and rested my back against the movie ad that provided me some shade. I overheard a small group of band geeks that were sitting on the bench. They all bought concert tickets for Weezer. “I heard they suck live anyway. Who would want to go see them?” I said to myself sarcastically.
I sat there a while longer, waiting for that old OCTA bus to come pick us up. I wished I had a car; it really sucked not having one, since I was probably the only senior in school that didn’t have a permit yet. My older sister took the extra car to college with her, so I didn’t have one to practice with. She and I had a four year age gap, so she couldn’t pick me up or drop me off from school not since I entered high school anyway. Mom was never available to pick me up. She worked as a nurse and had some obscure work hours, even during weekends. Dad worked from home attempting to sell life insurance to the elderly over the phone, and with no means of my own transportation, I, of course, had to wait next to a smelly bucket of garbage just to get home. Life was just great.
The bus eventually got to our stop in front of the school. I boarded, flashed Daryl, the bus driver, my bus pass and sat at my usual spot. My spot was a smaller and shorter row than the rest of the seats on the bus because it was behind right behind Daryl next to the fire extinguisher and first aid kit. It fit me and my backpack quite snugly, allowing me the pleasure of not having to share with anyone. The bus route was just as monotonous as ever. The sharp stop and go movement, the same humid bus, same street, same route, same house, same everything. It has never changed. After a good fifteen minutes, the bus finally dropped me off to the front of my house. I climbed up the patio steps to the front door. I dug my pocket for my keys, awaiting the air conditioned breeze of my house. Quickly rushing through the door I immediately unlaced my shoes and tossed it over to the shoe-rack in the corner. Peeling my backpack from my moist back, I dropped it on the carpet floor with a loud thud. I plopped myself on the cool leather couch and closed my eyes, facingthe ceiling vent as it blew its cool air on my face.
The living room was cool and empty as always. My house always had lots of free space. I felt like my voice could echo into my dad’s office down the hall. I glanced across the room towards the AC thermostat which read seventy-three degrees, just the way Dad likes it. I checked the TV, flipping through channel after channel for a minute or two and made my way to the kitchen once boredom set in.
The fridge was the only part of the house that was almost never bare. I took out the big tub of my mom’s specialty, barbecue beef ribs. The refrigerator was always packed with leftover food since Mom was hardly ever home to cook. When she was home, she’d cook up a storm and make sure Dad and I had enough food to last us weeks. After some prep-work I sat in front of the TV with my TV tray, a plate full of freshly microwaved ribs, stacked as high as my index finger, and a side plate of biscuits, complimented by a tall glass of ice-chilled Coke.
As I slobbered my way through the ribs, I thought about my mom who took so long to prepare and cook this heavenly meal. I bet she had taken hours making this batch; and I planned to devour it in about fifteen minutes. With each bite of the ribs, the more and more I wanted to keep chewing. I picked up my Coke with both of my greasy hands, making sure nothing spilled and not a drop of it was wasted as I poured it down my throat. On the TV screen, the Ninja Assassin trailer started playing. A picture of my empty wallet flashed in my head for a brief moment, followed by my thought of means of transportation to the theatre. I broke off a piece of my biscuit and dabbed it on the side of my sauce plate, which was filled with barbeque sauce, making sure nothing would be going to waste. As I stuffed my mouth, my thoughts drifted to my PE teacher. “Don’t you have any self-respect?” With each thought I eagerly bit down on the meat as I felt the sauce drip to the side of my mouth down to my chin. I thought of the band geeks forming close bonds as they spread the latest school gossip on the bus ride to the concert. With each bite of my ribs I started making grunting sounds of pleasure as I continued with my meal. Some of the meal’s sauce had reached the tip of my nose and spewed down below my wrist to my once sweaty forearm. I started to eat faster and I bit down vigorously, more and more with each bite. I imagined the football team and their girlfriends throwing around the Frisbee on the beautiful sand, laughing their heads off without a care in the world. “Oh man! These ribs taste great!” I exclaimed. Even though the taste had grown to be nothing new to me, I continued to eat because the food happened to be right in front of me. I ate with more force with each and every bite,eating as if this were my last meal. I ate like there was nothing else in this world, nothing but me, my own thoughts, and this lonely TV tray of food. I felt myself closing my eyes as I ripped off the shreds of meat stuck towards the side of the bone. With grease and sauce slathered all over my face, I sucked on the tips of the bone, requesting more flavorful sauce to entertain my mouth.
I wished that people praised me at school for being the genius who passed all his AP tests, I thought to myself. My thoughts turned to daydreams. The whole school had an awards ceremony in my honor and lifted me up, chanting my name. As four of the football jocks were about to lift me up and put me on their shoulders, they struggled to place me on their shoulders and fell down as I crashed upon them with my weight crushing their backs. I opened my eyes and found that some brownish, red blotches had stained my glasses. I had finished about half my plate in about 5 minutes. I was full, yet I still continued to eat, forcing myself to devour what I had already started. The TV tray became a mess; my smudged and greasy fingerprints pasted on the glass cup of Coke like evidence in a crime drama on TV.
My dad emerged from his isolated office and entered the living room. He was on his way to the kitchen with an empty glass in hand. Dad was wearing his casual tennis shorts and white t-shirt that accentuated his strong upper build. He was about my height, or maybe an inch or two taller than me, I just happened to weight sixty-five pounds heavier. His black, wavy hair parted at the side framed his face quite well where his beard shadowed his once handsome, now moderately creased face. He looked down at my messy TV tray with a pile of bones on the tray itself and about eight more pieces of ribs left. I slowly looked up at him, body tense, greasy fingers separated and arm floating in the air, glasses smeared and crooked sitting on my nose. Dad balled his empty hand into a fist. I saw his knuckles turn white, his biceps bulged and his upper body shook a little. He set his cup down on top of the TV.
“What are you doing?” Dad said crossing his arms. “You’re a mess!” he said in a slow and inflamed tone of voice. I could tell he was trying to control his anger but it always projected in his voice. I was quite familiar with this tone. My father was either really angry with me or he wanted me to do something the “proper” way and to go do it again. “I was going to clean everything up when I finished eating.” I argued.
“That’s besides the point! What’s the matter with you? Why are you eating again? Didn’t you eat lunch at school today?”
“Yeah, I did eat lunch at school today…” I said in a low murmur, “but it was only a little bit! And I get hungry every 4 hours! You know that…” I looked down and to the side of the carpet floor as I finished my sentence in a lowering tone. It was true; I ate a pizza slice around noon at the school cafeteria. Dad tried to use his breathing technique that his anger management class taught him. His chest unmistakably moved up and down with slow deep breaths through his flared nostrils. Dad had struggled with his anger problems for years now, ever since I was young; Mom always got mad at Dad when he’d get out of hand or cause a scene in public. I was pretty scared of my father growing up. His anger flares would come up every now and then, but significantly decreased as I grew up along with a few anger management courses.
“It’s barely 3:48! Are you kidding me?” He said as he glared at the clock behind me. “Your over-eating is getting way out of hand! Use your head a bit. Look at what you are doing to your body. Look at what you are eating too! You didn’t even eat any of the steamed peas and carrots mom had in the refrigerator.” That was also true; I purposely overlooked the Tupperware full of green and orange. My stomach hung out, my hands and face a mess. My eyebrows furrowed as I looked down at the floor once again while my dad continued to lecture me in a slow yet towering tone. This isn’t the first time I’d heard this toned-lecture before. Dad’s just having another anger fit, I have to bear with it and let the storm blow over. He grabbed my plate and threw away everything into the garbage. “You have to start making smarter choices about your diet. You need to eat healthier too! I don’t know how many times I have to tell you this. When will it sink in?” My dad stormed off into the backyard, slamming the door behind him.
I picked up my soda and quickly finished it. I felt even more full as I took the last few gulps of my drink. My stomach felt like a cannon ball and my insides felt slow. I was upset with myself for getting my dad angry again. I felt annoyed with myself; I felt like a failure of a son. I felt like a failure in life, that the things in life that made me happy were bad for me or I just couldn’t attain it. I felt restricted in this house, this lifestyle, this body. It has limited me from doing everything that makes me happy. Sometimes, I just want to make my Dad happy.
I quickly wiped down the tray to appease my Dad, showing him I actually do more around the house than just eat. I put the dishes in the dishwasher and felt my fingers still full of oil and grease. With my hands over the sink, I rinsed my hands with soap, paying much attention to clear all the grease from every crevice under my nails and every line on my palms, like getting rid of all the evidence of my crime. As I washed my hands, my father’s words rang through my head. “You have to make smarter choices…Look at yourself, you’re a mess… You need to eat healthier.”
“I’ll show Dad. I can eat healthier,” I said to myself. “I do more than just eat. If it’s healthy he wants, I can give him that!” In the span of thirty minutes, I tidied up the kitchen, washed my dishes, and took out the trash. After my little cleaning marathon, I took and peeled a banana that was lying on the counter top next to the sink. Feeling pretty content with myself, I took a few bites in the kitchen and lounged around the house. I walked past my father’s office once or twice, hoping he would notice me through the door. His door was slightly ajar. I peered in and saw all his paperwork on top of his desk piled high to his eyes if he sat up straight. The papers swamped him, like they could swallow him whole while his head was down in a single swoop. His office was just like the rest of the house, with only the bare necessities to furnish and keep the room functional. Motivational posters were taped on the wall and his office phone was next to his pencil holders, hole punchers and staplers. He was too engrossed with his work to notice my presence. I popped the door open, banana in hand. “Hi Dad,” I voiced casually with a rather relaxed look on my face. I leaned on the opened door against the wall with a somewhat half body pose and I loftily rolled my eyes towards his office view window of our backyard. I took a bite of my banana with my shoulders laid back; I used my peripherals to gauge my dad’s reaction.
“What the hell!” My Dad slammed his fist on his desk. All the papers vibrated, I felt the ground utter a small quake. My jaw dropped, half full with banana mush. “Didn’t I just tell you to stop eating?” My heartbeat skipped, and then started to drum faster. Dad stood up and threw the first thing he could find on his desk. My eyes widened as I saw his hole-puncher fly through the air, missing my right shoulder as I instinctively arced my back over like a hunchback. My banana fell to the carpet floor; I ducked into a ball with my hands over my head. “What is your problem!” he stood up and hurled his stapler, its metal edge poked my right side. “Ah!” I screamed. This isn’t why I ate the banana; I thought it’d make him happier knowing I was trying to eat healthier. Wet drops fell from my eyes to my glasses, causing my vision to blur. My eyes watered more with each word my dad yelled; it hurt more so than the actual jab on my side. My dad’s face flushed red, fueled by anger as he looked down on me with such disdain as he stood behind his desk. His obese son didn’t really listen to a word he said, not now, not thirty minutes ago. It hurt to be a failure…again. I honestly tried to do my best and come up with good ideas, but I always fall short. I hated myself for being such a loser! I left the room and my father’s screams behind me, sobbing.
I immediately ran into my room, back pressed flat against the door behind me. My pudgy hands covered my wet, rounded cheeks as I tried to control my breathing. My room was always my hide-away from the all-so-different world. In the world where being skinny went hand-in-hand with beauty, my room was my shell. I felt so different from everybody else, so isolated, so excluded. I purposely locked myself away sometimes. I didn’t want to leave, hoping no one else would find my existence. How could I even confront my dad right now? I put myself in the smallest crevice of my room, behind my bed next to my bookshelf and curled up into a ball. I hugged my knees as tightly as I could; like every pocket of air between me and my body would somehow harm me. My body trembled, my breathing slowed. I had no more tears to let out; my body was running dry. I sat there in the darkness of my room for a good long while and listened to the silence. I just reflected about my day with such pessimism and regret. I thought of things I could have done better or not done. I just sat there and thought about how much I hated life. I hugged myself, my nose tip pressed against my thighs, nostrils blowing exhaust, rippling my oversized shirt. In the process, I sniffed my shirt. It was my own familiar scent, much similar to my room, only with a stronger, more pungent, aroma. My face was sticky from my dried tears, and my shirt had stuck to my back from all the activities of the day. I picked myself up and decided I was in need of a shower.
I walked through the dark hallway to the restroom, not bothering to turn on the lights. I knew my own house well enough, and I felt hidden in the darkness. I only looked down on the dark, stained carpeted floor, not wanting to run into Dad. I locked the door behind me once I entered. “No one would want to see this.” I said to myself in a low murmur. I turned on the light and took my shirt off, back towards the mirror. I turned around to face the mirror after my eyes adjusted to the light. I was curious to see if my image had miraculously changed over night. “I’m not that fat, am I?” I thought to myself. I was at a side-view angle towards the mirror, and my huge gut stuck out like a four month pregnant woman. I sucked in my gut to see if it’d look any better. It appeared flatter, but my chest coned out like small breasts, and the rest of my fat below my belly button just flopped out slightly, overlapping the string of my shorts. It could be easily hidden with a shirt. “If only I could suck it in all day” I thought to myself. I took off my bottoms and took a few steps into the shower, my thighs rubbing each other along the way. Dark brown marks of this constant chaffing were left on my skin. I looked down at myself as the hot water’s steam rose to my face. It seemed like I needed four hands to fully circumference my thighs into a choke.
“I hate you Rick... I hate you…” My thoughts kept repeating themselves over and over again. I felt like crying, but tears wouldn’t come out; the hot steamy air and sound of the falling water masked my silent curses to myself. I rubbed the bar of soap vigorously all over my body, like my centimeters of fat would just come off the harder the scrubbed. I closed my eyes, no longer wanting to look at myself. I was sick of it. I carefully moved the bar of soap over the bruised area of my right side. My hands were moving so fast as I soaped the rest of my body. It pained me emotionally to touch myself. I wanted to get this over with quickly. The bar of soap suddenly slipped out of my hands and it hit the side wall, banked off the ceiling and ricocheted off the front wall. My vision was blurred without my glasses; I took two steps back to try to catch it. The bathtub floor seemed to slip right under me as I rolled backwards. The back of my head hit the corner edge as I fell down. It made a deep thud as my body hit the hard, plastic tub. I felt a sharp pain pierce my nerves as I slumped myself into the tub. My head was spinning and my eyes closed.
I faintly heard my Dad’s voice calling thorough the hollow door, resembling an echo. “Rick! Rick! I heard a loud bang a while ago. The shower’s been running for quite some time now. Are you okay?” I groaned and softly uttered, “I hit my head…” “Rick! I can’t hear you that well, but I’m coming in, okay?” My dad said in a shaky voice. I heard the door handle clanking and rattling. “I’ll be in there in a minute! Just hold on okay?” The screws of the door dropped to the floor and clinked on the floor. I tried to move, but my body felt so weak. I groaned a little bit as the showerhead continually pelted down on my body. Dad finally made his way through the bathroom door and he looked down at me. “No…don’t look…at me…” My last few words were barely audible. With my left hand I did my best to cover my navel and stomach. I slowly moved my right hand from my thigh across, covering my genitals, my arm covered my bruised side.
“Don’t worry about something like that right now, son.” Dad said with a worried face. “You don’t have to worry about that now, just stay right here, I’ll get you something.” He quickly stood up and walked away from the falling water and reached over to the towel rack. He turned off the water and wrapped me up in my beach towel. My vision had been blurred for some time now, the leftover steam from the shower rose to my father’s face.
“Can you sit up?” He asked. I lifted my body up, propping myself up with my left hand as I tried to keep the towel upheld over my body with my right. Dad pushed my back guiding me on my way up. I felt groggy, and the back of my head throbbed. I sat there for a few minutes, eyes closed; my palm covered over my right eye. Dad ran off, and came back with an artificial icepack and a rather large roll of masking tape. He carefully placed it behind the large lump on my head, wrapping the pack around my forehead and taping the icepack down as I held it in place. The world around me was spinning, even though my head was fixated on the pressure of the numbing cold.
I stood up slowly, leaning on Dad like a crutch. The blood surge of pressure intensified the pain for the next few minutes as I did my best to walk over to my bed. I wanted to lie down again, and just be still. I sure didn’t want to try to get up again. It stung a bit putting my head down on my pillow, adding more pressure on the lump, but Dad told me I needed to rest my head on it. The more pressure to help it numb, the better.
“Look son,” Dad said as he sat on my bedside next to me lying down. The room was rather dark, except for the small, dim lampshade next to my desk across the room. “I know things have been really hard on you lately, especially me...I’m sorry,” he said the last few words in a low voice. He broke eye contact with me and looked around the room nervously. “No one likes to be fat.” He paused for a long time, and probably realized the bluntness of his statement. My father was never really the type of father to give lectures. He usually skipped it and went straight to yelling and disciplining. This was the only time I ever recalled my father giving me an actual “talk.”
“It’s hard to be fat is what I’m really trying to say. I can only imagine how hard life is on you. But just keep in mind that if this keeps up, you’ll only struggle more in life and later down the road.” A knot developed over my throat. I wanted to look at my Dad’s face and see his emotion; but I only stared across the room at my basket hamper of dirty clothes. “I just don’t want to see you struggle and live a hard life son, I hope you know that.” He continued. My eyes slowly started to glaze over. I remained silent. “Whatever the case may be, I support you son, and I love you.” He firmly placed his hand on my shoulder and squeezed. I saw in my watery peripherals that he was looking straight at me. I closed my eyes and burrowed my face into my pillow. I cried there silently to myself, trying not to make loud sniffling noises. With my hot breath against my pillow, I felt my pillowcase absorbing my tears, creating wet spots. My dad just sat there for a few more minutes and silently rubbed my back. Dad left for the kitchen, came back, and placed a cup of water and an aspirin tablet next to my desk.
“Do you need anything else?” Dad asked. I shook my head lightly and managed a half-smile. He quietly left the room, and closed the door behind him. My room was dim and silent, the atmosphere I was used to. I tried to get comfortable knowing that I’d be lying in here for a while. My legs were spread apart, back was eased, pillow was supporting my bruised head, and my hand was lazily tossed, dangling from the side of my mattress. To my surprise, a sharp object poked at my knuckle. I managed to turn my comfortable body on its side and gently rolled my head to find my backpack lying on its side next to my bed. The sharp object was about 2-3 inches long and had managed to somehow intertwine itself with the mesh strapping of my empty water bottle holder. I lazily reached for it and untangled it out to find a shard of my broken mirror from earlier today. I looked at my reflection, my eyes half squinted, half open. I just noticed how comical my head-wrap looked with a bulky, blue icepack and five layers of masking tape wrapped all around my head. I chuckled to myself with a smile. I can’t walk around without a giant, blue brick taped to my head tomorrow. I angled my head slightly to see the taping a little better. I lightly nodded my head with a smirk. “I think I can start a new trend with this! I could use a change in style.” I joked with myself. “I could use a change...” I said as my smile slowly disappeared. I stopped looking at myself and placed the shard on my bed right next to me and gently squeezed it. I closed my eyes and drifted to sleep.
