3.

Alex had been bummed for a long time now. Not working was bumming him, and the idea of filling out applications was bumming him, and the idea of actually working again if he was lucky enough to get a job was bumming him. It was the kind of depression people reach when they feel like they want things to change; but even if he could pick any aspect of his life, whether not working or his weed habit or his unusual appetite for food and sleep, and imagine it changed to its opposite, the thought of the opposite bummed him as much. Well, except for the genital warts.

He began playing chess on Yahoo! games all day for the month or so when the phone service was restored, till they had to let it go again. He never won, nor figured out any definite strategy; his idea was to get good enough to beat Marty the next time they played. Every day he lost dozens of these games online, and generally resigned the game as soon as he’d lost two or three major pieces more than his opponent had lost. He did not know much about chess except what the rules were, and even with this sometimes he was surprised that a knight could not move to the place he thought he would put it.

One day he asked Marty if he’d like to play a game. They hadn’t played in six months, and he thought that with all his practice now he might beat him. That was his whole reason for the online practice; somehow he thought beating Marty--who always won--would get him feeling good again. When he asked Marty for a game his eyes were bright and a grin was spread out on his face. “I sold the chess set,” was all Marty said, and from then on Alex didn’t play chess online anymore.

Sometimes Alex wanted to get so stoned he’d pass out cold. He wondered what that must feel like and the idea was attractive. He never knew anyone who smoked weed like you’d drink a single beer--smoking weed was always to get high, not a little buzzed. But he didn’t know anyone either who ever did the weed version of getting puking wasted on hard liquor. No one cared to smoke any more than what got him good and high--no one got wasted on weed. He didn’t know why and he tried to get wasted on weed, but as soon as he’d have a few hits he just didn’t want any more.

Alex was glad they had the food stamps because he was eating a lot, a hell of a lot. He began to get all his pleasure that way, and a paunch settled around his front and his sides grew to overhang his hips. For so long he’d microwave a frozen personal pizza or two, or cook a batch of frozen fries, or make a small bowl of spaghetti with bottled Prego sauce, as a full meal, a single-item meal. He’d eaten this way since moving out from home some ten years ago and hadn’t had real, multi-course meals since then. But these days he would make meals of various things--perhaps he’d have a frozen personal pizza for the main course, spread out next to it fries--with Heinz ketchup even--have bread and a dish of sauce in which to dip it. Eating various dishes of various foods all at once on the table before him--with concepts like “main course” and “side dish”--this was a new discovery for him, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. Three or four times a day Alex would eat large, heavy meals such as these; and Marty kept on with his constant, piecemeal snacking that had sustained his thin frame all his adult life. He regarded Alex with a certain air of “there’s something you should know” and though Alex didn’t comprehend it, this “something” was his gathering obesity.

One day when Alex was exiting his room in the morning shirtless, Marty looked to him at his pale fattened belly overhanging his belt in the front and flanks, then turned his eyes away. “What?” said Alex. “You’re--you’re getting fucking fat!” said Marty. Alex turned to his side in silhouette and flexed the muscles in his chest and belly. “It’s muscle,” he said, and he really believed it on a certain level. “I’m just getting a little muscular.” “And how in hell are you getting muscular?--you lift weights?” “No.” “Well tell me then.” “It’s just from walking a lot--it’s,” but Alex didn’t finish. He’d truly believed that he just looked like a hefty guy--out of shape maybe but big and not fat. He was getting “big”--that was how he saw it. It was not completely without benefit--he was a guy you wouldn’t mess with. “Could I do this if I had no muscle?” he said now, and he brought his fist down hard three times right into the center of his gut. The fat absorbed all the shock in quivers, no pain at all. “Well apparently you can!” said Marty, then they both dropped the discussion by mutual instinct.

Sometimes Alex would pine away for the hooker whose name he’d never learned, or, if he’d learned it he’d already forgotten. Who’s gonna get with a fat guy with genital warts, he thought, unless it’s a girl who’s ugly as that hooker and has the same? But the hooker hadn’t returned, and it looked like he had a long dry spell to look forward to, probably one of those marathon dry spells bachelors can fall into when they get to be around their late 20s.