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Intervention Alex Markov A Journal for Western Man-- Issue XXVII-- October 6, 2004 |
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Patrice Williams steered her Omni Scooter down Juniper Lane towards home, relieved to be finished with another grueling four-hour school day. Tuesdays were devoted to U.S. History and today had been particularly tedious. They were now on the Civil War module, and having to project holograms of the Battle of Gettysburg had given her a headache. Her brain scanner seemed to be on the fritz and acting very sluggish, forcing her to work even harder at creating the mental images. On top of that, Brandon Willis, the oozing bag of pestilence who sat behind her, continually morphed her grey rebel uniforms to blue so that her team members wound up shooting their own flank. All she looked forward to was the quiet comfort and privacy of her room. As she turned in to the driveway of her domehome, Patrice was surprised to find the hover Hummer in the garage. Thinking it odd that her parents were home at this time of day, she hopped off her Omni Scooter, flipping the activator and collapsing it to palm size. She slipped it into her bag and approached the Retinal Identifier next to the door. “Welcome home, Patrice Williams,” the computer greeted her in its robotic monotone. “Your familial unit requires your presence in the family room.” She let out a long sigh and wondered what kind of hassling she would have to endure now. “Okay, thanks,” she acknowledged, “but I need to drop my things off in my room first.” Not waiting for the robotic protest that would surely come next, Patrice quickly entered and went straight for the circular staircase, taking the stairs two at a time to reach what she liked to think of as her sanctuary. Tossing her bag at the foot of her sleeping cube, she glanced over her shoulder to be sure she was alone and opened the drawer of her nightstand. She shoved her hand inside, stretching it towards the back. Whatever reason the family had for wanting to see her, and she knew it wouldn’t be to congratulate her for anything she’d done well, a quick snack would give her the feeling of serenity needed to face them. She frowned as she groped past the assorted contents. Where was that apple? She could swear there’d been one left in her stash. No time to look for it now. Her family was waiting and the last thing she needed was to have one of them come looking for her. She hurried down the stairs to the family room. What she saw when she reached the doorway brought her to a complete stop. Not only were her parents and brother there, but the pastor of their church, Reverend Bates, as well. They were all reclining in the EZ-matic hoist chairs and staring at her. Worst of all, the floor was littered with fruits and vegetables, the missing apple sitting dead center. “What’s going on?” she asked. “You’ve been busted, Sis,” her brother, Parker, announced. He struggled to lift an arm the size of a ham shank to reach for a piece of cake on a nearby platter. “I don’t understand,” she said with feigned innocence. “What’s all that stuff?” “Contraband we found in your room!” her father bellowed. He pushed a button to adjust the hoist chair to one of its 36 comfort positions to allow him a better view over his protruding belly. “What do you have to say for yourself?!” She shrugged. “They’re not mine.” Her mother started to cry, the tears rolling down her cheeks and over her multiple chins. “Oh Patrice, how could you bring this shame to our family?!” Reverend Bates switched his chair upright which lifted him to his feet. He lumbered over to Patrice’s mother to offer his handkerchief and turned with a sympathetic smile to face the teenage girl. “My child, we’re here to help you.” Knowing she had no choice but to stand firm in her denial, she gave him a dismissive frown. “I don’t need any help. I’m fine.” He shook his head. “You know as well as I do what the Surgeon General said in his ‘Long and Healthy Life’ report ten years ago,” he said in a patient tone and then pointed at items strewn across the floor. “These things are dangerous.” Patrice folded her arms, setting her mouth in a tight, stubborn line, and looked away. “The studies proved,” he went on, “that a sedentary lifestyle with plenty of fats, cholesterol, alcohol and nicotine ensured a long, happy life.” She was familiar with all of the Surgeon General’s slogans. They were plastered on almost every wall of her school – “Being fat is where it’s at,” “If you have one chin, you’re too thin,” “For health’s sake, eat that cake,” “It ain’t hard to swallow lard.” “Fruits...vegetables…they just poison your body,” Reverend Bates concluded. “Not to mention exercise,” Parker added, stuffing another large piece of cake into his mouth so that his corpulent face resembled a beach ball. “I don’t exercise!” Patrice argued. “Oh really?” her father retorted. To her horror, he reached behind his chair and held up a Thigh Master. “We found this hidden in the back of your closet,” he declared, “along with an old Jazzercise manual.” He sighed heavily and looked at his pastor. “We tried everything to get some fat on her. Took her to one medical specialist after another,” he explained. “They were baffled at first and finally diagnosed her as having an unusually fast metabolism.” “We made sure her plate was filled with healthy portions every night,” her mother said. “We couldn’t understand why she didn’t bulk up.” “That is strange,” Reverend Bates commented. “A full, healthy meal every evening, even with exercise, should have had some results.” He gave the girl a knowing look. “Well, Patrice, do you have an explanation?” Her Pastor’s gaze brought on a wave of guilt and she felt her resolve giving way. “Because I didn’t eat it,” she replied. Her mother gasped in shock and went back to sobbing. “What?!?” her father shouted, slamming his fists on the arms of the chair. “Okay, I took a couple of bites,” she continued, “but then stuffed the rest into my napkin. You were all so busy gobbling your food, you didn’t notice.” “And what did you do with it?” her father demanded. “Line the mattress in your slumber cube?!” She found her father’s suggestion to be insulting and hurtful. Did he think she’d stoop to such measures? A bit of that old familiar defiance seemed to rekindle somewhere inside her. She was tempted to bend down and grab a carrot to crunch right in front of them. “No,” she said. “I packaged everything neatly in baggies and sold them at school to the kids whose mothers were lousy cooks.” “Oh my God!” her mother wailed. “My daughter’s a dealer too!!” Patrice sighed in exasperation. “Mom, it’s not illegal to sell food.” Her father glared at her. “So, that’s how you got the money to buy this…this junk.” He spit out the last word like it was something vile. “Don’t call them junk!” She shouted in anger. “I like eating oranges and pears! They’re sweet! I like the way the apple’s juice runs down my chin when I take a bite! Green peppers taste clean and crunchy! And spinach gives me energy!!” The pastor spread his hands in a questioning way. “Why do you do this to yourself, my child? Why?” She looked the Reverend straight in the eye without guilt. “Because they make me feel good.” Her father’s eyes narrowed and he brought his hoist chair upright. He had to hit the eject button twice to release his massive body but, once he was on his feet, he labored to take a few steps to confront his erring daughter. “Well, let me tell you something, Missy. You’re going to take every one of these out to the backyard and make a pile so we can burn them. Then you’re going to tell us who your supplier is so we can notify the authorities.” Before Patrice could refuse, Reverend Bates spoke up. “I understand Billy Murphy was caught this morning tending a large patch of illegal vegetables he’d been growing in the woods behind his place.” Her heart sank. He had been her major source. She hoped he hadn’t caved in and revealed the location of his orchard as well. Her father nodded approvingly. “I’m glad to hear they’ve taken some of the riffraff out of circulation.” He turned his attention back to his child. When he saw her bottom lip trembling, his scowl softened. “Sweetheart, don’t you see that your mother and I are just trying to do what’s best for you?” She had to admit that deep in her heart she knew her family really cared about her. She bit her lip to stop it trembling and nodded. “We love you very much and we don’t want anything bad to happen to you.” “I know that, Dad,” she said, the tears welling in her eyes. “It’s just that…” “What?” he asked. “Tell your Papa. I want to understand.” “Well, for one thing,” she replied, “I like being able to see my feet and having shoes that buckle or tie. Mom’s been wearing two different slippers for the last three years!” All eyes focused on her mother who stopped sniffling and rotated her hoist chair through several positions until she was at the correct angle to view her feet. When she saw that her daughter was right, she started sobbing again. “And I like running!” Patrice continued with growing excitement. “I’m really good at it. I can take the stairs two at a time!” Her father grabbed his chest in fear. “But, darling, that makes your heart race! Studies showed accelerating your heart wears it out faster!” Reverend Bates lifted his fleshy arm with some effort to pat her father’s shoulder in a consoling fashion. “I’m afraid she’s going to need professional help.” “But, Dad,” she protested, “maybe the scientists are wrong. I read an article that said 50 years ago, doctors believed exercising the heart was good for you.” Her father’s scowl returned. “Where did you get hold of such filth?” “I found it in the library. It was an old copy of the Journal of the American Medical Association.” “Oh?” he replied. “And they used to say ‘An apple a day
keeps the doctor away’,” she added. “Why would they say that if fruit is
bad for you?” Her face wet with tears, Patrice excused herself and made a beeline for the bathroom in order to regain some of her composure. The room fell silent in her absence, as if no one wanted to discuss what had just taken place. “I think it’s time we discussed the possibility of weight amplification camp,” Reverend Bates said finally, looking at the distraught family gathered around him. “I know one in particular that has achieved tremendous success helping corrupted youths find their way back onto the healthy path.” Mr. Williams sighed loudly, sending tremors of fat rippling across his stomach. “I guess that’s what’s best for her,” he conceded. “I just hate to see her torturing herself like this.” “I know what you mean, Mr. Williams,” Reverend Bates consoled. “It’s hard for me to see one of my flock stray so far from what is good and right.” He turned to Mrs. Williams. “And now, if you don’t mind ma’am, I think I’d like to sample some of that wonderful cooking I’ve heard so much about.” Alex Markov is a writer for and contributor to The Rational Argumentator. Give feedback on this work at TRA's forum, which you can access at http://rationalarg.proboards24.com. Advertise your business or product permanently on TRA for a mere $1 donation to a worthy endeavor to combat human aging. Click here to learn more. Help bring about the cure for human aging within our lifetimes. Learn how you can help through the Chicago Methuselah Foundation Fund. Visit The Rational Argumentator's new Online Store. Visit TRA's Yahoo! Group, a means of notification and communication for our subscribers. You can find it at http://groups.yahoo.com/group/rationalargumentator. You can sign up by sending an e-mail to [email protected]. Click here to return to the Issue XXVII index. Visit TRA's Master Index, a convenient way of navigating throughout the issues of the magazine. Click here. |
