soon they were as big as a bear trap, snapping flesh like it was chewing gum.
Wasn't nothing left of Maude but a puddle of blood by the time the teeth fell to the sidewalk, rapidly shrinking back to normal size.
Â
H arry, high on life and high on wine, wobbled down the sidewalk, dangling left, dangling right. It was a wonder he didn't fall down.
He saw the teeth lying in a puddle of blood, and having no choppers of his ownâthe tooth fairy had them allâhe decided, what the hell, what can it hurt? Besides, he felt driven.
Picking up the teeth, wiping them off, he placed them in his mouth.
Perfect fit. Like they were made for him.
He wobbled off, thinking: Man, but I'm hungry; gracious, but I sure could eat .
Author's note on The Fat Man
Â
I don't remember a damn thing about this one. All I can say is it's obviously a Bradbury influenced story and it takes place in my fictional town of Mud Creek. And, I like it. I suspect, but can't verify, popcorn had something to do with it.
Â
Â
The Fat Man
Â
T he fat man sat on his porch in his squeaking swing and looked out at late October. Leaves coasted from the trees that grew on either side of the walk, coasted down and scraped the concrete with a dry, husking sound.
He sat there in his swing, pushing one small foot against the porch, making the swing go back and forth; sat there in his faded khaki pants, barefoot, shirtless, his belly hanging way out over his belt, drooping toward his knees.
And just below his belly button, off-center right, was the tattoo. A half-moon, lying on its back, the ends pointing up. A blue tattoo. An obscene tattoo, made obscene by the sagging flesh on which it was sculptured. Flesh that made the Fat Man look like a hippo, if a hippo could stand on its hind legs or sit in a swing pushing itself back and forth.
The Fat Man.
Late October.
Cool wind.
Falling leaves.
The Fat Man with the half-moon tattoo off-center beneath his navel.
The Fat Man. Swinging.
Everyone wondered about the Fat Man. He had lived in the little house at the end of Growler Street for a long time. Forever it seemed. As long as that house had been there (circa 1920), he had been there. No one knew anything else about him. He did not go to town. He did not venture any farther than his front porch, as if his house were an oddball ship adrift forever on an endless sea. He had a phone, but no electric lights. He did not use gas and he had no car.
And everyone wondered about the Fat Man.
Did he pay taxes?
Where did he get the money that bought the countless boxes of chicken, pizza, egg foo yung , and hamburgers he ordered by phone; the countless grease-stained boxes that filled the garbage cans he set off the edge of his porch each Tuesday and Thursday for the sanitation men to pick up and empty?
Why didn't he use electric lights?
Why didn't he go to town?
Why did he sit on his porch in his swing looking out at the world smiling dumbly, going in the house only when night came?
And what did he do at night behind those closed doors? Why did he wear neither shirt nor shoes, summer or dead of winter?
And where in the worldâand whyâdid he get that ugly half-moon tattooed on his stomach?
Whys and whats . Lots of them about the Fat Man. Questions aplenty, answers none.
Everyone wondered about the Fat Man.
But no one wondered as much as Harold and Joe, two boys who filled their days with comics, creek beds, climbing apple trees, going to school . . . and wondering about the Fat Man.
So one cool night, late October, they crept up to the Fat Man's house, crawling on hands and knees through the not-yet-dead weeds in the empty lot next to the Fat Man's house, and finally through the equally high weeds in the Fat Man's yard.
They lay in the cool, wind-rustled weeds beneath one of the Fat Man's windows and whispered to each other.
"Let's forget it," Harold said.
"Can't. We come this far, and we swore on a dead cat."
"A dead cat don't
Wasn't nothing left of Maude but a puddle of blood by the time the teeth fell to the sidewalk, rapidly shrinking back to normal size.
Â
H arry, high on life and high on wine, wobbled down the sidewalk, dangling left, dangling right. It was a wonder he didn't fall down.
He saw the teeth lying in a puddle of blood, and having no choppers of his ownâthe tooth fairy had them allâhe decided, what the hell, what can it hurt? Besides, he felt driven.
Picking up the teeth, wiping them off, he placed them in his mouth.
Perfect fit. Like they were made for him.
He wobbled off, thinking: Man, but I'm hungry; gracious, but I sure could eat .
Author's note on The Fat Man
Â
I don't remember a damn thing about this one. All I can say is it's obviously a Bradbury influenced story and it takes place in my fictional town of Mud Creek. And, I like it. I suspect, but can't verify, popcorn had something to do with it.
Â
Â
The Fat Man
Â
T he fat man sat on his porch in his squeaking swing and looked out at late October. Leaves coasted from the trees that grew on either side of the walk, coasted down and scraped the concrete with a dry, husking sound.
He sat there in his swing, pushing one small foot against the porch, making the swing go back and forth; sat there in his faded khaki pants, barefoot, shirtless, his belly hanging way out over his belt, drooping toward his knees.
And just below his belly button, off-center right, was the tattoo. A half-moon, lying on its back, the ends pointing up. A blue tattoo. An obscene tattoo, made obscene by the sagging flesh on which it was sculptured. Flesh that made the Fat Man look like a hippo, if a hippo could stand on its hind legs or sit in a swing pushing itself back and forth.
The Fat Man.
Late October.
Cool wind.
Falling leaves.
The Fat Man with the half-moon tattoo off-center beneath his navel.
The Fat Man. Swinging.
Everyone wondered about the Fat Man. He had lived in the little house at the end of Growler Street for a long time. Forever it seemed. As long as that house had been there (circa 1920), he had been there. No one knew anything else about him. He did not go to town. He did not venture any farther than his front porch, as if his house were an oddball ship adrift forever on an endless sea. He had a phone, but no electric lights. He did not use gas and he had no car.
And everyone wondered about the Fat Man.
Did he pay taxes?
Where did he get the money that bought the countless boxes of chicken, pizza, egg foo yung , and hamburgers he ordered by phone; the countless grease-stained boxes that filled the garbage cans he set off the edge of his porch each Tuesday and Thursday for the sanitation men to pick up and empty?
Why didn't he use electric lights?
Why didn't he go to town?
Why did he sit on his porch in his swing looking out at the world smiling dumbly, going in the house only when night came?
And what did he do at night behind those closed doors? Why did he wear neither shirt nor shoes, summer or dead of winter?
And where in the worldâand whyâdid he get that ugly half-moon tattooed on his stomach?
Whys and whats . Lots of them about the Fat Man. Questions aplenty, answers none.
Everyone wondered about the Fat Man.
But no one wondered as much as Harold and Joe, two boys who filled their days with comics, creek beds, climbing apple trees, going to school . . . and wondering about the Fat Man.
So one cool night, late October, they crept up to the Fat Man's house, crawling on hands and knees through the not-yet-dead weeds in the empty lot next to the Fat Man's house, and finally through the equally high weeds in the Fat Man's yard.
They lay in the cool, wind-rustled weeds beneath one of the Fat Man's windows and whispered to each other.
"Let's forget it," Harold said.
"Can't. We come this far, and we swore on a dead cat."
"A dead cat don't
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