Weight+Gain+(Fictional+Short+Story+Model)  

I was out on the boat watching the water, trying not to think about Champaign. Every June the water would change and the grey-brown tint of seaweed and pine sap would suddenly disappear. It happened that way every year—almost overnight. One day the lake is the lake and then the next morning its as if this amber-grey curtain of water has been rolled back to reveal that part of a lake you usually can’t see. And I’m out on the front landing of the boat watching the pontoons cut the surface of the water and doing this thing with my toes and the water where, if I barely bring them below the surface, the water arcs back over and splashes on the top of my foot, always moving but so still like it’s a bubble of air with a shell of water in constant motion—sort of like how a soap bubble floats so quietly but then if you get a chance to get close enough, you see all of these liquid bands of color, translucent and oily an [1] dd always moving, like Saturn or Jupiter or an oil slick on a puddle in front of the student union on Green Street. But the lake—it’s really more like a snow globe scene right now or one of those epoxy paper weights with a scene inside turned upside down. And John is driving the boat and the water is green under the hull and later we’ll drop anchor in the very center of the lake where the water is deepest and coldest. Then I’ll hold my breath, jump off the side, and plunge in headfirst. And then, underwater, as usual, I’ll scream. I’ll scream underwater with my whole body—I’ll let my body convulse. [1] s The water—there’s this kind of primal fear and fascination of that unknown. It’s like the passengers on the Titanic—the ship was so large that when it went down, it created a funnel in the water that pulled nearly everyone and everything down with it. Imagine: you’re being pulled down into frigid, black waters and the pressure is increasing every second and you can’t breathe. All you can do is stare down into that cold black abyss. The cold shock only lasts for a second, and by the time I’m back to the surface again I’m pretty adjusted to the water temperature. After all, this is June and the water is beautiful.

And one thing I should mention is that this is a no-wake lake. Which makes it, therefore, the best swimming lake. Forget wave-runners and water skiing and all of that hoopla. That’s not enjoying the water; that’s a roller coaster ride. It’s trying to control the water rather than the other way around, where you just let yourself go, let the lake take you in. Later I’m standing under an oak tree in the forest behind the house, away from the lake, smoking a cigarette. It’s hilly here. And its hot and humid and musty smelling and the smoke is thick in my throat. I arch my neck and blow the smoke upwards and away from my body so the smell isn’t as noticeable. Down the hill, on the deck, Mom will be talking about starting dinner from behind an English Journal wondering where I am and if I’m smoking. And then bringing the corners of her thin lips down, sighing, trying not to go there. I imagine that I’m standing with my parents under the tree. I shrug. “This is very surprising, very,” my father sa

ys. My mom just looks hurt. She closes her eyes and her face looks more wrinkled and gray than I remember. Her words are measured, deliberate. “You have got to get yourself out of that insane fraternity house,” she says. My dad looks down at the stump next to me, eyelids heavy. It’s usually hard to tell what he’s thinking, especially if he has missed a dose. It’s like he retreats into the hollows of his eyes, vacant and glazed. But he’s not stuttering much today, so it could just be me that’s causing the stare rather than the disease. I exhale above me again, letting the nicotine make its course, and wonder if these kinds of things are genetic. During the first weeks of semester I rushed and spent a majority of it drinking. Free beer. To get into the bars you had to be ninet

een, but most of the campus bars had fraternity brothers who could get you in. Bub’s, R&R’s, Clybourne, C.O.’s, they were all the same: smokey, crowded, and all with floors covered with stale beer and sticky. They smelled sour. And I went out all the time. Thirty-four nights straight, to be exact. The next morning I woke up and my tongue was so thick and swollen that when I tried to unstick it from the roof of my mouth, it took off some of the skin with it. Now I’m having a conversation with Stacey Gatusso: “Rich,” she whispers next to me in the dark. “You know this is just sleeping, right?” My voice is hoarse and cracks a little. It’s 2:30 in the morning. “Yeah,” I say. “Of course. That’s what we said downstairs, right?” She shifts her position, her b

ack now facing me. It’s dark, but I can still make out the edges of her body. “Good. I just feel...” Her voice sounds tired, but I know her eyes are open. “I just don’t know that many people yet, you know?” I’m laying on my side, imagining her naked. And even though we’ve been out all night, she smells clean and fresh. Like shampoo. “Right. Right,” I say, and turn over, as well. Our backs are touching. “It makes sense. It’s a lot easier than walking home late or having to worry about when everyone else is going home, and all that.” She rolls over and puts a hand on my shoulder. I pause and then say: “You know, you can stay over whenever you want.” I feel her touching my shoulder, running her fingers gently around my biceps. She leans in from behind me, her lips close to my ear. “I feel safe,” she whispers. Then I’ll feel something inside of me turn over and I’ll turn my head toward her. And we’ll kiss. Quietly and deliberately, our hands clasped and resting on her hip. And that’ll

be it. A kiss, and then nothing. We’ll sleep. And we’ll do it again another night. And next Tuesday. And on St. Patrick’s Day. But not kissing, just sleeping. Just the two of us, together, sleeping. And then one day she won’t come over and then that will be it. It will be windy and raining and I’ll imagine her sleeping at some guy’s apartment or naked in his shower and I’ll think of safety and that I like to sleep diagonal in my bed, anyway. Later, on the quad, she’ll be under an oak tree writing in a notebook. I’ll think about calling out. But I won’t. I drank a lot then. I went out a lot. I made friends with fifth-year seniors who manage bars and whose real names had become insignificant—Stump, P.T., Crackhouse, Reefer. I do remember one time when I had my dad, who was in for the weekend, meet Stump, the manager of the bar I worked at. I caught myself, mortified, when it came to introducing him. It was about five o’clock on a Saturday evening. I motioned for Stump to come over and opene

d my mouth only to close it. My face felt hot. And before I even tried to get a word out, he shot out his arm and shook my dad’s hand, saying, “I’m Brett Hoovel. It’s nice to meet you, sir.” And that was that. He brought pitchers. My dad and I drank for free, Stump disappeared behind the bar, and something inside me told me I’d just gotten away with something I shouldn’t have. At school, I didn’t gain weight. Most people in college do, but I didn’t. I didn’t gain any. I did fantasize about the college girls a lot. I never really go anywhere when I’d talk to them, but I did admire them from a distance. And plus, I was working at a bar. You’ve got to take that shit seriously when you’re working. And when you’re not, you’re a VIP—you’ve always got a seat there at the bar, no matter how crowded the place is. So then you sit and drink a be a VIP at the bar. Chat with whomever’s tending and the shot girls and look cool and drink your beer. Maybe smoke a cigarette. I’m tired now. I sit cross-legge

d on the path, my back resting against the oak tree. The smoke tastes sour to me. In five minutes, I think to myself, you will get your ass up and walk down the hill. You’ll go down the stairs in the hillside and you’ll walk straight past the old garage and head straight for the house. You’ll open the front door and go right up the half flight of stairs, through the great room and out on the deck. You’ll smell like smoke, but you won’t let that phase you. You’ll turn to your parents and notice their tans—their white cotton shirts and their drinks and the cheese and sausage and crackers, my dad fumbling with the trio my mom just handed him—and then look at the water, and the sky, blushed in rose, and notice how the lake and sky are the same color right now, one just a mirror image of the other. And you’ll look your parents squarely in the eye, a separate moment for each of them, and then you’ll tighten your stomach, exhale, and just say it: “Mom and Dad, I’ve got something to tell you,” you’ll say, and [1] nod a little, just for effect. And then you’ll say, I know this is hard for you to hear; and, no one is as upset about this as I am; and, I just got behind at the start and was just in a hole too deep; and, as long as I do well next time I’ll be off probation completely; and, I know you love me and are just concerned about my future; and, I know you accept me, but just think this is out of character; and, I know the fraternity had a lot to do with it; and, you’re right—the job isn’t helping any. And then, [1] h years later, I’ll smile. I’ll smile and look at photographs of me before I met my wife, before I got divorced. Before I spent two and a half years of my life painting the porch and fertilizing the lawn and building a workshop. Mopping the garage floor. I’ll see that image of me: lanky, in clothes too big for me, a flannel shirt a body builder would fill out, and my white hat, greasy form work the grill at the bar, frayed, turned backwards over my forehead, my eyes, my half-smile. I’ll look at this photograph of me, of P.T., and of Reefer, and will smile, shake my head. Stump had nothing to do with it.