I could have done nothing. I could have feigned an excessively violent sneezing attack. I could have just sat at my desk, idle, pretending to be in the midst of a dream about a thrilling McNugget caper. It was a moment of weakness, and I’m now having trouble looking at myself in the mirror and being able to see that beautiful, selfish narcissist who I’ve become infatuated with over the years.
Disgusting, I couldn’t muster a single excuse; I’m disappointed that I didn’t even try. Fabricated spells of non-sleep apnea, late-onset debilitating depression over the cancellation of Charles in Charge, my no-prisoners style bout with gout—none came to mind as I counter-intuitively rushed to assist an obese coworker who could have died and would not have been missed. My inner utilitarian balked; that unlikeable, bitter, non-festively plump, Rascal-riding fuck could have been put out of his miserable, mouth-breathing existence. I would have been lauded as a hero, truly the man who did everything by doing nothing and effectively cleansed the office from his foul, cheese breath, his audible eating habits, and the residue of sweat mixed with Cheeto dust he leaves on every doorknob he touches.
There I was, quietly sitting at my desk, when that bulging butterball shoots me a look from across the room. He may have been looking for a spotter, he may have just wanted an audience, but gripped within those kielbasa-like fingers of his was an entire pork chop. He shot me a little wink, a gesture I found revolting and offensive, then proceeded to exclaim, “shotgun,” before then attempting to devour the entire meat brick in a single bite.
Stoically, I remained in my seat gaping, essentially frozen in a state of fear, disgust, and repulsion.
His overly-toned jowels churned at the torrid pace like a prized piece of livestock. He was a flesh machine engineered for consumption. A surge of sweat flooded his brow in a display I had only before witnessed when we were at a sub sandwich shop and he watched in great anticipation as they filled one of the au jus containers with mayonnaise for him to dip his meat wrap in. A rush of blood to his neck-less head alerted me that his brain was straining to process the immense amounts of pleasure he was experiencing; honestly, I think there was a part of him that wanted to go out this way.
His eyes bulged with a furious passion, reminiscent of a protective mother grizzly or Edward Norton. Petrified and rapt with abhorrence, I oddly sprung to my feet when he began to choke. I never help people; it’s much easier not to generally.
My wiry arms, weak from years of apathy and movie marathons, wrapped nearly all the way around the pasty, land whale. His white dress shirt was uncomfortably moist, as if he had just been on a log ride at an amusement park or had participated in the most nauseating of wet t-shirt contests. I was finally able to part enough of his rolls to find a middle passage and get my arms completely around him.
The first squeeze did nothing except saturate my shirt with more sweat from this behemoth. A more forceful second squeeze resulted in only freeing a disgusting noise from somewhere within his body. I’m not sure if it was a toot or just a pocket of stale air being released from within his many folds. I’m also not sure if I ever want to know the truth. On the third attempt he finally coughed up the entire pork chop onto a stack of papers on his desk. Gasping heavily, he reached for the meat, which was now covered in this gravy-like coat of saliva that resembled a foul kind of coconut sauce. There was a bit of blood on it too, not sure if it was just undercooked or the result of his overly aggressive eating habits. Either way, I shuddered when he tore the piece in half, held one out to me, and asked, “splitsies?”
Confused and shocked, I shook my head. He gave a quick shrug and then ate both halves with a minimal amount of chewing. Knowing full well that he had learned nothing from the ordeal, I grabbed him by the shoulders, looked him straight in his beady eyes and announced, “That was your one time,” before retreating to my desk.