Friday, July 22, 2005

tales of a fat kid 3: jamaican menace

what i'm about to do is an daredevil act that has absolutely no rival. it's nuts. it's insane. this would make evil kanevil's balls shrink to pink dots and shoot into his neck. it would turn him into a shivering mass of jelly, curl up like a sucked-up orange peel, quivering on the floor, his guts marbled with fear. there is no helmet for this stunt. there is no "hay" at the end of my landing ramp. this is the mother of all fat kid stories:

when i was eleven, my dad took to me to jamaica. jamaica at eleven years old is no pleasure cruise. some kindergarten teachers would say traveling is the best education. yeah? and just what is the lesson?

jamiaca for a fat eleven year old is sort of like being a quadriplegic. you can't do anything you really want to do, everyone else is having fun, all you feel is the sun frying your face, people keep asking you if you're having fun, and bitching is a luxury you can't afford. in JAMAICA, at eleven, you can't get away and score weed or magic mushroom tea. at eleven you don't have your own dough either. you can't wave american dollars to impress native chicks. you sort of, get to watch your dad buy stuff, smoke weed, date black chicks, and generally have all the fun. at least if your a skinny 11-year old you can take your shirt off and play volley ball. it's just a whole different ball of wax when you're fat.

we went to NEGRIL which doesn'thave nearly the same level of danger and violence that like montego bay does. anwyays. there i was on the beach, wearing a shirt into the ocean because i didn't wasn't to display my "fat rolls" to the island.

my dad's a big guy, and he's one of those dudes that doesn't care what he looks like on the beach. in fact, it seems like the more unhealthy he gets, the more he likes to take his shirt off. like those italians, or like greek dudes. huge stomachs like cold cut platters, hanging out. Me? i'm ashamed of my fatness. i cover that shit up. if i could paint my stomach to blend in with the scenery i would. i love camouflage.

my dad would always call me out and loud too. in front of strangers that i was trying to hide my fat from.

dad: hey.

me: what?

dad: it's hot. why don't you take your shirt off?

me: i don't know.

dad: are you embarrassed about your fat?

me: (looking around while self-loathing digs in like troops storming the beaches at normandy) i don't want to get sunburnt. you want me to die of mellanoma?

dad: take your shirt off.

me: (diving into the water so i don't have to talk to my dad about my fat humiliation anymore)

later i was walking down the beach and these two jamaican dudes were talking. like in rastafari and crap. which is probably the coolest language in the entire world, and really a great hypnotic tool on chicks. anyways they called me over.

jamaican dude: you shouldn't eat meat.

me: what's wrong with meat?

jd: (says something in rasta to his buddy and they laugh. i'm sure it was about me.) you eat too much meat. that's why you're fat.

(fuuuuuuuuuck! that was some cold shit. these dudes were like 30 and clowning my shit because i was a rich, fat kid. gaaaawd damn it! i wish i had super powers. i wish i knew karate. a gun. anything to turn the tables on these jokers. but i was 11, i had nothing to scare them with)

me: you guys shouldn't be so rude to tourists. you're giving your country a bad name (i was grasping at straws, but what the Hell, i'm eleven) take pride in your country or people won't come back.

i walked down the beach with my nuts looking like they just got blasted by a sawed-off shotgun. i had just been served. but then it got worse.

i jumped into the ocean with my shirt on. maybe swimming around could distract me from the gaping hole in my chest. that's when these 2 eleven year old jamaican boys walked out to the edge of the water. they waved at me. what the crap did they want? maybe i'll make some cool jamaican friends. maybe they got weed. or better yet, maybe they got chicks. i swam over.

me: what?

jamaican kid: this is my friend. his name is dubai. (i don't remember the name, so whatever)

me: yeah, well what?

jk: he doesn't speak english.

me: ok.

jk: he wants to know if he can be your boyfriend.

my shit just blinked. what the hell did he just say? i was reeling.

me: what?

jk: my friend thinks you are a pretty and wants to be your boyfriend.

(jesus h christ. god damn my man tits. this black kid thought i was a big girl. i heard black dudes were into big chicks. he wanted to date me. the nightmare was unholy. if i had a samurai sword, it'd be doing figure 8's in my stomach right now.)

me: i ain't a girl.

jk: yes you are.

me: what? i got a dick (perhaps rough language would make me more masculine).

jk: my friend doesn't believe you. he thinks you don't want to kiss a black person.

me: listen asshole, i want to kiss chicks, get it?

jk: if you're not a girl then why are you wearring a shirt in the water?

me: (good god.) because i don't want to get sunburnt, jerk.

jk: then lift up your shirt.

me: what?

jk: lift up your shirt. if you're a boy you can lift up your shirt.

and so, i slowly unpeeled my wet t-shirt to show two black dudes the man breasts i was trying to conceal. the embarrassment of being mistaken for a girl was had won a victory over the embarrassment of being chubby.

me: satisfied?

by the way the kids whistled and laughed and ran away, i was sure they were satisfied. in fact, i think i hadn't convinced them of anything except, that some american girl had just flashed them.

that night a shitload of fried plantains swam down my throat to put out the fires raging inside. i never told my dad. i never told anybody. what self-respecting man would? i'm telling it now because...i don't know why. it just seems alright to admit now. it's been 19 years.

i don't spellcheck.


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