Sputterpub's Blog

By the end of that first morning, four individuals dropped out of the program. Two of them complained of back pain, and the others said the lecturing put them off. The rest of the group was fully involved in the class.

Lunch was light but abundant. Attendees were encouraged to meet others as they ate vegetarian fare beneath shading canopies. Massage therapists were available for those with urgent muscle aches. The leaders circulated a few times while the students ate, but spent most of their time away from the group, fine-tuning their afternoon plans and taking their own food. “We just lost four, but I think that will be it for fall-off,” she commented as she spread mashed beans on a cracker. “This group seems to be catching on fast.”

Her husband drank cool tea. He offered to give her his own version of massage then, but she slapped him down and continued speaking. “I’ll start the afternoon lecture with half the group, while you show completed projects to the other half. Unless you’d rather?” He agreed with her plan and soon took four dozen students on a tour. She held forth in the eating area.

“Is everyone feeling nice and loose? Isn’t this wonderful?” she began to the tired but satisfied students. “Listen. I’m going to talk about recruitment. This is the first time you’ll hear about it but it won’t be the last. Its importance can’t be emphasized enough, although it usually takes awhile in the class before a student comes to understand that.

“One person can’t do this work. It would take hundreds of years to complete one structure. And without another to share the experience of the labor, it would be nothing but labor. No difference between it and abject servitude.

“Two people aren’t enough for this project. Nor are four. In fact, I’m looking at four dozen folks, and there are another four dozen with my partner right now, and the hundred of us are barely enough to work here today.”

She put both hands on the table before her, and leaned toward her audience. Her posture conveyed intense sincerity. “We need people. We need them to build with, to sweat with, to share with, to love. It’s all too easy for those of our class to become isolated in luxury and convenience.

“My partner recruited me into the program. Me and many others. The more the better. But it would have been enough for him to recruit only two, as long as those two did at least as much.

“Each of you must recruit at least two others. Each of your recruits must do the same. I don’t have to draw you a picture of the shape we’ll produce; in fact, we’re building that shape outside.

“Your recruits will be your apprentices, at least for a time. When they outgrow you, you’ll recruit some more. You’ll get back co-workers, progress on construction, acknowledgment of your leadership, companions in joy. You’ll lose nothing.”

She looked around the group then, and her dark eyes found mine. She nodded at me and smiled slightly. I stood and she introduced me.

“Here is our scribe for this session. He’s a former recruit of mine who has already brought in eight of his own. I’ll let him share his program experience with you.”

I expected this. Such sharing was part of our general procedure and required of every volunteer. I stood and told them how the class had changed my life. I’d tell the story to the other half of the group soon. And the next day I’d travel to Alexandria, to file this report in the library.

We want a permanent record of our program, and that library is built to last. Long after our pyramids have crumbled into the sand, the library at Alexandria will be maintained and will hold this record of us: this and all succeeding chapters. Our project is too important for us to risk misinterpretation by posterity.

For the next hour, they led the group in gentle exercise. Now she, then he, often both together, took the assembled class through systematic relaxation and muscle awareness, on to stretching and limbering movements, and finally to light calisthenics. They didn’t talk as much as demonstrate, but they inserted personal recollections about exquisite work experiences.

They called a break to pass water around, and then had all class members, at once, introduce themselves to at least three strangers. By now, their maid and the other volunteers had joined the group, and they shared their own memories of first class experiences and their progressive involvement in the program. Between the hour of exercise, the milling around during this break, and the introduction of intermediates who had experience but no authority, the enrollees relaxed and began to enjoy themselves. They were ready to leave the amphitheater when they were led away from it toward the primary work site.

The area was huge. It was also largely unsheltered. There were a few tent-like structures with tools and sustenance, but the project was in full sun. Everyone could understand why it wouldn’t be possible to work in the hottest part of the day. It was already warm, but they were watered and limbered and wearing light loose clothes, and they were ready to work.

Some hauled, some pushed, others went ahead to place rollers. Together they moved the huge blocks. Of course the work proceeded slowly, but the site was already far enough along to take shape and offer promise. The construction had reached the height of a three-storied building, so they had to haul/push/roll the blocks that high above the ground’s surface. Perspiration flowed freely, but because it was happening to everyone, and with ample water to drink, the experience was more cleansing than uncomfortable.

The leaders weren’t building then. They had broken the class into four crews of about twenty-five each, and they were talk-teaching one crew at a time. That cycle meant that each participant was getting a rest fifteen minutes out of every sixty.

“Let’s talk about the shape of our structure,” began the first discussion. It didn’t matter whether she or he took the topic; either would lead the group through an examination of building shapes until all concurred on theirs. They agreed that an obelisk would impose, but they didn’t think it would leave a big enough footprint. A sphere would impress, but it would be impossible to stabilize. They sought the shape that would use the most land and be the hardest to topple. They meant to make a landmark. The leaders led, and the group members cooperated by knowing the answers in advance, but everyone took pleasure in the process of discussion and agreement.

The leaders had a moment during the changing of the subgroups. They used it to touch briefly and to compare impressions. As long as they agreed they continued without interruption. And they continued to agree.

“We build first for the sake of working, and secondly for the sake of building,” boomed the opening statement of the second discussion for all subgroups. “But we also build for the sake of entertainment afterward. Let’s plan a party.” With that, he smiled around and relaxed his posture. They took the group through the beginning of a session on recreation after labor, a talk that they continued during the third break. The idea of an internal maze appealed to everyone. Also the theme of night-time thrills: skeletons; dark corners; hidden rooms.

The fourth and final small discussion break was about building techniques. Most of the work was brute labor, as the attendees knew ahead of time by word and then by sweat and muscles. But there were some elegancies that enabled the huge construction. The slow but steady method of moving the blocks into place rested on the simplicity of many small wheels. The aligning of the planned or random passages was enabled by starlight. The attendees came to understand that, given enough people and time, they could build anything.

She brought her yogurt to the porch and watched the sunrise pink ahead of her. It was going to be too warm to work in the afternoon; she figured she’d go to the site soon.

Then her husband appeared in the doorway of their cottage. “There’s fresh yogurt,” she offered, hoisting her bowl toward him.

He said no: he’d wait for hot cereal. But he joined her on the porch, half-sat on the stone wall around it, sailed one sandaled foot out and back. “You’re looking pleased with yourself,” she smiled at him. Her dark hair caught the sunshine and she leaned toward him until her hip touched the wall. “And you’re the reason,” he grinned. He slid his right palm up and over her hip beneath her shift. “Last night was awesome.”

Their maid approached them with bowls of steaming grain and cups of fresh juice. She set her tray on its tripod and left them to their breakfast.

“The new group looks promising,” she said after a sip of orange juice. “It’s a big one; we’d better greet them together. I don’t think we should do any touring this morning. It’ll be too hot to work this afternoon, so we can tour and talk then.”

He left the wall and walked to the food. “I love working with you. You make a great job better. I’m a fair hand at cranking them up, but you’re magic at it.”

“That’s partly because I believe it. We really do feel better when we work. Resting after labor feels wonderful. And labor itself can be cathartic, mind-emptying.” She set her cup down and opened her arms wide. She spun slowly to look in the sunshine.

“You don’t have to sell me, angel. You don’t even really have to sell them. You just have to distract them from figuring out they could do it themselves.”

“It wouldn’t be the same,” she countered. “You’re the one who taught me that. There’s an energy created when people work together.” She glanced at her empty cup on the tray. “I’m restless this morning. I think I’ll head over. You?”

“I’ll be there.” He paused before his next spoonful to accept and return her kiss. Then he sat on the wall again and watched her walk away. He smiled at her trim back and neat movements.

The sun was fully above the eastern horizon. Its rays lit the opalescent stones of the cottage with all the colors of sand. His wife’s form was two hundred yards distant when he set down his bowl and began to follow. He reminisced as he walked. It was only two years ago that he recruited her. He recollected his first sight of her: one face among many listening to his words, but with open dark eyes that encouraged him to speak more expansively. As much as he tried to direct his speech and gaze evenly over the attendees, he found himself returning to her visage too often.

His mentor had warned him of this. He knew that the class-generated energy produced quick infatuations and often marriages. But it would never be appropriate to direct that sort of attention to someone who wasn’t even enrolled. He worked instead to comport himself, led the attendees through one of his most inspirational introductions, and enrolled almost all of them, including her.

They grew close during the ensuring two-week class, and they found that they teamed better than with any other partner each tried. Now they recruited together. He’d been brought in by his mentor, he became hers, and at this point they each mentored others. All of the benefits of recruiting – the giving back what they’d received, the communality of effort, the group energy, the muscles – were better for being shared.

He counted his blessings and collected his charisma as he walked the last fifty yards to the already-assembled group of new enrollees. His wife spoke first. “Welcome to your new class,” she began, “in all senses of the word. We’re here to build together, and to grow in the course of that building. My partner has been a member for years now, but I’m relatively new to this. Let me briefly describe what brought me in and how it has been for me.”

There were about a hundred people assembled, but she had no trouble being heard in the natural amphitheater. She described her former luxurious but empty life, her progressive realizations through the class, and her present happiness and fulfillment. “We’re all well-born here, so we run the risk of emptiness. Undisciplined luxury comes at a very high price. The fact is, we feel better if we use our bodies wisely several hours a day. We grow stronger, our bodies function more smoothly and give us more pleasure, our minds achieve necessary room. The fact is, avoiding good labor means avoiding happiness. “But we’re under some constraint. It will be too hot after noon to work the way we want, so we’re going to start now, and explain later.” She panned the audience with her warm eyes, and smiled. “Ready?”

That Thanksgiving she met Larry. She knew she wanted to give him her virginity as soon as they started dating; she was that grateful for his attention. She needn’t have been – anyone could have told her that she looked good and he was a bit of a pig – but Sheila wouldn’t have listened. She was too used to her old self image. Sure she’d lost weight, but her naked body looked haggard to her. Her skin sagged beneath the new clothes. She was self-conscious about being with Larry but eager to have some of what she’d read about so much.

They did it in his car. In a way that suited her just fine, because it was dark there. He drove an old Chevy and the back seat was huge. And since the sex was no great shakes for her, it didn’t bother her that they had to hurry.

Larry was a bad boyfriend. He never gave compliments or presents, and he didn’t pay attention to what Sheila said. A couple of times she tried to get a little foreplay. Once she even said no, but Larry didn’t listen.

Meanwhile, things at home could have been better. Her mother was still happy with the weight loss, but she was disappointed that Sheila wouldn’t consider a sorority. She went through that winter buying clothes for Sheila and complaining. Her father no longer nagged her about exercise but seemed too interested in what she and Larry did when they were together. Most evenings Sheila found that three ounces of seeds just weren’t enough. She’d have two servings. Or a package of cookies. She liked herself too much to throw up afterwards; she knew she’d never be bulimic. But she disliked herself too much to treat the consequent heartburn; she always figured she deserved it, and toughed it out.

Sheila will never forget the half year after Larry. She had 16 lovers before she grew too large. There was even one night with three different guys, from curiosity rather than any lust, none knowing about the others. But by the end of her freshman year she was near 200 again, the rash was back, and she took herself out of circulation. She read-and-ate, she studied, she played hours of solitaire (with cards — she didn’t get into it on the computer until 1998, when she racked up a $92,051 purse at TriPeaks in 13,292 games).

She got her bachelor’s degree in English in 1999. She’d picked the major because it meant reading fiction. She took a job at an insurance company. She weighed 310.

Sheila knew where she could get guys, but she didn’t want those guys. She’d heard about the fat groups: women’s clubs with names like Perfect Plus. They had support group meetings, shared tips on where to find fashion in sizes and how to fully appreciate whipped cream. And they had annual conventions that attracted strange men who lusted after fleshy women. She could just imagine some diminutive Filipino diving onto her, searching through folds to find an orifice. No thanks.

Her other option was an obese partner. But she knew about that too, and she didn’t find the prospect of vertical sex romantic. She stayed busy, did her job, and tried to diet. By the time she was 25 she weighed almost 500 pounds.

At that point she had to work out a way to telecommute. Fortunately her employer was big enough to have the resources to accommodate her and also the legal department to worry about not accommodating her. She was allowed to work from her condo. She bought a custom chair. She had groceries delivered. She stopped leaving home.

Sheila’s mother had given up hope but still felt obligation. She visited sometimes. Sheila’s father had become pretty large himself. His blood pressure required medication and he’d also taken up drinking. He didn’t feel well most days and he was headed for liver and kidney failure.

Sheila weighed 589 on her 26th birthday. She had heartburn which she tried as usual to ignore, but her belly hurt so much she squirmed. She couldn’t leave home; her mother found a way to bring a doctor to her. He looked and palpated and then called for some fancy sonogram machine. They had to fly it in from Nevada. “Usually the patient comes to the equipment,” he explained to them, “so not many places have portable devices.”

The doctor suspected that Sheila was hosting a large ovarian cyst, and the sonogram showed it. They had to remove her front door to get her out of there, and her first adventure in years was an ambulance ride. She wasn’t then in pain; she actually enjoyed the trip. Her mother was with her, and for once she was kind.

Sheila’s surgery was not a record breaker. Some woman named Gertrude Levandowski had a 308-pound cyst removed in 1951. That operation took 96 hours, and reduced the patient’s weight by half. Sheila’s surgery ran 18 hours, and her cyst weighed 257 pounds. She left the hospital weighing 332, so she only lost 44% of her weight. But that was a great start on her next diet.

She started to diet. She bought calorie counters, exercise books, and magazines. She tried to fast but found it too punishing. She tried to exercise but it was boring and uncomfortable. She loved starting diets, because it was easy to be perfect at first, and early progress came quickly. She could lose 10 pounds in four days; it may have been water but it was still a result. When progress slowed she broke the diet, returned with relief to unrestrained reading-and-eating, and got ready to start over. Her mother supported her attempts, rewarded her successes with desserts, and otherwise paid constant attention to what Sheila ate. Her father didn’t. He tried to bait, egg, lure her into exercise. She put on 15 to 40 pounds a year.

Even though she was steadily gaining on a long-term basis, some of the diets produced a loss for awhile. There were whole weeks, once even months, when Sheila went far enough down to notice all the differences. And then back up, noticing again. Above a certain weight, she really couldn’t cross her legs knee over knee. Above a certain weight she wouldn’t hug herself. Above a certain weight, she developed the rash.

She breached 200 by the time she was 14 and 5’4.” That’s when the itch began, under her breasts and on her belly. The problem worsened until she had to complain to her mother. The doctor told them it was because of the airless moist conditions under her breasts and between the folds of her stomach; she was actually hosting a fungus. “Gross!” Sheila thought. “That’s it: I’m definitely taking this weight off now.” The doctor advised her to use talcum powder and sent them to a nutritionist.

Unfortunately she made no progress. She started a new diet almost every day but she continued to gain. The rate of gain slowed, but she was 243 by her junior year of high school, and she had stopped adding height to her 5’6″ frame. She had beautiful red hair and baby-fine skin, but her attitude seesawed between quiet and anger, and her grades suffered because she wouldn’t read anything except fiction. She still had the rash, and she had developed an allergy to talc.

Her mother took her to a new doctor when Sheila was 19. That was after a rough year that doesn’t get talked about, when Sheila wasn’t having much to do with her immediate or extended family and was spending most of her time in a church. She went on a medically-supervised diet. It wasn’t one of those liquid regimes, but it was strict. This doctor explained to her that each pound is 3500 calories, so if she’d eat 500 calories less a day, she’d lose one pound a week. She’d lose more if she exercised, the doctor added, but not much more, which comforted her and also made the program seem credible.

He put her on a 600 calorie daily diet at first. He said he’d be practical; he told her she could actually have 800 calories if she needed, and he prescribed appetite suppressants at least for the beginning. He explained that her calories were to consist of proteins and eight vegetables, but no other carbohydrates. She ate chicken, she ate fish, and she ate spinach, carrots, broccoli, parsley, green beans, lettuce, cucumbers, peppers.

She dropped weight fast. At the rate of almost 10 pounds a month, it took her a year to get near 130, but that’s how she stood when she went to college. She still missed reading-and-eating (and thought she always would), but she was delighted with her figure. Her mother bought her a new wardrobe and her father started talking about the dangers of boys.

The doctor put Sheila on “maintenance.” She was allowed 1200 calories a day, and up to 30% of them could come from the carbohydrates she’d been denied. He told her she could maintain her new weight forever as long as she didn’t eat more than 1200 calories a day. Sheila calculated that she could have about three ounces of salted sunflower seeds for 300 calories, and they’d provide little carb and an hour a day of reading-and-eating. Since she had been taking in around 800 calories a day before she went on maintenance, she used up most of her new allowance with daily bouts of seeds and an occasional cookie.

For 94% of her life, Sheila has been fat. She started out extremely small but she caught up and passed the growth chart averages by the time she crawled.

Hers was a premature birth, in 1975. She surprised everyone by emerging from her mother almost a trimester early, a frightening little bug of three pounds, and by surviving.

At six months she was a chubby infant. For wrists and ankles she had deeper creases than the other babies, and as she grew her thighs seemed to lengthen less than others in her play group. Her mom had some trouble toting her around after Sheila topped 25 pounds at nine months, but she was so pink-and-white and cute that her mother didn’t complain. In fact, and unlike other babies, Sheila could wear 12-month size then, so she was more fun to dress.

She didn’t know she was fat till she was five, and it didn’t start to bother her until her eighth birthday. That’s when she overheard Jimmy Williams tell Doug Ames that he could never like her because she was a Tubbo. This was at Sheila’s birthday party, the last one her mother made for her.

Sheila really liked Jimmy. She thought he looked cute in the cub scout uniform he wore each Thursday; she always chased him in the playground and tried to grab him by his yellow neckerchief. His words devastated her. She knew he didn’t mean for her to overhear, so they stuck her like blows.

Her party was ruined for her, and she couldn’t wait for it to end. When guests cleared out an hour later, she sat in the kitchen nibbling leftovers. She read the backs of food packages while she munched. She drifted into the words and tastes, and didn’t hear her mother enter the room.

“Sheila! What are you doing?” Her mom whisked behind her to the sink with a load of party garbage. “You’ve had enough to eat; come help me clean up. And wipe off that sour face! I don’t know what’s gotten into you …” Anger shot through Sheila as her mother left the room. “Come!”

Sheila learned. After that event she began smuggling snacks to her room. She loved to sit back on the part of her bed that tucked into the corner of the walls, rereading classic comics or one of a dozen Nancy Drews, eating sunflower seeds or nibbling Triscuits row by row, lost to her family. In time she came to think of the activity as reading-and-eating, two functions indivisible: comfort.

As each year passed she grew taller, heavier, and more likely to stay in her room. Her mother harped: “It’s not that you need to lose weight, honey; you’ll be just fine if you don’t gain any. You’re growing so fast you’ll shed this baby fat in no time.” Her father didn’t harass her about food – she resembled him in coloring and skeleton and appetite – but he nagged her to exercise. “You’re a vegetable,” he said. “No, you’re worse than a vegetable! Get out of here and enjoy the day.”

She was just five feet tall when she entered junior high at age 11. She weighed 120 pounds. That’s not obese, but it’s plump. Too plump for the pants she wore.

She had a sort-of date with Jimmy Williams. He was becoming “Jim” then. They got together to ride bikes one Saturday and ended up picnicking on the side lawn of the school. They were sitting around after their meal when Doug Ames pedaled up on his bike and joined their conversation. Jim imitated their English teacher and they all cracked up. Sheila’s pants were so tight that she passed gas when she laughed. Doug whooped as if it were the funniest joke he’d heard in years. “Sheila farted! Sheila farted!” he sang like a fourth grader. And Sheila was humiliated. She knew it never would have happened if she weren’t fat.