A Shadow of His Future Self
Roman loves Angela and beer and chocolate cake.
His love for Angela is immoderate. Her name is a sonnet that echoes within him. He adores Angela day and night and, if there were stretches of time that lay somewhere between the day and the night, he would adore her then as well.
Roman’s love for beer and chocolate cake is also sincere and deeply felt. His definition of a perfect evening: six beers, dinner on the couch with Angela, a slab of chocolate cake, and a black-and-white movie, preferably from the 1930s, on television.
One sunny day in the middle of July, Angela breaks up with Roman. She tells him that he is a good man, but he has become too fat for her. It embarrasses her to be seen in his company. Sex with him now feels life-threatening.
Roman’s heart shatters like a light bulb struck by a crowbar. He exiles himself from the company of others. His appetite, including for beer and chocolate cake, disappears. He diminishes. Not one of the few people he still sees believes him when he maintains that his weight loss is not attributable to a pharmaceutical.
“You taking Ozempic?”
“No.”
“Wegovy?”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then it’s gotta be the Zepbound.”
“No, really, it’s not.”
“Liar.”
After several such exchanges, Roman finds that it’s easier on him and more rewarding for his inquisitor if he answers “yes” to the first question, whichever medication is mentioned.
Roman’s weight loss also creates a problem with his pants: He now has considerably more belt than waist and, therefore, extra belt.
He tries passing the extra belt through the belt loops of his pants for a second time, but the loops aren’t big enough. They will not accommodate a doubling up of belt. And because his belts are made of a light brown, stretchy material, the last thirteen inches hang limply down the front of his pants. Based upon comments that Roman receives from colleagues and passers-by, at first glance the hanging length of belt tends to resemble an unusually long and proudly displayed penis.
It occurs to Roman that he could simply cut the belts to a reasonable length. But he worries that would make him look like a Depression-era hobo using a length of rope to hold up his trousers.
The problem demands a solution. Unless his pants are held up, they will fall down around his ankles. (Suspenders might work, but Roman knows that suspenders make anyone look ludicrous unless they are an Alabama farmer or a New York lawyer. He is neither.)
He must buy a new belt.
Knowing that he is about to purchase a replacement belt, Roman cuts a foot off the end of one of his existing belts with a pair of kitchen scissors and heads to a nearby clothing store. The men’s department has no other customers.
A young saleswoman approaches him. Her nametag says “Angela.” When Roman sees the name, it occurs to him that he should probably purchase a belt online, like all the other belt customers who aren’t in the store.
“How can I help you?”
“I think I’ll be going.”
“Come on. Something besides the air conditioning brought you in here. Let me help.”
Roman hesitates. Angela is cute. A girl with comedy in her eyes.
“I need a new belt.”
“You sure do. The one you have on makes you look like a bum in a Frank Capra movie.”
It feels like the skin on Roman’s face cracks. His cheeks have grown unaccustomed to accommodating a smile.
“It’s because I cut the end off.”
“With your left hand while suffering from arthritis and wearing a blindfold, apparently. Take it off.”
“My pants will fall down.”
“That should brighten up a dull day.”
“Is this how you usually talk to your customers?”
“Only the good-looking ones.”
Something inside Roman shifts. He experiences, for just a moment before it drifts away, a faint but vaguely familiar feeling. Roman puzzles over it. Then recognizes it. Hunger.
“You’ve lost a bunch of weight.”
“I have.”
Roman waits for the inevitable questioning to begin.
“Good for you. You should be proud of yourself. But it means that you’re going to need a lot more than a new belt.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Take a good look at yourself.”
Roman faces the mirror. He sees a shrunken man. The man’s shirt billows around him. The waistband of his pants folds over on itself in half a dozen places. His socks sag over his shoes. Roman has been so focused on looking ridiculous because his belt was too long that he never noticed that he was looking ridiculous for other reasons as well.
“If you buy only a belt, you might as well go around wearing a barrel. You’re still going to look like a bum.”
The skin on Roman’s face cracks again.
He spends more than three thousand dollars and leaves the store with a new wardrobe and Angela’s telephone number.
At home that evening, Roman celebrates with a six-pack and two slices of chocolate cake, and watches It Happened One Night alone on the couch.
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