Big George

There is nothing I can tell you about George that will supercede the fact that he weighed well over four hundred pounds, not because this was the most important thing about him, but because it made him who he was in a lot of ways. I should probably start by saying that I didn't know anyone who didn't love George, and I was proud to be counted among those that he loved in return.

George was twenty years old when I met him. He lived in a trailer outside Atlantic City with his parents. His father was a night watchman at one of the big old hotels that used to be pretty ritzy in the heyday of the resort, but, like everything else in the city, was now dilapidated and desperate. His mother was a bad alcoholic and never left the house. I think the bath facilities in the trailer were inadequate to accomodate George's girth, because George did not smell good. He always had a zillion of those stick-up air fresheners pasted all around his cab, and I believe this was a testament to the fact that George was aware of the problem and it didn't warrant any further discussion. I didn't care. I rode around with him in his stinky car sometimes because I loved the shit out of that fat boy and felt lucky to be around him despite the poor air quality.

George loved Gary Puckett and the Union Gap. "Young Girl" was his own personal anthem, and whenever it came on the radio we would both sing it as loud and dramatically as we could. I remember one time in particular that was the absolute crowning moment of our many duets. George was driving me home from work in the morning, and we stopped at Dunkin Donuts so George could get his "donut and glass of milk" (this consisted of a dozen of those really vile cream-filled varieties and a half gallon of milk). We went to my house and sat in the kitchen, listening to the radio while George had his "breakfast" and I drank some beers. "Young Girl" came on the radio, and I'm not exaggerating when I tell you it was a magical moment. I was whining and wailing, feeling the angst of the Union Gap's moral battle of conflicting passions, and George was belting it out as loud as I had ever heard him, milk-soaked fragments of doughnut flying from his mouth onto the kitchen table, walls and floor. My neighbors downstairs started banging on the ceiling, which we, in our respective donut and beer-induced frenzies, interpreted as an indication of approval and encouragement. When the song was over, I shut off the radio and we sang it four more times acapella. I still can't hear that song without crying.

George's girlfriend, Nancy, was a junkie. They had met in the cab. He had picked her up as a fare, coming out of the welfare office on Tennessee Avenue. When George got her home, she offered him a blow job in lieu of the cab fare, and he was in love. People said she was using George for dope money and free rides, but I like to believe that she had found a kindred spirit in George, and appreciated him for his kindness and gentle nature. I have to believe this, because to believe otherwise is to diminish George's capacity to love and be loved. Anyway, I liked Nancy. She was dumb as a stump and a total emotional cripple, but she took pretty good care of her son, and she made George feel good, and that was reason enough for me to like her, because as much as I loved the fat man, I sure as shit wasn't giving him any damn blow job.

George's dad died about a year after I met him. He had been mugged at work, and had a heart attack and died two days later. Of course, they never caught the guys and George told me one time that he didn't enjoy driving a cab anymore because he never knew if he was riding around with the person who killed his dad. Anyway, that left George to take care of his mother. This consisted primarily of trips to the liquor store, and a stop at White Tower on his way home for a hot turkey sandwich and a milkshake.

George wanted to take Nancy to the Poconos for the weekend one time, and asked me if I would look after his mom while he was gone. This was no problem as I was happy to do just about anything for the big man. He gave me strict instructions on mom's medicine - one pint of Imperial per day, no buying fifths and skipping a day because she would drink all of it the first day. She would basically drink whatever she could get her hands on. I vowed to adhere religiously to the prescribed dosage. When I pulled up the first day, she was hanging over the fence that defined the little postage stamp lot on which the trailer stood, eagerly awaiting my arrival with her medicine. I got out of the car and walked over to her and she threw herself in my arms and started kissing me. It was around 10 am and I had worked all night, so I wasn't ready for the aroma of body odor and stale booze breath that assaulted my nostrils. My stomach flipped over a few times, but I managed to grin and gag simultaneously. Since the fence seemed to be the only thing keeping her off the ground, I figured I'd better help her to the trailer. I had a feeling that if I didn't, she'd still be leaning on that fence sucking down Imperial when I pulled up the next day.

I never figured that George lived in a palace, but there was no way I could have envisioned the scene that met me when I passed through the broken screen door. Every inch of counter and table space was covered with dirty dishes and glasses. There were shelves on all the walls, filled with cheap souvenirs and knickknacks that had a layer of nicotine infused grime caked on them. Magazines and newspapers were piled waist high in several corners throughout the trailer. Why is it that people who live in the smallest spaces always save their trash? No one has ever been able to provide me with a satisfactory explanation for this phenomenon. I helped George's mom into the living room and tried to deposit her in the big dirty lazy boy in the middle of the room, but she wouldn't sit in it. "That's Georgie's chair" she said. I sensed the futility in reminding her that George was hundreds of miles away at the moment, and instead steered her past the little folding snack table that sat wedged between the recliner and a nasty looking plaid herculon sofa that reeked of someone's feet. Aside from the big console television, these were the only three sticks of furniture in the room and there was still no room to spare. It struck me that George must have looked like some huge ludicrous cartoon in such diminutive quarters. She nestled into the sofa, pint in one hand, remote control in the other. I was headed for the kitchen when I spotted it. On top of the television (obviously the place of utmost honor here) was a picture of the most beautiful baby I have ever seen - a robust pink and white porcelain doll with a huge grin and piercing blue eyes that could only have belonged to one person I knew. "That's my Georgie" she said when she saw that it had caught my eye, but she hadn't needed to tell me. The background was one of those fake screens that photographers use in their studio with ducks and elephants and letters of the alphabet in primary colors all over it. Baby George was smiling so broadly I could almost hear him giggle. Something about that picture made me cry and every time I looked at George after that, I could see that baby's face hidden somewhere in the features that had been so distorted by his unnatural size. I went into the kitchen to do the dishes. I would have gladly finished them too, but when I picked up a glass of what had once been milk that now looked like cottage cheese with a dead roach embedded in it, I puked in the sink and left.

George died two weeks before his thirtieth birthday. I hadn't seen him in a couple of years, but mutual friends told me later that he had spent the last year having to sleep upright in a chair because there was so much fluid around his heart. There was no viewing or formal funeral, as there was no coffin that would contain George and no money to have one custom made. I went to the memorial service, which turned out to be about forty people standing around a freshly covered grave telling their personal stories about the big man. I listened mutely, knowing I was unable to explain the significance of sitting in the kitchen singing wildly over donuts and beer.

George's mom had a sister who was going to move in with her and after the service, I drove them back to the trailer. I walked George's mom inside, as she was incapable of doing the job herself. The mixture of Imperial and grief made all but the feeblest attempts at mobility impossible. I sat her on the sofa, knowing the lazy boy would remain unoccupied for a long, long time. I said goodbye and turned to leave when I saw the photo for the second time in my life. The first time, it had made me cry. Now, it made me smile because I knew in my heart that this was the Georgie that I would always remember when I thought about one of the most beautiful people I had ever known. I picked up the photograph and kissed it, tasting the stale dust that covered the glass, and walked out of the trailer.


©1997 Gail Von Schlichting

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