Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Yesterday on the way home, going the wrong way down a one-way street, I came to one of those white-and-blue half-buses that transport the infirm. "Para-transit" on the side, something like that. I try to stay away from them when I can, having watched them cut people off, or flip bitches mid-Atlantic-Ave., or bump the sidewalk, or pass a box truck at top speed on a one way street, etc. I suppose their drivers are trained to do this; it generates more work for the company.

This bus was parked in the middle of the street and the driver was out, helping someone off. There was no safe way around it so I waited. Slowly, slowly out the doors came a tall blond woman balancing on a cane. A very large woman. Her face was pure pain.

The woman did not meet my eyes; if she saw me she likely thought I was gawking at her. I was, because for a moment I was sure it was L-- in front of me, almost as tall, older, but her, right down to the damnable black cane-- not dead in Michigan but alive on 3rd Ave. in Brooklyn.

Traffic cleared. I pedaled on around, feeling guilty about my relative agility.

At Atlantic Ave. the stop light is eternal, allowing for thorough meditation. I thought of L--'s old apartment in the upper 40s on 9th Ave. Fourth floor, up rickety stairs. The huge bed, the shower in the kitchen. Computer in the corner. CDs everywhere, lined up. I wonder who lives there now.

I listed all the things about the woman on the street that did not remind me of L--. L-- was younger; blonder; wore glasses. L-- is also dead. If she is not she would have called. Still I was confused, shaken. But finally I realized, and this comforted the superstitious inner ape, that under no circumstances, no matter how terrible things became, would L-- have moved to Brooklyn. Michigan or the Bay Area, but never that.

What L-- spoke of the moment her magic would return, when all the illness was off her and she would be as she once was. But of course that could never happen. Even I knew it. I was ten years younger than her even, and pretty dense, and I knew it. It can't happen for anyone, thin or fat, broken or operating smoothly. You can't ever have anything back.

I wonder if those who gained weight in adulthood do better or worse, on average, at keeping weight off than do those who gained their weight while younger? Because the former group knows what they want, and has a goal; for the latter group, everything is new, and there's no narrative of happiness, power, and potency to fulfill. No return to form, no act to get together. A new act. I cannot be disappointed by my progress, being as it's the first progress I've ever tracked; I cannot be upset by my results, being as these are my first results. Oh, I can and am but probably not in the same way as someone who feels that they are missing something. Those people want revenge. I do not want to be as I was in my 20s, under any circumstances. I want to sail into my 40s as a sensible tugboat and not a gasping galleon. And I don't crave revenge; I just want left be.

Is it the worst thing ever, to be a cautionary tale? The reason for others to shake their heads and feel superior? I used to think so. L-- is a cautionary tale for me sometimes. She is more than that as well. And isn't that what I am here, both to others and to myself? There's merit in it even so.

Weight: 330.75 lbs