Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Here is another death I have imagined. One day there is a knock at the door and two young men, strong-looking, uniformed, are there. One asks me to come along. I am to attend one of the National Fat Camps. They have my name on their list. NFC attendance is compulsory. My BMI, a matter of public record due to new deprivatization laws, is too high and national security requires males of my age to be removed from the general population.

I ask why they didn't send me an email or call first and am smiled at and patted and guided into the back seat of a too-small police car; the car has, I see, been repainted with the NFC logo (an eagle turning away from a drumstick).

"This is ridiculous," I say.

"You can drive up Clinton," says one officer to another. Ignoring me.

They drive to a police station inside the Hoyt-Schemerhorn station.

I am locked into a room with a single bench and a clock.

After two hours I am escorted to a bus.

A number of fatties are already outside waiting for the doors to open. Finally we all board. Someone checks my name off a list.

I look for a place to sit. Usually I take special effort to be first aboard, to get on a train or bus early so that I might avoid that look of horror and scorn on stranger's faces as I waddle down the aisle--their fear that I'll be their seatmate. But in fact all of us are people you hope won't sit next to you on the bus. It presents quandaries, especially as people try to move past each other through the narrow aisles. It's almost comical.

Finally we are all squeezed into our places. The short round woman who sits next to me introduces herself. She programs computers for the state. She hopes she can just get this done before her daughter's clarinet recital. She looks out at the other passengers, at the bus and guards, and shakes her head.

"Soda taxes paid for this," she says.

(Cont'd tomorrow)

Weight: 312.5 lbs