The Littlest Loser

By Nard

Lately, I can’t seem to turn on my television or computer without seeing something about “The Biggest Loser.”  While I support the exploitation of the morbidly obese, images from the program fill me with sadness because they remind me that I was a fat child.  I wasn’t circus-side-show fat, but I was very rotund and very, very insecure.  This insecurity led me to voluntarily participate in an event that haunts me to this day.

When I was a fat eight year-old, I was quiet and shy.  I did everything I could to avoid bringing attention to myself.  Much to my father’s chagrin, I refused to participate in Little League baseball or Pop Warner football.  I didn’t just fear failure.  Even success would have shined an unwanted spotlight on my soft, round one hundred and seven pound frame.  I just wanted to hide and eat, but I also wanted to figure out a way to make Dad proud without participating in an athletic activity.  One Monday morning in February, my school teacher passed out flyers for the school fair that coming weekend.  The flyer announced a pie eating contest with a trophy for first place.  Eureka!  I signed up for the contest, sure I’d win (one hundred and seven pounds).  I didn’t tell my parents.  I envisioned erupting through the front door holding a gleaming, golden trophy over my head in one of my fat fists.  Dad would say, “Is that a troph . . .” before succumbing to a fit of laughing and crying and hugging and dancing while Mom stood aside bouncing and clapping like a high school cheerleader.

On Saturday, the day of contest, I told my parents I was going to a friend’s house.  I rode my 1980 Huffy Pro Thunder through a blistering wind to my elementary school, slouching on my seat less than usual, so sure was I of the coming victory. At the school fair, I even walked around to some of the booths displaying science projects and arts and crafts, chatting with classmates I theretofore avoided.  When the announcement came for the contestants to come on stage for the competition, I strolled slowly, hoping to intimidate my five opponents with my cool confidence.  I took my seat.  Ten Tastykake blueberry pies were stacked in front of each of us.  We each had a pie maiden charged with placing a fresh pie in front of us once the prior one was destroyed.  The rules were announced (3 minutes, no hands).  The room went silent.  We were told to begin.

The winner ate six and a half pies and had hardly a drop of blueberry pie filling on his face.  I ate only two pies, but somehow managed to completely cover both of my enormous, pink cheeks from eyelashes to chins.  Humiliated, I waddled from the stage as fast as I could.  I pedaled home crying hysterically from embarrassment and shame, my face a mask of buttery tears and violet-colored corn syrup.  Once home, I realized I couldn’t go inside looking like a horror movie extra.  Because of the time of year, our outside faucets were turned off.  I a stroke of pathetic genius, I knelt before Quincy, our Rottweiler, under the bushes in the back yard.  With his shit-smelling tongue, he washed away the evidence of my disgrace.  I finished my cry, snuck in through the back door and went to my room to read.  I’ve yet to tell Dad where I was that day.