Gifts and Consequences (21 page)

“Don’t even mention college to me again,” she told him and punched him in the arm.

“Just remember, I got your back.”

The unrelenting pain in Oscar's back and the dark curtain in which he was tangled made it hard to think straight.  His habit of wearing Kevlar on assignments had always been more because he liked the feel of the tight-fitting body armor and less about actually protecting himself.

“You come in my house and tell me I’m never going to see my daughter again,” Warr threatened, looking down at him.  “Well this is the last thing you’re ever going to see.”

Warr pointed a huge revolver at Oscar.  The shadowy silhouette against the white wall looked like an over-stylized comic strip pane.

Oscar felt like he was swimming through dark waters with no sense of direction.  As his left arm moved to pull more of the sheet off of him it brushed against a leather carrying case.  He got an idea and undid the Velcro flap.

Warr pulled the hammer to cock the gun and Oscar reached into the pouch to draw his Taser.  He jammed it into Warr’s ankle, and let 50,000 volts flow.  Warr’s thin pajamas didn’t soften the jolt, and a gunshot rang out as Warr fell.  Oscar couldn’t tell where it went, but he didn’t have any new pain.

Alongside Oscar on the floor, Warr whimpered like a girl. 

Oscar sat up and delivered another shock into Warr's bare chest.  He heard the same girlish moan and smiled despite the pounding in his back.

“How’s that for a lucky charm?” Oscar picked up the gun and tucked into his utility belt.

“After what you did to that poor girl and her mother you don’t deserve to have Abby in your life.”  He turned to leave and heard the voice in his ear again.  Cheryl. 

“So you’re alive?”

Oscar waited until he was outside then answered, “Aye.  It takes more than a .44 to stop the Caped Crusader.”

“Don’t waste any time there.  Cops and paramedics are on their way.”

“Always looking out for me,” said Oscar, already blending into the night. 

Porter Lippi had never been so sore in his life.  Shards of light burst through the blinds as if the morning sun was only a few feet outside his window.  He tried to turn his head to check the time, but his neck was too sore so he just groaned and stayed where he lay. 

I need some pig,
he thought. 
Some dead, greasy pig
.

Somehow the withdrawals were getting worse, and being mentally prepared did little to suppress the visceral cravings.

I don’t know if I’ll survive, and if I do, I’m not sure I want to.

Too sore to sleep, too sore to get up.  For a minute he considered calling for help; there was no way he was getting out of bed on his own.  Coming to the weight loss spa was a mistake from the start.  Some spa.  Weight loss death camp was more like it. 

But what other option was there?  For all the conviction he felt at the overeater’s meeting, within twenty-four hours he’d given up and given in.  Then that black-haired man showed up at his apartment.  A week later he was lying in bed wondering if he’d starve to death before finding a way to get out.

 If he lay still, the physical pain subsided but the hunger gnawed.  Finally the urge to put something in his mouth won out and he weighed different ideas in his mind. 

Work smart, not hard
.

He decided to use his biggest asset—weight.  Lifting his legs to create momentum wasn’t an option.  It would require far too many muscles and result in severe pain.  Sit-ups were an impossibility even on his best day. 

With a whimper, Porter raised his right arm over his head as slowly as possible.  When it was straight he took a breath and pushed with his left arm, forcing himself onto his side, and eventually onto his stomach at the edge of the bed.  The pain manifested in a different part of his body with each effort he made.

He let his legs fall to the ground and the pain turned into a full yell.  He was bent over the bed in a kneeling position. 
Please Lord
, he thought, addressing the Almighty for the first time since his Catholic high school days,
if you’re up there please kill me now.

A minute later he was still alive, and disappointed to be so. 

Somehow Porter made it to his feet and stumbled into the dining area, every step an agony.  Two of his three teammates, Mack and Angela, were sitting at the dining room table.  Angela was digging into the corners of a yogurt carton.  Mack lifted his cereal bowl to his lips encouraging the last drop of milk out of the bowl.  Skim milk, Porter noticed.  You might as well use water.

After greeting the pair, Porter opened the fridge.  He considered the various breakfast bundles and decided on the banana, blueberry yogurt and two slices of wheat bread for toast.  It wasn’t exactly starvation but it felt like it.

When the toast popped up he applied exactly three squirts of butter spray to each slice, making sure the plunger on the small bottle exerted its full range of motion with each spray.  On the second day of camp Angela sprayed more than three, and the butter spray was removed from the kitchen.  Everyone suffered two butterless days thanks to her.  They still didn’t know the location of the hidden cameras in the kitchen and were terrified of stepping over their bounds and incurring further sanctions.

Porter joined Mack and Angela at the table and in their lack of conversation.  He had only a few seconds to wallow with them before Molly came trotting down the hallway. 

“Hey, Angela!  How are you feeling this morning?”  Molly moved behind the other woman and rubbed her shoulders.  “Angela the angel-uh.” 

Angela groaned, whether in pain or from the nickname, Porter couldn’t tell.  Molly appeared not to notice and moved on to Mack.

“Mack,” she said in a low voice.  “Mack Daddy.  Macks-a-Million.  Biiig Mack.”  She winked and punched him in the arm.  

Mack smiled and said, “Good morning, Molly.”

Porter knew his turn was coming. 

Molly approached him with an outstretched hand, “Port-her there, Porter.”  He reluctantly granted her a fish handshake which seemed to satisfy her.  Every day had started the same way.  Different puns, but just as painful.  Porter knew she meant well, but her bubbly demeanor was almost as hard to take as the strict regimen of the weight loss camp.

Molly chose Total cereal, an apple and a whole-grain English muffin, then sang a not-bad, though still annoying version of
Zipadee Do Dah
while she prepared it.  The other three stared at her breakfast jealously.  If looting broke out, Porter would go straight for the apple.

I can’t believe I’m willing to resort to physical violence over fruit
.

Not for the first time Porter thought about the nickname Molly almost certainly carried throughout her chubby school days: Jolly Molly.  He had always bemoaned his own fate at having to put up with “Porterhouse”, “Portly Porter” and “Porter: It’s like Peter, but bigger”.

Mack, a short, middle-aged man who was as wide as he was tall, stood up and walked into the kitchen.  After tossing his garbage he patted Molly’s arm.  “Thanks for being so great.  It’s easy to feel down in the dumps some days.” 

“That’s what friends are for,” answered Molly. 

Without attempting to hide it, Angela snorted and rolled her eyes.

There was no way Molly could have missed Angela’s reaction, but Molly didn’t sound fazed when she said, “Ya’ll ready for the big hike today?”

Porter answered, “Four miles up and four miles down, with a total climb in elevation of a thousand feet in the hot California sun?  What’s not to be excited about?”  He smiled.   

Somehow Molly grew even more animated.  “Proving yourself.  Putting your past behind you.  When we reach the peak we’ll all look back and take an oath to never go back.  When we walk down the back side of that mountain we’ll be walking into our new selves.”  She marched in place.

Again Mack smiled and Angela cringed.

“Besides,” continued Molly, bobbing and weaving with a few interspersed jabs.  “Aren’t you excited to see how far you’ve come in one week since we started?  All that pumping iron has turned you into a machine.”  At this she went into mock shoulder presses above her head in a rhythmic, robot-like manner. 

Porter stood as slowly as possible to minimize the pain and walked out to the patio.  Angela got up and followed him.  She sat down next to Porter, squeezing into a bench meant for three people.  “You gonna make it?” Porter asked.

Angela shook her head.  “I didn’t want to be here in the first place.  I’m only here because my impossible-to-please mother stipulated in her will that I don’t get my inheritance unless I lose a hundred pounds.  That woman never could accept me for me.”

Porter didn’t know what to say.  He longed for a family member who actually cared about him enough to push him to take care of himself.  He was only at the ranch because he couldn’t do it at home.  Twelve hours seemed to be the limit of his resolve.  Out of nowhere that stranger showed up and offered to pay his way and give him $50,000 if he got below three hundred pounds.  That would let him live without working for two years after his current funds ran out.

“It’s not worth it.”  Angela voiced Porter’s sentiments.  “It’s not worth it.  Her $32,000 can rot with her.”

This was not the kind of support Porter needed.  He was on the verge of cursing the bizarre arrangement.  Screw integrity.  He just wanted another fix. 

In his spare time at the facility Porter often caught himself daydreaming about pizza.  Ice cream.  Anything loaded with carbs and fat.  He forgot about Angela and the porch.  Chicken fried steak with country gravy.  He tried to force the thought out with a mental image of $50,000, but the future money couldn’t compete with the urges in his belly and mind.

“…and that goes double for me!” said Angela.

Porter had been unaware that she was still trying to carry on a conversation.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Me too.”    

His concentration was completely shot.  Double cheeseburger with bacon.  Double chocolate cookie dough.  Double decker taco.

For the first time in days he almost felt happy.

The highway was busy, but this late in the morning cars flew by Allen.  At one point during rush hour he had passed gridlocked cars.  It was the first day he’d spend two nights in a row in the same hotel room, and his pack was lighter for it.

Three weeks after his injury, Allen was almost up to full speed.  He still wore the cast on his hand but the pain was mostly gone.  He was almost done with the ankle brace as well.  The only pain that persisted was in his ribs at certain times—trying to get comfortable when he had to sleep on the ground or when his breathing got too labored.  Surprisingly, the worst pain came when he bent to change his socks.

He pushed himself and got up to his target speed of three point one miles per hour for a few minutes at a time.  As he watched the cars pass he thought,
I’m going to see these same cars later today, but I’ll be going the opposite direction.

Miraculously, Allen was still on schedule.  Approaching Vegas he spent two or three extra hours on the road each day.  His pace picked up little by little and he shaved some time off the walk each day.  The way he saw it, he didn’t have any other choice.  Not only did he have a goal to be back in Detroit by September 30, he needed to keep his hotel reservations.  Rescheduling each hotel along the route would take too much work.  Not to mention the packages of MREs and other supplies that would be delivered along the way.  He had put too much preparation into the trip to be knocked off course.

The line on the GPS that represented San Diego’s city limits slid closer and closer.  Allen pulled his cell phone out of his pocket.  Even though Jonathan was keeping tabs, Allen wanted to make sure he knew.

He quickened his stride and felt the familiar stretch in his ankle.  The target that represented him was almost on top of the city limit line and Allen had to zoom in to see a gap.  The distance indicator switched from .1 miles to 500 feet.  Allen scrolled to Jonathan’s number.  No sense in wasting time. 

He felt like shouting to the world “I made it!”  Like he’d accomplished something no one had ever done before.  Something heroic, yet personal.  And there was no one he wanted to call except Yvonne.

A hundred feet away he changed the number on the screen to the clinic where Yvonne was being treated.  They hadn’t spoken for over a month, due to her induced coma, but he had to try.

The distance wound down with every step and just before it approached zero Allen slowed and stopped.  Five feet.  He looked at the ground in front of him.  Desert dirt and grasses, little different than he’d walked through for the previous month.  A waist-high bush was within reach on his right side. 

Allen turned and looked back.  He could only see a few miles with his eyes, but he felt every one of 2,459 he’d crossed.