Buddy

Buddy called this morning, very excited about what he called his “new figure.” I was excited for Buddy. He had been maybe twenty or thirty pounds overweight and, as no one had seen him for a few months, I assumed he had lost some of this excess weight.

I decided to throw a party in honor of his new figure.

“I’m real glad to hear about this,” I told him. “I think everyone should see you.”

A hundred guests must have shown up between eight and nine o’clock, all eager to see what had become referred to as the “new Buddy.”

Buddy got there around 10:30. It looked like he had put on 200 pounds. Everyone burst out laughing. They couldn’t control themselves. I laughed too, the gin and tonic I was enjoying shooting through my nose and making my eyes tear up. Festive music came through the house speakers.

Buddy seemed totally undaunted. “No, wait, you haven’t seen anything yet!” he announced with the same enthusiasm I’d heard in his voice that morning.

He stripped off his shirt and glided out into the middle of the floor. As everyone’s laughter died down a bit, the music seemed to get louder and Buddy started dancing, flinging his filled skin in all different directions. He made a series of raunchy faces. Buddy’s new figure made him look too middle-aged and weird to really be Buddy, but he continued dancing, rolling that gut in people’s faces while contorting his own.

It was simultaneous, I think, the feeling that we had all quickly come to hate the new Buddy.