Less Than Hero (17 page)

While I’m with Charlie and don’t believe Frank has been
behind the hallucinations or muggings, Vic’s apparently not so convinced.

“Oh, you know.” Frank takes a bite of his Big Mac. “A little bit of this. A little bit of that.”

From the looks of it, Frank has been up to a little bit of this, a little bit of that,
and
a lot of the other. If he hasn’t gained another ten pounds, then Charlie doesn’t have an inferiority complex.

“I see you’re still storing up for winter,” Vic says.

I’m expecting Frank to counter with some angry comment about his weight. Instead, he sucks down the last of his drink and belches. “Not exactly.”

Frank sits at a table at a Dunkin’ Donuts on Tenth and West Forty-Fourth, eating half a dozen Double Cocoa Kreme doughnuts for breakfast and washing them down with a large Dunkaccino. He was going to order an extra-large Dunkaccino, but he didn’t want to be a glutton.

Up until about a month ago, Frank hadn’t stepped inside a Dunkin’ Donuts in years, not even for coffee. At first it was a matter of avoiding temptation. He didn’t want to end up overweight and depressed like he was for the first six months after his divorce. Once he started guinea-pigging, he laid off sweets and empty carbs that might increase his risk of being disqualified from a trial. Not to mention that a diet high in sugar, trans fats, and salt can lead to type 2 diabetes, hypertension, and heart disease.

Frank has always found it kind of ironic that pharmaceutical companies make prescription drugs to help treat humans for their poor lifestyle choices.

But over the last few weeks, Frank has given in to his temptation more often than not. In the last week alone, he’s been to Dunkin’ Donuts three times, including this one. While he knows how easy it is to become addicted to sweet foods and to the rush of a sugar high, the brain telling him that he’s still hungry even though he’s already eaten three doughnuts, Frank can’t seem to help himself.

It’s not that the doughnuts are so yummy, which they are. It’s more like he’s eating to stock up on resources, like his body knows he’s going to need them but isn’t letting his brain in on the plan.

So he finishes off Double Cocoa Kreme number three, knowing that he’s had more than enough but unable to stop himself from picking up number four and biting into it. The fried cake and the creamy center fill his mouth with sugary goodness, which he washes down with a long pull on his large Dunkaccino. Frank realizes with a sense of despair there’s not enough of his drink left to complement the rest of his half-dozen deep-fried confections.

While Frank is bemoaning his decision not to order the extra-large version of his beverage, a couple of frat boys walk in, one with dark hair and the other blond and both of them fit and trim and barely out of their college diapers. They order up matching bacon, egg, and cheese bagels with medium coffees, then sit down with their fourteen ounces of caffeine apiece and wait until their bagels are ready. One of them looks Frank’s way and gets a smirk on his face like he’s about to make a wisecrack, which he does after he turns back to his friend. Then they both look at Frank and start laughing.

Frank knows he’s packed on extra weight. The other guinea
pigs remind him of it every chance they get, so it’s kind of hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother him—not the questions and the ribbing, but the fact that he can’t seem to keep the pounds off.

He doesn’t know why he’s been so hungry, craving pastries and fast food and milk shakes and wanting seconds of everything when he knows he should be full. It baffles him, because he’s made a point of taking care of himself and watching his weight, especially when he’s getting ready for a trial. He prides himself on his preparation, on being able to trim down and get himself in shape, on having better discipline than the other guinea pigs. But lately, his discipline has been taken hostage by his appetite.

Frank finishes off his fourth doughnut and the last of his drink as the two frat boys continue to look his way and laugh. If Vic were here, he would start in on his talk about how the two of them were douche bags. And for once, Frank would be inclined to agree.

Anger and resentment build inside of Frank. He’s always had a problem with anger, ever since he was a kid. Tantrums and bursts of vitriol were just part of his daily existence. Most children go through the Terrible Twos, but for Frank the Terrible Twos lasted until he was eleven. That’s when he discovered girls, or at least discovered that he was interested in them and wondered what it would be like to kiss one without being worried about cooties. For some reason, that caused him to turn into a more pleasant human being.

But ever since the divorce, Frank’s anger has been surfacing more often, making guest appearances and cameos whenever he gets frustrated or annoyed or when he can’t figure out why he can’t stop eating.

While he knows he’s not hungry and he should just get up and go home, maybe take a walk to get some exercise, Frank grabs doughnut number five and takes a bite, the cream squishing out around the sides of his mouth and a glob of it dropping onto his T-shirt.

The blond frat boy makes a sound reminiscent of a pig squealing while his dark-haired doppelgänger brays laughter like a donkey; then the guy behind the counter calls out their order.

As Blondie walks past him to the pickup counter, Frank’s anger flares up and he gets this feeling inside of him, a bloating in his stomach, like he’s suffering from indigestion or gas. Except it feels stronger. More intense. And it’s not just his stomach. Frank feels as if his entire body is expanding, growing larger. When he looks down he half expects to see himself inflating, like Violet Beauregarde in
Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory
. Except his body remains the same size. And his skin hasn’t turned a deep shade of blue. And there aren’t any Oompa Loompas singing and getting ready to roll him away.

Even though Frank feels like he’s about to burst, he also feels as if he’s floating, suspended in air—though in his current state of mind he feels less like a kite and more like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

Oh no
, he thinks.
Not again
.

Frank closes his eyes and takes several deep breaths, trying to calm down and relax before it’s too late. But the sound of laughter distracts him and he opens his eyes and sees the two frat boys sitting at their table, biting into their bacon, egg, and cheese bagels, glancing over at him, laughing.

So much for calm and relaxed.

Frank stares at Blondie and imagines himself floating, a big inflatable Frank going higher and higher into the atmosphere—the pressure outside of him decreasing while the volume of gas inside of him continues to expand until, inevitably, he pops.

Blondie drops his bagel then opens his mouth and lets out a strange sound, a cross between a strangled cry and a squeak. An instant later, Blondie starts to expand, his hands and arms and torso swelling up.

“Oh shit!” His buddy pushes away from the table and stands up. “Hey! I think he’s having an allergic reaction or something!”

Or something
is right.

Blondie continues to inflate, his shirt stretching and tearing at the seams. He lets out a strangled cry as the top button pops on his pants and the inseam starts to rip.

“Help,” he squeaks.

One of the customers is calling 911, while another is performing his civic duty by taking a video with his cell phone. Several people come over to see if they can help, but everyone else has stopped what they’re doing to watch the spectacle. Some of them move farther away, apparently afraid that whatever is happening might be contagious.

Frank realizes he’s not hungry anymore. Not only that, he feels lighter. When he looks down he hopes to discover that he’s lost some weight, but other than his sweatpants feeling a little looser around the waist, he’s the same goddamn size he was when he sat down to eat his half dozen doughnuts. Blondie, on the other
hand, has popped every stitch and seam on his clothes and looks like he’s gained more than thirty pounds.

This isn’t the first time this has happened. There was the steroid monkey at McDonald’s, the NYU coeds at Shake Shack, and the snarky tourists at Papaya Dog. But Frank doesn’t want to admit he had anything to do with what happened to them. The idea is ridiculous and unreasonable and beyond the laws of biology and physics. The problem is, Frank’s beginning to think that those laws might not apply to him anymore.

Frank gets up from his table, takes one final look at the inflated frat boy, and walks out of Dunkin’ Donuts, leaving the last of his Double Cocoa Kremes behind.

T
wo days later, the six of us (Frank, Charlie, Vic, Randy, Isaac, and I) are in lower Manhattan after 10:00 p.m. on a Saturday night, on our way to help some of the homeless who have been getting mugged in Battery Park. It’s our first official foray as superheroes. Our own little band of Mystery Men. The Super Six.

Or, as Vic likes to call us: the Mutant Squad.

We’re all wearing hoodies or baseball hats to help conceal our identities and keep a low profile. Charlie, on the other hand, thinks we should have worn capes.

“They come in five colors,” he says. “Red, blue, yellow, black, and green. They even have silver and gold lamé. And they’re only thirty bucks!”

“What part of ‘keeping a low profile’ do you not understand?” Vic says.

“Let him have his fun,” Frank says around a mouthful of the turkey sandwich he bought at Duane Reade. “It makes him happy.”

Frank’s a lot more easygoing since he’s accepted what’s happening to him.

When Frank told us about his ability, we were sure he’d want to adhere to his bullshit Guinea Pig Code and report his mutation to the proper authorities. But like the rest of us, he was more concerned about the possibility of ending up in a research lab than he was about any potential long-term effects.

Some people might say we’re being stupid and risking our health in order to live out some childish comic book fantasy. Maybe they’re right. Maybe they’re smarter than we are. Or maybe they’ve never felt lost or useless, as if their existence didn’t matter.

Common sense doesn’t stand much of a chance when you’ve been given the opportunity to be something greater than you ever imagined.

When we walk past the Staten Island Ferry terminal, I glance up at the curved glass façade of 17 State Street stretching forty-two stories into the sky and I think about quantum mechanics and cause and effect and Sophie, and I wonder how much longer I’m going to be able to keep this from her. It’s a good thing she works nights or I’d have a lot of explaining to do.

Now I understand why most superheroes are single.

As we walk into Battery Park, Frank pulls out a two-pack of Little Debbie cupcakes and starts eating one.

“I hope you brought enough to share,” Vic says.

A number of drugs are associated with weight gain or increased appetite. The irony is that a lot of medications used to treat obesity-related conditions like diabetes, hypertension, and depression can cause those who are taking the drugs to gain weight.

Frank finishes the first of his Little Debbie cupcakes before starting in on the second.

“Is that healthy?” Randy asks, then takes a drag on his cigarette.

Frank looks at Randy. “Are you kidding?”

Randy used to smoke in high school but quit once he got hooked on cardio and weightlifting. Lately, however, he’s become fidgety and says smoking an occasional cigarette helps to calm his nerves and keep him focused.

“Everyone ready?” I ask.

Charlie, Vic, and Isaac nod, while Frank answers in the affirmative around a mouthful of cupcake.

The plan calls for one of us to act as a decoy in order to draw the attention of any would-be muggers. The idea is to isolate our targets without causing any innocent homeless people to projectile vomit or break out in purpuric eruptions.

We’re still getting the hang of this superhero thing.

“Randy?” I say.

Randy volunteered to be the decoy and dressed up in some old clothes and a knit beanie and brought along a forty of Olde English 800 in a brown paper bag.