The Crowd Melts in a Thousand “OY!”s

Grandma Wini’s a reader, not a card player. But she likes her ladies so she begrudgingly attends the weekly gathering. Everyone’s dressed up and the room is a riot of horizontal stripes, wide collar blouses, high-waisted polyester pants, and bleached bouffants.

When we enter, Howie and I are assaulted with offers of powdery mints, supermarket cakes, and big glasses of milk. We’re directed to our seats at the end of the room while the ladies assemble on an orange velour couch and scattered rope chairs. The chatting and gossiping commences, each seeming to feign surprise, shock, or delight. But the moment Howie instructs me to fire up the projector and flash the black-and-white fat boy photos, everything changes. Pearl, Belle, Shirley, and Zella melt spontaneously into a collective grandmother’s ooze, helpless against the lure of a plump little boy and his innocent smile. “It’s frickin’ Pavlovian,” Howie observes in a whisper.

The idea of helping a California hippie with no tan line and a bulging shlong is a nonstarter for the little old ladies of Marblehead. They’re not so rigid as to reject him out of hand, they simply can’t wrap their heads around how, in the social circles they run in, they can justify even speaking about his campaign. But the picture of that dressed-up little fat boy, tie tight to his neckless chin, hair parted painstakingly so? It’s too much for them to bear. They can’t not help him.

“I don’t believe it,” the ladies say. “That can’t be you!”

And Howie tells his story. Not about getting his picture taken in a fancy studio with Jacqueline Smith’s photographer and dog, or having the women on set help him pop a boner. No, the one about a fat little boy who makes good: a story they can all relate to. One they had wished for their own children but didn’t come true.

Howie points to the black-and-white school photo of himself. “They didn’t call kids like me ‘fat’ back then. They called us ‘husky.’ Wonderful euphemism. I’m thirteen here.”

And the crowd melts in a thousand “Oy!”s.

“Wini! Where did you find him?”

“He just fell into our lives. Isn’t he delicious?”

“Around the age of seventeen, after a poor showing on the college boards and not much success at … boyfriend-girlfriend activities…” Titter titter. “… it was time to do something serious about it. It’s not easy to connect with girls when you’re carrying around all that blubber and you have the largest cup size in the seventh grade. I had to change.”

“He’s so funny! But it’s not funny, it’s sad. Just imagine. My Earl was like that. Amy Finkelstein broke his little heart.”

“So I stayed home from school for two months during my junior year. I lifted weights and ate nothing but lettuce and meat and studied for college boards. And in two months’ time I dropped from heavyweight to welterweight.”

“See? A little discipline.”

“What? You want Eugene dropping out of school just to lose weight?”

“I went back to school confident, in charge. I took the college boards again and raised my scores a hundred points. I got elected class president.”

“I’m pulling Eugene out tomorrow. What’s a couple of months?”

“And having this body was like having a new toy.”

“And what a toy.”

“Ethel!”

“The first half my life I was Quasimodo. I wanted the next half to be Clark Gable. And let me be clear, ladies: I want to be healthy and handsome, yes, but I don’t take it too far. When the frog turns prince, he still knows he’s the exact same person inside. That’s when you realize how silly it is, what people reward you for. This?” He points to a photo of his washboard. “It’s so superficial,” he says softly, dropping his gaze and pausing for effect.

“And values! He has his heart in the right place. After all that getting naked. It’s a mekhaye. A mekhaye.”

“But it sure feels good when the ladies want to take a second look!”

The ladies erupt in laughter and questions. “Howie! Howie! What kind of diet are you on? Wait! Let me get a pen.”

He smiles, circulating among his new fans. “It’s not a diet you just jump on. You want to get it off and keep it off. So you need to live a diet. I eat one meal a day.”

“That’s not healthy. Look at him. He looks famished.”

“Oh, shush. He’s a doll.”

“And since these days I make a living off my body I keep that one meal real lean. I eat a lot, but I eat foods that don’t make me fat. Vegetables and meats. Brussels sprouts and chicken. No skin.” My back to the audience, I make a barfing face at him but he ignores me, his gaze moving skyward, appealing to the heavens. “Oh, but I do look forward to a time when I can let my natural pig emerge and just turn into Orson Welles.”

“That’ll be the day!”

My presence at these events provokes a predictable reaction. The well-meaning ladies look aghast when I join Howie at the center of the circle to discuss our campaign for Playgirl Man of the Year. They try to shuttle me away, into their arms, covering my ears or eyes with their warm, wrinkly hands, holding me tight against their soft chests. It’s like being taken into the bosom of a thousand Grandma Winis. And while none of them could ever come close to the love super nova she showers onto me, I allow myself to fall fully into the fine galaxy of their affection.

“He’s a big boy,” Howie assures the ladies of Marblehead. “And I promise that all the adult images are for your eyes only, and only for those who wish to see them. This is a G-rated presentation and my campaign manager is privy only to those photographs and materials that fall under that strict rating.”

“Isn’t that lying?” I whisper.

“Selective omission.”

“Lying?”

“Prestidigitation.”

“Lying.”

“Don’t be a buzzkill.” Then, to his audience: “Who here has a grandson with a punim you can’t help but squeeze?”