On December 22, Tony celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday. It hadn’t been a festive occasion for him. He found himself in much the same unhappy predicament as he had the year before, and the one before that, and the one before that.
At six-feet-five, Tony was tall enough to play professional basketball, were it not for the fact he weighed four-hundred pounds. In high school, he’d initially earned the center position on football squads, but the coaches felt that he lacked “the killer instinct,” and gave up on him.
Tony was overweight even as a toddler.
“Oh, it’s only baby fat,” his mama said.
As a teenager, he became obese, but his mama insisted, “He’s just a little chubby. He’ll grow out of it.”
Over the years, carrying two-hundred extra pounds had become extremely uncomfortable for Tony and affected every facet of his life—from lying in bed to straddling a toilet, from entering a car to squeezing into an airline seat designed for anorexic supermodels.
Tony complained that manufacturers ignored fat people, that they chose—for the sake of streamlining production—to pretend that worthy, weight-challenged, tax-paying citizens did not exist.
His mama didn’t mind, though. “There’s just mo’ of you to love,” she’d say and muss up his hair.

Contributing to his already low self-esteem was the fact that Tony, an American of African heritage, lived in a predominantly white society. He tried to find good in all people regardless of their pigmentation, but he also knew that many people, including members of his own race, couldn’t see beyond a human being’s skin color.
“Even if you’re not responsible for being knocked down, you are responsible for getting up,” was an observation mentioned by the Reverend Al Sharpton that Tony tried to keep in mind.
At an age where most had flown the nest, Tony still dwelled with his mother in his childhood apartment—a one-bedroom where he slept on the couch in the living room. The thought of leaving his mother felt wrong—she would remain alone, as he had no siblings, and the rest of their family lived in Mississippi, two thousand miles away from Los Angeles.

Tony worked as a meter maid. Because of his excessive weight, the car—similar in design to a golf cart, if a bit wider and longer—tilted on its side when he sat in it. In order to balance the car, he had to sit in its middle and steer while extending his right arm. The sight of Tony driving the tiny car became the butt of many jokes told by his coworkers. Tony took the ridicule in stride, though he sometimes panicked when contemplating that, unless he slimmed down, the jokes could go on indefinitely.

As a meter maid, Tony absorbed much anger from the public. It was his fault they couldn’t tell time and let the meter expire; it was his fault they didn’t have the right change in quarters; and it was his fault they ignored the sign: “30-Minute Parking Only.”
Tony wished he didn’t have to give out any citations at all, but he also knew that if people paid more attention, he wouldn’t have a job—his employment status being in direct proportion to the citizen’s poor time management.
Another most pressing issue lying heavily on Tony’s heart regarded his barren romantic interaction with the fairer sex. He remained extremely lenient about his potential mate’s physical attributes, yet no woman gravitated toward the idea of keeping his company.
Still, he kept alive the fantasy that one autumn evening, a cool drizzle dampening the parched earth, he will see her standing at a road crossing, a pink umbrella sheltering her from the rain. And she, too, will see him. Realizing their mutual destiny, they will rush toward each other to meet at the center of the intersection and lock in a passionate embrace that’ll last for eternity.

Thus, celebrating his twenty-eighth birthday with only himself and Mama constituted a sad occasion for Tony. He realized he’d squandered much of his time watching TV and eating junk food.

When it came to her son’s diet, Mama didn’t know any better: a Burger King stood on every corner and, for three dollars, she could buy him a burger, fries, and a coke. The meal filled little Tony’s stomach, and he enjoyed the food. Mama also carried the results of the nutritional choices she’d made, though, unlike her son, she didn’t mind being overweight.
Shortly before his birthday, Tony and Mama discussed their diet after watching a show about people who’d lost a lot of weight and who seemed proud and eager to share their experiences. The reporter explained that man’s desire for calories stemmed from survival instincts developed during a time when we all lived in caves and never knew where our next meal would come from.
Mama huffed, “I don’t come from no cave. Don’t them people read the Bible? I ain’t no monkey!”
Tony, who considered himself an astute observer of man’s fallacy and greed, could have argued that the theory of evolution had soundly proven we all used to be monkeys once upon a time. He knew, however, that such an argument wouldn’t sway his stubborn mother, who thought she was always right. Thus, he kept his opinion to himself. He was also jealous of the fat people who’d lost a lot of weight.

A terrifying memory haunting Tony while he blew out the candles on his birthday cake involved an incident that took place the week earlier, while he was writing a citation for a blue pickup truck parked at an expired meter. Two Latino youths stepped out of the shadows.
“Was he doin’?” the tall one asked.
“He’s givin’ you da ticket, homey,” the short one replied. He pulled out a gun and stuck it in Tony’s ample gut. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you!”
Tony displayed extensive knowledge and agility when it came to gangs. In his youth he’d joined one, but the gang leaders gave up on him; they said he lacked a “killer instinct.”
He could, however, grovel well.
“I apologize to you, sir. I apologize,” he said in a deep, earnest voice while ripping up the citation. “I meant no disrespect to you and your friend. In the future, I promise to recognize your vehicle in timely fashion and make sure you never receive a citation again.” He spoke calmly while backing away from the gun in his gut. He sat in the car and grinned at his aggressors who stood confused by his rhetoric. Sweating profusely and wishing meter maid cars were Corvettes, Tony chugged away.

Stuffing himself with chocolate fudge birthday cake, Tony sadly reflected upon his future as an obese man. In his desperation, he decided to investigate what the vitamin store on Lincoln Boulevard may have to offer. Supplements were advertised everywhere. Eating the wrong foods? Take a supplement. On a diet? Take a supplement. Want to be a vegetarian or even a vegan? Here’s a pill to help you do so.

The tiny store anchored the western corner of a small mall, and a bell—like the one occasionally found dangling from a cat’s collar—jingled pleasantly when he opened the wooden door. The store clerk, a middle-aged woman, was assisting other customers, and Tony stood fidgeting and waiting until the store emptied.
The woman approached him. She smiled radiantly, her teeth perfectly aligned and sparkling white; her blue eyes twinkled with the delight reserved for children before they enter an amusement park; her silver hair vibrant and thick, she wore a light blue cotton dress held by thin straps—her shoulders exposed to reveal smooth skin fit for a woman half her age. Her forehead was free of wrinkles, and her fingers were long and thin, like ones of a concert violinist.
Unsure what to ask for, or how to ask for it, Tony stood silently when the woman gently placed her finger to his lips. No one had ever touched his lips that way. It calmed him down.
“What’s your name, young man?” she asked.
“Tony,” he replied, feeling like a first-grader addressing his kind teacher.
“Hello, Tony. I’m Naomi. I know what brings you here, and I’ll help you succeed.” Her voice sounded sing-songy, like bells on a sleigh, or a nursery rhyme from a wind-up box.
Naomi held Tony’s hand and guided him to the back of the store where two chairs and a table set with a woven basket filled with fruit awaited them. She offered him an apple—red, with shades of pink and green. Tony rarely ate any fruit, and was pleasantly surprised when he bit into the apple and found it to be juicy and sweet.
“Is it to your liking?” Naomi asked.
Tony nodded.
“Good,” she said and offered him a chair.
Naomi sat with Tony for over an hour, going over food groups and outlining an eating schedule—he needed to eat small portions five or six times a day.
Unprepared for the detailed dietary information, Tony nonetheless found himself easily concentrating and retaining her instructions. Naomi insisted he must remember at all times that when his body desires fat and carbohydrates, it is doing so out of habit, a bad habit.
“Tony,” she said softly, “You need to learn how to ignore the cravings, and replace them with positive affirmations of the skinnier, happier Tony now in the making.”
Naomi also promoted daily exercise, though she warned him about overdoing it. She said that exercise will help build a reservoir of endorphins within him. Endorphins was a new word to Tony, and he liked the ring of it—a mysterious, authoritative power, like a benevolent extraterrestrial race seen on Star Trek—a show he unabashedly watched, over, and over, and over.
Naomi smiled and patted Tony’s shoulder. He felt empowered and happy. They walked to the entrance where, standing on her tippy-toes, Naomi kissed his forehead and wished him good luck on his new road to slimness. Though he left without vitamins, Tony did leave with a supplement—an educational and spiritual one.
He couldn’t wait to tell Mama about the enchanting woman he met at the vitamin store and all the wonderful things she taught him. He spoke in his booming voice, his giant arms animated. When he was finished, Mama smiled, raised her eyebrows and said, “Naomi is an angel sent from heaven to help you.”
Tony, who seriously doubted the existence of angels, sighed, but let Mama, who thought she was always right, think her thoughts.

Mama claimed that Tony was the most stubborn man on the planet. Sometimes, he wouldn’t listen to anyone, especially not his dear old mother. She liked telling the story of when eight year old Tony decided to build a house of cards using two decks. He took days to study the different angles until, one evening, he tiptoed into her room and whispered, “Mama, come see my house of cards. But you have to walk careful so the house don’t fall.”
The first floor was constructed with fifty-eight cards, the second with thirty-two, and the third with twenty. The tip was two cards leaning against each other. Little Tony smiled proudly, and Mama exclaimed, “You’re such a smart little boy.”

That same stubbornness proved useful the next morning, when the alarm clock rang at five o’clock. Tony laced up his new pair of walking shoes, and stepped into the quiet streets. He almost fainted after walking ten minutes, but that only strengthened his resolve.
Hoping for motivation to come via exercising with his fellow men and women, Tony joined a gym. But after the first visit, embarrassed by his body and the disparaging glances he received from attractive women, Tony decided to exercise in a park, which accommodated a small pond with ducks, goldfish, and water lilies, and where he found joy in watching squirrels rush up and down trees and hearing birds cry out their morning calls.
On one occasion, Mama braved the early morning hours and joined him. She sat on a bench and tossed bread to the ducks while her son rumbled along. Watching his determination, Mama smiled and thanked Naomi, the angel sent by the Lord to guide her son.

Hungry all the time, Tony carried with him a large bag of carrot and celery sticks, and ate ten apples a day. He tossed salads layered with lean chicken, simmered pots filled with vegetable stews comprised of pumpkins, zucchinis, eggplant, and cabbage, and diligently eliminated all starches, processed sugars, and breads from his diet.

Six months later, after losing seventy pounds and weighing in at a svelte three hundred and thirty, Tony observed his reflection in the mirror and smiled with well-deserved vanity. He wanted to thank the gracious woman who’d consulted him, but when he visited the vitamin store, Naomi wasn’t there. The clerk said he was new on the job and hadn’t yet met her.

Another six months passed. Tony could now jog three miles and had lost another sixty pounds. He’d quit his job as a meter maid and now worked for a landscaping company that managed the estates of wealthy people. One of his jobs took him to Shaquille O’Neal’s mansion, and the “Big Fellow,” granted him two tickets to a Lakers game.
His date to the game was Maria, a sweet and voluptuous woman he’d recently met at a Star Trek convention. She adored Tony and promised to lose weight, unless she got pregnant, which Mama incessantly endorsed and encouraged.

His willpower teetered on the brink many times. When it did, Tony fondly remembered Naomi’s finger upon his lips, and her kiss on his forehead. He visited the store again. The clerk said that Naomi probably didn’t work there anymore, and advised Tony consult the owner who came in every morning at nine.
Tony did so. The owner said she didn’t know anyone named Naomi, and when Tony described the enchanting woman, the owner shook her head and said Tony was probably thinking about a different store.
“Are you sure?” he asked.
The owner smiled. “I am, though I wish I had someone like Naomi working here. She sounds like a fascinating woman.”
Tony walked away bewildered. But when he told Mama about the strange outcome, she shrugged with maternal authority. “You never listen to your Mama. I told you she was an angel sent from heaven. Naomi is long gone, back with the Lord. When will you grow up and understand that your Mama’s always right.”

TEXT_Ilan Herman