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TUMMY BUDDIESr
  by Brian Pomeroy
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  "It's the hottest health craze since aerobics!"

  "No more starvation diets! No more strenuous exercise!"

  "Now YOU TOO can get in on this fitness phenomenon at a price 
that will NEVER be offered again!"

  "TUMMY BUDDIESr is a revolutionary weight loss system that takes 
the hassle out of losing those unwanted pounds. With your set of 
TUMMY BUDDIESr, you'll be able to eat all you want, relax all you 
want . . . and still lose all the weight you want! Say `goodbye' to 
torture diets and exercises-say `hello' to looking great! Sound like 
a miracle? It isn't! Put tomorrow's weight loss technology to work 
today . . . all for only $129.95. That's right . . . . ONLY! One-
twenty-NINE-ninety-five! This offer ends at midnight tonight, and 
WILL NOT BE REPEATED! Here's how to order . . . ."

  Cheryl ran to get her note pad the moment the ordering address 
flashed on the screen. She dug through piles of papers and books in 
her bookcase as the announcer repeated the address and 1-800 number 
once, twice, three times. Finally, beneath a year-old issue of 
COSMOPOLITAN, she found it -- a no-frills writing pad with barely a 
clean sheet left. 
 
  The ad had gone off, but she had at least remembered the 
toll-free number. Her eyes scoured the bookcase for a pen or other 
such instrument. A stubby pencil with a worn-down tip rested on the 
top shelf. She grabbed it and jotted down the number on the first 
sheet of the note pad she turned to; a cold shiver ran down her arm 
as she wrote with the worn point.
 
  Cheryl then threw down the pad and jogged to the other side of 
her partment. Her purse rested on an end table by the front door. 
Grabbing the purse like a vicious puppy, she flipped it over and 
shook it, letting its guts spill to the floor. Cosmetics . . . dollar 
bills . . . coins . . . keys . . . broken earrings . . . two small 
bottles of Tylenol . . . everything fell out. But where the hell was 
her MasterCard?
  
  In the bedroom! Bureau drawer! She put it there so she 
wouldn't use it impulsively. Was this impulsive? Hardly! This was 
the opportunity of a lifetime . . . .
 
  As she scurried to the bedroom, she passed by a full-length 
mirror in the hallway. She stopped to look, but only for a second. 
Her sandy hair was perfectly in place. Her sky-blue eyes gleamed.
 
  You're fat. So damned fat. Everybody thinks you're disgusting!
 
  She moved on. Midnight tonight, she thought to herself. That isn't 
much time. Only a few hours, when you think about it. And what time 
zone are these people in, anyway? They could close at any minute!
  
  In the bedroom, she threw open the top drawer, where she kept 
her underwear and small items that, in any other place, would find 
their way to that never-never-land of lost miscellany. She stirred 
through the junk in that drawer until a silver gleam struck her eye.
  
  The MasterCard! With her name inscribed upon it! Praise be to God!
  
  Cheryl grabbed her MasterCard, pinching it between her fingers 
as tightly as she could, for fear it would take flight. She dove on 
her bed and grabbed the phone. The pad bearing the phone number was 
in the other room, but it didn't matter. The number was burned into 
her mind; she would dream about that number thirty years from today. 
Punching out the phone number on the keypad, her heart did a dance 
inside her chest. This is it, she thought. My moment, the one I've 
been living for all my life!

                               *  *  *

  Naomi stood by the microwave patiently, waiting for the rotary 
dial to complete its journey to zero. She tapped her fingers on the 
formica counter top as she peered inside the oven to check on her 
chicken casserole. As a microwave gourmet, she knew the value of 
precise timing just as much as a Nobel scientist did. Five seconds 
too short, and the meal would be cold and clammy on the inside. Five 
seconds too long, and the meal would scorch.
 
  This particular casserole left no margin for error. The recipe 
was intended not for microwavers, however careful; its path was paved 
with near misses and dishes that were pretty good-edible, but still 
demanding the after-dinner Maalox.
  
  The microwave dinged, and Naomi opened the door carefully. She 
took a whiff of the casserole's aroma. Not bad, she thought. Not 
bad at all for lunchtime leftovers.
 
  With paper towels in hand, she lifted the dish from the microwave 
to the lunch table. Another woman sat at the table, giving Naomi and 
her casserole a grim stare. "Bring that stuff here again and I'm 
gonna shoot you," the woman said to Naomi.
  
  Naomi smiled. "Want some?" She held the dish forward.
  
  The woman shook her head and laughed. "Oh, God! No way!" The woman 
held up her thin ham sandwich. "I feel guilty enough eating this as 
it is. But thank you."
 
  Naomi sat down and began eating her casserole. "Jackie . . ." 
she said to the woman as she began eating, "you need to lose weight 
the way Mick Jagger needs a lip enlargement." 
  
  Jackie said nothing, but kept on eating her thin sandwich. The 
klonk-klonk-klonk of hard heels hitting the wood floor made the 
two women look up.
  
  "Hi, folks," Cheryl chirped as she walked toward the small 
refrigerator. 
  
  "Boy, you're cheery today," Naomi said to Cheryl. "What 'appen? 
They fire Mr. Dontelli?"
 
  "Oh, please! Nothing that mundane!"
  
  "You won the lottery, and now every gorgeous single guy in the 
tri-state area's killing to be able to ask you out," Jackie said 
in a monotone voice.
  
  "Ah . . . that's old news!" Cheryl made a snooty face, then 
her eyes bulged.
 
  "I've finally found a sure-fire way to lose weight!" Her grin 
was big enough to hold Alaska and Texas, with room to spare.
  
  "What's it this time?" Jackie asked. "Lock yourself in a vault?"
  
  "Cute." Cheryl paused. "It's Tummy Buddies!"
  
  Naomi made a scowl. "What the hell are Tummy Buddies?"
  
  "It's this new fool-proof way to diet! All you do is take a 
pill, and you can eat all you want and never gain an ounce. 
Incredible, or what?"
  
  "My girlfriend's sister used Tummy Buddies. Lost nearly 150 
pounds." It was Tom, the office messenger.
  
  "No kidding," Naomi said. "One hundred and fifty pounds! Wow."
  
  "She must look great," Jackie said. Cheryl smiled in self-triumph.
  
  "Dunno," Tom said. "Haven't seen her in months." With that he 
passed through and was gone.
 
  That evening, Naomi drove home in her red Ford Festiva, as 
usual. She had a twenty-minute ride south along the interstate, but 
unless there was an ccident or construction, the drive rarely 
bothered her. The drive meant time to herself, to listen to the radio 
or a new tape, or just to think uietly. On this night, she thought 
and thought. Work, though, was the last thing on her mind. What was 
on her mind were Cheryl and these Tummy Buddies.
  
  A smile came to Naomi's face as she recalled the first thing 
that every visitor to Cheryl's office noticed the eight-by-ten 
photo of Cheryl holding a bouquet of red roses, grinning exuberantly, 
waving at an unseen crowd, and wearing a small crown and a sash that 
read MISS MID-ATLANTIC U.S.A. The photo, heavily faded and showing 
Cheryl, with her outmoded dress and hairstyle, sporting the crown of 
a now-discontinued pageant, must have been at least twenty years old. 
And it seemed so silly that Cheryl, with her education and career, 
should find it necessary to display such a relic. Such a frivolous, 
insignificant relic at that.
  
  But Naomi realized all too well why that picture was there. 
Even the most unobservant people could tell that the Cheryl in that 
photograph was no different -- absolutely no different -- from the 
Cheryl seated before them. Not one wrinkle, not one pimple, not one 
fat cell had appeared on that beauty-queen body since the day it 
glided down the runway of another era.
 
  And yet, that body would never be good enough for its occupant.
  
  Naomi had known Cheryl for a long time. Men came and went, 
laying gifts at her feet as though she were the baby Jesus. Male 
bosses made sure she was pampered and promoted over more senior and 
better qualified employees -- all in the hope that, one day -- they 
might get lucky. One story had it that Cheryl first started working 
at the company as a receptionist, but had been "bumped upstairs" 
because her boss was threatened with cruel and unusual divorce.
  
  His wife, it seems, had gotten an eyeful of Cheryl in one of 
her miniskirt-and-tight-sweater outfits. If the wife had seen what 
Cheryl wore during the last company beach trip, Naomi thought, she 
would have had a stroke.
  
  Tummy Buddies was only the latest of Cheryl's weight-loss 
obsessions. And although nothing was needed, nothing worked well 
enough. She was always too fat, too ugly, not sexy enough, whatever.
  
  Perhaps that was the work of the Devil, exacting his due for 
the gift of physical perfection. He tortured those beauties, telling 
them that no matter how they dressed, how they made themselves up, 
how religiously they took care of themselves, they would forever be 
worthless slime.
  
  But this Tummy Buddies thing . . . Naomi had read the brochure 
that Cheryl had given her on the product, and it did seem like a 
dieter's dream. Eat all you want, sit around all you want, and those 
pounds will still fall away. Cheryl was elated by it, convinced it 
was a gift from God.
  
  Or another one of the Devil's tricks, Naomi thought. She tried to 
repress her smile, but she couldn't.

                               *  *  *

  Cheryl gingerly placed her bare feet on the bathroom scale. The 
dial flopped back and forth until a number centered on the stationary 
needle. 
  
  One hundred even! Four pounds gone this week!
  
  Cheryl let out a huge sigh of relief. She had eaten two frozen 
ravioli dinners the night before, and they hadn't left an ounce 
behind! Smugly she shoved her hands into the deep pockets of her 
blue terry cloth bathrobe. She then turned around and headed to her 
bedroom.
  
  Cheryl re-emerged wearing a white sweatsuit. The fact that the 
pants hardly stayed up now delighted Cheryl. Two weeks ago, the 
pants barely fit.
  
  The Tummy Buddies show is probably still on, Cheryl thought. She 
walked over to the TV set, turned it on, and flopped on her small, 
soft couch. If I were doing this the old-fashioned way, Cheryl 
thought, I'd be bench-pressing ten thousand pounds right now!
  
  The TV revealed an announcer with a glowing grin and a long 
black microphone. He had a deep tan, and each hair was perfectly on 
place. "Let's get some reaction about TUMMY BUDDIESr from our studio 
audience, shall we?" he said into the microphone. The camera swung 
toward the audience, mostly women but with some men, who were 
cheering wildly as if they were at a football game.
  
  The announcer pointed his microphone at one of the audience 
members, who quickly stood up. Her face and neck looked very thin; 
the blouse she was wearing looked like it was made for someone three 
times her size. 
 
  "What's your name, ma'am?"
 
  "Ah'm Celia Rhoades," the woman answered in a light Southern 
accent.
  
  "And where are you from, ma'am?" The announcer's grin didn't 
falter once.
  
  "Ah'm from Elk Parkway, Mary-land."
  
  "And what do you think of TUMMY BUDDIESr, ma'am?"
  
  "Ah LOVE 'EM!!" Celia Rhoades thrashed around as though two 
million volts of electricity had surged through her. The audience 
hooted, clapped and hollered.
  
  "How much weight have you lost with TUMMY BUDDIESr, ma'am?" The 
teeth were still in place.
  
  "Since ah started, ah've lost one hundred pounds. And ah'm 
still goin'!" The audience cheered Celia as though she were a wide 
receiver who had just caught a "Hail Mary" pass. 
  
  "Besides helping you lose all that weight, ma'am, how have 
TUMMY BUDDIESr changed your life?"
  
  "Well, ah just feel better about mahself, and mah husband says 
ah look better than I did when I was eighteen! It's done wonders for 
mah love life . . . if ya know what I mean." She winked at the 
announcer and grinned.
  
  The audience, becoming a rally of high school freshmen, let out a
collective, good-natured wolf whistle.
  
  Cheryl's pulse quickened. She felt as if she, too, were part of 
the audience. She wanted to be interviewed by that announcer and tell 
the world how well she was doing. Soon she would be perfect. So very, 
very perfect.
  
  So very sexy and beautiful and . . . 
  
  "You're a goddamned fat slob! You're so damn ugly, I don't think 
a pig would marry you!"
  
  That voice! It was back.
  
  She looked at the TV; in front of it stood her father, a huge, 
balding man, who ate crowbars for breakfast. 
  
  "You're a goddamned disgrace," he muttered to her. "I oughta throw 
you out to live with the pigs!"
  
  Cheryl choked on her own breath. She closed her eyes, shutting 
her eyelids so tight that her eyes began to water. Then she opened 
them. Her father was gone.
  
  She could feel her heart quaking inside her chest. Her hands 
grabbed the one arm of the couch and propelled her body upward. She 
ran into the bathroom again and stripped off her sweatsuit as though 
it were on fire.
  
  Finally free of all unnecessary weight, she mounted the scale. 
  
  Yes! One hundred still! It wasn't a dream. It was real. So very, 
very real.

  That night, as Cheryl fell asleep, she dreamed about the very 
first boy she ever dated. He was polite and handsome. His father was 
a Methodist minister, and he wanted to go to seminary. He also 
collected unique stones. When he first asked her out, he had given 
her his most prized stone, a sapphire, because it was stunningly 
beautiful -- like her.
  
  They had had a wonderful time on their date -- until he brought 
Cheryl home.
  
  There, her father was waiting. He accused the boy of being a 
pervert and punched the boy so hard in the face that his left cheek 
was purple for weeks.
  
  If the boy's parents had been different people in a different time, 
they would have sued her father, and might have even pressed criminal 
charges.
  
  But they didn't. They were gentle, forgiving people-too gentle and
forgiving to deal with her father.
 
  Cheryl tossed and turned all night, waking up several times in a 
warm sweat.
 
  At one point she rolled over to look at her alarm clock. The 
squared-off red numbers said 3:42. She sighed, knowing that the 
coming day would most certainly bring fatigue and a migraine headache.
 
  As she rolled back over, she saw an odd shadow at the foot of the 
bed. She sat up to take a closer look.
  
  "Hello," said the shadow.
  
  She gasped, then her lungs stopped working. She froze. Not even 
her pulse moved. She looked hard at the shadow. It resembled that of 
a man, but no one specifically.
  
  "I'm here to collect my back pay," the shadow said.
  
  Cheryl couldn't speak. Her whole body tingled with fright.
  
  "The only thing you ever wanted in life was to be beautiful. And 
that's what you are. You are very, very divine..."
  
  Cheryl let out a high-pitched squeal.
 
  "Oh, don't be frightened," the shadow said. "At least, not yet."
  
  "Who . . . who . . . who are you?" squeaked Cheryl.
  
  "I'm your keeper," the shadow said. "I've taken care of you all 
these years. And now you owe me for it. And believe me, you owe me 
big!"
  
  Cheryl lunged at the shadow, but nothing was there. She sat on 
the bed for a moment and tried to catch her breath. Shaking, she 
crawled back into bed and tried to think happy thoughts. Think how 
well your Tummy Buddies are working, she thought. Think of how much 
weight you're losing!

  Around 4:30 Cheryl awoke with stomach cramps. Must have been that 
ice cream, she thought. I'm lactose-intolerant for sure.
  
  She swung herself out of bed and shuffled to the bathroom. As 
quickly as she could, she got herself situated on the toilet and 
opened up her bowels.
  
  It seemed to her that gallons of straight liquid were pouring out.
Her bowels were empty, but she still had cramps. She stood up and, 
for a moment, glanced down into the toilet bowl. 
  
  Something moved.
  
  Her eyes were then riveted to the toilet bowl. She made it a 
rule -- never to look into a toilet bowl -- into her own defecation. 
But this time she could not resist.
  
  The water rippled. Something in there was moving.
  
  Cheryl's heart pounded as she maintained a vigil over her toilet 
bowl. The stench of the feces was starting to get to her. A long 
white object swam up to the surface, and then disappeared. Maybe the 
sewer's backed up, Cheryl thought. Maybe stuff is coming up from
the sewers. 
  
  She felt the urge to go again, so she flushed and got back on 
the seat. After she was finished, instead of getting up off the seat, 
she remained seated, staring at the ceiling. She was afraid to get 
up, afraid of seeing what she never liked looking at to begin with.
 
  But she did get up. And she did look down into the toilet.
Hundreds of white strings squiggled in the water amongst her 
feces. Cheryl felt dizzy, and had the urge to vomit. She could feel 
it coming up through her esophagus, so she shut her eyes and leaned 
over the toilet. She could hear the worms splashing around as she 
vomited.
 
  For only a moment -- she looked at her vomit. Something. Something 
that looked like fresh-boiled spaghetti.
  
  "You owe me big!" a voice out of the air said. Then laughter . . . 
vicious, evil laughter.
  
  She felt very, very thin -- and frail. Everything went black, and 
she fell head-first into the bowl. Scurrying through her mouth and 
nose, racing to her bowels and lungs, went dozens of frantic worms -- 
her BUDDIES -- along with her own vomit and shit.

                               *  *  *

  Several weeks later, the local paper ran a story about the FDA 
banning a certain medication called droxhadimine-17. Apparently it 
was not a medicine at all, but a tabletized collection of eggs from 
a rare South American parasitic worm. Some pharmaceutical companies, 
apparently, were using droxhadimine-17 as a weight-loss medicine, 
conveniently failing to state on the package how the substance 
worked.  
  
  By swallowing the pill, a person unwittingly introduced dozens 
of worms into their system with each and every capsule taken. The 
weight loss came when the worms ate the food in one's digestive 
tract.  
  
  With the article was a sidebar, about a local woman who allegedly 
died from internal parasites of that sort. It said nothing about her 
other than she took the TUMMY BUDDIESr brand of droxhadimine-17, and 
that she had been Miss Mid-Atlantic U.S.A. 1970.

                               {DREAM}

Copyright 1995 Brian Pomeroy, ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
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Brian can be found surfing the net thru bpomeroy@aol.com, and if you
happen to net him, tell him we said, "Hi!"
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