It was Friday, Hettie Greenspan’s favorite and least favorite day of the week, and it was time to get moving.

She rocked back and forth, building up speed and momentum, and with the assistance of her Little Helpers, she lunged forward, hefting her quarter-ton body up off the threadbare couch. She stood still a moment, balancing herself, before making her way into the kitchen. Hettie’s wide hips brushed the kitchen counter, the cabinets, and the stove as she waddled to the refrigerator. She opened the refrigerator door, reached around a gallon of skim milk and picked out a bottle of mineral water.

As she closed the door, she stared at the bottle of water, frowning at it as though it were filled with urine.  What she really wanted was a Diet Dr Pepper, but she was following doctor’s orders.  Mineral water in hand, Hettie went from the kitchen back through the dining room (where earlier she had eaten a grapefruit and a small bowl of oatmeal for breakfast) and toward the front door. She grabbed her purse from a table in the entrance hall, a long overcoat from the hall closet--even though it was the middle of summer--and off she went, in pursuit of Little Debbie snack cakes.

She ambled out of the house to her white Ford cargo van and flung open the driver’s side door. Her Little Helpers pushed and pulled, helping stuff her into the van. She settled into the seat, huffing and puffing, grabbing a few moments of rest before battling the Bay Ridge traffic.  The cargo van was a vestige of Hettie’s failed marriage. Before he ran off with a client’s wife, Hettie’s husband Marty had owned a small business delivering toner, paper, drums, and other copier supplies the larger freight companies didn’t want to hassle with.  Someday, I’m gonna get me a bobtail and deliver copier machines just like the big boys, he would say, usually after a few beers.  Hettie had known that day would never come, but it had made her proud to hear him boast of such things.

Hettie had been bitter about the divorce. To this day Marty denied it, but Hettie knew he had left her not for any philosophical differences between the two of them or because of any compatibility problems--those things would’ve shown themselves long ago--but because she had gotten fat.  As ex-husbands go, Marty was a good one.  With barely a complaint, he had left Hettie the business (which she had immediately sold) and the house and several thousand dollars.  Hettie’s anger toward Marty had waned with the passage of time, but she was still mad at the world, a place where attractiveness and youth were valued more than character and inner beauty.  Squinting against the harsh sun, Hettie wheeled the clumsy vehicle out of her driveway and onto Bay Ridge Road.  From behind, she heard honking.  She pushed the pedal to the floor, urging the van to keep pace with the other cars.  Drops of sweat popped up like zits on Hettie’s forehead.  She took a swig from her water bottle and rolled down the window.

Fumes from the exhaust of the car just ahead snuck into her van, stinging her eyes, making her mineral water taste like spray-paint.  Her Little Helpers wrinkled up their tiny noses at the foul-smelling air.  Hettie’s Little Helpers had appeared one morning, clinging like static to her arms, legs and backside, shortly after Marty ran off.  They were tiny, winged creatures, invisible even to Hettie.  They were always at attention, though, ready to help Hettie move her enormous frame from place to place.  Hettie called them her Little Helpers because of the old Rolling Stones song, “Mother’s Little Helpers.”  She had loved to dance to that tune back in the sixties.  Hettie often wondered if other big folks or if handicapped people were  given these little fairy-like creatures, but she was afraid to ask.  She didn’t want people thinking she was fat and crazy.

Wal-Mart was up ahead on the right. Hettie flipped on the blinker, slowed the van to a crawl, and eased into the crowded parking lot.  She drove back and forth, up and down the rows and rows of cars, waiting for a spot near the front. By now her billowing shirt and stretch pants were soaked with sweat.  She often thought about getting a permit allowing her to park in the handicapped spaces, but she wasn’t sure if morbid obesity qualified as a handicap.  And besides, she was too embarrassed to look into it; she didn’t know who to ask or what to say.  Finally, a young couple came out of the store and got into their little brown Toyota.  It was parked five spaces from the front.  As Hettie watched this couple, she remembered when she and Marty were their age.  She was a dancer and Marty had been her biggest fan.  He had attended her ballet recitals when most men would have rather been home watching sports on television.  He helped her stretch before her workouts and he rubbed her sore feet at night.  He was more than a personal trainer.  He was her partner in dancing and in life.  But now he was gone, running around with a woman half his age and half his weight.

Hettie felt a faint throbbing in her ankles and a twitching about her hips as though a ghost from the past was lurking somewhere inside, urging her to dance.  She felt her Little Helpers fluttering about her arms and legs, stretching, warming up for the afternoon’s festivities.  Hettie smiled. Soon, my angels. Soon.

As Hettie pulled into the parking space, a red Corvette passed by, the driver pounding on the horn. The impatient driver stuck his hand out the window, his middle finger extended.   “Lazy ass!”  Hettie was so engrossed in thinking about her past that she scarcely paidattention to the insult. Besides, she was used to insolent remarks.  Even herfamily was rude to her.  They rarely mentioned her weight problem, but each Thanksgiving when everyone got together, her well-intentioned sisters inevitably gave her a few low-fat recipes and some fitness tips.  And at dinner time, she could always tell that her food intake was being monitored very carefully.  Hettie flung open the door and leaned out of the van, pulling and pushing herself outside onto the shimmering black pavement. Her Little helpers struggled to keep her balanced and mobile as she lifted one heavy foot after another, inching her way across the parking lot and into the store.  As usual, Wal-Mart was swarming with people of all shapes, sizes, and colors.  Hettie lumbered toward the customer service area, all eyes looking her way.  She couldn’t have gotten more attention if she were nude and wearing a wailing siren atop her head. She ignored a volley of whispers and giggles, some of them real, some of them imagined.

Ahead on the left, just beyond a small cafeteria, was a row of MartCarts, little motorized vehicles that the elderly and infirm and on occasion, the obese, used to get around the giant discount store.  Hettie squeezed herself into the cart that was closest to the aisle.  The cracked black bucket seat groaned under her weight. She flipped on the ignition switch, gripped the T-shaped handlebars, and pushed the gas pedal to the floorboard. The one-horsepower engine whined like an old freight elevator and off Hettie went, rolling down the crowded aisles, heading in the direction of the prepackaged foods. The Little Helpers rested, letting the cart do all the work.

After negotiating her way through a minefield of running children, harried shoppers, and runaway shopping carts, Hettie rolled to a stop in front of a mountain of Little Debbie snack cakes.  Her mouth watered at the stacks of Nutty Bars, Swiss Cake Rolls, German Chocolate Cookie rings, Star Crunches, Blueberry Muffin Loaves, and Pecan Spinwheels.  She parallel parked in front of the display and began yanking down boxes of cakes, piling them in the large metal basket affixed to the front of her cart. She called over a nearby teenager in a blue vest to help her with the Donut Sticks and Caramel CookieBars--they were at the top of the display.  The stocker quickly dropped the snack cakes in the basket as though they were hot to the touch.

“Thank you, young man,” Hettie said, smiling up at him.  With a nod and a frown, the young man looked down at Hettie’s enormous stomach--it hung over her crotch, almost dragging the floorboard of the cart.  His eyes scanned up to her sagging watermelon breasts and her bloated face.  His face wrinkled up as though he had eaten a sour pickle.  A flash of self-righteous anger touched his eyes.  He walked off shaking his head.  At times like this, Hettie wondered why her Little Helpers didn’t offer a comforting word.  A hug.  Any gesture of friendship.  Maybe they weren’t capable of such things.  Maybe they were mindless animal-like creatures, relying on instinct instead of compassion.  After all, they were invisible and had never, to her knowledge, spoken a word; she only knew of their presence by the hissing of their mockingbird wings and the tugging and pushing sensations on her arms, legs, and backside.  In her mind’s eye, they took on the form of tiny little cherubim, like Christmas tree ornaments come to life.

Hettie piled on a few more boxes of the Little Debbies, stuffing the basket to overflowing.  She only made this trip once a week and she wanted to make sure she had enough to get through the afternoon.

Hettie backed up and turned around. She liked to take the scenic route to the checkout counter, rolling by the pretty clothes she could never wear, the big-screen TV’s she could never afford, and the Barbie dolls she was too old to play with.  It was frustrating, but she loved to look anyway.

Halfway back to the cash register, near the magazine stand, Hettie suddenly slammed on the brakes.  She was brought to a halt by a four-way traffic jam of MartCarts; two little old ladies and a younger man with a missing leg converged at the intersection.

“Pardon me, ladies,” the man said, backing up his cart and going down the next aisle.  Hettie tried to back up and turn around, but she was trapped. A man and some kids looking at magazines blocked her way.  The two old women looked at each other and grinned.  Then they looked at Hettie.  Even in their state of ill-repair--wrinkled bodies, failing eyes, arthritic hands--they couldn’t hide their fascination with hettie’s tree-trunk arms and legs.

“Look at the three of us,” one of the old ladies said, forcing her gaze away from Hettie. “Three peas in a pod.”  Holding back tears, Hettie frowned. She inched her cart back, nudged the magazine readers out of the way, and pulled away from the intersection without looking back.  She just couldn’t accept being considered a peer of the geriatric set; after all, she was only forty-nine years old.

Hettie took her spot in the number six checkout lane behind a small woman and a freckle-faced boy.  Their shopping cart was stuffed with shampoo, deodorant, underwear, lunch bags, and other mundane necessities.

“Momma, look at all those cakes! Yummy! Can we get some of those?”  The woman turned around and eyed Hettie’s stash.  She looked Hettie over from top to bottom, her lips curling downward, her forehead wrinkling in disgust.  She looked like a vengeful judge about to hand down a life sentence. “No, Ryan. Momma’s trying to watch her figure.”

After the woman and her son finished checking out, Hettie rolled up to the cash register.  A plump Hispanic woman in an apron giggled as she pulled box after box of Little Debbies out of the basket and ran them under the scanner.”  Stocking up for winter, are you?”  Although this question struck Hettie as rude, she was used to far worse. She forced a smile, wanting to make small talk, but she didn’t know what to say.  She just shrugged her shoulders.

“That’ll be $63.54 ma’am. Will that be cash, check, or charge?”

Hettie paid the woman in cash, the last of what she had set aside from that month’s $600 she received from the sale of Marty’s delivery business.

“Save some for dessert,” the cashier called after Hettie as she left the store.

Hettie plodded out to her van and threw open the cargo door.  She tore open the colorful boxes of tasty treats, setting aside one carton of german Chocolate Cookie Rings for herself.  She poured the loose snack cakes into an empty toner box.  Then she shut the door, went around to the front of the van and loaded herself in.  Her Little Helpers were being extra-helpful, energized by their anticipation of the big dance.  School had yet to let out for the day, so traffic was sparse along bay Ridge.  Hettie whizzed by her little wooden house, not even slowing down for a look.  She hated the sight of it.  It desperately needed painting, but she just couldn’t afford to have it done. And even with assistance from her Little Helpers, she certainly couldn’t do it herself.

Shortly after Bay Ridge turned to Mid-Cities Boulevard, Hettie wheeled the van onto Central Expressway, heading toward the south side of town. The van groaned at the prospect of reaching sixty miles an hour.

The splintered, rusting playground was busy that day. The older kids hadn’t gotten home from school and the adults were either at work or inside asleep or watching television, but the younger children crawled like ants over the crooked slides, the uneven swings, and the creaking merry-go-round.  When Hettie pulled alongside the chain-link fence, shrieks of joy and shouts of laughter rang out like a thousand glass bells. The children’s exuberance energized Hettie and her Little Helpers.  She bounced out of the van, threw open the rear door and lifted the box of snack cakes over her shoulder. The children abandoned their play and ran to her, dancing like spindle tops at her feet.

“Hold on, children,” Hettie said. “There’s plenty for everyone.”  The kids calmed down, their bright faces looking up at Hettie as though she were a combination of Jesus Christ, Santa Claus, and Barney.  Hettie set the box packed with Little Debbies on the ground before her.

“Dance for me, children. Dance for me.”  The children danced, each of them in their own inimitable style.  One little boy in a faded red tank top looked like a dark Richard Simmons, hopping on both feet, his arms spread out before him.  A girl with blond pigtails sprung to her toes.  She clasped her hands above her head, clumsily attempting a ballet routine. All the children danced; a few of them even sang.  Hettie watched this frenetic display of unbound joy.  Her heart swelled, blood racing like water rockets through her veins.  A lump formed in her throat. After a few minutes, the children grew tired and impatient and the dance fizzled to a stop.  Hettie sat down before the box of goodies, dipped her hands inside, and began tossing the treats in the air towards the children. The children shrieked and shouted and danced and jumped, scrambling, but not fighting (they knew there would be plenty to go around) for their hard-earned prizes.

They greedily tore open the packages, stuffing their little faces.  For some of the children, it was their first meal of the day.

After emptying the box, Hettie flung herself up off the ground and took a few steps back.  She looked over her shoulder at the rows of redbrick efficiency apartments. Trash decorated the yards and a few rusting, dented cars littered the parking lot.  But she saw only one human being--a crumpled little man asleep in an armchair on his front porch.  Hettie turned back to the kids: their electric smiles, their unabashed lust for the food, and their unashamed, grateful eyes.  She thought back to her skinny youth when she could dance this happily anytime she wanted.  The elegant ballet recitals, the all-night disco clubs, and the many nights at Billy Bob’s spent two-stepping the night away with Marty.  Now, energized by the presence of these smiling, sugar-charged children, Hettie’s Little Helpers soared, flapping their wings furiously, lifting her up onto her toes, spinning her around like a top, bending her body at impossible yet graceful angles.  She twirled and danced about, her fat flapping noiselessly against stressed bones, her overworked heart pounding like hammers on stainless steel, her joints crying under the assault.  The children laughed hysterically, watching this fat woman dance.  Hettie knew that the next day she would be sore, but she danced anyway, danced until the children grew restless and she and the angels were tired.

She fell to the ground, spinning on her back, break-dancing to a stop.  Hanging by a thread to Hettie’s body, the Little Helpers wilted beneath the weight of exhaustion.  Under her own power, Hettie helped the children pick up the cake wrappers.  Then she said, “Goodbye, children. I’ll be back next week with some more prizes.  Maybe I’ll bring candy bars next time.”  The children cried out in unison, “YAAAAAYYYYY!”

The trip home was slow.  School was out for the day and carloads of mothers and their children clogged the streets.  Kids walking and on bicycles criss-crossed in front of moving cars, eager to get home to their video games.  Hettie pulled into the gravel driveway, struggled out of the van, and lumbered into her empty house, plopping herself down on the sofa. The Little Helpers were rested and back in service, but Hettie was too tired to even turn on the television.  She sat on the couch the rest of the evening, nodding off occasionally, recovering from her weekly voyage.  Before Hettie went to bed, she went back out to the van and got the box of Little Debbies that she had saved for herself. She went back inside through the garage and into the kitchen. She poured herself a large glass of skim milk and sat down at her little dining table, placing the box of German Chocolate Cookie Rings before her.  She sipped at the skim milk.  Her mouth watered at the thought of the delicious chocolate tingling her taste buds.  She imagined herself eating the cakes, but she left the box unopened.  With a dash of help from her Little Helpers, Hettie rose from the chair, took the carton of Cookie Rings over to the cabinet above the stove, and placed them on a shelf next to a bundle of hypodermic needles, a few vials of insulin, a stack of glucose test kits and some swabs of alcohol.  For Hettie was diabetic and the few sweets she saved for herself were reserved for those emergencies when her blood sugar dropped to dangerous levels.

Copyright 1998 Brett Weiss

You can e-mail Brett Ankersfan@aol.com