The Feeder Project

Henry Laskowitz was fat. We would refer to his condition today as morbid obesity. He was a nice enough kid and I liked him. Henry and I were friends. His obesity did not bother me.

Henry’s father was Jewish. His mother was Christian. The Jewish-ness of Henry’s dad did not bother me either, though I perceived that it bothered some grown-ups. I didn’t understand what the problem was: Henry’s dad was Jewish. Jesus was Jewish. No problem.

My memory is sketchy but I think we were in the fifth grade. Henry loved to fish. He had heard that we lived on an island and that we could fish out our back door. He asked me, maybe, just maybe, pretty please and with sugar on top, if he could fish off the sheeting behind our house, after school someday—someday soon. I told him “yes” before I said anything to my Mom or Dad.

“Friday,” I said.

“I’ll bring my tackle box,” said Henry.

And we crossed the street. I went straight to go home. Henry went right.

Just after we parted ways, I saw a bunch of older kids running towards Henry.

“Fat boy,” they said, over and over. They taunted him with jibes like, “What’s it like to be so huge?” or “Watch how his belly shakes when I hit him.” or “Don’t get him mad or he’ll sit on you.”

I made my way down Henry’s street toward the commotion. One of the older kids held Henry by the arm and was kicking Henry’s butt. Henry looked like a dog chasing his tail as he tried to shake the kid kicking him. Another kid tripped him and Henry fell to the ground.

“Hey,” I said in a weak voice. “Leave him alone.”

I was a chubby kid myself, though not as heavy as Henry. The older boys turned their attention away from Henry and in my direction. One of them took my glasses and held them as though he was going to break them.

“Give me a quarter,” he said.

“I don’t have a quarter.”

He made like he was tightening his grip and the plastic frames bent ever so slightly.

“I only have a nickel,” I said. (It was the 1960’s and nickels were worth something.)

“Give it to me!”

I fumbled in my pocket and held out the coin. “My glasses,” I said. He held out the glasses and he let them touch my hand without releasing his grip. He reached for and quickly grabbed the nickel. Once he had the coin he tossed my glasses to the ground, turned around, shrieked once in triumph and started to run away. He was stopped soon enough as he ran straight into Henry’s chest. During the exchange of coin for glasses, Henry had composed himself enough to come to my aid.

What changed? I don’t know. Henry was on the ground one second, sobbing, with red cheeks, wheezing and utterly defeated. The next second, he was up, tall, a giant man child demanding that I get my money back. For some unknown reason, Henry became confidently aware of his enormity.

The other kids backed slowly away, and nodded their heads towards the kid who held my glasses hostage as if to say, “It was him and I had nothing to do with it at all. Oh, and by the way, please don’t hurt me. He was the one kicking you.”

“Fat boy,” said the older kid. He smiled big as if to scare away his sudden fear.

“Give him back his money,” said Henry.

“He gave it to me, fair and square. It was a good trade,” said the older kid.

Henry grabbed the older kid by the collar of his shirt and lifted him to his tip toes.

“Give him back his money.”

“Okay, okay.” The older kid tossed my nickel on the ground near to where he tossed my glasses. He held up both hands, shoulder height, palms facing Henry. Henry set him down and released his grip. The older kid nodded and tried to smile but the corners of his mouth were too weak. Once he deemed that he had backed far enough away, he turned and ran with the other kids down to the public school playground.

“Thanks, Henry,” I said.

“Thank you, too,” he said. “See ‘ya Friday?”

“Bring your tackle box.”