Bob

The summer just after we graduated high school, Bob hired me and my old buddy Ned (he’s not important) to help him around his one-bedroom apartment. Most of it wasn’t super labor-intensive work, mainly getting him groceries, bringing him his mail, and scrubbing his feet with a brush. There was one big task, however. Bob’s sad little arms were unable to venture past the awesome girth of his butt cheeks, so whenever he had to take a shit, we had to scoop it out with a lacrosse stick. The shit wasn’t flushed or put in the garbage. Bob would always make us sling it onto the wall to the right of him in the living room where he sat. He said this was so he could get revenge on his “unholy, wretched, green harlot of a wife,” so that she would be in a state of shock and horror upon her return to Bob’s apartment. She never did. The shit wall had the word “FAMINE” written on it in red spray paint, but over time there got to be so much shit that the “INE” was covered up and it just read “FAM,” and it now looked like Bob was trying to give an endearing greeting to his close friends. It was his own sort of welcome mat.

This all sounds gross, but Bob paid Ned and me two hundred bucks apiece per day of work, plus reimbursement for the groceries.

Every day when we came over, Bob would be watching reruns of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives starring Guy Fieri, which he had recorded on around thirty VHS tapes, and whenever an episode would end, he would scream, “It was always me, Guy! You’re a fraud! A damn fraud!” Then he would burst into tears. Then he would begin laughing like someone in a padded cell. And that’s when his shits got particularly bad.

One day, Ned was on scooping duty, so while he toiled away behind Bob, I sat on a dented metal bucket and watched TV with him. I realized he had been watching the same show, season eight, episode eleven, “Triple D Goes Hawaiian,” for three weeks straight. I was getting bored by Guy Fieri’s repetitive drivel and saw that Bob was distracted by the TV. I observed the majesty of the man’s fat and sought out the biggest fat roll on his body. Locating it just under his midsection, I kicked it as hard as I could. It jiggled a little, and my foot bounced away. Bob giggled.

After Ned stepped out from behind Bob, I stood up from the bucket and took a diving position. Bob naturally understood what I wanted to do, and moved all of his weight onto his back so his belly was aimed straight up and prominently sticking out.

“Cannonball!” I jumped right onto the apex of Bob’s belly and bounced at least five feet in the air. It was more fun than any bouncy castle or trampoline park I had ever visited. Bob sat there, laughing and clapping his feet together. I kept on bouncing up and down until I saw Ned approaching, his lacrosse stick full. He grinned and jumped high up onto Bob, just as I had.

“Alley-oop!” He bounced off Bob toward the wall to his right and launched the morsel of poop right into the center of the spray-painted “A.” We all cheered, and Ned began to jump up and down on Bob’s stomach. When one of us landed, it launched the other higher into the air, loading bundles of kinetic energy into Bob’s guts. We started jumping so high that our heads hit the ceiling, each time with a loud “thump.”

After a few seconds of thumping, we heard a loud bang from upstairs, followed by someone shouting, “Shut the hell up, motherlicker!” Ned and I fell to the ground, and the three of us laughed. As the weeks of helping Bob went on, the bouncing became a way to blow off steam at the end of a long, hard, shitty day.

***

I raised an eyebrow, grinned, and stuck my index finger in the air. “I’ve got a better idea.”

We arrived at Bob’s apartment complex about an hour later. Ned ran in before any of us with a blue tarp and hung it over the shitfam wall. It took the ladies a while to get accustomed to the smell, but we had called Bob beforehand and told him to lay the bagel smell on thick. That blocked out most of the other stink. Before long, the four of us were holding hands in a big circle, bouncing up and down on Bob’s big, juicy belly, while he clapped along in four/four rhythm. We bounced at least three and a half hours, no one got tired, and it never got boring. Eventually, Nicole hopped off and began to stretch.

“Hey, y’know what would be fun?” she said. “What if we held, like, a big party here? Like, we invite a bunch of people, and we all bounce on Bob’s big belly?”

Ned and I looked at Bob for approval. He smiled and gave a thumbs up. The date was set: next Saturday, Bob would host the bounciest party in town.

Either Nicole or Ned must’ve had connections, because at least fifty people showed up to bounce on Bob. A line stretched out the door onto the walkway outside Bob’s second-story apartment. Everyone wanted a turn on Bob. Whenever someone finished, they joined the party, and weirdly, the occasion seemed to get people in the mood. No one went home alone that night. Even Bob had four women hovering over his shoulders, feeding him pizza and pouring beer into his storm drain of a mouth. It raged until six in the morning, and as the last few stragglers walked out the door, Ned pumped his fist in the air and drunkenly declared that we were doing this again next week. Bob cheered, as did I.

It wasn’t just next week. It was every week. Every Saturday people would flock into Bob’s apartment to bounce away. Ned and I provided the food—Bob provided the fun. People began bringing Bob gifts, like he was some kind of god that needed an offering, the bouncing on him a privilege only gifted to those upon whom Bob had given his approval. Ned and I subtracted our fair share of these gifts, of course, considering we were the ones setting up these parties.

Some brought him wine, some brought him fancy cheeses. One person brought him an autographed picture of Bobby Flay, recognizing his affinity for the Food Network. Someone got him a new computer, the next a timeshare in Florida. One arrived cradling their father’s ashes, stating that they wanted to bring him to the greatest resting place of all, before opening the urn and scattering the remains onto Bob’s belly. They then jumped onto Bob and the ashes flew everywhere. The gifts were out of control. One person didn’t say a word, only dropping an ounce of meth onto Bob’s chin before taking a bounce. Our last straw was someone who had paid a hooker for three hours of her time, stating that she was for Bob and that Bob’s thrusts would give them more airtime. Ned and I stopped people from giving gifts after this and instead began charging twenty bucks a pop. We were loaded within the first month.

Despite the lack of offerings, the person most excited for the weekly parties was Bob himself. He seemed genuinely excited for people to come over. Even when it was just Ned and me there to clean up his shit, he would beam at us as we walked through the door. He had never done that before, usually wrapped up in his show, letting out low grunts instead of communicating through speech. One time we arrived and the TV was off, and Bob had his hands clasped together with a big smile on his face, patiently waiting. As the parties went on, it was Bob who began organizing them and inviting people rather than me and Ned, and he was the one convincing people to show up, begging people to cancel plans so they could come over. It seemed he wanted everyone in town to have a bounce. And that was exactly the problem.

Yes, everyone in town had bounced on Bob. It was a fact that filled Bob with pride, as he brought it up to us constantly. However, there was some sort of quaint charm to just Ned and me jumping on the man, and we had lost that when everyone started doing it. No one at these parties knew Bob personally; they were basically customers. And they were tired of seeing the same old thing, the same old Bob. As time went on, fewer people came to Bob’s parties. Our girlfriends—my sweet, lovely Nicole—told us they weren’t going to show up anymore. Apparently, the shit wall had reached core meltdown levels, and they couldn’t stand the smell. Nicole broke up with me the next week. That bitch.

One Saturday evening, Ned and I set up for the party like normal. This time we had brought video games to entertain ourselves while people bounced on Bob. We’d prepared lines to tell people, such as, “Enjoy the ride,” and “Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times.” Not a single person showed up. Bob didn’t seem disappointed. He encouraged the two of us to start bouncing on him, just like old times. When we declined, he started to get emotional, something we didn’t know he could do without the help of Guy Fieri.

“Guys, I miss my wife,” Bob said. When he talked, it was like a nice, ocean breeze hit your face. Except it felt more like a fat guy blowing air. “I know if she sees the shit wall, she’ll never take me back. I wanna turn my life around. Let’s clean that wall! Am I right, guys?”

Ned and I exchanged looks.

“Guys?” Bob’s eyes drooped.

Ned and I stood up. “Bob, look. We’re done throwing these parties.”

Bob gasped. It felt like my sails had been hit by a gale at sea. “But, why?”

“No one’s showing up anymore, man. People weren’t gonna be entertained by you forever, y’know?”

Ned nodded. “And we’re done helping you.”

Tears formed in Bob’s eyes. “But—guys! Who’s gonna get me groceries? And c’mon! You gotta clean up the shit wall!”

“Clean it up yourself,” I said. “Y’know, Bob, there’s a lot to see in this life. I don’t wanna waste my time anymore on your shit or your big, greasy belly. I could get a real job or something.”

“Wait, no, please! Hey, I’ll raise your salary! Five hundred a day! No, a thousand! You don’t even have to do work… We’ll just watch Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives together!”

“I’ve overheard every damn episode already. Goodbye, Bob.”

Bob let out a long, continuous wail as Ned and I walked out the door. I hoped to never see Bob again. For quite some time, I didn’t.

***

“Hey whaddup, it’s Bob! You free tonight? Ned said he could make it, and I’ve got a pot of chili on. Would be nice to catch up.”

I rubbed my eyes, wondering if I was dreaming. “Yeah, hey, Bob. Of course, I’d love to see you.”

“Great! See you at dinner.”

His apartment complex hadn’t changed a bit. It was eerie, like I was walking on some kind of hallowed ground, some kind of historical monument. I felt out of place, yet happy. I knocked on Bob’s door and let myself in.

“Come on in and sit down,” Bob said. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The shit was gone, and the walls had been painted over. The room was clean, blue and white in color, and minimalist; Bob sat in a giant beanbag chair next to Ned, who was perched on a wooden stool. Outside of the admittedly delicious smell of chili that Bob had cooking on a propane stove, there wasn’t a scent in the air. Bob wore a giant, white button-up shirt and had combed his hair. Next to him was an old-timey detonator you would see in westerns. Bob smiled as he poured chili into two bowls and handed them to us. We asked if he was going to eat, and he said he was watching his weight.

It was shocking. He seemed happy, well adjusted. We all talked about our new lives: Ned discussed his new family, surprising us with the fact that he had four kids, with another on the way. I danced around talking about my office job, and Bob explained to us his new career as a YouTube chef. Ned and I looked at each other in shock. We didn’t know he knew how to cook, as most of his groceries consisted of ham steaks he ate in a single bite. We all laughed as Ned and I slurped down our chili, which was delicious. After the meal, Bob showed us his collection of Diners, Drive-Ins and Dives, recently upgraded to DVD. He put in a disc, and we watched together, laughing at Guy Fieri’s jokes. It was good.

I worked up the nerve to ask him about his wife. “Heya, Bob, the place looks great. Have you ever had your wife come back, or call her or anything like that?”

“We divorced a few months ago,” said Bob. His eyes didn’t leave the TV. He was smiling.

“Oh,” I said. “Gee, Bob, I’m so sorry—”

“Don’t be, it was amicable. I’m okay.” He turned to me. He had the most genuine smile. I smiled back at him. Our eyes all turned back toward the show.

We were watching an episode centered around burgers when it happened. I heard a tremendous stomach growl.

I laughed. “This episode making you hungry, Bob? You sure you wanna keep watching your weight?” I looked at Ned for approval and was surprised to see his face ashen and sweaty. I had never seen so much fear on a single face as I had on that day. Ned held his stomach.

“Oh, man, that hurts,” he said. “I think I might need to…”

“Maybe the chili didn’t agree with you, Ned—” I started saying before a sharp pain tore through my midsection, becoming pure anticipation and dread in my colon. I looked at Bob. He had his head tilted down in our direction, a shadow cast over his small, sharp eyes.

“Bob? Is something wrong with the chili?”

Bob smiled back at me. Ned began to hyperventilate.

“Bob! What did you put in the chili?”

“I think I’m gonna be sick,” said Ned. He ran down the hall to the bathroom.

“You know what really hurts your stomach?” said Bob. He cocked his head, waiting for me to answer. I didn’t, wrapped up in the pain in my digestive tract. Bob rolled his eyes. “Shitting! My God, you have no idea how it feels for a guy like me. Well, maybe y’all can live a little like Bob today.” He pulled an empty bottle of magnesium citrate from behind him, waving it around like a child who had found his dad’s gun. In the bathroom, Ned moaned. The toilet seat clanked back and forth.

Bob grabbed the detonator and placed it on his belly. “Hey, Ned! Now it’s your turn to feel what my craps are like. And you,” he said, pointing to me. “You have the pleasure of having less laxatives in your digestive tract and can stay out here with me to watch the fireworks.”

I heard a long, droning cry followed by Ned finally hitting the toilet seat, and it was at this moment when I noticed a wire running from the detonator to the bathroom.

“Oh, Jesus,” I said.

“Burn in hell, Ned!” said Bob. “Bounce high!” He pushed down on the detonator. The last thing we heard from Ned were the words, “Oh, God,” and the beginnings of bowel movements, before Bob blew him to smithereens. All four of the surrounding walls of the bathroom came down, showering Bob and me in gore and other bodily fluids. Whatever Bob had put in the chili had worked wonders, as the stench of Ned’s shit overpowered the smell of blood and guts. I didn’t know what planet I was living on anymore.

I stood in a state of shock for a minute before I noticed Bob pulling his gun from his hip, something I had never seen him do before.

I guarded myself with my hands. “No, Bob, please don’t—”

“Shut up,” he said. “I’m not gonna kill you.” He cocked the gun. “Instead, I’m gonna do to you the worst thing you guys did to me all those years ago. Leave you completely and utterly alone. Bounce on, brother.”

He spun the gun around and put the barrel in his mouth. With both hands, he pulled the trigger. The bullet took the top of his skull with it, leaving his corpse bald, and most of what came out mixed rather well in Ned’s remains. You couldn’t tell Bob was dead. He had been in a permanent sitting state when he was alive, and that hadn’t changed now. His gun looked clean. It shone in the bright light of the room.

I ran outside and called the police. His apartment somehow looked normal from the street, but every police officer or EMT who went through the door turned around to vomit. They called a fire truck to remove Bob’s body, but they couldn’t fit him through the door. They had to cut a hole in the wall and take him out with a forklift. If you’ve ever watched Jerry Springer, it was similar to the episode titled “Jerry Rescues an Obese Man.”

As I was telling the police what had happened, they pointed to my legs. I looked down to see a brown stain running down my inner thighs. I didn’t react but kept talking. When I was done, I got in my car and drove home. I went to work the next day.

I was alone at work, at my desk, and I could feel him. Up and down. Bob was the ocean. Like how one senses the swaying motion of waves at the beach long after leaving the water. Years later, I could still feel the bouncing up and down of Bob’s belly. I could still see him, and sometimes hear his laugh. He never left me, and most days at work, I sit in my chair, and feel myself going up and down, up and down.