Charade

CharadeCopyright © 2005 by Gilbert MorrisRequests for information should be addressed to:Zondervan, Grand Rapids, Michigan 49530Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication DataMorris, Gilbert.Charade / Gilbert Morris.p. cm.ISBN-10: 0-310-24702-0 (softcover)ISBN-13: 978-0-310-24702-91. Computer programmersâ€"Fiction. 2. Disguiseâ€"Fiction.3. Revengeâ€"Fiction. I. Title.PS3563.O8742C475 2005813'.54â€"dc222004026273All Scripture quotations, unless otherwise indicated, are taken from the Holy Bible: NewInternational Version®. NIV®. Copyright © 1973, 1978, 1984 by International Bible Society.Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system,or transmitted in any form or by any meansâ€"electronic, mechanical, photocopy,recording, or any otherâ€"except for brief quotations in printed reviews, without the priorpermission of the publisher.Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680Goddard Street, Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.Interior design by Michelle EspinozaPrinted in the United States of America05 06 07 08 09 10 11 12 /? DCI/ 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1We want to hear from you. Please send your comments about thisbook to us in care of zreview@zondervan.com. Thank you.CHAPTERONEI, Ollie William Benson, am obsessed by mirrors. Itâ€TMs not thatI want to collect them, or that Iâ€TMm fascinated by them. Au contraire!I wish that I lived in a world where there were no mirrors.The problem, you see, is that when I look into a mirror, I seemyself.That may sound strange to “normal” people. Obviously, mirrorswere made for just such a purpose. But ever since I becameaware that I was different from other people, Iâ€TMve hated mirrorsand avoided them whenever possible. When I say “different fromother people,” you probably think I have a hideous deformityâ€"maybe something like John Merrick, the Elephant Manâ€"but Idonâ€TMt. On the other hand, maybe I really do, for at the height ofexactly six feet I weigh four hundred and six pounds.I donâ€TMt think anyone of normal size understands what itmeans to be obese. You have to be there. When a normal personflies in an airplane, he buys one ticket. But I have to go firstclass or buy two tickets. I canâ€TMt waltz into Tommy Hilfigerâ€TMs andbuy a shirt or a pair of slacks. I have to find a shop on a backstreet that makes clothing that could be worn by whales witharms and legs.I guess you have to be obese in order to recognize the disgustand pity that flickers in the eyes of people when you meetthem for the first time. Iâ€TMm sure that some doctors can feel compassionfor the obese, but most of them Iâ€TMve met seem to havea covert attitude of: The big tub of lard, he ate himself into this.Itâ€TMs his own fault. They smile and say comforting things, butthatâ€TMs what they really think: He brought it on himself.So thatâ€TMs my problem. Iâ€TMm fat, shake like a bowl of jelly, andat the age of twenty-nine, when most young guys are at their best,I spend my life hiding from the world in my little cubicle at therear of Maxieâ€TMs Electronics. Then I scurry home to my apartmentand pull up the drawbridge to keep people out. I cook meals thatI know I shouldnâ€TMt eat but eat anyway, wondering from time totime what it would be like to be a normal person. What would itbe like to have a girlfriend? What would it be like to put on a pairof swimming trunks and not feel like a pale hippopotamus?Maybe if I had a family, things would be different, but mydad died before I was born, I lost my mom when I was only seventeen,and I didnâ€TMt have any other relatives living nearby. Evenbefore Mom died, I was a fat freak.So thatâ€TMs why I hate mirrors, and thatâ€TMs why I donâ€TMt have anyin my apartmentâ€"except in the bathroom. I got rid of all therest, but that one was built in as part of the decor. Itâ€TMs three feetwide and goes all the way to the ceiling. It must have beendesigned by a bodybuilder or a beauty queen, someone wholoved to look at themselves.As soon as I moved in, I knew I couldnâ€TMt face taking ashower, stepping out, and seeing a mountain of gluttonous fat,which is what Iâ€TMve become. My solution was simple enough. Isimply bought a life-size poster of John Wayne, a still taken fromStagecoach, his first big hit. Youâ€TMve seen itâ€"the one where heâ€TMscarrying the rifle and standing beside his saddle. I fastened itover the mirror with Scotch tape so that when I got out of thetub, instead of seeing myself, I saw the Duke.Over the next couple of years, I changed the poster severaltimes. Steve McQueen did his duty for a few months, and hewas succeeded by Randolph Scottâ€"an actor nobody remembersexcept us old-movie buffs. Lee Van Cleef was one of myfavorites, and he lasted nearly six months. The most recent onewas Clint Eastwood wearing his Mexican serape and his flatcrownedhat, with a thin cigar clenched between his teeth. I supposea shrink would probably have something to say about howall of these dudes were what I was notâ€"strong, virile, lean,mean, and ready to face anybody down before or after breakfast.Well, let them say it.When I think about all that happened, it seems to havestarted that Friday night with the mirror in the bathroom. Just anordinary day, nothing special. I got home early, took off mysweaty clothes, for itâ€TMs hot in Memphis in July, and threw themin the hamper. I turned the water on as hot as I could stand it,and soon the room was filled with steam. It was almost as goodas being in a saunaâ€"or so I thought, although Iâ€TMd never beenin one. Thatâ€TMs another of those things I would never exposemyself toâ€"getting into a small room naked with normal men.By the time I was about ready to vaporize, I turned the wateroff, flung the curtain back, and stepped out of the shower. ThenI stopped dead still.Clint Eastwood wasnâ€TMt thereâ€"I was there!The steam had peeled the Scotch tape from the mirror andthe poster lay coiled in an obscene sprawl on the floor. I staredat myself, unable to move. No way could I avoid seeing the doubleand triple chins, the flab that hung on me, and the stomachthat looked as if it had been inflated by a huge bicycle pump.Everything about me was disgusting, and suddenly I was tremblinguncontrollably. I grabbed a towel and wheeled away fromthe mirror, trying to forgetâ€"but I have a very good memory, toogood in fact. Even as I toweled myself down, a scene flashed onthe back of my eyes in full color and with stereophonic sound.I could even smell the odors of the weight room where I hadgone to try once again to lose weight. I was on the stair-climber,which I had set at the very lowest level. The little red dots wereall across the bottom of the screen, and I was huffing and puffing,trying not to fall off.Then a girl eighteen or nineteen, wearing a tight, white spandextop and black shorts that clung to her like an extra skin,stepped onto the machine next to mine. She set it on max, withall the red dots at the top, and as soon as it was going full speed,she moved with an easy rhythm.I remembered that when she finally stopped the machine,she turned and looked at me, fat and huge and gross and sweatinglike crazy. She smiled, showing a lot of teeth, and said cheerfully,“Keep at it. Youâ€TMll make it.”But I saw the pity and disgust in her eyes, and when shewalked over to her friend on another stair-climber, I heard herwhisper, “Hippo will never make it, heâ€TMs too far gone.”I shoved that memory back into a dark closet (knowing fullwell it wouldnâ€TMt stay there). Well, we all have things to get over.I dried and put on my underwear, and then I went back to thebathroom. Excerpted from Charade by Gilbert Morris All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.