The Shower

Earl spent his days mowing lawns and trimming hedges. He wasn’t getting any younger, but it was the only job he had. By quitting time he was dirty, sweaty, and itching with grass clippings.

He loved his shower.

Every evening he stood under the hot water until the grime ran down the drain. Sometimes he showered again before bed.

Then one night he stepped on the scale. Three pounds down. He laughed, figuring he’d washed away three pounds of sweat and dirt.

The next night it was five.

For the first time in years, the scale was moving in the right direction. But then he noticed the gray blobs circling the drain.

He picked one up. Soft, greasy. Fat.

His fat.

Earl shuddered, and droplets of fat shook off him like a dog shaking off water.

He stopped showering. But he couldn’t stop working—he needed the money. He had a mortgage, a truck payment, groceries, electricity.

After two days his wife said, “Earl, you smell like a possum died in your armpits.”

He showered. Eight pounds gone.

He couldn’t quit his job. But he couldn’t sleep beside his wife smelling like that.

Every shower washed away more of him.

He began weighing before work and after every shower. The numbers became a second timecard. Eight hours of work. Five pounds in the shower.

By the end of August, he had lost eighty-seven pounds.

His wife thought he looked wonderful. Earl didn’t. His belly was flat. His cheeks were sunken. Loose skin hung like an empty sack.

One evening he came home filthy and exhausted. He had to be back at work at seven.

His wife called from the hallway. “Earl? You getting a shower?”

He looked at his hands. Skeletal. Trembling.

He turned on the water and stepped in.