My wife tells me there’s a call for me.
“This is Ron Silliman"-- and, before I can say anything: “Where do you get off making fun of my weight?”
He's really upset and I’m afraid.
“What are you talking about?” I manage.
“On your blog and in your posts you’re labeling me as “The Big Man.”
“O, God,” I reply, laughing.
But Ron’s not amused:
“Listen here, you little punk. I am going to bury you. I am going to fcking bury you!”
I want to say that I’m referring to his internet presence. His on-line stature.
Want to say that I’ve never met or seen him. Not even a photo of anything but his face. But he’s in a zone and he just keeps on at me.
I was afraid before, but now my anxiety's through the roof.
And, so, while Ron rants on (like a fire, really) a vision comes to me:
A big lumbering man’s carrying my lifeless body into a clearing. He tosses me off like a bag of concrete and goes down at the ground, digging. He looks so strong, muscled and beautiful——and I think to myself. “He’s not fat at all.”