Jimmy made a living renting his stomach to anyone willing to shell out that extra dollar. He’d wait at the BP station off exit thirteen with a sign: “Rent-a-table: $3.00.” Families going for their picnic were his main customers. They’d pick him up, drive to the Pine Barrens and he’d bulk along best as he could, trailing behind, and catch up to them when they decided to stop. He’d make a clearing in the dirt, lie down, then spread a tablecloth he carried in his coat over his mountainous stomach. The family would get out the food, ketchup and mustard, cokes and root beers. Dollar extra for lying longer than the half-hour. He was good for hills with up to forty percent inclines.
Kids sometimes hung cutlery from his ears.
Back from a picnic run, Jimmy strode into the third floor apartment and lay down in front of the sofa, where his buddy Jake was already sitting, waiting to smoke his cigarette. Jake liked to smoke with his feet up, and automatically stretched his legs on Jimmy’s stomach, soon as the two hundred plus pounds went horizontal.
“Jimmy,” Jake said, exhaling two white streams through his nose, “you’re a goddam land whale.” Jimmy didn’t say nothing. Being a whale was the source of both their livelihoods.
Jake finished his cigarette. “Won’t be needing no ottoman for a few.” He got up, went to the toilet and shut the door behind his words.
From a lying position, Jimmy read the Trenton Times. Read it from front to back, ads, classifieds, world weather reports, Afghanistan, Iraq.
“Jimmy?” Jake’s voice sounded strangely pained from inside the bathroom. “I need me a favor.”
“I’m listening.” He was staring at a picture of a little girl with a head wound.
“Forget it,” Jake said. “I changed my mind.”
Jimmy looked up at the ceiling. A few cobwebs were growing in one corner. Somebody would have to do something about that one day.
“Jimmy? Listen. Okay. What I need, what I really need is for someone to scratch my goddam butt, deep like and hard. I got some kind of real honest-to-goodness pain around there.”
Jimmy rose to his elbows. Had he heard right? “That’s downright un-American, Jake.”
“Forget I ever mentioned it!” Jimmy could hear the toilet-paper unwind. “Look, why don’t you go out and get us a six-pack with the money you made off your stomach.”
By the time Jake had washed up – it took a while because the toilet paper felt like thumbtacks against his inflamed skin – Jimmy was back with a case of Buds.
But he wasn’t alone. Next to him stood a short, well-built middle-aged man with Asian eyes and two legs thick as potatoes.
“Who’s this?” Jake asked Jimmy.
“Tran.”
“And? He lost?” The man’s eyes darted from Jimmy to Jake and then to the only bit of furniture in the room, the couch.
“I was asking the guy at the counter if he sold those wooden hands you use to scratch where your hands can’t reach, right? Tran overheard me. Said he scratches backs for a dollar.”
“A dollar?” Jake shook his head. “Some kind of living.”
“One dahla, one back. Two dahla, two back.”
“You tell old Tran just what I want to scratch?” Jake stared hard at his friend.
Jimmy rubbed his stomach the way he did when he was happy. “Nope. Figure you better tell him, since you’re the one directly concerned.”
***
Jimmy lay down. It took a little balancing at first, but he had these sort of indentations in the fatness of his flesh which could hold two bottles at a time, one leaning against the other. It’s why they always drank in multiples of two.
Beers at the ready, Jake dropped his pants down to his ankles and lay face forward on the couch. The springs creaked. The couch smelled. Jimmy balanced six bottles on his wide stomach. Tran washed his hands in the sink, then got down to work, glancing with curiosity at the man lying in front of the couch, four Buds sticking up. Americans were always surprising you. For this assignment, he’d demanded of the man an increase. Two dahla.
He started with Jake’s thighs, rubbing them back and forth, dabbing a little oil on the skin, then he worked on Jake’s spine, and finally ran his fingers around the rim, without however going any deeper.
“Goddam it!” This was Jake. “Goddam it! Vietnam you are worth your salt! Now use those silly little manicured nails of yours!”
Tran dug in, hard. Redness everywhere. Looked like some sort of allergy. Looked like a bomb crater inside his thick flesh, all ragged and exploded. Big, thick, well-fed American butt. Tran thought maybe he should have charged him three dollars.
“Can you believe it Jimmy?” Jake’s voice was slightly muffled because he was talking into the couch. From his vantage point lying with his back on the floor, Jimmy could only see Tran’s thick legs and the back of his arms.
“Believe what.”
“That a Vietnamese would scratch my butt. Maybe in ten years an Iraqi will be scratching yours.”
Tran spoke. “Some places in the world, with a single dollah you can give life to a whole family for five days.”
“I been reading about that recently,” Jimmy said.
“I think maybe with Tran,” Jake said, twisting his face away from the couch, cheek squashing into his eye, “we can like, do business.” Jimmy felt a burp coming. He cupped the bottles, and let go a deep one. They bounced a little. “You listening Jimmy? Tran you listening too? Here’s how it goes. Jimmy gets money for doing his table thing, right? Tran gets money to scratch people in difficult places, and I’ll do the hard part, the public relations. Table And Scratch will be the name of our corporation. Book our customers. Rich customers. Poor customers. Maybe even Arabs. The good ones.”
Jake twisted his head far up as he could.
“You lookin’ like a hungry snake, Jake,” Jimmy said and tried not to laugh at the unintended rhyme. The bottles rattled.
“Yo, Tran! We’ll all be rich as Bill Gates!”
Tran’s eyes were strangely bright.
All three of them were quiet for a few.
When he was done, Tran washed his hands, took two grimy dollars from Jimmy, then walked quickly out of the apartment. Jimmy and Jake polished off the remaining beers, then promptly fell asleep. Jimmy lay on his back, stomach up, holding a bottle in each hand. Jake slept face down on the couch, holding a stray spring so it wouldn’t dig into his ribs.