“Fight Club” By David Sedaris
I found myself one evening in a self-help group for men without testicles. I didn’t mean to be there, as — most prominently — my testicles are still attached to my lower half (although it’s a vaguely tenuous relationship sometimes, there are days when we don’t speak). I had also previously placed self-help groups alongside office yoga and colonics in the category of “Things I would prefer to only read about in overpriced magazines while at the dentists.” I had been at a Japanese language class and had wandered away in an attempt to find a cup of coffee, as I hadn’t slept well the night before and had dozily asked my instructor to take me to the beautician in the event of a heart attack instead of the hospital. In a haze, I had slunk into a nearby room and poured myself a cup from a large carafe sitting on the edge of an easily accessible table. As I turned back towards the door, a voice droned out from a figure in my peripheral vision. I hadn’t just wandered into a random room, it turned out: I had wandered into a support group for men with testicular cancer. I found myself on the edge of a circle of a small subsection of men who were struggling with their newfound eunuch-hood, nullified in a way I could only dizzily speculate about. As they started to speak, I had the immediate worry that I had no way of empathizing if anyone tried to make conversation with me. I couldn’t turn to them and go, ah yes, I too remember the halcyon days back when I still had my testes. If only I had known, I would’ve treated them so nicely! I felt awkward trying to sneak out as well, as if me leaving quietly would signal to them that I still carried a lot of shame about my lack of balls. I didn’t want these guys to think I was ashamed; I was fine with my metaphorical removed testicles. Frankly, I think the removal might have helped streamline me a bit! I was even walking a bit faster now, I think.
As I stood there clutching my cup of coffee, a man at least twice my size came over and enveloped me in a crushing hug before I could even croak out a startled hello. Who was this man, wrapped around me? He could’ve at least offered his name or a dinner invite first. I sometimes get nervous shaking the hands of strangers, never mind embracing them like in one of those videos where a soldier or college student is reunited with their very excited dog. His surprisingly ample bosom reminded me of my father’s old secretary, a beak-nosed and wobbly woman who moved through the world with the same air as a perturbed goose. I remember thinking that she was birdlike in both looks and attitude, although not in a flattering way. I couldn’t imagine her hugging someone, instead picturing her honking angrily until whomever dared come near her fled. Meanwhile, the man clasped me tightly and pressed me into his chest like a frantic mother hen, albeit one the size of a small truck. In contrast, my frame is slight, rendered only slighter under the greater weight of this stranger, who burst into wracking sobs. His shirt smelled slightly of cigarettes, not like he had been smoking, but like he’d been standing in the vicinity of a smoker for an entire evening. It reminded me vaguely of being around my mother, who I imagined standing off to the side, watching me as I quickly tried to figure out a way to extricate myself without creating a scene. Alas, the only balls I lacked here were metaphorical.
According to the name tag stickered to his chest, his name was Bob, written carefully in blocky blue letters. He heaved like a ship on rocky waters, and for a moment I imagined myself being tossed to the floor, where he would continue to cry and I would just die smothered on the worn linoleum. I don’t know how my family would feel about this, but I can’t imagine that they would be thrilled about having to explain that I had passed unexpectedly in a random accident at a self-help group. There would likely be a lot of questions, none of which they’d want to answer.
Bob grabs me by the shoulder and gives me a wet smile. “It’s okay to cry,” he says, “It’s okay.” Unprompted, he tells me that at one time he was a bodybuilder. He filled his body with steroids until it could take no more, eventually leaving him riddled with cancer, causing doctors to remove his traitorous testicles. Up top, fluid in his chest collected and produced heavy breasts that I now rested between. This kind of honesty unnerved me. He felt naked while I felt clothed, wrapped in my own discomfort like a garish poncho. I had lost the ability to speak, drying up and shriveling in on myself. Anything I could’ve said would’ve exposed me for the fraud I was, and I began to panic. I had to get out of there before someone found out that I didn’t belong. Bewildered, I spilled the entire cup of now-lukewarm coffee down my front. I apologised profusely, nearly breaking into a run as I exited, my shoes wetly squishing with old Folgers.
When I got home, I looked through a medical textbook and found out that, when the body’s testosterone level is too high, it starts to produce oestrogen to try and balance it out. For Bob, his clearly overcompensated, and now he will always be in my mind standing there, dampening, the fluid filling his body cavities until they ballooned like overfilled jelly doughnuts. Tears stream down his face as he offers me forgiveness I do not deserve, for I am a fraud. There stands Bob, imposing and stout, with his bosoms.
