Authors: Scott Hildreth
Scott D. Hildreth
Scott Hildreth resides in Wichita, Kansas. He is broken. Although this book and the characters are fictional, the contents of this book are based on his experiences in life, and his exposure to other broken people. He continues to expose himself to broken people daily, as he frequents his favorite coffee shops. His advice is always based on statistics, and remains free.
This book is dedicated to Michelle Basilious, who opened my eyes to the art of being still.
A special thanks to my children, Erin, Alec, and Derek for believing. If even for only a fleeting moment, they believed. My life’s experiences created this book, but my good friend at A&H Electric, Dave Bowlin, made it possible.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblances to actual events, locales, or persons living or dead, are coincidental.
Copyright © 2013 by Scott Hildreth
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the author or publisher constitute unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use the material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the author at
. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
By Scott D Hildreth
Just the tip
God hates fags
I’m worried about the Beaver
I like this boy
She took my heart
Show some respect
Father knows best
Shoes not required
Dude, you’re creeping me out
Are those rocks in your pocket?
Who did this?
Pomegranate skate board
I can fly
Damn, that’s one tall bitch
Just the tip
I had been in the coffee shop for five hours. The majority of the time that I was there, I was on my blog responding to posts, or returning personal emails. I often came for a few hours a day, sometimes for the entire work day. I dressed comfortably, always wearing the same basic attire; a white V-neck tee, khakis, and black canvas Converse sneakers. My work consisted of running a website that offered help to those that were incapable of dealing with the day-to-day difficulties associated with life. This primarily involved people in their teens to early twenties. Teens that were pregnant, abused, had parent problems, boyfriend or girlfriend problems, eating disorders, suicidal thoughts, or depression, just to name a few.
main focus was a suicidal girl named Shellie. Upon logging into my email earlier, however, I had received a message from a girl that was fifteen, scared, and pregnant. She had not told her family yet, and it appeared from the content of her email, that she hadn’t told her boyfriend yet either. I looked into the parking lot, and tried to think of what to tell her. Being fifteen and pregnant was not her life goal when she was fourteen, but it was a slice of reality now. Pregnant. Fifteen. It just seemed strange saying it. I was drawing a blank on what to tell her. Maybe I needed food. Incapable of recalling the last time that I had eaten, I reached into my left pocket to retrieve a snack. To satisfy my never ending hunger, and to maintain my non-diet, I generally carried some form of chocolate in my left pocket.
Nail clippers. Lip b
alm. Money clip. Loose change.
Fuck. I really need chocolate
. I made some room between my fat stomach and the edge of the table, allowing me to reach into my other pocket. My right pocket. I looked at my right hand. It looked like the fat kid’s hand in the movie with the chocolate factory. The kid that got all aired up. Swollen and hideous looking, I shoved my sausage-like fingers into the pocket. Just as I had figured. Empty.
I rarely carried anything in my right pocket
. Actually, I had some deep seated issues about using or utilizing things on the right side. I always started walking with my left foot first. I used the left door when entering a movie theatre, and always sat on the left side of the theatre. I sometimes wondered; if the movie theatre caught fire, and the fire was in the left rear, would I just burn?
Would I attempt to exit the right side? The thought of even walking on the right side of the theatre to
to the left side made me shake. A 320 pound carcass of burnt flesh, on the left-hand side of the theatre. In my left pocket, a money clip covered in melted chocolate would identify my remains.
Typically, I w
eighed myself several times a day, and tried to maintain my weight at 320 pounds. If it fell two or three pounds below 320, the obsessive/compulsive part of me took over, and I would eat, frantically, to restore my weight to 320. The exact opposite of being on a diet. Throughout the course of the day, I would count calories, and make certain that I was taking enough in to keep my weight on track. I felt if I appeared to be obese, people would be
attracted to me. I had purchased a small digital scale, carried it with me in my laptop bag, and would check my weight multiple times a day. Anything below 317, and I would frantically eat whatever I had to, just to maintain my weight.
In most of my adult years, I weighed 185, and was often approached by strangers that were intrigued by me. Intrigued by my ways, and intrigued by my unique nature. I made a decision to gain weight, become less inviting to the eye, and try my luck at physical fatness, instead
of physical fitness. Immediately following the weight gain program, I shed my contact lenses and bought some black horn-rimmed ‘birth control’ glasses. So far, my experiment worked well, and far less people found me interesting. My shaved head probably helped make me repulsive, and the 320 pounds, glasses, and shitty attitude did the rest. Far less people approached me. And, I was far more satisfied.
I reached into my bag, got my scale, and tossed it onto the tile floor. I stood in front
of it, tapped it with my toe and I stood on it. 316. Jesus.
Are you fucking kidding?
I had just weighed at home before I left. I stepped off. I waited, and got back on. 316.
Fuck me running.
I needed chocolate, and I needed it
. I put the scale back in the bag.
Looking at the cashier of the coffee shop, I was relieved, as there was not a line of patrons waiting to order. Thank God. I attempted to stand. My head spun. I needed chocolate. Bad. I felt nauseous. I began to walk
to the cashier. It was no more than a hundred feet away. Thirty three steps at most. No reason for concern. Within minutes I would be eating
I began to slowly waddle to the cashier, I saw him out of the corner of my eye. The Nigerian nightmare. I detested this guy. Basic attire for this annoying fraction of a man was a pair of dark brown slacks and an argyle sweater vest that was two sizes too small. The vest was always worn over a wrinkled, dark earth-tone dress shirt. He wore a version of the same clothes every day. We made eye contact as he was about to open the front door and enter the coffee shop. As he reached for the door handle, I began to run toward the cashier. The thought that he would make it to the cashier before me made me ill. As I ran toward the counter, several people looked up at me. My running sounded like a loose rhinoceros on a gym floor.
The Nightmare appeared to be hustling to
ward the counter as well. Great, a race between a 316 pound fat kid and a 121 pound six foot tall African professor. In an all-out run, I was headed for the cashier. I stepped in front of him with six feet to spare. My rubber soled sneakers screeched to a stop on the tile floor, but my 320 pound body wanted to keep going. Dizzy and hungry, I almost tipped over. I noticed the entire store look up at the two of us, most in disbelief. As I opened my mouth and began to speak, I realized I was out of breath.
xhausted, heart pounding, and seconds from collapse, I couldn’t continue speaking. My voice broke. “….need…..…..chocolate.” As I finished my sentence, I let out a long sigh, and then inhaled a slow breath, my hands resting on my knees.
The newly hired twenty one year old barista looked at me and smiled, “Would you like a white c
hocolate mocha, they’re good?” Her face looked like a porcelain doll and her ears resembled Dumbo the elephant. Fucking great, one hundred and five pounds of pale skinned incompetence.
As I heaved for my next breath, feeling flush, I began to speak. “No….” I straightened my stance, and tried to continue.
“A mocha, chocolate chip vanilla smoothie, or a…..” she offered with a cheery smile, her eyes barely clearing the top of the cash register. They really should provide this girl a crate to stand on.
I was disgusted with her. I needed chocolate. I couldn’t take it anymore. My legs felt weak. My 316 pound frame was mere seconds from collapse. I envisioned falling on the floor, being unable to get up. Like a tortoise tha
t had been placed on his back, the huge one at the zoo that the kids ride; arms and legs flailing aimlessly, death imminent. Who would help me back to my feet?
I heard the Nigerian Nightmare clear his throat. I turned and attempted to glare. My field of vision narrowed, as if peering through a
pin hole in a sheet of paper. As I turned my head back toward the cashier, the room spun. Sweat formed on my brow. I reached under my tee shirt. I felt wet. Clammy. As my vision blurred, I looked at the barista, and word vomited.
“Chocolate. I nee
d fucking chocolate. Not a drink,” I waved my hands back and forth like an umpire calling someone safe at home plate. I extended my arms, palms up, as if begging, “Fucking chocolate. Chocolate covered
. A chocolate bar. Candy. Chocolate of some solid form. Choc-O-Late. What do you have?”
As I daydreamed about falling to the floor, and the Nigerian Nightmare reaching to help me to my feet, I decided I would rather die than have him assist me. I would lay there and die. Certainly someone else would come to assist, especially if I screamed for him to go away. He would take a few steps back, and one of the regulars would come bring me to my feet. I looked at my sneakers. I looked up.
“Uhhhhm. Sir, we have chocolate covered almonds, trail mix with chocolate, and….” the barista’s lip quivered as she spoke.
terrupted her. I was incapable of putting up with any more of this meaningless bullshit. “Almonds, give me the fucking almonds. All you have.”
I stood there and waited as she reached around to the display counter, emptying it of the remaining cylindrical plastic packets of almonds.
“Sir, that will be $24.94,” she said, offering a portion of a smile.
“What, twenty what?”
I felt as if I was going to be sick. But what. What would spill form my lips?
“Sir, its seven
packages of almonds at $3.29 each, plus tax, the total is…” she sounded frustrated.
With my hearing impaired from
malnutrition, I didn’t even comprehend the remaining statement. Thirty dollars, she needed thirty fucking dollars. I tossed her a ten and a twenty. The money fell in front of her on the counter. As she handed me the almonds and my change, I visually measured the distance to my seat, wondering if I could make it. I attempted to open the package. The lid was taped to the cylinder.
Are you serious?
I frantically bit at the lid trying to pry it free. Finally, I removed the lid to a tube of almonds, and popped half the packet in my mouth. As I began to walk to my seat, I could feel the effect of the chocolate. I was regaining composure. Stopping half way to my seat, I began to attempt to calculate the cross sectional area of the almonds, the thickness of the chocolate shell, and the actual relief I would receive from an entire packet. I emptied the remaining cylinder into my mouth, allowing the disgusting nuts to mix with the chocolate. Each step became easier than the last.
As I began to sit in my chair, my phone rang. I looked at the screen. The caller ID and the photo from
the caller’s profile confirmed it was Michelle. Reaching for the phone, I noticed the Nightmare scanning the coffee shop looking for a seat. Thank God. Someone must have come in and taken the last seat while he was ordering his coffee. Maybe it was while I was ordering my chocolate almonds. Smiling as I picked up the phone, I answered.
“Kid, what are you doing?” s
y Michelle. I’m watching the Nightmare look for a seat. It looks like he isn’t going to have a place to sit. I hope no one gets up.”
“Why are you obsessed with that guy? Can you just leave him be? He didn’t do anything to you. He’s as entitled to sit there as anyone. This
Michelle was right. She was always right. I both loved and hated her for it. I rarely agreed with her, but often followed
her advice. We had met on the Internet, and although we lived at opposite ends of the United States, we had become extremely close. Our friendship consisted of texting, and an occasional phone call. We had never met in person, but I could probably pick her out of a crowd of ten thousand people. She would certainly stand out in any crowd; she was five foot seven, with the most inviting brown eyes I had ever seen. Her long black hair was to the middle of her back, and she had perfect olive colored skin. It would, however, be the Texas sized attitude that would allow me to immediately spot her. She was intelligent and tactful, but she made it crystal clear that she defined independence. She stood alone, not another like her.
“He doesn’t speak English and he’s just fucking gross, Michelle. He disgusts me. I can’t work around him, he creeps me out. He comes in here like he owns this place, and camps out. He never leaves.”
go in there, camp out and never leave. He speaks English, but with an accent. Now leave him alone. You say you‘re not prejudiced, yet you get so aggravated with that guy.”
I watched as the Nightmare gathered his coffee, laptop, and book bag and began walking to the door. I raised my hand, fist clenched, and pumped it in the air, as if the victor. “Okay, Michelle, Okay. I will leave him alone for a bit.”
“Before I forget, did you have a chance to look at that picture of my friend Lucas I gave you? You know, and ‘read’ him?” she asked.
“Oh. Yeah, I looked at it last night. You ready?”
“Yes, Kid, I am ready,” she responded.
he is very intelligent. For some reason, he struggles with math. The rest of his education comes easy. He’s almost bored with the degree of education he receives. He needs to be about two years advanced. He loves politics, it’s what drives him. He will eventually be a politician, or work in a political field. He abides by the rules and regulations that your parents require him to, but internally, he is opposed. He will, as he gets older, oppose them. He is extremely independent. Extremely. He enjoys his alone time, to think. That’s about all I remember. How did I do?”
“That’s insane, I can’t believe, from looking at a photograph, that you can get all of that information. It’s like you can look into a person
’s soul. But, you’re a hundred percent accurate, Kid. That’s crazy, just crazy. Now, why did you text me, wanting me to call you?” she asked.