Three cardboard boxes sat in the corner of the kitchen, to the left of the fridge, the same fridge that once stood where the boxes now sit. Two weeks ago I moved it over several feet to the right from the wall so I could store the three cardboard boxes there, or rather, one cardboard box, at the time of the scooching. There was one cardboard box when I first moved the fridge, and I decided I would use it as my recycling box, which I had little space for, hence the moving of the fridge to the right. The first box is about two feet by two feet by two feet in dimension. Over the course of a couple weeks, I accumulated two more of the same size, one new box per week. After emptying each one, I’d parlay it into, sort of onto, the last, stacking them on top of one another as I emptied them, creating a tall deal to the left of the fridge, about six feet by two feet by two feet now. One more week of this and I’d have a cardboard tower two feet taller than me.

This was the result of my new lifestyle. Not so much the moving of the fridge, or the stacking of the boxes, but by proxy, kind of. A cardboard box was delivered to my doorstep every Wednesday. The cardboard box was part of my new lifestyle. The cardboard is also by proxy a result of my new life. The box featured fruits and vegetables that were both

a. Healthy.

b. Curated. For my own dietary needs, I mean. Whatever that means. I paid extra for that part. For a couple hundred dollars a month, a box of produce would be delivered to my doorstep every Wednesday. For an extra fifty, somebody would curate what I was to receive in the box based on my weight and whatever else. I decided to pay the little extra for somebody to stock the box with what they thought was essential for a Guy trying to eat better. I signed up for this subscription service on my computer, and fill out details about my weight and height and BMI and what I liked to eat, which was part of the curator’s job, to cultivate a perfect produce-heavy diet for me, a Guy with a new lifestyle.

Vegetable curator. Somebody’s job was to curate vegetables for me specifically.

I had decided at the beginning of this calendar year, which had started several weeks prior, that I needed to change a few things in my routine. At the end of each calendar year, people often found themselves collectively ready to Make Some Changes in regards to their lifestyle. Me, fallible man I am, found that I had my own shortcomings, shortcomings that were unlikely to change unless I used the new calendar year as a way to focus on changing my daily routines and day-to-day whatever’s. I made a list at the end of the previous calendar year, several weeks before the cardboard started showing up. A small list of five points.

-Eat better.

-Cut out that damned soda.

-Lose 30 lb.

-Get back out there (romantically).

-Get back out there (career (as in, find work)).

It was a modest list. In my prior experience, I’ve written laundry lists of resolutions for my New Years (not that I’ve ever written a laundry list, personally; not entirely sure what a laundry list is, but I’ve heard tale that they are long, probably much longer than five bullet points. Imagine a laundry list with five bullet points, and once again, this coming from a Guy who has never seen a laundry list. Shirt. Pair of pant. Sock number one. sock number two. Briefs. Are these the makings of a laundry list?).

Today was Wednesday. It was three weeks and some days into January. Today was the final day this month of receiving a cardboard box, a box that was going to, based on my last few deliveries, provide a largess of onions and limes, for some reason.

I tried to be available on Wednesdays so I could be present to receive the box when it was delivered. I had the day off on this particular Wednesday. Often, I had the day off. I had the day on tomorrow, work which I was less than excited about, work which didn’t really fit into the scheme of my New Year’s resolutions (bullet point number five).

My new lifestyle.

I would practice my lines (for bullet point number five) while I waited for the beautiful lady with the red hair to deliver onions to my apartment. I didn’t find that I had enough time to practice my lines due to my job, which was not the same as my career, which was not particularly blossoming into the dream I thought it may become. Still, practice equals perfect, so any time I had sitting around, waiting for boxes to be delivered, waiting, anticipating, I could give myself a moment to practice my character. Practice lines. Practice lines. Fulfill these bullet points.

-Eat better. This bullet point has remained at the top of all of my resolution-lists for nearly a decade. Each year I write the same thing down. Eat better. I always felt like I could eat better. Most people feel like they could eat better. A lot of people eat better than me already. Most people, probably. So therefore, I just needed to buy better food, and play a little catch-up. My solution to this was to order vegetables and a couple of fruits to my door. I would have preferred it to be the other way around, to receive more fruits than veggies, but I guess the curator noted my weight and deduced that I could probably use both a head of lettuce and cabbage more than I would need plums or grapes. I figured the curator was right. Who knows better than the curator. It was January, once again, hardly plum season (which is just a guess; I recall being a young angel, on warm summer evenings after tee-ball practice, eating plums straight from the fruit bowl, trying to spit out the pits into the trash can from ten feet away. I have no memory of eating them on like Christmas Eve. Therefore it is my belief that plums are not good during the winter). Within the boxes I would generally get one apple, one pear, what felt like a dozen onions, and lots of leave-type vegetables that I had trouble with looking up on the computer. I’m at least trying to eat better. But the surplus of onions really bothered me. Why was I paying for somebody to curate my produce for me, again? To send me four onions a week? I didn’t even cook. I didn’t know how to feature any of this in my normal eating program. I would eat most of the stuff they sent me raw, making crude salads out of the heads of lettuce. But four onions in a week? I guess it was time to learn how to sauté. The porcelain bowl that I bought solely to hold the fruit that I would be receiving in the mail began to be the space to consolidate any extra onions, radishes, and carrots. And ginger, which I don’t really know what that is, or does. The fruit bowl has become less of a fruit bowl, and more a cornucopia of food I didn’t want to eat. I guess cornucopias are not edible, right? You don’t eat them, yea? So maybe this was a perfect new-age cornucopia. I welcomed the carrots, at least, and would eat them, if present.

This reminds me of the time I-

-Cut out that damned soda. Eating better is a vague thought, better being a subjective term (but objective in a way when you really sit and think about it; not that you have to, just now that I have thought about it often, years of New Year’s resolution lists can be indicative of that), but this one is easy. No soda. I already didn’t drink, alcohol, that is, is what I meant, which you probably know, as most people know what it means to drink. That to say that “I drink” means the same as “I drink alcohol.” I didn’t find much use in drinking. I was already hefty and lonely. I probably would drink, given the right circumstance, like in a social setting, which was rare for me, especially if it came down to a make-or-break situation, regarding going out on a date with someone (see bullet point number 4), but besides that, it wasn’t something I enjoyed. The character I played drank beer, yes, and sometimes at certain events, fans (which I almost think I should put in quotations, since it’s hard to delineate whether they are fans of me or fans of the character that I play) would offer to buy me drinks, and I would often take the offer, as it was a situation that rarely occurred outside of these kinds of events, people offering to buy me drinks, anything. But yes, cut out soda, which I have successfully managed to stave off, almost for an entire month. I have replaced it with an abundance of soda waters; bottles and cans of Canada Dry, Schweppes, Hal’s, Polar, La Croix. Zero calories, emptied and discarded in the boxes to the left of the fridge, remains inside and on top of other remains. Waiting to be taken out. Next year I will make sure to put on my list; take out trash and recycling at least once a week. I was beginning to create a Jenga tower of cardboard, aluminum, plastic.

I may be an idiot, but there’s one thing I’m not sir, and that is an idiot.

-Lose 30 lb. Yes, these first three bullet points seem to be intertwined in the same web of me being less big and less fuckin’ fat. This bullet point would be more likely a result of the previous two, that’s the idea. If I can accomplish one and two, then three should fall into place in a relatively easy fashion. I bought a scale for this reason, the same day I received the first cardboard box. The scale also came in a cardboard box. I weighed in at 290.6 at the beginning of January. This morning, I was down to 284. Progress was being made, and that felt really good. Being 260 pounds as an end goal doesn’t seem like a remarkable crossing of the finish line, but my job, or rather, the work that I wanted to pursue, depended on my being pretty fat. But not dementedly fat. I needed to maintain a legally obese weight if I wanted to continue getting the kind of work that I was seeking, but I didn’t need to shorten my lifespan for it (so they say). I would stay hefty; all part of the character. I’d probably also need to buy new green pants, too. Need lots of pairs of green pants. Currently a 44 waist, would love to be down to a 40 waist. Will also make me feel more confident, probably, in relation to bullet point number four.

I have an idea so smart that my head would explode if I even began to know what I was talking about.

-Get back out there (romantically). I suppose this bullet point is an end result of the other three, similar to how three is with the prior two. I haven’t had an intimate moment with a romantic type of person in five years, unless I encountered one which I was oblivious to, which was possible, I guess, because, although I was pretty hefty, there was a chance that my body was appealing, it was suited for somebody, and out of every person in this city, somebody probably found it attractive, or good enough. But my low self esteem, especially in a sexual nature, was due to my surplus of pounds. I had a hell of a lot of pounds. If in the last five years I was approached by somebody who attempted to convey enthusiasm towards my looks and body, I would have had no idea. I probably wouldn’t have even have believed them. So I would lose weight over the course of the year, by not drinking Pepsi and by eating a lot of onions, and then I would regain my self-confidence, and then I could feel more visible, comfortably so, to women that I would enjoy being romantic with, or to. I would practice my lines in character in front of my full-body mirror, which I enjoyed doing, but out of character I couldn’t really bare looking at myself. With the green pants on, I could

I live in my small apartment, by myself. I would love to have a romantic person over this year. Hopefully by that point I can lock in a better regiment as far as recycling my cardboard boxes goes. But anywho. The lady that I have the most interaction with at this point in January is the beautiful red-haired one who drops off the boxes of vegetables. I wonder if she has noticed, or will soon notice my weight loss. I wonder if she knows the person who curates the produce for me back at the vegetable office. It couldn’t possibly be her, unless her sole job at the produce box place is to only curate my diet, and to only deliver my box. As in, each employee at the produce subscription service is assigned one person that they curate and deliver the boxes to. Hopefully not. The idea of attempting to flirt with someone who plans my vegetable consumption week to week seems far from romantic. My only hope is that I continue on the path of bullet points one through three, and then week to week she will notice that I have been steadily losing pounds. Once a week is a good amount of time to see somebody, if you’re wanting them to notice a physical change in you. If I were to have onions delivered to me every day, she may be less likely to notice. But I’m also not sure if I would want her to notice, because I really am unsure if I would want her to comment on it; that may feel patronizing to some degree, like telling a dog Good Dog or telling a little boy Good Job. Fortunately, in the days of online vegetable deliveries and everything else, although weight loss is still seen as a good thing, it is becoming more and more frowned upon to tell people that they look “better,” which oftentimes means that they look “lighter” and “less fat.” Which, sure, that’s a debate for two people more socially equipped than me and the delivery lady (definitely me, though she may be equipped to handle it, I don’t know, I barely know her, don’t even know her name, yet. But I will), but I am OK with it. I don’t want to be told that I look “better.” I want people to note that I look better without saying it. I want them to note it with actions. Specifically the vegetable lady. I want her to note my weight loss with actions. Romantic ones, somehow. I have an idea of what I want her to do, and I’ve thought about it often. But that’s for a little down the road, as far as the timeline is concerned.

Lois might not be worth a million dollars to you, but to me she’s worthless.

-Get back out there (career (as in, find work)). A rocky road, this one, and the only bullet point that doesn’t really have any sort of proxy deal to any of the other bullet points. I have a job which pays my rent, pays my bills, pays for my weekly subscription to vegetables. But that isn’t quite what I mean when I say career. You don’t have to draw a line between the two, and where I stand now, this year, so far, at least, financially, my job and career are about the same thing, considering I have had no career positions this year (yet). My job is where I go four to five times a week, cooking eggs for folks. My career is my dream, and is completely separated from eggs, something worth bullet-ing, a goal worthy of my meeting. It involves green pants, traveling to convention centers and hotels around the country. Any eggs involved would be the eggs at the self-serve morning continental breakfasts, rather than cooking them for others.

The Dream involves taking photographs with strangers, signing things for strangers, mingling with strangers, getting offered drinks from fans, or “fans,” all from the standpoint of a character that I play. They are not taking photos with me, but the man that I play. And that is OK with me. They call me by a different name, rarely do they ask what my real one is. They need not know. I am just a Guy to them, and they seem to adore me for it. It’s one position I put myself in where I feel zero shame about myself. This is a role I play. What better person to do the role than a big fucking Guy? But I have had no paid career work this year, yet. I have done some open mics around the city. I did one a fortnight ago. I did one last night. It isn’t my best skill, but it helps to sharpen my presentation some, for when potential work may come up. I do the open mics in character, which I can tell is a nuisance to the other mic-ers performing their little five minute sets. It isn’t like any of us are getting paid for it. I use it as skill-building. I just do little bits as the character and nobody laughs (which, to be fair, nobody is there, nobody besides the other acts, or “acts,” who double as the bar patrons, and they can be a bit unruly. One of them, during my own five minutes, heckled me with the line, “What is this, 2005?” It is not 2005, by the way, for any potential reader from the far future. The line was meant to be insulting. I was not insulted. I know my place).

Also, I was contacted for a potential opportunity at the beginning of the month, shortly after I wrote the list. A man I had met at several conventions in my eight-plus years of doing this type of work e-mailed me, inviting me to fly out to Missouri at the beginning of February for a modestly-sized cartoon convention, where I would have my own booth set up for the weekend, my own Q&A panel, my flight and expensed paid for. And I said yes, so long as I can get my shifts covered at the egg job. And that’s going to be next week, on Wednesday. So I have work coming up, and I have to keep that in mind when the beautiful woman delivers the vegetables to me, so I can ask her what I should do in regards to not being able to accept her delivery next Wednesday, because I’ll be out of town for work, for my career, my dream, and if she can just consolidate two boxes into one the Wednesday after, or something like that, and maybe also get her name, if possible, just because. Work is coming, my hotel and flight are paid for, so yeah, maybe just deliver two boxes at once, please.

I don’t know if I am more comftorable telling the lady that my main occupation is:

1. To make eggs for a living.

2. Cosplaying as a Guy around the country a few weeks out of the year.

Shut up, Meg.

If they aren’t fans of me, and they aren’t friends of me, what are they?

And should I answer the door as me or as a Guy.

I’ve been able to evade receiving the package from the woman while in costume, which has become less of a costume, somehow. Am I me or the Guy?

The door makes a buzzing sound. I hear and feel it. I press the intercom button and hear my name in question.

“Theo Price?”

Yes, says I. Theo is my name, and I respond to it.

“Delivery.” Her voice is clearer and more recognizable. I want to hear her say my name again.

I am Theo Price.

I am also a Guy.

“Can you ring me in? And I can bring it up to you. You’re on 2L?”

“Yes, yes, that’s my place. I can come down if it’s easier.”

Silence that fills the amount of time that it could have taken for me to have come down there, which would have been easier, if I had skipped the response. I could hear her breaths, possibly exasperated due to the climb up the initial stoop outside, which couldn’t be a walk in the park for a slender red-haired beauty such as this, the lady who delivers me vegetables.

“It’s okay, I can just come up there.”

“Okay.”

And then I pressed a button that made a sound, and I could hear the door click from downstairs. And I waited near the door, waiting to hear her feet climbing up the wooden steps.

I didn’t hear them.

I wore green slacks and a white button-up shirt. An outfit that I could see myself wearing in front of a mirror, in front of a camera, with fans, and people who want to see me. So why, in this instance, did I feel embarrassed to do this box handoff with this person that I had spend several weeks thinking about?

I probably thought about her in the last seven days more than I thought about any other person. Besides my character, of course. The career came first. Yet she was the only person who I felt I did not want to see me as the character. Whoever she was.

My resemblance was uncanny, I was told. Maybe she had never seen the show, therefore she had no point of reference. I felt embarrassed at the idea of her making any kind of connection. Halloween was many months ago, so why was I dressed like this Guy? Perhaps I wasn’t ready to open up my life to this woman.

I opened my door, peering my head out into the hallway. I saw her down below entering the front door, using the right side of her back and temple to prop open the door so she could rotate herself into the building with the box of produce under her left arm. She shimmied the box towards the center of her chest, walking up the steps with it, struggling. Should I meet her downstairs and intercept it from her? If I do, the scenario of us talking further than Thanks and Of Course and Have a Great Day may vanish quickly, seeing as how near the front door she was. So I stepped outside of my door, with one foot holding it open, to imply that since I didn’t have my keys on me, I needed to keep it supervised, or else I’ll lock myself out.

“Hey there, sorry, couldn’t find my keys, or else I would have come down there, the door locks behind itself.”

She made her way up the stairs and dropped the box off next to my shoe which was sticking out of the doorway.

I thought about asking her the thought I had earlier regarding who works what jobs at the produce-boxing place, asking if she was the one who curates all the food for me, asking if she delivers all the packages in this neighborhood or just to me, asking what her name was, if she wanted to get lunch sometime, what her name was, what was her fucking name. Instead I watched her straighten her back after dropping the box on the hardwood floor in the hallway, wipe her hands together, breathe, look at me, raise an eyebrow like The Rock. She seemed to have made the connection that I dreaded prior. We had met few times before this, and they were brief and near monosyllabic, but now I could see she was curious. She told me what was featured in the box today.

“Onions, cilantro, sweet potatoes, both lemon and lime, cabbage, apples, pears, and ginger.”

“Freakin’ sweet.”

Another Rock eyebrow.

“Am I being pranked or something?”

“No, what, what do you mean?”

“You’re literally dressed like Peter Griffin. And you’re talking like him. Which is different than the week before, and the week before.”

Okay, so she remembered who I was. Knowing that you were in somebody’s thoughts at some point is reassuring, but it also killed me. I knew she thought about me at some point, but I wanted to know what she thought of me.

“It’s my job. Or one of my jobs. I have two jobs. One of them is this.” I held my arms out and looked down at myself, indicating that “this” referred to my outfit.

She gave me an up-and-down, before asking me, “What is it that you do?”

“It’s hard to explain. One of them is easy to explain, the jobs, but one isn’t so cut-and-dry.” I picked up the box and placed it on the floor inside of my apartment, door still ajar. “Do you have a minute?”

“Not many, but I could use a glass of water or something, could I have a glass? Water?” She made a drinking motion with her hand, seeming exhausted, still, from her walk up the stairs. She perspired a little bit, tiny beads running down her pale forehead, unseasonal perspiring, unseasonal like a plum.

“Of course, come in,” as I held the door open still with my foot, motioning for her to come in. “I’m Theo, by the way.”

She walked into the kitchen without waiting for me, and grabbed a glass of water on the drying rack near the sink, filling it from the tap. “I know,” she said, in condescending, but sarcastic way, the kind of way in which the sarcasm rules out the condescension. Of course she knew my name. She delivered packages to a Theo, even said the name Theo through the intercom to me, Theo. “I put together your box every week and then bring it to you.”

Well that answered that question.

“So, Theo Price, why are you dressed like Peter Griffin?”

I felt flattered that she said that I was dressed like Peter Griffin, rather than that I looked like Peter Griffin. I would feel flattered about being compared to him in any other context besides with this woman that I wanted to talk to, as it was my job. I didn’t want her to compare me physically to big fat Peter Griffin. The least I could ask for from this situation is that she thinks my cosplay is uncanny, and that’s all.

In this moment, and only in this moment, I wished that I was not Peter Griffin. I wish I was seen as Theo Price, and only Theo Price. But in this moment, I was Peter Griffin, no doubt about it, and she saw it immediately, and still came into my apartment to drink water.

As I stumbled over saying “Well” and “Long story short” to try to deflect some, I noticed her surveying the fruit bowl filled with vegetables and the boxes stacked next to the fridge.

“Yeah, I know. You guys sure like to deliver onions.”

“Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse,” she assured me, as I pictured a stack of boxes touching the apartment ceiling.

“What’s your name, anyways? Since you know mine, I feel like I should know yours, seeing as how you put together my package every week.”

She put her cup of water down, her pale cheeks blushing, matching the tone of her red, red hair, and laughed, choking on her water some.

“Petah, you aren’t going to believe this.”

October 2021