Big Mike: A Really Big Show

The other day I wrote that The Loved One and I deserve kudos for not murdering each other during our eight-month ordeal of moving from Louisville to Bloomington, Indiana. In fact, I was talking to my pal Sophia on the telephone and she said, “If you two could get through that, you can get through anything.”

Not so fast, kid.

Until we close on our new home Wednesday, The Loved One and I are living in a cramped hotel room near the Indiana University football stadium. So, for a day shy of two weeks, our 10’-by-15’ castle encloses the two of us, our two cats, the litter box, a half dozen boxes and bags of necessary belongings, a few pairs of odiferous shoes, our dirty laundry, and numerous empty junk food packages strewn here and there. We’ve begun to glance sidelong at each other once again.

If we indeed survive the next few days, Bloomington looks as though it’ll be a fairly livable place. Plenty of restaurants, a ton of wired coffeehouses and bookstores, the excitement of a major college town, and the gorgeous surrounding rolling hills. The town itself is populated by people from every continent who’ve migrated here for the university’s world-renowned music school and the nation’s largest school of public and environmental affairs, among others.

We’ll be surrounded by nuclear physicists, molecular biologists, cellists, point guards and, yeah, researchers for the Kinsey Institute, which sorta titillates me. But none of them is as compelling as a family I encountered Thursday afternoon.

I’d driven out to Ellettsville, a sleepy burgh some five miles west of Bloomington, to drop off a check for our new homeowners insurance. On the way there, on State Route 46, I passed a place called Chicago’s Pizza. It had a lunch buffet, according to the sign, so I decided to give it a try. Suffice it to say its fare was to Chi as French fries are to the Le Deux Magots cafe.

As I finished my last spongy-doughed slice, the aforementioned clan entered. I heard them before I saw them. I thought a Surround-Sound movie about the San Francisco earthquake was starting.

Now, as anybody can tell by peeking at my photo, I do a fairly good job of tipping the scale myself. For this I can thank my affinity for lunch buffets and such. And normally I hate to make light of anyone’s weight, but this family, some ten members in all, was the most massive bunch of people I’ve ever seen in my life. They were farmers, judging by their John Deere baseball caps, their bib overalls and – swear to god – the aroma of cow flop that accompanied them into the dining room. The womenfolk wore colorful, billowing skirts that could have doubled as spinnakers on so many America’s Cup entries.

They were a cheery bunch, laughing and nudging each other playfully. I don’t know if this was their normal mood or if they’d been made giddy by the prospect of the all-you-can-eat buffet. Their effervescence aside, they moved glacially, several of them leaning precariously on canes. Their ages ranged from early 20s to well into the 60s. I could only think that tens of thousands of cattle, pigs and fowl had lost their lives to serve the family’s metabolic needs over the years.

They passed the buffet with longing glances on their way to their table. A couple of them even decided to plant themselves right next to the buffet. One of the women called back to them, “What’s the matter with you? Ain’t we good enough for ya?”

The older of the two laggards tittered embarrassedly. “Aw, you know, I can’t make it that far,” he said. The gang of them laughed at this and then the man began to hack as if the  only thing that had ever kept a forkful of apple pie out of his mouth was a filterless Camel.

“Y’all ought to knock off that smokin’,” said a young guy, a twenty-something who easily could spin the scale dial to 350. For that matter, if any of them weighed less than 300 pounds, he or she would be considered sickly. I figured this young guy was the health-conscious member of the family.

After a few minutes of tortuous trekking to the buffet and creative piling on their plates, the family settled in for some serious knife and fork work. A silence descended over the place as they shoveled it in. I’d been finished with my lunch for long minutes but I couldn’t leave. I was transfixed by the sight before me. The ten of them attacked their plates artfully and with seriousness. I wasn’t afraid of being caught staring because none dared raise their eyes from their plates.

I actually admired them for their dedication to their craft. They were Picassos of the table.

Shockingly, none of them went up for seconds — although when I recalled the teetering towers of food piled on their plates, I realized they’d packed away the equivalent of thirds and even fourths. Satisfied, they sat back and regaled each other with stories all of them already knew. There were yarns about chasing strangers off their property and catching salesmen in lies. Each had an anecdote about getting lost in the busy rush of Ellettsville (population 5078.) After a few minutes, the conversation lagged. There was one yawn, then another and finally a chorus of them. Food coma had set in.

The health conscious one said, “Well, guess we better get goin’.” The older ones shrugged as if they’d be just as happy to nap here for the rest of the afternoon. The ten struggled to their feet and oozed toward the exit. One of the women smiled at me as she passed. For lack of anything better to say, I nodded toward the buffet and said, “It’s a pretty good one.”

“‘S’okay,” she responded knowledgeably, as if lunch buffets were her field of study at Indiana University. “They’s a better one down by the stadium, a Chinese place. They call it the Great Wall.”

“Oh yeah. I know that one. It’s right next to my hotel.”

“Y’all are lucky!” she said grinning.

I waved goodbye and made a silent promise to lay off the buffets for a while.