Several summers ago Jamie Parker drove up on his motorcycle from Pattaya to Sriracha. Mutual friends back in the States had been casting aspersions against the paternity of my son. Mam had heard the same from her family. She offered to submit Fenway to a DNA test. I wasn’t having any part of it. I knew he was mine, but said nothing as Jamie entered my house.

Fenway was watching Ultraman. He lifted his head for a second. His eyes shifted to his mother and me. I half-expected him to cry, when Jamie picked him up in his arms. The skinny ex-convict was scary to most people, but Fenway stared him cold-blank in the eyes.

“Damn, the Thai gene is strong, but yours is stronger. I feel like I’m looking back into the past. Fuck everyone in America. They’re all KKK.” Jamie put down Fenway. My son returned his concentration to the cartoon. “Good-looking boy. Same as his dad.”

“Thanks.”

“Only telling the truth.” Jamie was from New York. White Boy same as me. We knew each other 30 years. Many of them no good. The bank robber had moved to Thailand after 9/11. He spoke Thai better than me. Jamie wai-ed Mam. He pointed Fenway’s and my faces. “Just like looking in a mirror.”

“Thank you.” Mam was grateful for the compliment, but still wanted to prove her doubters wrong. I didn’t care. Fenway was handsome. Same as his father. That was good enough for me.

Mam cooked food, while Jamie and I drank Leo beer on the porch. The neighbors strolled by the house. Sricracha isn’t Pattaya. Farangs are an oddity. We paid the gawkers no mind. Jamie and I were oddities back in the States too.

“How’s it back in the City?”

“Okay, but the fat people are taking over America.” At 90 kilos I was no longer considered overweight. My jackets had shrunk in size from XL to L. My BMI told a different story.

“That’s what I heard and I blame them for Global Warming.”

“How so?” I had a feeling Jamie was regurgitating some of my old blather, but I was curious about his re-interpretation.

“Think of those millions of fat people’s body temperatures and their sweating on a warm day and don’t forget about the friction of the wind hitting their plus-35 BMI.” Jamie’s previous theory about global warming had to do with Earth passing through a warmer section of outer space left over from the Creation, which got him a job with the GOP. It lasted about three weeks.

I’m much kinder to fat people, for unlike Jamie who’s very thin, I have suffered from Orson Wellesitis throughout my life. Not that I ever challenged the fakir of fat, although I once found a his cape at a Provincetown antique store. The owner wanted $200 to the circus tent. I offered him $50 cash. He turned me down, but I think about Orson often.

He was big and so is most of America. Bigger than big, however many of these over-sized people think of themselves as normal, especially the women and no one forgives these little elephants more than feminists who are constantly fighting man’s attempt to focus beauty on one ideal form ie a skinny model or a sex bomb starlet.

Skinny is not normal for feminists according to a UK study. Members of a survey shown a set of photos of women were asked to identify with the fattest and thinnest women in the photos. Most women picked fat.

After all most women are fat if only to project enough body mass to scare men from having sex with them and I can’t blame them. I wouldn’t want to have sex with me either.

Fat women of the world unite, but I have to warn them not in one place, because I wouldn’t want the crust of the Earth to collapse.

And neither would Fenway.

He still has a lot of living left in his tank.