Sweat glistened on John’s shiny scalp. He took a deep breath and mopped his face with a stained white handkerchief. “It’s not my fault.” He lurched forward, planted his meaty hands on the table, and struggled to his feet. The neighborhood kids used to call him Boss Hog because of The Dukes of Hazzard reruns they’d seen, but he’d far exceeded the size of Boss Hog these past few years.

Exertion made him wheeze. His heart raced to push enough blood through his body to keep him moving and his pulse pounded his temples. Pots and pans hanging under a cabinet clanged with his footsteps as he slowly began to pace. His wife had begged him to diet before it was too late. He’d promised her he would try. But he never did, not really. He shot her a guilty glance as he walked, then looked quickly away. Her eyes followed him, attracted by the gravity of his body as he pushed through the hot and humid air.

“You remember when we were kids?” he said. “TV wasn’t a twenty-four-hour thing. At about two in the morning the stations would go to bars and then hum. Then, at six, they’d play the national anthem with video of a flag flying before the day’s programing began.” He wiped his forehead again. Slicks of sweat were spreading under his arms. A fly buzzed up against a lightbulb overhead, repeatedly bouncing off and charging back in again.

“Some channels even stopped at eleven. But if you had pay channels, they’d go all night. Even if you didn’t pay for them, they were there. Just all messed up so you couldn’t watch anything really.” He took a deep breath. “When you’re a kid, alone and bored at two in the morning, you turn on the TV to see what’s there.” He paused and made eye contact with his wife, “Do you know what was on pay TV at two on the morning?”

She shook her head.

“Scrambled porn.”

He was hoping she’d react, be shocked, or at least nod in understanding, but she just stared at him.

“There were these wavy lines and weird colors that were supposed to keep nonpaying viewers from enjoying the programming. But, as a twelve-year-old boy, you didn’t care. If you watched long enough, you might catch a glimpse of a blue breast or an orange buttocks. It would only last a second and it would be half-scrambled, but the thrill was there.”

He stopped pacing and patted his face down with the handkerchief again. The floorboards creaked under his mass as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other and back again.

“I think they did it on purpose. They let those tidbits slide into the scramble to entice you. And you’d be hooked watching for hours, just to catch those glimpses. Stealing moments of the forbidden. For hours. And before you knew it, the flag was on with the anthem playing again.”

He looked at her again, hoping for some sign of compassion or consideration. There was none.

“It was like that. I kept seeing it out of the corner of my eye, enticing me.” He wrung his hands at the thought and his eyes glazed over. “I thought, maybe just a little bit, a tiny bit. No one would even notice. Then I kept telling myself no—I could wait. But it was always there, available.” He leaned against the counter next to an empty, white platter; the remains of icing forming a chocolate crop circle on its surface. He stared at it and pushed a few crumbs around like a Zen sand garden.

“It was just a little finger full….” He held up his pinky and looked at it, a small crumb rested on the tip. He lowered his head, resting his chin on the folds in his neck. “Next thing I know, the national anthem was playing on the screen.” He slipped the crumb into his mouth.

Robert Kramer is a husband and father. His writing has been published in Carnegie Mellon’s The Oakland Review, Clocktower Literary Journal, Metonym Literary Journal, Dime Show Review, and Chipper Press. His feature script Hidden Rage was produced by the God of Moses Films and his short script Land of the Free was produced by Synergy Media. Find him on Twitter @kramerra99 and Instagram @kramerra.

Header image: Recursive Topography of Uncertainty by Ryota Matsumoto