for people who don't apologize for their size

Daniel Pinkwater and the Afterlife

by Marilyn Wann

Daniel Pinkwater has written more than 60 books - deliciously quirky romps that are marketed to children. (But adults read them too!) They offer an absurdist good time, plus fat characters who are as smart and adventurous and good-looking as their creator. You can hear Mr. Pinkwater's basso rotundo each week on NPR's All Things Considered. Or get a complete set of these hilarious radio commentaries in the book Fishwhistle. Better yet, look for his new novel, The Afterlife Diet, in February. (In the book-store's grown-up section). In it, he skewers anti-fat prejudice as only Daniel Pinkwater can. Here's what he told FAT!SO? about being fat and fabulous...

Were you a fat kid?
I was always a chunky child. Early photos of me show not a particularly rotund little boy, but a substantial one. Just a hell of a sweet-looking kid.

That hasn't changed over the years, I imagine.
It's only improved. And then, about the time I was in grade school, I was starting to bulk up.

What was your family's attitude toward your size?
I come from a highly dysfunctional family. Fortunately, I had an elder half-brother and half-sister, whom my mother had at one time parked in an orphanage for a few years because that was convenient. They acquired human values there, and they raised me. But my actual biological parents were straight out of the Pleistocene. My father dealt out what could be called the discipline. It was actually just abuse. He would vacillate between scaring me and shouting at me and whacking my knuckles with the handle of a knife because I was a fat elephant. After a while, he would bring me a whole pint of butter brickle ice cream to eat all on my own. So he cancelled himself out. I soon learned to ignore them.

What about other little kids?
There were the usual comments which, because I was a good-natured kid, I took as good-natured raillery. It never came to anything too unpleasant, largely because I was also a strong kid, and, when pressed, I could throw a punch. My distinguishing characteristic was being the fat kid, which was no different than being "smelly" or "shorty" or "queer" or whatever. Now, there were periodic efforts to reduce me. My mother would take me to doctors.

What were the diet doctors like?
Starting at about age seven and on through junior high, we'd go downtown in Chicago. This meant taking the bus, and the sounds and smells of the Loop. I liked all that. We'd go to the doctor's office, and that was rather tedious, but usually there were tropical fish to look at. Then I would be stripped and weighed, and variously prodded and poked. On one occasion, the doctor called another fat kid to the door of the examining room - he in his jockey shorts, me in mine. Then this kid taunted me, saying, "Fatty, fatty. I lost five pounds. Why can't you?" The doctor would speak, usually to my mother, not to me, saying, "Put him on a diet." He'd hand her a printed diet. And then we'd go to lunch where, of course, she indulged me in anything I wanted, including banana cream cake. We'd do a little shopping, go home, and the diet was never implemented. Then after a while, we'd go to the doctor and do the same thing over again. It became sort of meaningless, except that I'd be insulted, usually, by the pediatrician. They were hostile and unpleasant and they hurt me, they hurt me physically and then said harsh things.

Did you ever try to lose weight?
In 1969, I wanted to marry this woman. I had to go into a formal interview with her father and ask for her hand. So he sipped his whiskey and we sat there in the den and he said, "Well, you know, there's only one reservation that I have about your coming into our family." Like it was going to be a big privilege! And he said, "I am concerned about your weight, for reasons of health. Will you promise me that you will try to lose weight?" I said, "Yes, I'll promise." I think that, had her father said no, it wouldn't have made the least difference. But we observed the forms.

What did you do to lose weight?
I had a good time in North Carolina. You wake up in the morning and you smell the Lucky Strike smell and you say, "What the hell am I doing here? The faster I lose weight, the sooner I go home." So I lost 100 pounds. This was the classic Rice Diet in the early 70s. They'd give you thrice-washed rice, a half cup twice a day, and if you fainted, they'd give you a vitamin pill. The doctor in charge was a German of just the right age. So whenever I saw him, I'd give a Nazi salute. He lost quite a few patients. Here was his rationale: "Ja, vell, zey vere sick und zey vere fat, so zey die." And I said, "They died of electrolyte imbalance because you don't give them any salt." He said, "Ja, salt makes you retain vater, und you get fat." He was an idiot. He knew nothing about it. Nothing much is known now. It was basically a swindle.

How do you view other fat people now?
Certainly I have an affection for other fat people, because we've all suffered and because they're admirable. I'm driving in my car and I'll see a guy walking down the street, and I'll say, "Damn, what a goodlooking guy! Look at him. Look at him walking along. That's a handsome man." And then I note that he weighs over 300 pounds. When I first caught myself doing this, I thought, "So what does this mean? Do I like the way I look? I guess so." I was talking to Smithsonian magazine. I said, "Let me do a feature, something about fat." They said, "I don't think so. You know, we're not into how you look." I didn't remind them that they just bought a piece about fat from me for the humor page. I described the feature to her. I said it would be wonderful pictures of fat people going about their daily lives. And I could hear her just go click, "Not in here, you don't."

How did you write your first children's book?
I was at a party at the house of a couple who were collectors of my work. I was trying to be an artist in New York. They were my only collectors, come to think of it. At their parties, I could be seen, and see myself, in front of work of mine hanging on a wall. And they were always trying to fix me up with various unmarried women they knew. At every party, I was directed to be on the lookout for "Susan," you know. In this case, I got the wrong girl. The hostess was gesticulating wildly and pointing. I was talking and getting into a real chummy conversation. Well, she happened to be a book editor, and it came out that she was doing a book of African folk tales and needed modern African illustrations to go with it. I had a bunch, because I'd just come back from working in Africa with an artist's co-op. This was in 1968 or 1969. She came to my studio to see the African stuff and said, "You know, you could do a children's book." A week later I gave her a text with sketches and they bought the book. I said, "That was an easy dollar."

You wrote the text?
I'd always liked to write, but I never wanted to be a writer, because it seemed a sissy occupation. It is. To this day, I find it terribly easy. And so, rather than trying to hunt up a text, I just wrote one.

How do you write a book for children?
I imagine a child. That child is me. I can reconstruct and vividly remember portions of my own childhood. I can see, taste, smell, feel, and hear them. Then what I do is, not write about that kid or about his world, but start to think of a book that would have pleased him.

What is it like to create fat characters in your books?
They were getting chunkier and chunkier from the beginning. They're fat because I'm comfortable with them being fat. I get a certain glee in putting fat people in what amount to heroic settings. In one book, the narrator is describing his liking for Laurel and Hardy. One of the reasons he gives is that Hardy is fat, and he's fat and his friend is fat. There's no more about it, but you know they're fat now. As they go through the various adventures, they are fat people having these adventures. And that's what I have to say about being fat - there's no problem with it!

What inspired your new book, The Afterlife Diet?
Eight years ago, my gall bladder, which had begun to dislike me, started to really hate me. So I went into the local charnel house to have the town surgeon whip out my gall bladder. He was a young schmo, and even though I suggested to him simple common sense: "Look. Big belly. Make good stitches. Use carpet thread. Do extra." He said, "Come on. It's operation number 42. I've done it twice already." And proceeded to put in the requisite number of staples and stitches. And, sure enough, it herniated. He said, "Ah, not to worry. When it strangulates, you'll know it, and then I'll fix it." Seven years later the hernia strangulated one Monday night. I found myself pretty quick in the hospital for an emergency job. Who do I draw? The same surgeon, the same jerk. This time, I grasped him by the hand and I said, "You must feel, in some degree, responsible. How about you do a really good job here, and we'll just forget about your other fuck-up." He did his absolute best. While I'm being prepped, he keeps telling me, "I got a wonderful assistant surgeon, I got two anesthesiologists." So they wheel me off to the OR. Jill, my wife, is standing in the dimly lit corridor with the straight chairs and the crucifix. Who comes padding along in his scrubs but the surgeon? And he says, "He's gonna die, you know. He's gonna die. He's gonna die." Jill says, "But, but, but...he's healthy, he hardly smokes a cigar, he eats right. Why is he gonna die?" Two hours later, they're wheeling me out of the OR, and I am waving from the gurney. Apparently, I was already cheerful. Here he comes again, the surgeon, and he says, "Well, it looks like he pulled through. But he's gonna die, and it's gonna be your fault." Jill says, "WHAT!?" "He's fat. He's gonna die, and it's your fault that you let him be fat." Jill reportedly says, "Come here, peewee! Let me explain something to you. I'm not a Catholic. This guilt thing doesn't work. People don't make other people fat. Understand? And where do you get off trying to lay guilt and your fear on the patient's wife? If you can't handle being a surgeon, go into a different specialty, you asshole." I heard about this a couple of weeks later when I was recuperating. I was going to be home a lot and I thought, "Time to write the novel. So it begins with a character in a similar situation who doesn't pull through. And then, a lot of it is flashback all about fat people and society.

What is your take on fat people and society?
We got a raw deal!

Where do you think that comes from?
First of all, fat people are, in fact, funny. In the same way that there's something delightful about elephants standing on their hind legs and doing tricks for the circus. There's a kind of a joyousness to big, ponderous creatures. The hatred of fat people, I think, is more modern. It's manufactured. It's a manifestation of the shabbier and cheaper side of culture, which is to say, advertising and skinny models on the beach hawking cigarettes and beer. But it starts with the doctors. They have no success at "curing" fat people. So, doctors being what they are, which is jumped-up little shits who have not been allowed to take the right humanities courses, they lay the responsibility on the fat person, saying, "You're a fool! How could you let yourself get this way? Aren't you ashamed?" Being the kind of cuss I am, I pipe up and say, "No, I'm not ashamed." Once when I had a fat doctor, I asked [about our health risk.] Well you know, it's true that as a fat person I run a greater risk of heart disease, diabetes, and a number of other things. But guess what? The amount of that risk is almost infinitessimal! Fat hatred has become a little more vicious as other groups have excused themselves from being the butts of these cruelties. I think people really couldn't care less about the issue; they just see you as a defenseless person. It's not about fat; it can't be about fat. Fat is too trivial for it to be about. Ask about my sex life.

What about your sex life?
Well, I've always had a real good one. When you're an adolescent, you're going to be absolutely mortified by whatever it is: your pimples, your glasses, the size of your nose, the color of your hair. God! There's no end! So obviously I felt pretty awkward and strange as a fat kid. Later I realized everybody else felt awkward and strange as whatever kind of kid they perceived themselves to be. But past that, I discovered that it made absolutely no difference. As a single person, which is all I will comment on, I've had no complaints. Some women have said, "Gee, here I am getting involved with this fat guy, what will people think of me?" But they were converted and sometimes surprised.

How did you get into radio?
My editor got fired in one of the corporate takeovers in 1987 and I was waiting for somebody with strength of character to come forward. In the meantime, I had no children's publisher. Here I was, out of business, and I get a call from a breathless young person whom we will call Louise. She says, "Hi! Would you like to be a commentator on All Things Considered?" I said, "Sure. I've always thought I should." "Oh, good! I'll tell Art. Goodbye," she said. Just about that time, the Children's Book Council had invited me to make a tape, in which I talked for about 15 minutes about God knows what. I listened to it, and I sounded good. So I sent one to Art Silverman at NPR [National Public Radio]. A week later, Art Silverman called and said, "Would you like to be a commentator on All Thing Considered?" I said, "I thought I already was." He said, "What do you mean? The only person who hires people on this job is me. I never talked to you before." I said, "Louise called up and hired me." He said, "Who's Louise?" And then, because I had absolutely nothing else to do, I wrote radio pieces day and night, which meant that I got on the air every single week at least once, and people liked it because it was good. And I got to be published again, because the editor could go to the bean counters and say, "He's on the radio, so 9 million people listen to him every week. We could probably sell some books."

What advice do you have about writing?
Someone once said that no book has ever been written that could not be subtitled, "How to Be More Like Me." I am conscious never to write a book that could be so subtitled. My rules of writing are: Do not show off. Do not indulge yourself. Do not kiss the reader's ass. I once got stranded on some rocks alongside the Hudson River. On the Jersey side of the Hudson River, there are these 450 foot cliffs, and I was hiking. I saw a sign that said "Danger! Do not proceed any further." But the sign looked old. I decided it was some old danger, so I proceeded further, and I found myself encountering a rock slide that I had to traverse. It looked quite easy, but as I got into it, I realized that the shore curved away and it got into a really complicated bit of mountaineering where there were boulders as big as houses that I had to haul my fat body over. I was all alone. You could lose your footing and fall into a hole, or you could break your leg and be drowned by the tide. No one would ever know you were there. In fact, I half expected to find somebody's skeleton. It took me all day to work my way down to a place where there were stairs cut into the cliff. There were pleasure boats on the river. All I had to do was call to a boater to come close to shore, jump in the river, swim over, and make it to safety. I couldn't do it. As I finally came off this tortuous rock slide, I was in an area of trees and greensward. It was like a Disney movie; all the little animals came right up to me. I had spent all the aggression that was in me and the animals - chipmunks and squirrels and birds and things, said, "Here's a chance to look at a human close up. He's not going to hurt us." They were all gathered around my feet. I felt like Snow White or something. Each step I took, they'd move over and hop along with me. It was eerie. I contend that you can do this as a writer. And it's safer. Which is why I don't outline. The pleasure for me is to be all the way out there.

Tell me about your new book, The Afterlife Diet.
I covered as much as I could about the experience of being fat and the kinds of things that a fat person encounters. There are some really sad chapters, but most of them are funny. The book has a message, and it's a simple one. It's simply this: It isn't important! Being fat isn't important. Fat people reading the book will be gratified to know that nobody gets thin. Nobody's going to get thin. Nobody gets punished for being thin or fat; they get punished for being good or bad. Although some don't get punished. It starts when this guy dies and we find out that the afterlife is actually a bad resort in the Catskills. Everyone there is fat. Finally, someone explains that there are no thin people in the afterlife because they would all rather have been dead. There are all these lunatic characters. For example Milo, who is this affable fat guy who's very happy to get a job in a hot dog stand, and who's trying to be a writer, but he's pretty much without talent. Which doesn't really matter, because he's enjoying himself so much. He has written the one great novel that no one will look at called Call Me Whale. It's from the point of view of the whale. There's a nice, big girl who becomes his lover.

You wrote a fat sex scene!?
I wrote a fat sex scene that begins in the hot dog stand and winds up in the bathtub in her apartment, where she uses this secret blend of spices to flavor the bathwater. And she's quite adorable. Then there's quack doctors, I don't know how many. There's a self-help group called Fight Fat, Fight Failure with slogans like, "Starve for success." In the afterlife, there's a game called Bardo, which is like Bingo, only the prize is you get rebirth. This pleasant woman wins and instantly vanishes to be reborn to this absolutely perfect Yuppie couple. Everything goes fine until she starts getting really fat. The parents can't stand it, and they finally ship her off to a clinic to make her thin. Throughout, this character, the psychiatrist Plotkin is trying to tell people, "Will you forget about it, please? You don't have to do anything because you're fat. You're just fat. It's like having a big nose or red hair. You're fat. That's all." This book is the craziest thing I've ever done and therefore I'm very satisfied with it. It's got a very good chance of being a total failure in the marketplace, but what else is new? It certainly doesn't concede anything, and I won't say I hope, but I wouldn't mind, if someone, in reading it, got left with a kind of inability to sustain certain kinds of thoughts anymore. Like: "I must be a terrible person because I can't lose weight."

for people who don't apologize for their size email: marilyn@fatso.com
FAT!SO? Greatest Hits	§	FAT!SO? Goodies	§	Masthead	§	Subscribe!