The Heavy Wait Diaries: Chapter 6

Union head Timothy Nelson commandeer's a backwards office chair. Nelson don's his careful listening face a horrid affair that involves squinting his eyes, tilting his head beatifically, and I can only assume tightly puckering his colon. Finally, Bloomberg drags his silver plated Peloton bicycle into the center of the room. Hope you don't mind if I take a spin while I take it all in, he says, And Timothy Nelson, let's loose a belly chuckle sick a fantic enough to

make my spermatic cord unraveled at great expense. Only weeks earlier, re ravel as much an enemy of capitalism as he was, Timothy Nelson still couldn't help kissing the ring, and by ring, I mean caboose, Alex Bloomberg's executive Ask caboose, nice one, chief, says Nelson, chasing after Bloomberg's two wheeler to swat his foot in camaraderie. Once the room settles down, I squint through the darkness. Eight beady eyes stare back at me, expectant and unblinking, like a pack of rabid raccoons about

to tear through a garbage bag full of content. My only option is to stall. I succeed in buying myself ten minutes by accidentally rebooting my computer several times, but the room is growing restless. What is a heavyweight? I ask a portmanteau composed of two separate words, heavy meaning to exert a gravitational pull and wait, something that can be hoisted either in a curling motion or from a squatting position. While my mouth jabbers on autopilot, my brain

is in a terrible sweat. Think Johnny, Think stories. Stories, But of the billions of stories to steal and repurpose, only two come to mind, The seminal kiddie book Good Night Moon, in which a suicidal rabbit bids adieu to his earthly possessions, and that poem about footsteps in the sand. Please give me something else, I beg my throbbing brain. Good night podcast. It whispers back, good night Healthcare, good

night Twitter followers. But just as I'm about to initiate Plan B, tearing down the window curtains and a curtain clutching fake heart attack worthy of Red Fox, a third story enters my brain. Pan no, please, I scream and think get out, as I will later recount in increasing states of hysteria to increasingly expensive therapists. It's in this moment that my fate hops into a potato sack with Timothy Nelson's fate. Before I even knew what I was saying,

I was saying this. The scene is set in in an office elevator, as one man tells the tale of Sandwich is gone AWRYE if you will, I laugh at my own joke to enforce its comedic properties. I don't get it, says Stevie. I think I do, says Khalila. I shoot them a stern look and continue. My girlfriend wanted a subway sandwich without olives. The man says, and I wanted a subway sandwich with olives. That's me, cries Timothy Nelson. I am that man. With a wave of

my storytelling arm I shush him down. Ah, but with impish leco slavic lord of misrule helming the wheel of this supper wagon we call life. Nothing is ever certain. And so the man who desperately drooled for a sandwich with olives received the one without, while his lady friend, vigorously salivating for a sandwich without olives, received a sandwich with. Will these star crossed sandwiches ever find their rightful sandwich eaters? Well,

why don't they just swap sandwiches? Asks S Bloomberg. Why, indeed, I wonder it's just as I'm about to admit defeat. Admit that I have nothing. Admit that, like a half baked sandwich bread made without yeast, this plotline has no rising action. Admit that, yes, Alex, this is indeed the most asinine story ever told. It is at this exact moment of my final comeuppance that Timothy Nelson grants me a kind of salvation. My special lady is allergic to

pickled peppers pipes. He and my sandwich was populated by a peck of them. And like the humble sandwich, so too is man, I say, already hearing the well of orchestral music in my mind's ear. Like sandwiches, are we not assembled according to a greater, unknowable plan? Who among us has not found themselves slathered in the mayonnaise of doubt, sliced in two by the bread knife of self hatred? Had our crusts removed by the attentive mother of anxiety?

Who among us will not be chewed up, devoured, and excreted before our time? Out of the darkness, I see Timothy Nelson wipe a tear from his cheek. So true, he says, But what if that olive, burdened couple had the chance at a do over? I continue affecting the voice of a wizard casting a magic spell, and could confront the sandwich maker who got their orders so horribly wrong. If you allow yourself to venture past the limits of your earthly imagination, try to invent what such a conversation

might yield. Bloomberg stops peddling his three thousand dollars wheelless bicycle, his attention wrapped interviewing the subway sandwich artist who got the order wrong. He says, of course, to offer the mustard of forbearance, I say, the sweet tapanad of forgiveness. Timothy Nelson is now openly blubbering, damn you and your storytelling, he weeps. And for an added layer of narrative richness, I say, the man eavesdropping in the elevator was none

other than the host of Heavyweight himself. You were wearing earbuds, cries Nelson with incredulity. And when I asked you how your weekend was, you ordered me to pipe down because you were listening to a podcast. But you weren't listening to a podcast at all. Oh but I was, I say, just one that was yet to be recorded. Beautiful, says Bloomberg.

The symmetry is breathtaking. In response, all of us in the room, dutifully quoting from the Gimlet Manifesto, recite in unison, symmetry divided by catharsis and multiplied by advertising dollars equals storytelling. We all take deeply satisfying SIPs from the miller high lifes. We've all been drinking, and that I never mentioned until this moment. You and Timothy will have to work together very closely on this one. Bloomberg says, I'm seeing a

co reporting situation. I don't know, I say, Khleland, Stevie are. He's telling me that Heavyweights more of a one man operation. We could sell some product placement, brand opportunities to Subway, says Bloomberg, steamrolling me. And maybe you can also find out why subway bread smells the way it does. You mean smelling like if you put an armpit in a Betty Crocker easy bake oven and set it on high. I ask that smell. I love the smell of subway bread,

says Timothy Nelson. Bloomberg laughs and claps his hands together. I'm just loving the banter here, he says. I know we can put our political differences aside and the interest of creating some compelling content, says Timothy Nelson, And then for some reason, he extends his fist to me uncertainly. I grab hold of it and shake. I had saved the show, But at what price? This has been Chapter six of the Heavyweight Diaries. The next season of Heavyweight

will begin in three weeks on September twenty sixth. Remember September twenty sixth is Spotify Day. Actually, every day is Spotify Day, at least according to the corporate mantra we're forced to repeat every morning. Heavyweight is me Jonathan Goldstein along with Jorge just Stevie Lane, Khalila Holt, and b A. Parker. This episode was mixed by Emamonger, music by Bobby Lord. Our ad music is Vivaldi's Spring, performed by the Wichita

State University Chamber Players. Will have a new chapter of the Heavyweight Diaries next week.