Chapter One
The Minotaur Awakens
Frank Hardin remembered the exact day, hour, and minute that his life was radically and dramatically altered forever. He'd been at a going-away party for his best friend and his wife. Ben and Julie Gerrard were on their way to Hawaii, where Julie had gotten an impressive promotion. It was somewhat unusual, even in the enlightened world of women's liberation, for the husband to take on the role of the partner who would have to leave his job in order that his significant other could further her career. But Ben Gerrard wasn't the bitter or jealous type. Frank had often marvelled on how dedicated his buddy was to his eight-year marriage. He was somewhat of an inspiration to a man who had serious issues when it came to commitment and treating women as equals. Frank, at forty-two, was a chartered member of the old school where it was the man of the household who dictated when, how or why a drastic move should take place.
Frank was a somewhat sweetfaced man (although he'd hate to hear that to his face), but had, conversely, a somewhat rustic look about him. Frank Hardin, for all intents and purposes, was a rather lonely individual, as his habit of pushing women away, depite the fact that they were all extremely atractive, successful and intelligent, left him standing on the sidelines and living vicariously through friends like Ben and the lissome Julie.
Frank stood at the open bar, drinking more than was probably good for him and reflected upon the past year. It was one that had seen his artistic talents finally beginning to pay off: He'd won a showing at a rather prestigious gallery in the downtown area of New York City. Frank's paintings, all impressionistic and more than a little disturbing, had caught the sharp eye of the gallery's owner, fifty-something Bruce Andrews. Andrews, short,stocky and growing balder by the day, it seemed, had smiled openly and honestly at Frank when he said, "You're work is just what I have been looking for. It's fresh, intuitive and very, very scary. Are you as scary as your work?" Andrews had asked with a slight grin wandering over his ruddy face.
"Probably," Frank had responded, not certain if that was the appropriate answer. It must have been, for he got the exhibition and was escstatic about it.
Now, half-enebriated and descending into his familiar abyss of self-reflectiion, peppered liberally with self-pity, Frank couldn't see past the rather disturbing fact that his buddy was embarking on a new adventure and would leave Frank behind in the proverbial dust. Frank had difficulty maintaining even male relationships and, although a self-described loner, he secretly wished for the kind of "two-way giving" bonding that Ben and Julie had. Was Frank destined to be "lucky in cards, unlucky at love"? Surely another bourbon on the rocks would take that bad taste out of his mouth, so he requested yet another.
Suddenly, Frank became aware of someone standing beside him. Turning quickly to see who it was, he noted, with a twinge of pleasure, an extraordinarily attractive young woman, smiling warmly at him. He figured her to be no more than twenty-eight or thirty, but, what the hell? It wasn't as if there were twenty years between them, only ten or twelve. Therefore, Frank figured, he would neither be robbing the cradle or flirting with someone young enough to be his daughter.
"Hi, there. Are you here by yourself?" the woman asked, smiling to show a row of even, incredibly white teeth. Her red hair was swept up into a bun on top of her head and she was petite and rather short of stature. What Frank noticed first, however, was the ease at which this young creature made Frank's acquaintance. There was no awkwardness, no false compliments, just someone who appeared to be as alone as he was. "Stag's a drag, isn't it?" She winked at Frank and introduced herself as Melanie. It turned out that she had just turned thirty and was begining to feel that "over-the-hill-with-the-biological-clock-ticking-madly-away" sensation that most women endured when reaching that particular milestone.
Frank immediately began to feel self-conscious. For an extraordinarily attractive man, he was far too shy and self-depracating for his own good. For instance, there was his phsyique. Being surrounded by scads of young men with impossibly flat stomachs and wiry, muscular arms and chests, made Frank Hardin feel overweight and out-of-shape. Spending fourteen hours a day working on his paintings, he'd found that exercising had been left out in the cold and it showed somewhat. While certainly not what anyone could call overweight, Frank had the appearance of a man who needed working out and a proper diet in order to "tighten up," as the saying went.
As you can see by the picture, Frank was most certainly not fat, but rather, he had a fairly large build. He was a big guy and it suited him---not everyone was built the same way. He felt overweight and unatractive and this had made him extremely self-consious, particularly with women. All he could think of when someone of the female persuasion eyed him with a flirting glance, Frank thought that she saw him as a fat slob. Such low self-esteem probably stemmed from his childhood, when all he wanted was two loving parents. What he got was something totally different: An alcohlic father and a mother who held a job as a trader. When she returned home at night, it was little Frank's bedtime and so he had virtually no warm contact from either of his parents. They essentially ignored him and the only thing that seemed to fill the gaping void in his soul wax to eat. Frank was a chubby youngster and as such, was harassed and belittled by his cruel classmates. Frank despised himself and even contemplated suicide at the age of fourteen, but that urge, thankfully, soon abated.
However, when Frank began high school, he starved himself and ran six miles a day to lose what his mother called "baby fat." He grew his hair long and before long, girls were flirting with him and referred to the now happy teenager as "seriously cool and gorgeous." Here's a picture from Frank's high school yearbook:
However, when Frank started university, he succumbed to the infamous "Freshman fifteen," referring to the students experiencing a weight gain during first year. Frank was no different from his male and female peers, but he couldn't stop putting himself down. He thought of starving himself again and joining the football team, but when he was chosen by coach Bryant to be on the team, Frank was told that he needed to "bulk up" first, in order to avoid being seriously hurt on the field. So he abandoned the hunger strike and concentrated on his work and football practise.
Then, suddenly, Frank shook himself out of reflecting on his past and decided to get to know sweet Melanie better. Her face was splashed with freckles, which only added to her incredibly youthful appearance, grinned broadly at Frank and ordered a vodka and lime for herself and another bourbon for him. After suggesting that they sit down to talk, Frank began to inwardly panic. He was so hopelessly out of practise with the dating scene that he feared blowing this encounter completely if he opened his mouth. As it turned out, that was basically unnecessary, since the bubbly and excitable Melanie did the majority of the chatting.
"So, what do you do for a living?" Melanie asked, taking the twist of lemon out of her drink and proceding to suck on it. But before Frank could utter a response, she gabbed on in a non-stop monologue peppered librally with "i'm like" and "type of thing", until Frank knew practically everything there was to know about the young woman.
"When I was in university--I attended NYU---I had this dorky boyfriend named Samuel. Not "Sam", mind you, but "Samuel." He had the jones for me but I thought he was a total lame-o. You know, the old 'My old man has a lot of money--marry me and you'll never be poor.' Can you believe that crap? I told hime exactly where to go and fast. Then there was Tom Finnigan, this weird guy who grew up in Dublin. His accent was so thick I practially needed an interpreter--man, that was inconvenient. I'm looking for someone who will put my needs in front of his. I mean, that may sound selfish, but it's been my experience that men are complete and utter egocentrics that---oh, here I am, gabbing your freaking ear off. I'm sorry. So, what kind of stuff makes you happy, Frankie? Do you mind me calling you that?"
Frank wasn't particularly fond of this nickname, but decided not to fuffle the young woman's feathers. "Sure," he responded, taking a long drink before continuing. "What makes me happy? Oh, I don't know---going to see films, playing sports, a good meal---oh, and if the right woman comes along, that's even more fun." Frank was telling Melanie what she likely wanted to hear with that last item. If he confided to her that he no longer considered finding "the right person" a number one priority, she might feel she had a crack to push open even wider. Frank was just not looking for love or sex that evening. In fact, he was simply biding his time until he could return to his comfortable and cozy apartment to watch videos. Not exactly Mr. Excitement, but that's just the way things were.
Melanie still felt obligated to fill the air with as much verbal clutter as possible. As she rattled on and on, Frank made every effort to keep track of her one-sided conversation, but was growing both bored and tired. Then, the pretty young thing said something that, for reasons Frank could not fathom, cut him to the quick, so to speak.
"So, you play a lot of sports, huh?" she questioned, brushing a loose strand of hair out of her sparkling eyes. Do you run at all?"
Frank responded in the affirmative. "Yes, but not as often as I'd like. Right now I'm busy with this art exhibit and----"
Frank was interrupted once again by the rather rude woman, who interjected a comment that could only be described as somewhat mean-spirited. "Well, you look as if you could use some more running mileage, Frankie. Got a bit of a beer gut there. I guess it's sort of appealing, but i'm the "washboard abs" kind of girl."
It was something that should have sailed right over Frank's head, but, after spending the past few hours feeling inferior to his friend, Ben, Frank was an open sore that needed an emotionally healing balm administered and fast. "Oh," he began, his chest tightening and his mouth suddenly sucked dry as a strong martini. "you think that I'm fat, Melanie?"
Melanie smiled that ingratiating grin of hers and responded light-heartedly, "Well, it's just that you're so damned good-looking, that if you got rid of the Molson muscle, there'd be no shortage of hot chicks in your life. That's all. I didn't mean to be insulting. I just believe in honesty, total honesty."
Frank could have done without all of that truth-telling, for, suddenly, he began to feel hideously overweight, even though the reality was that he was only slightly pudgy, a result of too many six-packs on the weekends. He found himself wrapping his jacket around himself in an effort to camouflage any imperfections, then decided that he wanted to get as far away from Melanie as possible, before she began ragging on about more of his physical anomalities.
Frank left the party soon after Melanie drifted off to find another arm on which to hang. When he returned to his apartment, modestly furnished, but appealing to the eye, he flopped down on the couch, flicked on the television and was immediately faced with a weight-loss ad. Feeling that the gods were conspiring against him, he turned it off and wondered if this would be a good time to work on the painting that had been taking him longer than any other to complete.
But when he stood in front of the canvas, paint brush in hand, all that he could hear in his head were the words of the loquatious Melanie, telling him, in essence, that he was little more than a fat pig. The feelings of low self-esteem that had plagued Frank from an early age roared into full gear and he made a decision that night which would forever alter the course of his life: He would lose thirty pounds, no matter what it took. No sweet young thing, or sweet older thing, for that matter, would ever call him 'pudgy' again. Never.
Here are some pictures of Frank Hardin, in happier times:
To be continued.
