Big Beautiful Dreamer
ridiculously contented
BHM, Dining, WG - signing up for an experiment can prove expansionary
[This story takes a little time to get going, and moves slowly, but the setup and pace are integral to the storyline. As the fortune cookie says, “Your patience will be rewarded.” This is by far the longest WG story I have ever read, and reflects my pleasure in reading and writing about dining and WG. Enjoy! Bon appétit - BBD.]
John stared at the letter, reading it again for the third time. He’d never known anything this odd in his life. He kept wondering if it were one of those scams, like the Nigerian widow con. Could this be too good to be true? On the other hand, what did he have to lose? Worst case, he would discover at the first stop that the whole thing was a fraud, and it would cost him only the price of his meal.
He looked at the letter yet again.
Dear Mr. Smythe:
After careful observation we have selected you to fulfill our experiment. Should you decide to accept, the terms of our offer are simple. You must agree to dine at every restaurant in the designated geographical area within one year, 365 days.
We will be monitoring your progress; do not attempt to circumvent our
requirements. Simply mention that you are John Smythe to your waiter and eat everything that is served. Your bill and gratuity will be taken care of. At the end of this year, should you succeed, we will reward your efforts more than handsomely. However, we must stress that you must eat everything – everything – that you are served! The success of our experiment depends on you.
Sincerely yours,
The Experiment Group ®
It was like something out of Sherlock Holmes … what was the story? “The Red-Headed League.” He frowned. In that story, the idea was to get the naïve red-haired man out of his store for hours at a time so thieves could dig a tunnel to commit a bank robbery.
Was this intended to get him out of his house? Wait a minute … he looked around. He lived in a tidy but spare studio apartment containing a $99 futon, a 10-year-old rabbit-ears television, and a couple of wobbly end tables from a yard sale. A cheap bookcase and a double handful of worn paperbacks, along with a minimal wardrobe, completed his possessions. What was there to steal? And this was his home, not a pawnshop with an assistant diving into the cellar. He doubted anyone could dig a tunnel under the small adobe apartment house without being noticed.
What if they were trying to get him out of his house for another
reason? He flopped onto the futon and thought. He turned it over in his mind for an hour and couldn’t think of a single sneaky reason why anyone would be trying to get him out of his house. He shrugged. Why not? He could use the free food. He glanced at the letter again, noticing a postscript. The experiment begins on Monday, March 1. That was tomorrow.
Well, why not? He turned his attention to the enclosure, a thick packet apparently listing every restaurant in the “designated geographical area.” They weren’t listed alphabetically. How were they listed? He studied the list for a while and decided they were listed geographically, from west to east. He counted them up and discovered the list came to 400 restaurants. That meant one to two restaurants a day. He could handle that. Here goes nothing, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep on the creaky futon.
The next day, after showering and dressing, he studied the first group. Luckily, there were several pancake-house type restaurants on the list. He ran down the outside steps to his battered hatchback and puttered toward one of them.
Feeling a little foolish, he told the waitress, “Ah, my name is John Smythe.” The effect was immediate. The waitress blinked and scuttled away. What in the world? In a minute, the waitress came back with the manager.
“You’re John Smythe?”
“Uh, yessir.”
The manager, rabbity and damp with sweat, turned to the waitress. “I’ll put his order in.”
The waitress took back the menu she had just placed in John’s hands and filled his water glass. Ten minutes later, she wheeled out a cart and John began to see what he had let himself in for. The waitress unloaded a plate piled with a dozen pancakes, a mountain of steaming scrambled eggs, a plateful of sausage patties, a stack of toast, and two frosted cinnamon rolls the size of tires. The manager followed with a pot of coffee. “Mr. Smythe,” and he clumsily winked, “you know the rules.” Then he vanished.
The letter was by now burned into John’s brain. “Eat everything you are served.” “We will be monitoring your progress.” He had shown up at the restaurant; he had, in his own mind, agreed to this odd arrangement. “Eat everything you are served.” Again, he thought, Here goes nothing, and began to eat.
Pancakes first, slathered in syrup. He was hungry and they slid right down. He patted his stomach, producing a smallish belch, and tackled the eggs and sausage. Periodically the waitress came by and refilled his coffee from the pot, taking away the empty plates.
As the plates emptied, his stomach filled. He wasn’t used to eating this much. As the food piled into his belly, his stomach stretched to accommodate it all. By the time the eggs and sausage were history, John had had to loosen his belt a couple of notches, and the button on his pants wasn’t long for this world.
Mechanically, he munched through the toast, seeing it as a minor obstacle at best. He was stuffed. With every breath, his aching belly swelled over his straining waistband and squeezed over the sides. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and started in on the cinnamon rolls. They were huge and seemed not to diminish as he ate onward. His bloated and swollen stomach bulged over his lap and didn’t even acknowledge the waistband. Full to bursting, he leaned back in the booth, his distended abdomen tight as a drum.
He started to look around for the waitress, then remembered that the bill and tip would be taken care off. Odd, very odd. But as long as nothing else
happened, this might be OK after all. With considerable effort, John squeezed out of the booth and waddled tiredly to the door. He squeezed into the little hatchback and drove home. He took his time getting up the steps to his apartment. He stumbled in, headed for the futon, but there was another sealed envelope on it. He was sure he’d locked the apartment.
Dear Mr. Smythe:
Well done. You clearly understand the importance of eating everything you are served. We are glad. We should be disappointed if we had had to underestimate you. We do not wish to think less of people.
As you have figured out by now, 400 restaurants in 365 days means 1 restaurant a day, and once every five weeks, two restaurants to make up the difference. Mark your calendar. Stay with the list. You will not be disappointed.
Sincerely yours,
The Experiment Group®
Well, well. Furniture not missing, mysterious hole not being dug in apartment, nothing changed except the letter on the futon. Oh, and the fact that he’d never been so wicked full in his entire life. He sank back on the futon, which creaked loudly, and slipped out of his shoes. He didn’t mean to fall asleep but was soon snoring, upright, pants undone, a hand resting on his distended, aching stomach.
When he awoke, it was 2:00 in the afternoon. He stood and refastened his pants over the small bulge in his belly. Holy fajitas, Batman! He was actually hungry again. He couldn’t be. His grumbling stomach told him he could. Again he looked through the list of restaurants, this time choosing an upscale burger joint. He got lost twice trying to find it, once getting stuck in a massive traffic jam. He finally found the place at 4:30. By now he was really starving.
“My name is John Smythe,” he told the hostess. “Oh! Right this way, sir.” She led him to a private table in the back. “The manager will be right with you.”
The manager, this time tall, suave and with a distinguished head of silver hair, bowed from the waist. He displayed the menu and then pulled it back, saying, “I know what Mr. Smythe will find irresistible tonight.”
Just as at breakfast, after a wait, the waiter came back out with a tray loaded with food. This time it was two thick cheeseburgers, each the size of a table, a mountain of golden French fries and a deep bowl of salad. The waiter placed a tall glass of cola on the table and said, “Enjoy, Mr. Smythe.”
John thought he could manage with no trouble. He was hungry, wasn’t he? The size of the burgers, however, was deceptive. He kept eating and eating, and the burgers didn’t seem to be diminishing. Neither did the pile of fries, and the salad was apparently served in a bottomless bowl. His stuffed belly began to bulge outward, then sag heavily over his stretched waistband. Love handles lapped over the sides. With one burger gone and the other one more than halfway, John began slowing down. He was uncomfortably full and wasn’t sure how he could keep going. Was this going to be worth it? Why was he obeying the dictates of an anonymous nutcase?
Something about the letter, however, had been hypnotic. John had been easily persuaded to obey, and he was a man of his word. He soldiered on, swallowing burger, salad and fries, occasionally pausing to rest a hand on his bloated and aching stomach. Tight as a drum, his distended abdomen swelled out over his waistband, a force of gravity holding him to his chair. He was going to burst at any moment, he was sure of it.
Then the waiter appeared – to lay a slab of German chocolate cake before John. “Enjoy, Mr. Smythe,” he said silkily, then vanished, taking the empty plates with him.
Enjoy! John sighed, which was a tactical error, as his overworked pants button snapped open. He let out a huge belch, looking around in embarrassment, but no one else seemed to have heard. It helped, though, and John plowed into the cake, letting each sweet morsel melt on his tongue, savoring the flavor, even as his stretched and aching belly bulged with each bite.
As at breakfast, no bill appeared, and John had only to pull himself heavily to his feet and leave. His sagging midsection hung heavily over his overworked waistband, jiggling with each plodding step. New love handles swelled over the sides, and his face, shiny with food and sweat, felt swollen. He squeezed himself into his hatchback, barely able to close the door, and drove home. The trip up the stairs took forever. After each huge effort to raise and lower his foot, he would pause, panting, to rest.
At last, he made it. There on the futon was another letter.
Well done, Mr. Smythe. Here ends your first day. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Remember, only 35 days of the year will require two restaurants. However … also remember that you must eat everything you are served!
We hate to see our clients in distress; therefore, the new car parked in your space in the morning will be yours. Consider it a reward for your first day successfully and obediently completed.
Sincerely yours,
The Experiment Group®
How did these people know he’d hit two restaurants? Oh, duh. Clearly the managers were in on this, given the way they responded to the mention of his name. John thought that he ought to consider the letter more and decipher any hidden meanings in it, but the instant his tired body thumped onto the futon, his head tipped back and he was loudly snoring.
The next day, he awoke to consider the damage done. Inspecting himself nude before the bathroom mirror, he saw that his once-flat waistline was perceptibly thicker. An enticing little pot belly bulged, and there were hints of baby love handles, which he patted. “I’m going to get mighty big,” he told the mirror. “But they’re going to make it worth my while.”
He pulled on his underwear, which seemed a trifle snug, and his jeans, which were definitely snug. It took some effort to button them around his expanded midsection, still swollen from the day before, and he had to seriously suck in his gut to get the zipper zipped. He tugged a shirt down over his head.
While shaving, he thought again about the proposition. What did he have to lose? If nothing else, it was free food for a year, which was a gift in itself, and there was a hint of more to come at the end of the year. Here he was, two months out of college with no job prospects in sight, no girlfriend, parents living on the other side of the country, and enough savings to pay for either food or rent, but not both. If this crazy offer was for real, and it seemed to be, he could afford to stay here for another year, during which time he just might find a job.
Only one restaurant today. Better time it right. He settled in to watch morning TV for a while, deciding not to head out until 11:00 or so.
(This story is continued here.)
Here Goes Nothing - 1
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
by Big Beautiful Dreamer
[This story takes a little time to get going, and moves slowly, but the setup and pace are integral to the storyline. As the fortune cookie says, “Your patience will be rewarded.” This is by far the longest WG story I have ever read, and reflects my pleasure in reading and writing about dining and WG. Enjoy! Bon appétit - BBD.]
John stared at the letter, reading it again for the third time. He’d never known anything this odd in his life. He kept wondering if it were one of those scams, like the Nigerian widow con. Could this be too good to be true? On the other hand, what did he have to lose? Worst case, he would discover at the first stop that the whole thing was a fraud, and it would cost him only the price of his meal.
He looked at the letter yet again.
Dear Mr. Smythe:
After careful observation we have selected you to fulfill our experiment. Should you decide to accept, the terms of our offer are simple. You must agree to dine at every restaurant in the designated geographical area within one year, 365 days.
We will be monitoring your progress; do not attempt to circumvent our
requirements. Simply mention that you are John Smythe to your waiter and eat everything that is served. Your bill and gratuity will be taken care of. At the end of this year, should you succeed, we will reward your efforts more than handsomely. However, we must stress that you must eat everything – everything – that you are served! The success of our experiment depends on you.
Sincerely yours,
The Experiment Group ®
It was like something out of Sherlock Holmes … what was the story? “The Red-Headed League.” He frowned. In that story, the idea was to get the naïve red-haired man out of his store for hours at a time so thieves could dig a tunnel to commit a bank robbery.
Was this intended to get him out of his house? Wait a minute … he looked around. He lived in a tidy but spare studio apartment containing a $99 futon, a 10-year-old rabbit-ears television, and a couple of wobbly end tables from a yard sale. A cheap bookcase and a double handful of worn paperbacks, along with a minimal wardrobe, completed his possessions. What was there to steal? And this was his home, not a pawnshop with an assistant diving into the cellar. He doubted anyone could dig a tunnel under the small adobe apartment house without being noticed.
What if they were trying to get him out of his house for another
reason? He flopped onto the futon and thought. He turned it over in his mind for an hour and couldn’t think of a single sneaky reason why anyone would be trying to get him out of his house. He shrugged. Why not? He could use the free food. He glanced at the letter again, noticing a postscript. The experiment begins on Monday, March 1. That was tomorrow.
Well, why not? He turned his attention to the enclosure, a thick packet apparently listing every restaurant in the “designated geographical area.” They weren’t listed alphabetically. How were they listed? He studied the list for a while and decided they were listed geographically, from west to east. He counted them up and discovered the list came to 400 restaurants. That meant one to two restaurants a day. He could handle that. Here goes nothing, he thought, as he drifted off to sleep on the creaky futon.
The next day, after showering and dressing, he studied the first group. Luckily, there were several pancake-house type restaurants on the list. He ran down the outside steps to his battered hatchback and puttered toward one of them.
Feeling a little foolish, he told the waitress, “Ah, my name is John Smythe.” The effect was immediate. The waitress blinked and scuttled away. What in the world? In a minute, the waitress came back with the manager.
“You’re John Smythe?”
“Uh, yessir.”
The manager, rabbity and damp with sweat, turned to the waitress. “I’ll put his order in.”
The waitress took back the menu she had just placed in John’s hands and filled his water glass. Ten minutes later, she wheeled out a cart and John began to see what he had let himself in for. The waitress unloaded a plate piled with a dozen pancakes, a mountain of steaming scrambled eggs, a plateful of sausage patties, a stack of toast, and two frosted cinnamon rolls the size of tires. The manager followed with a pot of coffee. “Mr. Smythe,” and he clumsily winked, “you know the rules.” Then he vanished.
The letter was by now burned into John’s brain. “Eat everything you are served.” “We will be monitoring your progress.” He had shown up at the restaurant; he had, in his own mind, agreed to this odd arrangement. “Eat everything you are served.” Again, he thought, Here goes nothing, and began to eat.
Pancakes first, slathered in syrup. He was hungry and they slid right down. He patted his stomach, producing a smallish belch, and tackled the eggs and sausage. Periodically the waitress came by and refilled his coffee from the pot, taking away the empty plates.
As the plates emptied, his stomach filled. He wasn’t used to eating this much. As the food piled into his belly, his stomach stretched to accommodate it all. By the time the eggs and sausage were history, John had had to loosen his belt a couple of notches, and the button on his pants wasn’t long for this world.
Mechanically, he munched through the toast, seeing it as a minor obstacle at best. He was stuffed. With every breath, his aching belly swelled over his straining waistband and squeezed over the sides. He took as deep a breath as he could manage and started in on the cinnamon rolls. They were huge and seemed not to diminish as he ate onward. His bloated and swollen stomach bulged over his lap and didn’t even acknowledge the waistband. Full to bursting, he leaned back in the booth, his distended abdomen tight as a drum.
He started to look around for the waitress, then remembered that the bill and tip would be taken care off. Odd, very odd. But as long as nothing else
happened, this might be OK after all. With considerable effort, John squeezed out of the booth and waddled tiredly to the door. He squeezed into the little hatchback and drove home. He took his time getting up the steps to his apartment. He stumbled in, headed for the futon, but there was another sealed envelope on it. He was sure he’d locked the apartment.
Dear Mr. Smythe:
Well done. You clearly understand the importance of eating everything you are served. We are glad. We should be disappointed if we had had to underestimate you. We do not wish to think less of people.
As you have figured out by now, 400 restaurants in 365 days means 1 restaurant a day, and once every five weeks, two restaurants to make up the difference. Mark your calendar. Stay with the list. You will not be disappointed.
Sincerely yours,
The Experiment Group®
Well, well. Furniture not missing, mysterious hole not being dug in apartment, nothing changed except the letter on the futon. Oh, and the fact that he’d never been so wicked full in his entire life. He sank back on the futon, which creaked loudly, and slipped out of his shoes. He didn’t mean to fall asleep but was soon snoring, upright, pants undone, a hand resting on his distended, aching stomach.
When he awoke, it was 2:00 in the afternoon. He stood and refastened his pants over the small bulge in his belly. Holy fajitas, Batman! He was actually hungry again. He couldn’t be. His grumbling stomach told him he could. Again he looked through the list of restaurants, this time choosing an upscale burger joint. He got lost twice trying to find it, once getting stuck in a massive traffic jam. He finally found the place at 4:30. By now he was really starving.
“My name is John Smythe,” he told the hostess. “Oh! Right this way, sir.” She led him to a private table in the back. “The manager will be right with you.”
The manager, this time tall, suave and with a distinguished head of silver hair, bowed from the waist. He displayed the menu and then pulled it back, saying, “I know what Mr. Smythe will find irresistible tonight.”
Just as at breakfast, after a wait, the waiter came back out with a tray loaded with food. This time it was two thick cheeseburgers, each the size of a table, a mountain of golden French fries and a deep bowl of salad. The waiter placed a tall glass of cola on the table and said, “Enjoy, Mr. Smythe.”
John thought he could manage with no trouble. He was hungry, wasn’t he? The size of the burgers, however, was deceptive. He kept eating and eating, and the burgers didn’t seem to be diminishing. Neither did the pile of fries, and the salad was apparently served in a bottomless bowl. His stuffed belly began to bulge outward, then sag heavily over his stretched waistband. Love handles lapped over the sides. With one burger gone and the other one more than halfway, John began slowing down. He was uncomfortably full and wasn’t sure how he could keep going. Was this going to be worth it? Why was he obeying the dictates of an anonymous nutcase?
Something about the letter, however, had been hypnotic. John had been easily persuaded to obey, and he was a man of his word. He soldiered on, swallowing burger, salad and fries, occasionally pausing to rest a hand on his bloated and aching stomach. Tight as a drum, his distended abdomen swelled out over his waistband, a force of gravity holding him to his chair. He was going to burst at any moment, he was sure of it.
Then the waiter appeared – to lay a slab of German chocolate cake before John. “Enjoy, Mr. Smythe,” he said silkily, then vanished, taking the empty plates with him.
Enjoy! John sighed, which was a tactical error, as his overworked pants button snapped open. He let out a huge belch, looking around in embarrassment, but no one else seemed to have heard. It helped, though, and John plowed into the cake, letting each sweet morsel melt on his tongue, savoring the flavor, even as his stretched and aching belly bulged with each bite.
As at breakfast, no bill appeared, and John had only to pull himself heavily to his feet and leave. His sagging midsection hung heavily over his overworked waistband, jiggling with each plodding step. New love handles swelled over the sides, and his face, shiny with food and sweat, felt swollen. He squeezed himself into his hatchback, barely able to close the door, and drove home. The trip up the stairs took forever. After each huge effort to raise and lower his foot, he would pause, panting, to rest.
At last, he made it. There on the futon was another letter.
Well done, Mr. Smythe. Here ends your first day. That wasn’t so bad, was it? Remember, only 35 days of the year will require two restaurants. However … also remember that you must eat everything you are served!
We hate to see our clients in distress; therefore, the new car parked in your space in the morning will be yours. Consider it a reward for your first day successfully and obediently completed.
Sincerely yours,
The Experiment Group®
How did these people know he’d hit two restaurants? Oh, duh. Clearly the managers were in on this, given the way they responded to the mention of his name. John thought that he ought to consider the letter more and decipher any hidden meanings in it, but the instant his tired body thumped onto the futon, his head tipped back and he was loudly snoring.
The next day, he awoke to consider the damage done. Inspecting himself nude before the bathroom mirror, he saw that his once-flat waistline was perceptibly thicker. An enticing little pot belly bulged, and there were hints of baby love handles, which he patted. “I’m going to get mighty big,” he told the mirror. “But they’re going to make it worth my while.”
He pulled on his underwear, which seemed a trifle snug, and his jeans, which were definitely snug. It took some effort to button them around his expanded midsection, still swollen from the day before, and he had to seriously suck in his gut to get the zipper zipped. He tugged a shirt down over his head.
While shaving, he thought again about the proposition. What did he have to lose? If nothing else, it was free food for a year, which was a gift in itself, and there was a hint of more to come at the end of the year. Here he was, two months out of college with no job prospects in sight, no girlfriend, parents living on the other side of the country, and enough savings to pay for either food or rent, but not both. If this crazy offer was for real, and it seemed to be, he could afford to stay here for another year, during which time he just might find a job.
Only one restaurant today. Better time it right. He settled in to watch morning TV for a while, deciding not to head out until 11:00 or so.
(This story is continued here.)
