MAMOSEK

The phone was heard ringing from even Bradford’s offset apartment of the Mamosek Inn. He ran the Inn now for over ten years and had been living in the apartment for nine years. The Mamosek Inn shared the name with the small town that he had been living in since he was born to two English born immigrants who moved here to start a new life. They had decided to move here after their only son was born.
Bradford Theodore Wilshire was born 36 years ago in the small hill laden town of Mamosek. He was a screaming baby: screaming coming out and forever screaming until he was old enough to start speaking coherent words. Even then he was louder than the average child. At the age of 3 months Bradford started to gain weight, and not the average weight gain. His mother had to stop breast-feeding him because of his weight. His chubby mouth would grasp her nipple and pull until she could not take it any more.
From that point on Bradford had everything he wanted, because his mother felt guilty about not breast-feeding him for the full amount of time. Bradford had all the ice cream and cheesecake he could get his fat little hands on. His father was never around, he had a business job so he traveled to England almost every week. So it was pretty much Bradford, his mother, and all the fatty foods he could ever want until the age of 13.
Bradford was called many a name at school for being so large. And he wasn’t large in the normal sense either. He was short, but seemed to be puffy not fat. His skin seemed to be expanded at the bone. But for the most part he was called fat. When he turned 13, he noticed that he was not losing any weight but getting more and more puffy. His mother took him to the doctor a soon as Bradford expressed dissatisfaction.
The doctor concluded that Bradford had an allergic reaction to lactic acid. Anything with milk in it, Bradford would swell up to three times his size. The doctor also said that enough of this acid at one time could kill him and it was a wonder that he wasn’t already dead. After this appointment Bradford never ate another food item with lactic acid in it. His body went back to a normal unswelled shape as soon as he stopped eating the cheese, the ice cream, and the cream cheese.
From then on he was a model patient from a dieticians standpoint. He kept his body in tip-top shape, even though it retained a lot of the puffiness from his lactic-acid-over-eating childhood. He still was not satisfied with his body even then, but he kept every other aspect of his self in order. This is where his obsession started with being in order, with having everything just how he liked it, with making sure that no one detail was out of place.
He awoke to the phone on about the 7th ring, cursing his staff for not picking it up. He glanced at his bedside clock and it read 3:23am. Where was his night manager, he thought to himself as he rustled out of bed. He ran to his door leading out to the hallway into the front office, grabbing his robe while he passed the hook on the back of the door.
“Quincy,” he whisper screamed out of the cracked door. “Where are you, get the phone!”
Quincy, the night manager at the Mamosek Inn, was nowhere to be seen. Bradford began to shake out of a combination of anger and the cold marble tiled floor beneath his bare feet. He walked slowly towards the phone, being that he did no want a guest to see him in this pajama state. He picked up the phone and ducked like he was walking under a low tree branch as to make it difficult for anyone to see him through the small window facing the dark street outside. “This is Bradford of the Mamosek Inn, how can I help you this morning,” his chipper-friendly voice showed no sign of the sleepiness now ravaging his body.
“Um, hey, is Quincy there?” A woman asked.
“Quincy is not here at the moment, but I’m sure I can find a way to help you Ma’am.”
“Actually I wanted to speak to Quincy, he should be there, and I talked to him about 15 minutes ago.”
Bradford was becoming rapidly annoyed. He had a strict policy about personal phone calls, and he was beginning to think that this was just that. “Ma’am, if you can explain your situation I am sure I can sort out the issue or question at hand. I am the owner here, so no worries about that. So what is it I can help you with?”
“Oh, well this is his girlfriend, I just wanted to talk to him that’s all. So you are the owner, huh? The big boss.” She emphasized big a little too much, and Bradford knew that she knew about his allergy. “Quincy always has stories. There is no issue really, unless you wanted to help me figure out where we are going to have breakfast when he gets off.” She giggled at her own joke.
Bradford did not laugh, but his stern voice interrupted her, “I will let Quincy know that you called. Thank you for calling the Mamosek Inn.” Bradford hung up the phone before the girl could say goodbye. Just then Quincy came from the other side of the lobby, where the bathrooms were located. Bradford locked his eyes on Quincy fixing the meanest stare he could muster up.
Quincy looked confused, “Why are you up, Mr. Wilshire.” His voice was unsure and careful.
“How many times have we had meetings where I explicitly listed appropriate behavior?” Quincy opened his mouth to defend himself, but Bradford put a dismissive hand up. “How many times have I said to you directly to your face, Quincy, that there will be no personal phone calls?” Bradford’s eyes were set on Quincy’s forehead, which was turning red. “Under no circumstance will I let devious behavior go unnoticed. I did not get this far in life without strict rules and regulations for not only my employees, but for myself. I will not compromise my integrity nor the Inn’s integrity for this lack of respect.” Bradford realized that he was in his robe still and went behind the door leading back to his apartment. “Quincy, you know the repercussions. We will speak of this in the morning.” Bradford’s voice was trailing off as he walked down the hall to retire to his bed.
Out in the lobby, Quincy felt like a child. He slammed his hand down on the smooth desk, causing the computer monitor to shake. “Fuck him,” he said under his breath. “Someone puts 7 years of their life into this crappy Inn, and all I get is shit. Who does he think he is, anyway? He is a damn shame, that’s what he is.” Quincy was trembling and he suddenly was inspired. He was sick of paperwork in double triplicate. He was sick of being treated like an incompetent child. He was sick of Bradford Theodore Wiltshire’s elitist attitude. He had no choice really. Quincy picked up the black phone and dialed his girlfriend while Bradford slept in his bed.
About four hours later, Bradford woke up. He walked over to his two-door closet, and pulled out the three hangers closest to the right wall. One hanger for his pressed black suit pants. One hanger for his white button up dress shirt and attached tie, already pre-chose. And one hanger for a black suit jacket smelling of fresh laundry detergent, the kind that boasts an odor of summer. Bradford hung the clothes on a special hook next to his full-length mirror. He fiddled with his watch, which was sitting on a side table next to the mirror. He had his aforementioned watch, cologne, wallet, cufflinks, and a little grooming brush set just so on the table. He then disrobed and headed towards his bathroom. He turned the knob labeled “H” 2/3 of a rotation and, turned the knob labeled “C” 1/3 of a rotation. The steam began to fill the 5 by 5 room. He flossed while he waited for the water to become the perfect combination of hot and cold. Satisfied with his grime free teeth and water temperature, he stepped into the shower. Little did he know that this would be his last shower.
While Bradford was sleeping someone had replaced his clear, all natural glycerin soap with a bar of silky milk extract soap, which was supposed to ultra moisturize your skin. Bradford scrubbed away. The white, milky bubbles quietly assaulted his pores. They entered and made a brutal home right under his skin. Bradford rinsed and finished his shower. While he was getting dressed, Bradford noticed that his skin was a tad puffy and red. He noted to himself that he must not scrub so hard.
Bradford went down the hall towards the lobby, ready to talk to Quincy. Quincy was on the phone. Bradford decided that he would wait to talk to him after he finished his morning paper and bagel in the Mamosek Inn dining room. Joel, the headwaiter for the morning came over and handed him the day’s newspaper, The Mamosek Memoir, and a whole-wheat bagel on a new plate from a set that Bradford recently picked out and ordered from the Inn Masters of America Official Catalogue. “Thank you Joel, good morning.” Bradford noticed that his shiny shoes felt a little tight. And his watch, he had to put it on a notch above where he usually put it. He shrugged. Bradford opened the front page and grabbed his brown bagel, bringing it to his freshly flossed teeth.
Someone had replaced his whole-bagel with a lactose/calcium enriched dough baked bagel. These bagels were popular with women faced with calcium loss. Bradford continued to chew and swallow each lactic acid pumped piece. The acid went right to work. His skin immediately began to swell. Bradford screamed out, dropping the insipid bagel. He ran out of the dining room, behind the lobby desk, and through the door that led to his apartment. Quincy, now off the phone, watched his boss streak past him.
In his bathroom, Bradford gagged up the bagel. He could feel his body growing and growing. He frantically grabbed his toothpaste and toothbrush. He squeezed four times the recommended pea sized amount onto the rigid bristles of his toothbrush, and shoved it into his swollen mouth. Someone had replaced his regular cavity fighting toothpaste with a protein paste, which has a main ingredient of milk. Bradford immediately tasted the bitter sting of the lactic acid and spit it out. He ripped his jacket and shirt off because of his enlarged arms and chest. It was getting harder to breath for Bradford.
Bradford heard people come into his apartment, but he couldn’t focus on anything but getting air and his growing body. He remembered his emergency antihistamines that would bring the swelling down. He fumbled with the latch on the medicine cabinet. He saw his reflection, it was that of his childhood. He saw that fat kid, that swollen beyond recognition kid. He closed his eyes trying not to cry, and opened the cabinet. His fat hands had trouble grabbing and opening the prescription pill container. He opened it with his teeth.
Someone had replaced the small antihistamine pills with hard crystallized lactose tablets, used in calorie studies. Bradford poured all of the potentially deadly pill-warriors down his throat. He could hear Quincy, Joel and a woman. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he was sure they were not handling it as he would: calm and collected. He knew that his body could not take much more. He was just waiting for the antihistamines to take affect. Right then he heard a loud pop. Hew looked down and his belt had snapped. His belly was bulging, so he threw off his pants.
“Call my doctor, call my doctor!” Bradford was yelling as he waddled to the water dispenser in the hallway. He needed to wash the pills down, maybe they weren’t taking effect because they weren’t all the way down his fat throat. Joel ran to the phone, while Quincy stepped aside, his eyes wide with an almost awe like gaze. Bradford grabbed the little cone shaped paper cup and held it under the blue tap. He pulled up on the tap and watched through blurry swelled vision. He hurriedly tipped the cool liquid filled cone to his engorged lips.
Someone had replaced the Alhambra water, delivered every other week, with 2% homogenized, and pasteurized milk. He gulped the down the cup, and returned it to the tap again. He got half way through the second cup, but soon spat out the white liquid all over the wall. He grasped his heart and yelled, “Oh my god, please keep my files in order…” Bradford fell to the ground with a large crash, knocking over the water turned milk dispenser with him. The milk splashed around his body and made milky pools around his massive arms and legs. He lay motionless. Lactic acid had killed him.