Famous After Death

"This is not Weight Watchers," the psychiatrist said when Noel Hammersmith asked her to talk with him about why he was fat. Was there anything else she could help him with?

"What I'd really like is to be famous," he said.

"Famous?" she asked, as if she'd never heard anything so rude, as if penis would have been a better word. Penis envy was something she'd been trained to deal with. Envy envy was not.

"That's right," Noel said, "I want to be a household name."

"Like the president, or more like a movie star?"

"Is there a difference?" Noel asked.

When asked how he might achieve his goal, Noel told the doctor he was thinking of writing a play. Or if that failed, "I suppose I could murder somebody."

Despite having shared his bright, gaudy dreams, Noel's days continued to pass in the quietest of desperation. He took the train to work, edited diet books, ran compulsively, ate compulsively. He fell in love, then fell in love again. And again. By each woman he was transformed--then discarded.

The link between Noel's inner life and the outside world had always been a mystery. So maybe there was nothing to it. But, oddly, people began to die.