Hans-Olof was not a handsome man. He had always been overweight, had always had glasses. The overweight boy with glasses had matured into a fat man with thick glasses. He had always known that his weight was the first thing that people noticed about him and in most cases judged him by. Everyone felt free to give him advice on diet and exercise, but very seldom did anyone have something to say that he didn't already know. Except the nutters, of which there were quite a few. They could say just about anything, such as he'd get thin if he ate nothing but butter and bacon.
Another aspect of being fat was that there were very few roles to choose from. People had clear expectations of how a fat man properly should behave and basically there were three choices. To start with you could be the jolly fat guy who talked loudly and made a lot of jokes, many of them about yourself. This was not an option for Hans-Olof, since he just wasn't loud and outgoing. The second possibility was to be fat and stupid. This was an easy role to get into, since most people had the preconception that fat and stupid went together. But Hans-Olof was not stupid either, not at all.
The third possibility, the one that he had opted for, was fat and boring. As a boy he was interested in fat boring boy things like stamps and toy trains. He was not bullied in school as was some other fat boys who tried to avoid their narrow range of options and wanted to fit in with the semi-cool kids. He did well in school, but not conspicuously well. Hans-Olof lay low, stayed in character and became an accountant.
He got a job at the economics department at the hospital. Again he did well but not conspicuously well and was considered dependable and steady. And boring. No one disliked him, no one was mean to him and no one asked if he wanted to come along when the others went for a beer after work. This was not because anyone would have minded if he came along, it was just that no one thought that he would be interested, if they thought at all.
Hans-Olof was not entirely happy with his life, but he was not entirely unhappy either. He liked his job well enough and the pay was decent, if not spectacular. He lived in a nice little house with no mortgage, since he had inherited it from his parents. His father was dead but his mother was still going strong, pretty much at least. Taking care of the house had become a bit too much for her and she had moved to a small apartment.
Hans-Olof kept himself busy fixing things around the house and spending a lot of time on his hobbies. He was active in the model airplane club and he still liked to expand his toy railway system, which now filled a whole room in the basement. He also worked out three times a week, he felt that while he apparently had no choice in his body-shape he should at least keep healthy.
He also had a deep love of music. His taste was eclectic - not at all in line with his image as boring - and he appreciated most kinds of music, from Bach to Peace Love and Pitbulls. He also played the guitar a little, just simple stuff and only by himself, but he liked it.
What he lacked was someone to love. And kids. He would have loved to have a family. His expectations were modest; he knew he was not a great catch. But he was sure that somewhere there was someone he could love and who would be content to settle for a life with him. The world was full of less than beautiful women whom the handsome men didn't want. He didn't care about beauty, and he had a steady and dependable heart to offer, as well as financial security. What he wanted was someone who genuinely cared for him and who wanted to have children. He had no expectations of passion, a steady and dependable everyday love was what he hoped for.
He had tried internet dating sites and had a few trial dates, with dismal results. While he was not particular about looks, he wanted a real connection. The ladies he had met had all been all right to communicate with by email and SMS, but face to face had been a disaster. He was boring, they were boring and boring times two isn't boring but bloody unbearably boring.
One day he got a new colleague. He had been asked to be a bit of a mentor for her, take care of her and answer her questions.
"Hi, I'm Marie."
"Hans-Olof."
"Nonono, I cannot call you Hans-Olof. Too long, too geeky. I'll call you Ho, ok? Like an owl sounds and you look sort of like an owl, round and those glasses. Hope you don't mind, I like owls they're cute."
"Ho is fine, hoe is not."
"Shit didn't think bout that, but yo Ho no hoe. Don't like that gangsta crap anyway. This girl is a good old-fashioned punk rocker. Almost classical music these days."
"You're supposed to have this desk."
"Next to yours. Perfect. Hey, let me guess..." This while eyeing through a leaflet of instructions, passwords and routines. "I bet my tail feathers you like Talking Heads. Vintage hip, intelligent but not all that physical. Right?"
"Must admit I do like Talking Heads. I'll give you a moment to read through those papers. If you have questions, just holler."
"Just read them, didn't I? Routine 9 seems somewhat excessive. Otherwise no questions. Me I like more down to earth rock. Clash, Ramones, Ebba Grön... you know. Do you play an instrument?"
"I play the guitar a bit, strictly by myself. I like Clash when they play rock, but they did a lot of crap too. I'm impressed you spotted no. 9 right away, we've been griping about it for months. The bosses think that the more control they have the more efficient we will be."
"Same shit everywhere, half the time goes to documenting what little work you get done on the other half. I agree that Sandinista is mainly shit. Hey, I do have a question, how do I get a coffee round here?"
"We have a small cubicle over there with a coffee-machine. It's free but terrible, the way it's supposed to be at a hospital."
"You want a cup, Ho?"
"No, I'm fine. Take your time and say hello to the others."
She got herself a cup and then made her rounds. He could hear her big laugh and see how the others all warmed to her. She seemed to have an uncanny gift to know what people wanted to talk about. Ho mused that very few people are boring if they talk about what they really like. Perhaps those who are considered boring just don't have the strength to lead the conversation where they want it to go? One reason Ho was boring was that people assumed that he, being boring, wanted to talk about boring things. Now Bertil approached him.
"She seems nice." he said.
"Yes, and smart. She spotted no. 9 right away."
He saw that she had won over Britta now, not an easy task in such a short time. Of course, it was easy to see that dogs were a good topic with her, since she had pictures of her terriers everywhere. But how did she know that I was interested in music? he thought. Far as he could tell there were no clues visible. Maybe she was psychic.
Marie was big, too. Not fat like Ho, but big enough to feel fat or not feel fat, depending. Her hair was as black as her lipstick and nail polish. She had a silver skull in her left ear and more rings than was possible to count (without staring rudely) in her left.
Ho knew she was twenty eight - seven years younger than him. He admired (and envied) how easily she could make everyone like her. Ho sure did and he was looking forward to working with her. The whole place looked more alive when she was there, even the dusty plastic flowers in the windows.
"How do you get lunch round here?" She asked Ho after a serious session of number-crunching. Her PC had been rattling like an endless Led Zeppelin drum solo. She obviously typed - and thought - fast.
"You bring a lunch box or eat in the cafeteria."
"No box today. Were you going to the cafeteria?" He wasn't. He had made a lot of spaghetti yesterday.
"Yeah, sure. Want company?"
"Great. We can talk more about music. And you."
