A humorous look at travel, family, relationships… And all kinds of other shit.

If you think your job is hard, try pulling a fatass around in a pedicab

I am a fat man.

Not grossly fat. Not sloppy fat. Not obese. I’m not Michael Moore, or Chris Christie before he had that surgery that rearranges your            internal organs and puts your stomach in your colon.

And I take pride in that. I take pride in the fact that I’m not that fat.

Some guys take pride in running marathons. Some take pride in finishing Ironman competitions. I take great pride in the fact that I have never had to ask for a seatbelt extender on an airplane.

Anyway . . . as a fat man, there are certain things you are not allowed to do. You’re not allowed to walk around the house naked. You’re not allowed to walk around the locker room at the gym naked (which is an easy rule to follow since, as a rule, most fat men don’t go to the gym). You’re really just not allowed to be naked, unless you’re in bed under the covers.

You’re also not allowed to squeeze onto the one available bar stool at a very crowded bar. You’re not allowed to jam yourself into a very full elevator. You’re not allowed to cram your junk into speedo bathing suits, unless you are in Europe, in which case you are required to wear them.

And you certainly are never, ever allowed to get into one of those “Bike Cabs,” also known as “Pedicabs.” I’m sure you’ve seen them: They are like rickshaws, only instead of a small Chinese person pulling the cab on foot, someone pulls it with a bicycle.

I learned that fat men don’t belong in these vehicles the hard way, in New York, where I helped shatter an immigrant’s American Dream.

I was in The Big Apple with two other guys I will call “Mark” and “Jim.” I will call them “Mark” and “Jim” because those are their names. But I won’t say their last names, as they may not want to admit to their role in this horror story.

The three of us had just finished a two-day seminar, and we were ready to unwind. We had dinner reservations, and then were going to see a Broadway show.

So we met in the hotel bar, had a martini or two, then went outside to get a cab. Only it was pouring rain outside. I mean, pouring. So of course, this being New York, there were no cabs.

But there were “pedicabs” available. And one of them pulled up to where we were waiting, and offered to take us wherever we wanted to go. And it had a roof on it.

The problem, of course, was that the “cab” on these bike cabs is only built for two people.

Specifically, these cabs are built for two very small people who have already been sexually involved, and as such don’t mind if their intimate parts rub up against each other.

They are not built for two big, straight men. Which means they really aren’t built for three big, straight men. Which mean they really, really aren’t built for three big, straight men when two of those men (Jim and I) are, how shall I say this nicely . . . not skinny.

But we had no choice. We had to get to the theater district, and walking in the pouring rain wasn’t an option, and going back into the gift shop to buy umbrellas wasn’t an option, because real men don’t go back into “gift shops” and buy “umbrellas” . . . so we were stuck.

And when the pedicab guy—who was very skinny, almost emaciated, and who spoke with some kind of heavy Eastern European accent—kept insisting that he could take us, we finally gave in and got in the clown car.

I piled in first. Then Mark got in behind me. Already, people on the sidewalk were laughing at us. I’ve known Mark for 23 years, and once shared a pup tent with him while camping in Montana, but I had never been this close to his private parts. If he stuck his tongue out, it would have gone halfway into my ear.

Then Jim got in. Now people on the street were howling with laughter. Jim had to sit half on top of Mark, and half on top of me. Mark’s hand was dangerously close to my groin. His other hand, as far as I could tell, was buried between Jim’s ass cheeks.

It was like something out of the Three Stooges, if the Stooges had ever had a three-way gay orgy.

And off we went. This poor immigrant man could barely set the cart in motion. He was giving it all he had, but he probably weighed about 150 pounds soaking wet . . . which of course he was. And he was pulling about 680 pounds of fat man meat through a driving rainstorm so we could get to dinner on time.

He could barely do it. I still can’t believe he didn’t have a hernia. Maybe he did. I could have sworn that at one point I saw one of his testicles roll out the bottom of his pants and skitter to the curb.

And then, the unthinkable happened. A shot rang out. Or at least it sounded like a shot. And as soon as I heard it, our rolling gay orgy carriage veered sharply to the right. You can guess what had happened: We had blown a tire. Our driver wrestled the cab over to the curb, got off the bike, and let out a cry of anguish.

Of course, by this time we were almost at the restaurant, so we hopped out, Mark paid him, and we ran through the rain to shelter. Actually, we ran through the rain to this incredible Italian restaurant where we had duck risotto and Florentine T-bone steaks as big as my ass.

But before we got to the restaurant, I made the mistake of looking back. And I saw this man, this hard-working immigrant man who probably sends most of his money back home to Ukraine or wherever he was from, standing in the street, the rain streaming off him, staring at his broken livelihood.

I’ve never been in a pedicab since. There are some things fat men are just not allowed to do.

Photo Credit: Bike Taxi, Sandusky News via photopin (license)

8 Responses to “If you think your job is hard, try pulling a fatass around in a pedicab”

    • Steve Crescenzo

      Shoot, John. I thought I did a good job of protecting their identity. Thanks for reading, I hope you come back!

  1. Ron Fuchs

    Imitating a hyena as I ride my empty (thank God) tram to work this morning at 6 am in Basel! Cracking up along the Rhine. Thanks for the images that will now haunt me the rest of thie day as I try to work.

    • Steve Crescenzo

      Ron: Those images will soon be replaced by me hurtling down the Alps head over
      asshole before finally giving up to have a cigar and a glass of wine in the lodge.

    • Steve Crescenzo


      Dave Barry is one of the writers who made me want to be a writer (along with Mark Twain and John Irving’s “World According to Garp.” So that is the best compliment I could get. Thank you . . . and thanks for reading!! Hope you come back every week!

  2. Babis

    I’m so glad your doing this!! Although John may not be as I just woke him from a snoring sleep laughing my butt off (I wish)!!
    However, I hooe I don’t mske it into any blogs about “family”…

    • Steve Crescenzo

      I am working on one right now where you are the star, Babis!!! Thanks for coming out to read . . . hope you can be a regular. And tell John and your friends!

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