When Todd Burke's father died any hope of Todd becoming a productive member of society died with him. Todd had little enough motivation to begin with, and it was only because of his father that he had ever even pretended to give a damn.

It was a rather unusual death. Mr. Burke had not been in the best of moods on that day, having just learned that his bloated layabout son had quit his fourth job in three years. He put his money in the candy machine. At least Sharon was making something of herself, beginning her residency in gastroenterology. He pressed the button, but the Snickers bar didn't fall. It was stuck in the little slot. He tried shaking the machine. Nothing happened. He swore. This was not what he needed right now, wrestling with a stupid vending machine to get a stupid candy bar while his stupid son insisted on wasting his stupid life. He kicked the machine, and then he had an idea. He thought that maybe if he could tilt the vending machine forward far enough. Mr. Burke kept in shape. It was a struggle, but he managed to get the machine tilted to an angle of about sixty-five degrees, and he did at least have the satisfaction of seeing the Snickers bar drop from the slot before the machine fell on him.

Todd was still unemployed a year later. His mother sometimes read the want ads in the morning before work, while Todd was still in bed. She pictured Todd as a bookkeeper, Todd as a deli person, Todd as a floral designer, Todd as a mechanic. She kept offering to talk to her friend at the temp agency, but Todd was evasive. What to do? The fact was, between the insurance and the settlement with the vending machine company they made quite a bit of money, and a portion of that money was Todd's. Threatening to kick him out of the house wouldn't be any inducement for him to get a job. He would most likely just rent some dingy apartment somewhere and continue not working. Who knew what kind of questionable activities he would get involved in?

This was all fine with Todd. They weren't extravagantly wealthy, but it was enough for him to live as he chose. For it should be recognized that his lifestyle was the result of a conscious decision. Todd's intelligence was considerably above average, but intelligence is not always a blessing. Sometimes it only lets you see all too clearly how slim your chances are. Todd knew he had the brains to "succeed" (whatever that means), but he also knew he was lazy, and he quite intelligently decided not to fight it.

He wasn't sure if this was exactly what the Taoists had in mind when they talked about wu wei, but it wasn't like anyone was keeping score. His own chosen path was to stay in his room. He slept late and sat in front of his computer most of the night, drinking Coke from two-liter bottles. When he wasn't eating bean burritos he chewed whole packs of sugarless gum all at once, in big sticky wads. He also liked pickles, cheese, and fried onions. He ate coleslaw by the quart. His mother left him alone for the most part. He never opened the window in there.

But who's to say he wasn't happy? Allowing for the fact that he spent nearly every waking minute in front of the computer, he led a remarkably rich and varied life. He spent a lot of time in different chat rooms and MUDs. He made computer art. He played chess and Tomb Raider. He downloaded pornography. He was teaching himself Japanese. He even read the news. Nor was he troubled by any undue concern over his appearance. He was sixty pounds overweight, and long lack of exposure to the sun had left him as pale and translucent as a sightless fish, but so what? He could eat whatever he wanted, and there was no reason to cut or wash his hair with any frequency. If he went to the trouble of maintaining a pair of immense bushy sideburns it was only because they amused him.

How can we evaluate the quality of another's experience? We might say Todd Burke was a loser, but he might just as reasonably ask what we're all getting so worked up about. And if we say that his was not a good life, is this not only because the closest we can come to understanding him is to imagine ourselves in his position? Might not the world be a better place if more of us stayed in our rooms and didn't bother anybody? Pascal certainly thought so. In Tibet before the Chinese invasion it was not uncommon for a lama to spend thirty years walled up in a little cave. Is it not possible that Todd Burke at the moment of his death was more genuinely at peace with himself, more satisfied with the use he had made of his time on earth, than most of us can ever hope to be?

At this point a brief review of certain facts of human physiology will be helpful. Once the food we eat has been churned and broken down in the stomach it is passed on in the form of a semifluid mass called chyme to the small intestine, where the majority of the nutrients are absorbed. The residue, consisting of undigestible materials such as dietary fiber and certain proteins and carbohydrates (e.g., raffinose, a complex sugar found in mushrooms), then passes on to the large intestine. The large intestine, or colon, contains huge numbers of bacteria which are essential to the process of digestion. These feed on the undigested matter and excrete gases -- primarily nitrogen, hydrogen, carbon dioxide, oxygen, and methane -- which build up until they are released through the rectum in the form of flatus, or farts.

Other gases may be present in trace amounts, accounting for the frequently unpleasant odor of farts. Hydrogen sulfide, for instance, has an unmistakable stench of rotten eggs, and foul-smelling indoles and skatoles may also be present.

A healthy elephant will emit well over 1,000,000 ml of flatus per day, but the average human production is only about 600 ml per day, with a maximum of about 2,000 ml. The exact amount depends on an individual's diet. A diet that is high in fiber and undigestible carbohydrates, such as those found in beans, onions, cabbage, and other vegetables, will naturally lead to a greater production of flatus. In one experiment, a group of young men subsisting exclusively on black beans for a period of several days experienced an average tenfold increase in their gas output. Milk products may also lead to increased gas production in lactose intolerant individuals, since the undigested lactose will be acted on in the same manner as other complex undigestible sugars. (Most adults are lactose intolerant to some degree.) Sorbitol, a sweetener used in diabetic foods and sugarless gum, can produce flatus for similar reasons.

A large output of flatus is not generally hazardous. Indeed, it can be considered a sign of a healthy diet, one that is high in fiber and the complex carbohydrates found in vegetables. However, it should be remembered that methane is highly combustible. Lighting one's farts is a relatively harmless pastime, but in at least one reported case an electrocautery being employed in endoscopic surgery detonated the patient's bowel gas, causing injuries to both the patient and an unfortunate nurse who was thrown across the operating room. Methane in sufficient quantities can also cause hypoxia.

After midnight was always the best time. No one called. No one came to the door. Todd liked to imagine himself as a lone space traveller on an interstellar voyage. The trip would take years, and he would keep the lights out most of the time. Silent robots would pilot the ship. The engines would throb soothingly somewhere below him. He imagined himself sitting in a large comfortable chair on a bridge illuminated only by the instrument panels as he gazed into the endless after midnight of the universe.

He released a cavernous fart. It was a cold blustery night, but he was warm and safe in his room with the window shut tight. He kept his door shut as well, even though his mother was off visting his sister for the week. The world was dark and quiet. The hum of the computer was like the hum of his spaceship's ventilation system. The screen saver made its gentle iridescent spirals.

Todd sat on his bed now with a quiet sense of accomplishment. He had finally found the third secret on the eighth level of Tomb Raider. Moreover, he had a full bottle of Coke and two freshly microwaved burritos on the nightstand. He also had five napkins and a new pack of gum for after the burritos. On the carpet to the left of the bed was a stack of science fiction novels and pornographic magazines. His reading lamp was off now, but the switch was within reach. There would be no need to get up for a long time.

He farted again, a prolonged bass note. He removed the wad of gum from his mouth, stuck it on the rim of the plate, and reached for the first burrito. Outside a furious wind was blowing.

They told Mrs. Burke that Todd had been dead for almost two days by the time she found him. It was one of those things where you never know what's going to break you down. At first she was merely numb. The sight of him lying motionless on his bed, his naked bulk wrapped in a dirty blanket, with his eyes and mouth open and his skin gone purplish gray, was oddly unsurprising. She was so used to him quitting, dropping out of things, that she had a fleeting vision of herself running into Mrs. Pujol at the supermarket, and Mrs. Pujol asking how Todd was doing, and herself, casually, "Oh, he's dead now," as she filled a bag with plums. She closed the door to his room, gasping for breath, and went to call 911.

But then they told her, and it was the thought of him lying there dead for two whole days, alone, and no one even knowing, while she was off in another state cooing over Sharon and Roger's new baby, that was suddenly too horrible to contemplate. She collapsed on the kitchen floor. She remembered her last words to him as she left for the airport on Sunday: "Do try to answer the phone if I call." He hadn't, of course. If he had been a better son that would have alarmed her.

She had difficulty comprehending what they were telling her. There were no marks on the body, no suicide note, no drugs, but Mrs. Burke in her shock never wondered about this. She had never heard of anyone dying of laziness before, but in Todd's case it seemed like a logical explanation. In a sense it was true. The autopsy showed high levels of methane, they told her. They wanted to know about his diet. Partially digested coleslaw and beans were found in his stomach. Did he always eat this way? Did he ever leave his room? Did he ever open the window? It was a small room, with bad ventilation. There was nowhere for the gas to go.

"You shouldn't say that," said Sharon. "No one could have predicted this."

"Maybe not," said Mrs. Burke. "But I shouldn't have let him live like that. He needed to get out more. I should have said something."

"He was an adult," said Sharon. "It's not your fault."

They sat in the kitchen after everyone had gone home. Roger, with his tie in his suit coat pocket, stood by the counter eating leftover carrot sticks. Sharon sat with her mother, drinking ginger ale. Mrs. Burke held little Peter.

"Your Uncle Todd," she said. And then, with a catch in her voice while Sharon frowned, "You'll never know him."

But had she? Had anybody? What about the five or six strange friends of Todd's who had shown up? Who were these friends? Where did they come from? One of them was a short skinny man older than she was, who wore a polyester suit and didn't say a word to anybody. (He was, in fact, a retired janitor with whom Todd had been playing chess via e-mail for three years, and who now found himself with nothing to look forward to.) Another was a boy who could have been Todd's twin except that he was Chinese. His name was Duane, and she had startled him by hugging him tightly and making him promise always to sleep with the window open.

It had been a good funeral. Todd attracted a surprisingly large crowd for a recluse. Roger had noticed this, and wanted to say something, but he wasn't sure if it would be appropriate. He had only actually met Todd three times. He didn't know all these people. He stayed close to Sharon, who sat on the couch in the living room tending her baby and hoping no one would ask her what happened. Mrs. Pujol, who didn't know, brought a large bowl of coleslaw. Mrs. Burke spooned some onto her plate without thinking. She was about to take a bite of it when she remembered, and she had to retreat to her bedroom.