The walk of a refrigerator on a hand truck

Nowadays he was huge - from medications, he claimed, both postcancer and antidepressant - but a glance into his trash can nearly always revealed an empty gallon box of Dreyer´s Rocky Rod ice cream. His read hair had devolved into a stringy gray ponytail. An unsuccessful hip replacement had left him with the lurching, belly-hoisting walk of a refrigerator on a hand truck. Still, he was awake, dressed - even shaven. The blinds of his loft were up and a tinge of shower humidity hung in the air, pleasantly cut by the smell of brewing coffee. From "A Visit To the Goon Squad", E. Egan, p.132