Atlantic City Weekly

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In one of the zany (as they all were) Seinfeld episodes, our intrepid Cosmo Kramer receives someone else’s vanity license plate, but that doesn’t stop him from mounting it on his car. The plate says “ASSMAN,” apparently intended for a Mr. Assman, proud of the family name. As Kramer tools around the city streets, passersby hail him from the sidewalks, “Hey, Ass Man!” Reveling in the spotlight, Seinfeld’s sidekick responds, “You got that right!”

We can now do Cosmo one better: “Titman.”

I kid you not. This is the story of C. Emory Titman, a Renaissance Man of considerable weight and tenacity, with an emphasis on the former — he is in the record books as Atlantic City’s “fattest man” and, at one time, as the “heaviest man in the U.S.” And the fat man’s name, folks, is God-given — not the invention of some press agent or smart-alecky writer. (Is this stuff politically incorrect or what? But before you call the local gendarmes, please know that this column was cleared by the Absecon Board of Censors, whose offices are on a floating isle of driftwood once part of Heinz Pier.)

Now for redemption (both his and mine). The real story here is not of a freak but a regular guy, a man with a taste for life and an affinity for people. Had he been about 500 pounds lighter in his prime, ol’ Emory just might have become the Mayor of Atlantic City.

But was his first name really Emory? That’s part of the story within the story, the mystery surrounding this man’s origins, life, and demise.

According to normally reliable sources (newspapers, Butler’s Book of the Boardwalk), C. Emory Titman died of a heart attack at the age of either 38 or 39 in Atlantic City on July 8, 1928. At death, he weighed 587 pounds. He had been born the son of Charles E. and Elizabeth Titman in Philadelphia — Butler sets the date as July 2, 1889 — and later became an Atlantic City resident with a home on Caspian Avenue. In his decline, he was known to sit on the porch of Kuehnle’s Hotel (South Carolina and Atlantic avenues) and while away the time. The porch, evidently, was reinforced.

By this time, Titman was dependent on the support of friends and relatives, but not too many years earlier, he had been leading a lavish lifestyle thanks to his inheritance following his manufacturer father’s death in 1913. The estimated amount ranges from $250,000 to $600,000, even the lower end qualifying as a fortune back then. But here was the rub: doctors told him he had only a year (or was it just a few months?) to live. His weight hovered around 350.

The newly wealthy Titman called his friends together and asked them to join him on a spending/traveling spree. “Count us in,” they chimed. Kramer would have belched, “I’m down.”

Off they went on trips to the Continent and a berth on Broadway, where Titman backed shows and rented a suite at the Hotel Vendig. He had an appetite for life and rich cuisine — his weight doubled to 700 by the age of 36 and hit a peak of 750. He was a sportsman as well and became a fixture with baseball’s Philadelphia Athletics, accompanying the club to spring training where he legitimately warmed up pitchers and talked tactics with Connie Mack. For underneath the mountainous flesh, Titman was an athlete, a good swimmer, an ice skater who stayed upright (thankfully) and could make the turns.

On one occasion, the big spender took the A’s to Hawaii for some innings of sun and surf. But Titman’s funds were starting to dwindle. After he came to Atlantic City around 1920, he worked as a masseur in a Turkish bath and cut his weight in half. Perhaps he had cheated fate and long life would be his. He quit smoking, joined a church, read the Bible. He sponsored baseball, basketball, and football teams at the local Sylvania Athletic Club. He was a citizen of stature.

But as the money disappeared, the weight came back and luck changed course. Titman got a job as a taxi starter and a cab backed into him, injuring his leg. In February 1927, he suffered an “attack of auto-intoxication,” and in May of the following year, he collapsed. He was dead within two months.

So goes the story. But documentation can be elusive, and other researchers point to discrepancies, even suggesting an altogether different time frame.

The conclusion of this story, from the in-print "Waltz Through Time" column, Oct. 21, 2010 issue: 

A Web site dedicated to famous fat folks lists our man as C.F. Titman, so where did the Emory come from? The same site says he was born “circa 1899,” a full decade after the birth date suggested by his obituary and indicated elsewhere. That would square with one researcher’s estimate, based on photographs, that Titman was active with Sylvania AC as late as the late 1920s or early 1930s.

Then there’s the Athletics connection. Titman’s obit refers to him as the club’s former “millionaire mascot” (he wasn’t quite a millionaire, but in today’s dollars he’d be multi), but the Philadelphia Athletics Historical Society, noted for depth and detail, does not have his name on the rolls.

Man of mystery, generosity, and extreme poundage, Titman is part of the lore of the shore. According to Butler, his coffin was a foot wider than normal. The body was cremated.