by Adam Knight
“People screaming.”
“Just totally messed up.”
They went on like that for a few more minutes, extorting with great drama how horrible things were. If they’d appeared traumatized by the events in the slightest I might’ve actually felt bad. But since it was like watching an episode of one of those brutal Real Housewives shows I have to admit I found it rather amusing.
Eventually they ran out of various ways to emphasize their tale of woe and horror. Likely they were more upset at having to wait in line for an hour than about anyone getting shot thirty feet away from them.
The tall one eyed me again. This time with respect. “You’re going pretty hard over there. Most big guys don’t run like that.”
I know when I’m being made fun of.
“Yeah, right.” I said with a polite laugh.
“Seriously,” Faux-Red chimed in. “You’re really givin’er.”
There was a retort bubbling in the part of my brain where I keep all of my smart-assery. It was about to snark out when I took a glance down at my treadmills’ display.
Words caught in my throat.
I had been running – not jogging, running – at over seven miles an hour for the past ten minutes. Total time on the machine was climbing fast over the forty-five minute mark.
I was barely breathing heavy.
Sure, I was soaked with sweat. My gray Fruit of the Loom tee shirt was completely drenched and sweat was pouring in rivulets down my hairline, sending a chill down the back of my neck. I could feel my heart pounding away but it was distant, like an afterthought.
I stared at the display, my legs and arms churning mechanically. Completely on autopilot.
I have never been a runner. Born big and bulky with a wide shoulder and hip base. All my phys-ed teachers swore up and down that I was built to be a tank and should train like it. As such, cardio and running simply were things I did in short bursts when I got tired of pounding iron. And when I did hit the cardio going much faster than a brisk walk was often torture for me. Leaving me in a state of wind sucking exhaustion any time my heart rate climbed too far.
“This is unbelievable,” I muttered.
Off to my left, the taller lady was waving to get my attention. I tore my gaze away from the display.
She smiled. “Just saying, you move pretty good for a big guy.”
“Maybe when you’re done there you can help us with some of the machines,” her shorter friend chimed in.
“Yeah, we’re hopeless with those things.”
“Totally”
Weirdest conversation ever.
“Uh … Okay?”
They both smiled as they got off their treadmills. Chatting amiably amongst themselves as they sashayed away to the stretching mats, taking their sweet time in doing so.
My legs and arms still churned.
I was now over fifty minutes total.
I stared at the display for another thirty seconds as I debated what to do next.
My finger stabbed forward and increased the speed.
At nine miles per hour my heart rate stopped being an afterthought. But still nothing I couldn’t handle and adjust to.
At ten miles per hour my breathing picked up steam, but my body wasn’t fazed by the need to huff and puff .
The treadmill maxed out at twelve miles per hour, which was far and away the fastest I had even run before for any length of time. I was holding the pace steady in a flat out sprint, the cold sweat intensifying down the back of my neck as my breathing picked up in time with my heart rate. The display screen began to fritz and flicker from the continual heavy impact of my near three hundred pound frame hammering it at top speed.
I held that pace for another five minutes, the sweat pouring in a cold tingle down the back of my neck and along my spine.
I felt like I could’ve gone faster.
Until the machine went dead.
The screen flickered once and then went black as the running belt stopped with a squeal. Smoke billowed up from the engine in that familiar putrid burnt rubber smell. The electrical socket the machine was plugged into burst in a shower of sparks behind me.
Since my body didn’t receive a memo advising this was happening in advance I was unable to prevent myself from being launched abdomen first into the display mount.
The entire treadmill lurched forward, rocking heavily under my impact. My momentum continued, awkwardly sending me ass over teakettle and tumbling over the display mount. My body made a meaty splat on the cold floor as I curled up in a ball around my agonized guts.
Ow.
And … No, just fucking ow!
People came over to check on me of course. Two people in YMCA maintenance shirts. My new Jersey Shore wannabe friends strolled over as well but stayed a respectable distance back, allowing them to rubberneck on the action. For the record, they never followed up with me for help with gym equipment. Shocker, I know.
I was helped to my feet by one maintenance employee who suggested I stay down for the first aid people. I waved him off and felt at the scars under my soaked shirt.
I hadn’t torn any of them open, though they ached like fury matching the throbbing in my belly. I was in store for a wicked bruise just above my pelvic bone where I pin wheeled off the treadmill.
“We’re gonna need you to fill out a form,” The maintenance guy said as he examined the smoking remains.
I nodded vaguely as I stared at the machine. Too stunned to talk. Not from the impact, but from the feeling of pins and needles trailing down the back of my neck.
The one that I had mistaken earlier for chilled sweat.
My hands started trembling from where they pressed into my bruised gut.
The maintenance guy shook his head with a whistle, examining the smoking treadmill. “Looks like a bomb went off,” he muttered.
Chapter 14
Hot water poured over my head as I stood under the shower and tried to concentrate.
Which is easier to do in my tiny stall at home then it is in the public showers at the Downtown Y.
It was weird enough trying to get my head wrapped around the plethora of strange things going on in the last few days without having to wonder if the weird tingle in my head was this new, bizarre sensation or one of the old naked dudes checking me out.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
My fingers traced over the gunshot scars as scalding water washed over me. Soothing. There would be a wicked bruise all over my guts and it would be painful to move or do anything for a few days. Also the maintenance folks had suggested I do my running on the track from now on. Guess they were tired of fixing treadmills.
Leaning back so the water smashed into my face and poured down my chest, it helped to wash away the weirdness clouding my mind. Allowed me to push it away. Cleanse it. Ignore it.
Nothing weird was going on.
Accidents happen all the time.
I’ve always been clumsy.
Shit’s always breaking.
I can’t keep a cell phone or a debit card for any length of time.
This stuff happens to everybody.
I snapped off the shower once my denial became firmly locked in place.
Grabbed my towel off the rack and headed back to my locker. According to the clock on the wall I still had time to snag a burger on my way to meeting Cathy at the studio.
That’s right. Starving.
But seeing as how I just ran for an hour I didn’t see anything weird about it.
Would you?
Pulled on my jeans and laced up my well-worn walking boots. My Evil League of Evil logoed t-shirt came out of my gym bag and I grimaced at it. I’d forgotten about the interview today and this shirt screamed “nerd” from the very rooftops. I was going to be embarrassed enough going through this ordeal. But since it was the only clean shirt I had with me, I threw it on and zipped up my black Poison - 2oth Anniversary Tour hoodie to cover it somewhat. I ran my fingers through my shaggy,
too-long hair and decided the two days growth of stubble was acceptably manly and not worth buying a disposable razor for.
I retied my boots and rolled up my sleeves, checked that my keys and wallet were in my pockets before admitting to myself that I was stalling. So I looped the straps of my gym bag over my shoulder and headed for the door.
The same two old guys watching golf in the locker room were still sitting there debating whether Nicklas was better than Norman as I passed by. On the TV a promo piece was rolling, advertising a special segment; Winnipeg’s Missing Women – Social or Criminal Epidemic?
Out in the lobby there had been a changing of the guard. The morning crew was trading info with their relief whom I was more familiar with. I nodded politely at them as I passed, not wanting to get caught in a conversation. I lengthened my stride – my stomach gurgling in anticipation at the prospect of the food court – and started up the staircase to the mall entrance.
On the other side of the windowed hallway I got ambushed by a tiny bundle of energy attempting to crush me in a hug.
Tamara’s arms couldn’t make it halfway around me, but that didn’t stop her from trying. Her face pressed into my sore upper abdomen.
“Uh … Hi.” I said down to the top of her head. “How’s it going?”
She stepped back far enough to wind up and drill me hard in the left arm.
“Hey!”
“Three days?” Tamara spat with wide eyes. Wide, accusing eyes framed by her sultry librarian glasses. Wait. When did I start thinking of those specs as sultry? She put both fists on her hips in the universal stance of upset women everywhere. “You’ve been out of the hospital three days and didn’t call?”
I shrugged, rolling my left shoulder slightly. That fricking hurt. “I don’t have your number.”
She hit me again.
“Ow!”
“I gave it to you that night. Here at the gym!”
“No, you didn’t. Remember, I don’t have a cell phone? You laughed at me. It was funny. You enjoyed my humiliation?”
Tamara hit me again. All knuckle right in between the muscle. Manfully I didn’t wince but it was a near thing. “Mark has my number, why didn’t you get it from him?”
Because I didn’t want Mark to know I didn’t already have your number.
“Because I didn’t think he’d … Look, please stop hitting me.”
“I’m not sure I want to.”
“Well I am sure. Please?”
Tamara wound up again, her face screwed up in petulant anger. Then she gave it up, dropping her hand to her side. She looked so small just then, her red YMCA shirt and track suit combo making her look like one of the kids in the daycare program. Her face softened.
“There was so much blood, Joe.”
“I heard.”
“So much blood.” Tamara shook her little head. “It was loud. It was scary. People were screaming. And fighting.” Her eyes met mine, her expression grim. “And you were on the sidewalk. You and all your blood.”
I grimaced, readjusting my gym bag uncomfortably. “Sounds like I made quite a mess.”
She was quiet. Staring at me.
Her fingertips reached out towards me. Towards my chest. Then froze.
“Did it … Does it hurt?”
“Not really,” Not as much as the thought of you making out with Mark. Damn you, unforeseen jealousy! “I mean, it aches some. Doc says I’m healing up good.”
“Well clearly,” she said, humor beginning to resurface even though a bit forced. Tamara looked me up and down. “I thought you would be flat on your back and sipping soup.”
“Never much cared for soup.”
“And here you are, walking and everything.” Tamara blinked, noticing my gym bag for the first time. “Wait, were you working out?”
“Uh …”
“Joe! You should not be lifting weights right now.”
I scoffed gently. “No worries. And no weights. I swear.”
“No weights?”
“Nope. Just a little .. uh… light cardio.”
“Light cardio?”
“Yeah. Nothing too crazy.”
“Like yoga?”
“Do I look like a Namaste guy?”
She tried to stay mad at me. She really did.
But years of smart-assery has its benefits.
A giggle bubbled up from Tamara’s lips, and she covered her mouth. “I have a hard time picturing you trying Dancer’s Pose, I have to admit.”
“One of those Warrior Poses sounds more my style.”
“That it does.”
She stared at me a moment more. My stomach gurgled loudly. Tamara blinked at me.
Great timing.
“Yeah, sorry. I might’ve skipped breakfast.”
“Probably not a smart idea given your condition,” she replied. A small beeping broke the silence. Tamara pulled a cheap cell phone out of her pocket and grimaced down at it. “That’s my alarm. I’m teaching a Box Class in ten minutes.”
“No worries, I have a thing right away too.”
“A thing?”
“Yeah.”
“What kind of a thing?”
“A manly kind.”
“A manly thing?” she smirked.
“Yeah.”
“Sounds dirty.”
“Perve.”
Tamara laughed. “Fine, be all secretive. I gotta go.”
I stepped aside and made room for her to pass in the hallway. Tamara took a few steps and stopped, looking back at me over her shoulder.
“It’s okay to talk, you know.”
“Talk?”
“Yeah. About what happened.”
“Oh.” I blinked a few times, various emotions swelling in my gut. None of them actually making any sense to me.
Tamara looked down at her feet for a moment. “I mean … I know we aren’t really friends.” She looked up shyly, surprisingly so. “Well, obviously we’re friends. I just … I’m saying this all wrong.”
I suck at talking when it gets real. This is usually when I keep my mouth shut.
“It’s just …” Tamara let out her breath in a huff and met my gaze again. “I see you here most every day. You’re smart and funny. You’ve always got a one-liner that helps make my day, no matter how stressed I am from school.”
I felt myself blushing again. I’d been doing that a lot lately.
“You listen to me when I am worried about school. I mean, you really listen – not like the guys just trying to get in my pants.”
