#TripleX

by Christine Zolendz

  A bubbly sprite of a pixie bounced in. She was approximately the size of my eight-year-old and looked strangely like Madonna.

  The temperature rose.

  “Good morning class,” the pixie cooed in a soothing voice. “Your time here on your mat, your inner sanctuary, is for you and you alone. Let go of all your burdens and troubles.”

  You got a locker for those, lady? I’d love to leave some of those here.

  Yoga Pixie began the class with deep breathing exercises. We stood still, legs shoulder-width apart, and breathed in deeply through our noses and exhaled through our mouths. Easy. Hell, I could do this all day.

  Ang and I peeked glances at each other and choked on giggles. The little pixie sprite ignored our interruptions.

  The temperature continued to rise.

  The muscles of the man’s back in front of me were distracting. I looked over at Ang and made a panting face at her in the guy’s direction. We laughed so loudly that Gorgeous Man glanced at us over his shoulder and sneered.

  Ang burst out laughing even louder.

  “Shush up,” I giggled, madly.

  “No you shush up,” she snorted back.

  Yoga Sprite instantly morphed into drill sergeant from Hell and smacked a fucking stick whip at us, roaring. I swore her eyes started glowing and her head spun around—in full out Exorcist-style. I thought yoga instructors were evolved and calm. Weren’t they supposed to be all Zen and “above it all?” Not this one. She must’ve skipped that class and audited Contortionist 101.

  Welcome to Hell.

  While moving into the Half Moon Pose, I sprouted a sloppy, sweat moustache, and my sleeves were sticking to my armpits. Something was wrong with the vents. It smelled like someone just cracked open a can of tuna. It was so damn hot, and the thermostat continued to creep up in temperature.

  I tried to focus on the Gorgeous Guy’s back muscles. Tried to visualize, take myself out of the situation, but my brain was literally being baked. It was short-circuiting, going haywire, and praying for a fast death. Gorgeous Guy’s chest was glistening, and his muscles taut, but no, that wasn’t reality. He was sweating. I could smell the sweat from his ass, and it was the most horrible thing I have ever whiffed in my life.

  The first person to create this sort of class was a sadistic sociopath, with questionable social skills. Whoever he or she was should be cooked at 350 degrees Fahrenheit, right along with the Gingerbread Man. God, I loved ginger cookies. I would’ve killed for one right then. Hell, I would’ve killed Angelisa with my bare feet if someone just gave me the leg of a gingerbread cookie.

  I glanced back up at Gorgeous Guy and immediately thought about the phrase I’d seen in so many books: I wanted to lick the sweat off his glistening six pack. I gagged out loud. Too loudly. Heads turned. Faces contorted in concern and strain.

  It was a horrible moment. One where the instructor walked up to me to see if I was okay, while I stood there heaving, you know those deep stomach muscle heaves that you can’t control, hot flashes, tears stinging your eyes, all because of this guy’s sweaty ass.

  Finally, we switched again. This time we moved into Eagle Pose. Was she fricken kidding me? Show me one—just one—eagle who could pull that off. Now it was my ass that was sweating. I wasn’t just smelling the other inhabitants in the room, I could taste them too. Their flavor permeated my tongue, forcing me to swallow down their sweaty, stretching presence.

  I peeked another glance at Ang who had mascara and foundation dripping horrifyingly down her face. Why the Hell had she put makeup on to go work out? I cringed and flinched back, losing my balance and fell. Angelisa fell along beside me. I had the sneakiest suspicion she threw herself down just to take a rest.

  Yoga Nazi stormed over and hissed curses I’ve never heard before into my face. I could barely hear them or see her, the black spots and blurry vision blocked her out. “There’s no talking in class,” Yoga Nazi screeched.

  “Dude, you need to go re-Zen yourself or something,” Angelisa moaned, face-down into her mat.

  Yoga Nazi was going to kill us all in there.

  It had to be 200 degrees in the room. I had a horrible case of swamp tit, and there was unidentifiable liquid dripping down my back. I mean, the essential juices my body needed were leaking out of me. I began crying. My hair stuck to my face.

  For five minutes, I squatted in a strange sexual position I once tried in college. I hate yoga. The smell of burnt burritos with lemon filled the air and seeped into my nostrils. I focused on trying not to die. At least, I thought I did. Or else, maybe I was dead, because this heat quite resembled what I’d heard Hell would be like.

  “There is no leaving the room!” Yoga Nazi snapped. “You must fight through this.”

  When I attempted to move into Full Locust Pose, sweat was stinging my eyeballs, and my throat was on fire. I couldn’t possibly contort my body into such a position. I glanced over at Angelisa and saw her eyes close as she began to fall asleep on her matt.

  I was so thirsty I grabbed my neighbor’s bottle of water and gulped down the entire contents of it. “Hey that’s my—”

  “I will cut you, bitch!” I hissed, licking the water that dripped on the outside of the bottle.

  I would probably go straight to Hell—if I weren’t already there—but I couldn’t think straight. I had body parts twisted into other body parts, and I was expected to hold them there.

  Bending over, slippery slide-y, the woman behind me stared at my butt and winked. She was slightly glistening with a sparkling sheen of sweat. I despised her instantly, but if she would’ve offered me her water bottle, I would have switched teams that instant—no questions asked.

  Averting my eyes, I glanced down and noticed that my t-shirt was now fully transparent with sweat. Nudging Angelisa awake, I noticed that she suffered the same fate. Fortunately for her, her bra was satin and lace. Mine wasn’t.

  I plotted my escape, but couldn’t think a straight line of linear thought, due to the minor fact that I WAS DYING. Forgive me, but I prayed that God would make Angelisa pass out before me.

  Or the chick with the pig tails. Pig tails? She’d be a fine choice. She could nosedive into her mat. The distraction would give me an out, a getaway.

  Yoga Nazi called out some other stupid pose, and I watched in terror as everyone lowered themselves into some sick psychotic torture position that looked like a half-assed pushup. My clothes were so wet they melted into my skin. A strange white noise buzzed past my ears. It might have been my brain exploding.

  Somebody ripped ass. It resembled the scent of charred Twinkies from the night before (or I was teetering in and out of reality). I dry heaved again. My banana breakfast burned at the back of my throat, threatening to make a reappearance.

  Yoga Nazi kept her hands on Ang and I, adjusting all of our mistakes and sighing heavily. There was no deep breathing for either of us, just panting, wheezing and groaning in pain. Some definite, unmistakable sobbing.

  “I. Will. Kill. You. For. This,” Angelisa grunted out next to me. She was dry heaving along side of me. We were now inside the Twinkie fart. This was what Hell on Earth was. I was sure of it.

  Suddenly, I was delirious and laughed so heartily that my slimy, sweaty palms slid out from underneath me, and I face-planted straight into the yoga mat. The reprieve of relaxation was glorious. Moisture was fogging up my glasses. I was blinded. It was quite certainly the sixth ring of hell. I was Dante trapped in the flaming tombs. Whose fucking idea was this? This was the worst thing I’d ever been through. I was literally slipping and sliding in my own sweat and tears. I began sobbing for no apparent reason, other than it was just too hard.

  “Your body is pushing you right out of your comfort zone. It is confronting you with yourself and your limitations. Just let go.” I could have sworn the Angel of Death, the Grim Reaper himself, was hovering at the exit waiting for me to drop. He was pointing his finger at me, giving me the “come hither” gesture.

  The dud
e to the left of me was having a wardrobe malfunction, and I discovered his true ginger status.

  With a soft, delicate “Namaste,” Yoga Nazi morphed back into Yoga Pixie and ended the class. I hurled my empty stolen bottle of water at her head. It missed her by a mile, as I couldn’t lift my arms. I army-crawled my super-saturated ass to the door.

  “Air,” Ang croaked next to me. “Need. Air.”

  Flushed, splotchy, with hives all over, coupled with body tingles, Ang and I collapsed into a heap of sweat and mess in the doorway. Both of us jelly-like and utterly traumatized. People stepped over us—unfazed by our near-death experience.

  After we finally made our way to the door, we were accosted by two ladies in their mid-to-late seventies. “Girls, we’re really proud of you for being here today,” the first Golden Girl said.

  “Yes dearies, we are. There are so many morbidly obese women out there who don’t care about their roly-poly bellies and large behinds,” the second Golden Girl spouted excitedly. “We watched you two in there, just panting and puffing, but working your rears off. You keep it up. Remember, ‘nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.’ That’s what I always say.”

  Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels? Screw that. How about a cheeseburger? My grandmother’s homemade lasagna? Slow cooked ribs drenched in homemade BBQ sauce? I tilted my head and looked past the two old ladies to where the shrouded figure of the Grim Reaper still lingered. The specter watched our exchange with the ladies and leaning forward he licked a forked tongue out across the darkened hallows of his hidden face. Damn, he must make Mrs. Reaper a happy soul taker.

  I offered him a wink. I mean, come on, how old could these two bats be? They had to be hovering somewhere around 103 each, who the heck wants to live that long, right? Besides, I figured with everyone living so long these days, Death could use a few new clients.

  The long dark, shadowy robes of the apparition floated closer to us. An icy chill fell over our sweat-soaked skin, bringing relief.

  “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels, huh?” A raspy whisper hissed out as the Angel of Death lifted the folds of his robe and stood large behind the women. Instantly, the pallor of their skin turned slowly into a sickly gray paleness. The cloudy color of their eyes webbed over with streams of reddening blood vessels that crawled and clumped together. The now transparent skin of their cheeks sunk in, hollowing, and crumpled like old parchment left in the sun until nothing but their skulls and ash remained. The dry skeletal remains collapsed in a dusty heap of bones and flowery old lady yoga clothes. The smell of stale Bengay drifted up from the rubble and tingled at my nose.

  “You okay, dearie?” One of the old ladies asked. “You might want to go hydrate yourself.” I blinked my eyes slowly and focused them back into reality. I needed a cupcake.

  “Yep. We’re going to go hydrate,” Ang snapped and grabbed my arm, pulling me into the gym lobby. The cool air-conditioned air rippled a million goose bumps across my flesh. I stumbled along after her to the exit.

  Without a word to each other, we limped our broken bodies across the street back toward the hotel. We both fell face-first into the outside pool and floated in its coolness.

  Neither of us could talk about the event.

  I think we’re scarred for life.

  “We are going out tonight,” I finally said after hours of floating and swimming in the pool, fully clothed.

  “Can we drink on this diet?”

  “Tonight, let’s just drink our caloric intake.”

  Back inside the room, Angelisa tried to give me a makeover, but neither of us could lift our arms higher than our midsection. I think it was the first time she’d ever walked out of a place without a stitch of makeup on. We looked harsh. Seriously, all we needed was a wind machine and some snakes, and we’d give Medusa some competition. Actually, she looked like Medusa. I looked like the Heat Miser on crack.

  We made our way to the lobby to ask the front desk clerk if there were any bars nearby. “There any places to go out drinking here? In walking distance?”

  Cue in Idiotic Hotel Clerk #1. Again. “There any places ta go out drinkin’ heyah? In walkin’ distance?”

  “Son of a bitch. Look, we’re just looking for a place to get a couple of beers,” I said, clenching my teeth.

  “Coupla beers!”

  Ang turned to me wide-eyed. “Why the Hell is he repeating everything you say?”

  “Cause I’m from New York, and he’s a dick,” I explained, matter-of-factly.

  “Cuz I’m from New Yawk an hesa dick.”

  I shoved my face next to his. “Do you want to see the inside of my trunk? If you don’t fit, I could quickly rearrange it so you could.”

  “Do-ya-wanna-see-da-inside-of-my-trunk?” Clerky McMimic sang.

  Cue in Idiotic Hotel Clerk #2. “I knew it was true. You guys, New Yawkers have anger issues.”

  “Ugh forget about it!” I snapped, storming out of the lobby. “Ang, you talk to them!”

  “Fuhgeddaboutit! You-talk-ta-dem!”

  Angelisa somehow got directions to the nearest bar within walking distance. The nearest bar teetered on a fine line between being a standing health code violation and being condemned. Sticky floors. Loudly buzzing neon signs. Reeking of beer and something strange and primal. It gave off a well-worn, faded kind of feeling that was unique and unapologetic. A handful of regulars sat drinking beers and playing either pool or darts. As long as we saw no bugs, everything would be fine.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” Angelisa whispered into my ear as we took two stools by the bar. “Think it’s safe?”

  “Possibly, just don’t do anything wild in there—like sit on the seat, bare-assed. There’s a good chance you’d come out pregnant… or something worse,” I laughed.

  I watched her walk through the middle of the bar and cautiously open the restroom door and cringe. I wondered for a split second if I’d ever see her again.

  I sat on the stool and stared at the creepy velvet paintings that hung on the walls. Every one of them was crooked, giving the whole place an off-kilter sensation.

  Ang’s phone started buzzing loudly on the bar, vibrating uncontrollably. I continued to stare at the paintings. It was getting creepier and creepier. I scanned my eyes across the hanging glasses above the bar. None of them matched. Lipstick stains blemished the majority of the “clean” ones.

  Ang’s phone rang again.

  And again.

  And again.

  It rang so many times that people began looking over at me questioningly. I rolled my eyes and snapped her phone up.

  Answering it without reading the caller ID, I shouted, “Hello,” into the phone.

  “Who the Hell is this?” A voice snapped.

  “Christine. Who the Hell is this?” I snapped right back.

  “Jake.” Oh shit it’s her brother. Why the heck didn’t I look at her caller ID? Time to play blonde.

  “Jake who?” I asked innocently.

  “Jake Ryan.”

  “Wait… what? Jake Ryan,” I asked in awe.

  “Yes. Jake Ryan. Where is Angelisa?” he said.

  “She’s in the bathroom, which isn’t as important as the fact that you are Jake Ryan—like the guy from the John Hughes movie, Sixteen Candles?”

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Finally, I said, “I could seriously hear your eyes rolling at me. That’s impolite. Jake Ryan was the star of all of my adolescent junior high fantasies. Say, ‘Happy Birthday, Samantha. Make a wish’.”

  “Listen. I’m standing out front of my sister’s house and no one is answering the door… and my car is gone,” Jake sighed.

  “Come on, just once, say, ‘Happy Birthday, Samantha. Make a wish’.” I begged.

  “No… look, my car, it’s gone and in its place is a hideous silver minivan,” he explained, losing patience with me.

  “Yeah, it’s hideous, isn’t it?” I agreed.

  “What?” he asked, impatiently.
>
  “It is totally hideous. I told my ex ‘No way’ to the mini van. But no, he said that I had to get a minivan. A minivan! It aged me twenty years.” I sighed theatrically and overdramatically. “Definitely not as nice as a Jaguar”

  “Where is my car?” he growled.

  “That was your Jag?” I asked, coyly.

  “Yes!”

  “Are you trying to compensate for something? Something small perhaps?” I prodded.

  “Fuck. You.”

  I gasped out a laugh. “If I were a prostitute, do you know how much I’d have to charge you for that?” I joked, setting off my own laughing fit.

  Continuing, I said, “I mean, we could have driven the three thousand or so miles from Ohio to Vegas in a more subtle, silver-colored, old lady van, but truthfully, we thought the Jag was so much better!”

  “Did you just say Vegas?” he asked, his temper flaring.

  “I might have, yeah, Mr. Thirty-Mill. I think I did,” I sang, triumphantly. Angelisa was going to kill me, but this was way too fun.

  “My sister stole my Jag?”

  “Borrowed it. You could use my van in the meantime,” I offered with fake sweetness.

  “I don’t want your van!” he bellowed.

  “It has seat warmers!” I persuaded.

  “It’s the middle of the summer!”

  “Eh, they don’t work anyway. Well, I have a trunk full of goodies!” I tempted, laughing.

  “I’m positive it’s all melted!” He yelled. “You left all the doors unlocked, and the keys in the ignition! So I checked inside!”

  “That was your sister, she leaves keys in ignitions constantly, I’ve learned. Have you heard my playlist?” I asked, teasing him.

  “Incidentally yes. It’s pretty decent—better than Ang’s.” He chuckled. “But I need my car back!”

  From my barstool, I noticed Ang making her way back from the bathroom. “Look Jake Ryan, Ang and I are just going through a little mid-life crisis here, and your car was an innocent victim. Try to understand where your sister is coming from, and I’ll try to stop her from smashing more cupcakes into the seats.”