by Pete Hautman
Something about the way Crow held his dumbbells had an intensely irritating effect on Beaut. Maybe it was the slow, deliberate way he performed his lifts. Or that he had turned away, showing Beaut his back.
Beaut aimed his eyes at Crow’s neck. Laser vision. If he stared hard enough, he might produce a puff of smoke. Set the son-of-a-bitch’s hair on fire.
Crow continued his exercise, showing no signs of discomfort. Beaut kept his eyes focused, methodically flexing his traps, his lats, and his biceps. A few more threads parted on the left sleeve of his shirt. Whatever uncertainties Little Leslie might have been feeling were lost in the soup of steroids and adrenaline flooding his arteries.
Crow finished his set and replaced the dumbbells. He looked at Beaut, then turned away as if there had been nothing for him to see and picked up a pair of sixties. Beaut stood up and lumbered past him, his swollen arms held well out from his body in the official bodybuilder’s swagger. He let his left arm brush against Crow, knocking him aside.
Crow’s hip slammed into the dumbbell rack, bringing a surprised curse from his throat.
Beaut stopped and swung his shoulders toward him. “What did you say?” he demanded.
Crow stood up in the narrow space between the rack and Beaut, still gripping the dumbbells. Beaut looked down into Crow’s impassive face, inches away. A droplet of sweat fell from the pimple at the tip of Beaut’s nose, leaving a dark streak on Crow’s T-shirt. Beaut imagined what would happen if he tried to put on a shirt that size. It would disintegrate into cotton dust. He lifted his right hand and pressed his palm against Crow’s chest, then slowly closed his hand, gathering a fist full of cotton.
“What did you say to me?” he said again.
Arling Biggie had been hanging around bodybuilders and gym rats for most of his adult life. He’d been performing seven-hundred-pound squats back when Arnold Schwarzenegger was no more than an Austrian rumor, and he had opened Bigg Bodies years before the days of spandex and Nautilus and chrome-plated barbells. He had, he felt, a unique understanding of the subrace that looked upon each new hypertrophied muscle fiber as another riser on the stairway to heaven.
He was starting to worry about his assistant manager. Since Beaut had taken over the morning shift, the number of members signing in before noon had declined precipitously. In time, he knew, this would be reflected by a decline in membership renewals. Whatever his ’roided-out assistant manager was doing to scare people off, it would have to stop.
Bigg could see, the moment he stepped through the front door into the gym, that Beaut was about to erupt. He had seen his share of ’roid rages. He had experienced them himself, back in his competition days.
Being on a steroid cycle, he recalled, was to be an angry god in human guise. To walk the streets among mere mortals, holding back the power, filled with joy and fury.
Holding it in for days or weeks. Seeing every slight, real or imagined, as a personal insult to one’s dignity. That was the hardest part. Holding it in when challenged by a rude waiter, or when cut off on the freeway, or when some pencilneck wanted to work in between sets. Thinking about calling up the power, but doing nothing. It took both iron discipline and strength of character, two qualities lacking in Beaut Miller.
Bigg also remembered what it felt like to let go, to give in to the wrath and damn the consequences, a feeling of orgasmic intensity. He could see it happening for Beaut. He almost felt sorry for Joe Crow, who appeared to be the focus of Beaut’s swelling rage, but not sorry enough to do anything about it. In fact, he thought, he might just enjoy it.
Joe Crow did not want to get hurt again. His feelings on the matter were quite definite. At this point, with the memory of his last beating painfully fresh in his mind, he would have done almost anything to avoid it—confess to crimes he had not committed, pay extortion money, run like a scared rabbit—whatever it took to remain pain-free. But in this situation, no words or promises, not even out-and-out groveling, would blunt Beaut’s rage.
Only one course of action suggested itself. Crow opened his hands and let the two sixty-pound dumbbells fall toward Beaut’s size-twelve Nikes.
Arling Biggie did not see Crow release the dumbbells, but he heard a soft snap and, simultaneously, the familiar thud of iron striking the rubber mat. Beaut’s mouth fell open. He folded at the waist and took a clumsy step back, letting go of Crow’s shirt. Crow leapt quickly aside. Beaut seemed to recover, starting toward Crow, but as he took his first step he collapsed with a groan and lay on the mat, clutching his right foot. The entire incident took no more than two seconds.
Bigg sighed and shook his head. He’d liked to have seen Crow take the worst of it, but this was not all bad. Beaut had needed taking down, too. One thing Bigg had learned in his forty-eight years, you take what you can get. He walked over to Beaut, a faint smile on his lips, and asked him if he was all right.
Beaut said, through gritted teeth, “Fuck you.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Bigg.
Crow had backed a few yards away. He was breathing heavily, keeping his eyes on Beaut, his body tensed.
“I wouldn’t worry,” Bigg said. “I think you made your point.”
Crow said, “Was that your idea?”
“Me? Hell no. Beaut’s his own man, Crow.”
“Yeah, right.”
Bigg shrugged. Why should he care what Crow thought? Squatting beside Beaut, he asked him again if he was all right. “You gonna be able to walk, you think?”
Beaut tried to put weight on his foot and gasped.
“I believe you might have a fracture there, old buddy.”
Beaut, tears streaming from his eyes, did not reply.
Bigg stood up. Crow was walking toward the door. “Where you going?”
“I’m out of here,” Crow said over his shoulder.
Bigg smiled. “Congratulations,” he said to Beaut. “You finally scared him off.”
Crow stopped and turned back. “Don’t forget to have that limo ready. You’ve got the time and place, right?”
Bigg laughed. “Sure I do. I got the time and place. But there’s one thing I don’t have. At least not anymore.”
Crow waited, giving him that flat look.
Bigg said, pointing toward the agonized Beaut, “You’ve just taken out your chauffeur.”
32
Human beings are able to alter their own cell structures through pure mental effort. It is a proven fact that many practitioners of Zen Buddhism have, through extensive meditation, reversed the “handedness” of their own DNA, becoming mirror images of their former selves. In this respect, human cells are fundamentally different from those of all other living creatures. Except Cetaceans, of course.
—“Amaranthine Reflections” by Dr. Rupert Chandra
RUPERT CHANDRA WAS AT home sitting cross-legged on the bed applying his highly focused mental energy to the red mole on his abdomen when he heard the downstairs door open. He looked up, frowned, then refocused his mind on the mole. He was sure that it was a melanoma. A small thing, but something that needed to be dealt with. He had been working on it for several days now but the mole had, if anything, grown slightly larger.
He relaxed his neck muscles, lowering his head to bring his mind closer to the mole. It was an ugly little thing, a tiny red cauliflower, about the size of a baby pea. He explored its perimeter with his mind, willing power into the surrounding cells, creating a psychic barrier to contain the growth. He looked for the shimmering that was a sign of cellular activation.
Over the preceding weeks he had attempted to use negative energy to destroy the growth. That, he now realized, had been a mistake. The negative energy had spilled over onto the healthy cells surrounding the cancer cells, effectively eliminating their power to resist the unwanted tumor. All that negative energy might also explain the nausea that had been bothering him lately, and the tight feeling he’d noticed in his chest. He had ignored his own teachings. The key to cellular regeneration was positive t
houghts. Amaranthine theory was not about destroying the old, it was about creating healthy new tissue.
There. He could see it now. The edges of the mole were beginning to shimmer. It seemed to be rising up off the surface. He could sense the power flooding into his cells, surrounding and lifting the mole, creating a shield between his healthy body and the red cauliflower.
The bedroom door opened, breaking his concentration. The mole settled back into place.
Rupe said, “Damn!”
Polly set her bag on a chair near the door. “Contemplating your navel again, Rupe?”
“I almost had it,” he said. “You broke my concentration.”
“Sorry. Let’s have a look.” Polly knelt down beside the bed and examined the spot on her husband’s stomach. “It doesn’t look any smaller,” she said.
“I know that.”
“Maybe you should just have Dr. Bell cut it out while we’re in Rochester.”
Rupe shook his head and stood up. He closed his bathrobe and tied the belt. “That’s Death Program thinking,” he said.
“I call it being practical. He’s going to have to knock you out to do your eyelids anyway.”
Rupe shuddered. “Don’t remind me.”
“How many hours have you spent worrying about that little old mole?”
“I’m not worrying. I’m extracting.”
“Whatever you’re doing, it’s sure taking a lot of your time. I could’ve used you at the meeting today.” She sat down on the edge of the mattress and pulled off her shoes.
“How did it go?” Rupe asked.
“Good.” Polly flashed a smile and rubbed her foot. “Actually, it went great. We’ve got forty-seven new members.”
“Forty-seven!”
“The hair was the kicker. Valerie did a nice job. I gave her a bonus. You should have seen them, Rupe. They took one look at those black roots growing in on her head, and they couldn’t open their checkbooks fast enough.”
The free, heavily advertised Anti-Aging Clinics were what attracted newcomers to the ACO. It was relatively easy to fill seats in the auditorium by offering a free show with refreshments, but turning Pilgrims into Faithful, that was a more difficult undertaking. It was the follow-up meeting, the “Forever Tea,” that truly separated the wheat from the chaff.
Everyone who had attended the post-clinic reception was told that a small percentage of them would be receiving invitations to the Sunday tea, based on recommendations from the ACO staff. Names and phone numbers were gathered, and a few days later the ACO staff phoned every last one of them and invited them to attend the very exclusive Forever Tea, where they would have the opportunity to meet with First Eldress Polyhymnia. They were also promised a free computer-generated personalized “Life Expectancy Report” based on questionnaires they had filled out at the reception.
Typically, about 10 percent of those who witnessed an anti-aging demonstration were sufficiently impressed to return to the church to learn more about the Amaranthines, and to find out how long they could expect to live.
The Forever Tea took place in the more intimate setting of the ACO chapel, an octagonal room with one hundred chairs arranged in five concentric circles around a low platform. After a brief welcome by Polly, the Life Expectancy Reports were handed out.
Each twenty-six-inch-long computer printout showed the Pilgrim’s name at the top, followed by columns of numbers, two complicated-looking graphs, a boilerplate disclaimer and, at the very bottom, in purposefully small print, subject’s projected date of death. It was not unusual for a Pilgrim, upon receiving his or her LER, to become hysterical, or to simply faint dead away.
Although the effect of the LERs was always gratifying, the most powerful element of that morning’s Forever Tea turned out to be the subject of Rupe’s age reversal, Mrs. Veronica Frank. Past seminars had netted from six to ten new paying members, but this time forty-seven of the fifty-three attendees, convinced by Val Frankel’s dark roots, agreed to sign up for the autumn Extraction Event for a minimum donation of four hundred ninety-nine dollars a head.
Later, once they began to enjoy the life-extending benefits of the events, they would be privately encouraged to contribute additional funds to their Life Account to demonstrate their commitment to the Amaranthine Way. Life Account contributions made up the bulk of overall ACO receipts.
Gaining forty-seven new members was unprecedented in ACO history.
“I really think it was the dark roots,” Polly said. “The hair was the one thing they could not deny. It was like watching forty-seven Thomases touching Christ’s wounds.”
Rupe shook his head, smiling sadly. “They reject the truth and embrace the illusion,” he said.
“We’ve always known that. Either way, we bring them life. It’s a case of the ends justifying the means.”
“Only if their commitment is real.”
“It’s no less real to them, and that’s what matters.” Polly walked over to her husband and embraced him. “You gave them reality,” she said. “You showed them what was possible. That’s why they came back.”
“I don’t know. I think I’m getting burnt out. I’m tired all the time. I feel like I’m being squeezed by giants.”
Polly touched the corner of his left eye, traced the crowsfeet with a long pink nail. “The stress is showing on both of us. But not for long.”
Rupe grasped her hand in his. “Age is an illusion, my sweet.”
Polly used her other hand to smooth his forehead. “The wrinkles are real,” she said.
“Four weeks,” Rupe said. “The time might be enough all by itself. Maybe we should go straight to Stonecrop, let nature and the powers of our minds sculpt our bodies.”
Polly laughed.
“I’m serious,” said Rupe. “Your Dr. Bell, with his knives and his lasers, I do not like him.”
“Rupe, we talked about this. It’s just part of the sizzle, a thing we do to make it easier for the Pilgrims to believe. You said it yourself. They embrace the illusion. We have to give them what they want.”
“Perhaps.” Rupe smiled sadly. Polly was right as usual. Cosmetic surgery violated certain of the Amaranthine teachings, but it served to advance a greater Amaranthine Principle, which embraced any and all means to achieving the seven steps of the Amaranth. He had moments when the larger picture escaped him, when he experienced doubts or anxieties over little things, like their scheduled visit to Youthmark, Dr. Bell’s private hospital. Polly always brought him back to ground zero.
Polly said, “I talked to Benjy this morning.” Benjy Hiss, one of the ACO’s charter members, had been placed in charge of building Stonecrop. “They finished the chapel yesterday.”
“Good! What about the house?”
“The house was done last week. All of the furniture is in and the refrigerator is stocked. We had to pay for some overtime.” Polly frowned. “It put us over budget.”
Rupe kissed her frowning lips. “Eternity will provide. Just think, my dear. After tonight’s meeting there’ll be no seminars, no workshops, no teas, no phone calls for four lovely weeks. Just you and me and Stonecrop.” He looked down into his robe at the spot on his belly. “Time to focus on the important things.”
“You know, it’s probably not too soon to see an obstetrician,” Sophie said, leaning forward over the steering wheel to see past a parked minivan.
“Why would I do that?”
Sophie let the Hyundai creep forward a few feet, nosing out of the Litten Paper Company parking lot. “I can’t see,” she muttered. A green pickup truck flashed by, missing her front bumper by inches. Sophie let the car roll out a little farther, then tromped on the gas. The Hyundai’s tires spun on a patch of sand, chirped, and propelled the car out onto Washington Avenue, cutting off an MTC bus.
The back seat of Sophie’s car was filled with paper cups and plates, plastic utensils, and assorted decorations, including expandable crepe wedding bells, large plastic bows, and a twenty-foot-long banner spelling ou
t “Congratulations” in silver glitter letters. Sophie said, “Because you’re pregnant, that’s why.”
“Oh.” Carmen had momentarily forgotten that she was supposed to be pregnant. “I’m not that pregnant.”
Sophie reached over and poked Carmen’s belly with her forefinger. “You’re not showing, but you look like you’re holding water.”
“I might’ve gained a pound or two.”
“I hope your dress still fits.”
“It’ll fit.”
“It had better.” Sophie drove for a few blocks, thinking about all the things that could go wrong—in other words about everything from Carmen falling asleep at the altar to Hyatt not showing up at the church to a tornado interrupting the wedding ceremony to the untimely rapture of Reverend Buck Manelli.
Carmen said, “You worry too much.”
“I know that.” Sophie looked over at her daughter. “Tell me again, Carmen. How pregnant are you?”
Carmen shrugged.
“When was your last period?”
Carmen thought for a moment, trying to remember what she had told Sophie the last time they’d had this conversation.
“April?”
“Last time we talked you said March.”
“Well I don’t remember.” In fact, she didn’t. It was now August seventh. When had she had her last period? It seemed like a long time, now that she was thinking about it.
Sophie was giving her this frowning look. “Are you really pregnant?”
Carmen was still trying to remember when she’d bought her last box of tampons. She thought it had been just before Memorial Day. Could that be right? Maybe the stress of all this wedding preparation—not to mention worrying over Hyatt’s plan, which seemed crazier every time she thought about it—had thrown off her cycle.
