The New David Espinoza

by Fred Aceves

“You okay?” I ask him.

  Alpha nods and says something I can’t understand. He’s too winded to make any sense.

  “Damn, bro,” I say. “Don’t you ever do cardio, like running or something?”

  Did I just say bro?

  After a few more seconds to regain his breath, he says, “Fuck cardio. Running doesn’t make you big. It only makes you susceptible to getting hit in the head with an empty bottle of Muscle Milk when I’m driving down the street.”

  He laughs and drags the still-manic Crockett to the back door.

  I take a few steps around the living room to bring back the feeling in my steroid-soaked muscles.

  Alpha comes back, no longer panting. “Crockett must have thought you were one of Mindy’s friends. No worries though. You’ll be built like a real man in no time.”

  The burn now feels like a warm glow in the back of my leg.

  “An injection every other day, and thirty milligrams of D-bol daily.” Alpha opens the tiny box, takes out the bottle, and tosses it to me. One hundred tabs, says the small print, ten milligrams each. I rip the top open and pop three, barely bigger than dots, into my mouth. Swallow them without water.

  It seems like the manly thing to do.

  Alpha does his gorilla crawl onto the counter to put away the large box and comes back down.

  “Gear only works if you keep training and eating hardcore, like you’ve been doing. So keep it up.”

  “I will.”

  “The bodybuilding lifestyle will take up your life and people around you might bitch about that, but focus on your goal. You’ll get size, respect, girls, you name it. You give everything to your gains, and your gains will give everything to you.”

  I like the sound of that. My summer plans are all about giving everything to my gains.

  I bust out my wallet, feel no guilt about taking out five 100-dollar bills. He gives me back a fifty and a twenty. Four hundred thirty dollars is a small price to pay for a body that commands respect. I’m so thrilled I can’t stop smiling.

  “You wanted to take yourself to another level, bro,” Alpha says. “This is it. Now you got ten times the testosterone flowing through you than an average man. You ain’t a chump no more. You ain’t even a man. You’re a superman.”

  I like the sound of that.

  11

  Fifty-five days until school begins

  WIDER SHOULDERS! A slight thickness of the arms!

  I turn in front of the mirror to see my torso in profile. Yep! A chest that’s starting to jut out! I can’t believe that body belongs to me!

  I go through a few more poses until I’m face-to-face with myself again, busting the double biceps pose—two small bulges swell there.

  I catch myself smiling with pride.

  This is a straight-up metamorphosis happening. After three weeks of giving everything to my gains, my body has sprouted muscles.

  Superman was accurate. I do feel invincible, like I can walk through walls and snap Ricky or anybody else in half. With all this testosterone flowing through me, my energy is through the fucking roof. I could climb a mountain, run a marathon. Both on the same day.

  The downside? Only that Dad has been eyeing my growing body with suspicion. Though he hasn’t said a word, the way he’s been studying me when I enter or leave a room makes me think there’s an unasked question rattling in his head.

  I keep my gear at Iron Life, where I get my injections in the office from Alpha. Among the weights, as I train, I talk gains with the other gearheads, keep it discreet if less serious lifters are within earshot.

  At home it’s a totally different story. So I got two separate lives—just like Superman.

  “Bring another jug of water!” Dad’s faraway voice interrupts my glory.

  Oh yeah. I’m in the work bathroom.

  “One second!” I shout back.

  Dad always ordering me around is getting on my nerves more and more.

  I came here to pee and haven’t gotten to that yet. Crazy as it sounds, I actually forgot to pee.

  The thing is, lately I can’t pass a mirror or any reflective surface without checking myself out. For just a quick second. That’s the plan, anyway, one quick second, but sometimes more time passes than I expect.

  What can I say? I’m not used to this physique. Or maybe a better way to put it is that these gains happen too quickly to get used to them.

  Done with my self-admiration, I grab for my T-shirt. Instead of just putting it on I make the mistake of twisting my torso to look at my back.

  So. Fucking. Gross. I cringe at the four zits I see behind one shoulder. The reddest one is the size of a dime, white-tipped and shiny, close to bursting. Alpha says not to touch them unless I want scars.

  As far as side effects go, a summer with back acne isn’t bad. At least the D-bol isn’t making me throw up like it does to Tower. I slip on my T-shirt, covering up the twenty or so zits. Problem solved.

  I unzip my shorts and pull down my underwear to pee. My dick didn’t get smaller. That’s a myth. If anything, it looks sort of bigger because my balls have shrunken. It’s called testicular atrophy if you wanna get fancy.

  It’s barely a side effect. Two hanging testicles are now a single firm mound hiding behind my dick. Who cares? I don’t. Has any girl anywhere ever cared what nuts look like?

  Once my cycle is over, my natural testosterone production will kick in and my nuts will fill out to their normal size again.

  The switching off and on of my reproductive system doesn’t worry me. I’m a responsible user of gear. Let the abusers of gear worry about stuff like no more erections or not making babies. The ones who go too long without cycling off, or take too much gear for too long.

  I wash my hands and head out.

  Gaby is in the back on her little table. She’s playing with Legos and singing a song I can’t hear too well, one she possibly made up. She loves making up songs.

  Dad is standing next to the dispenser near the auto shop entrance, drinking the last of the water from his big cup. His shoulders are crazy wide for someone who’s never done lat raises or military presses.

  At the shop I swap out the jugs, since he needs to be careful with his back. I bend down and grab a full one with one hand. Like it’s nothing. It makes me smile.

  I think back to when I used to need all my strength to lift it up. Carried it in both arms like you do with a person.

  Dad smiles at me one-arming it. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he says in Spanish. “What you’re all been waiting for! Here comes the famous Músculos.”

  Whenever he’s in a funny mood now, he calls me Muscles. It’s way better than Flaco, a nickname he’ll have to retire pretty soon when I’m totally jacked.

  I tear off the top of the jug and flip it over without straining one bit. It glugs three times before the water settles.

  “Getting stronger every day,” Dad says, and wipes his sweaty face with a bandana.

  I love getting Dad’s approval. This feels better than when I show him straight As. Lately, though, the good feeling is always tinged with the fear of being found out.

  He tucks the bandana into his back pocket. “If your mother could see you now.”

  If only. She knew me as a crybaby kid, and as a teenager who got sad because of teasing and bullying. Now I’m the guy who doesn’t gotta put up with that stuff.

  Dad says, “After you help with this transmission, you can go home.” After a couple of beats he adds, “Or look for another part-time job.”

  He’s trying to help. Since I’m only going out in public when necessary, he knows I’m only earning what he gives me. Which won’t give me enough for a car. My plan was to mow lawns like last summer.

  “No, just working here is fine,” I tell him.

  I come most days, averaging about twelve hours per week.

  “Hey, I wish business was busy enough to need you more,” he says with a shrug. “You were the one so set on buying a car.”

  Once I’m m
uscular enough, I’ll want everybody to see me. I can have any job, and I’ll replace the money I’ve spent. Plus earn a bunch more.

  Besides, leaving work after a couple of hours isn’t tragic or anything. Today I’m excited to get home. There are three articles on UndergroundMuscle that I haven’t gotten to yet. Plus, two of the bodybuilding channels I subscribe to on YouTube have posted new videos.

  “Come on,” Dad says. “Let’s pull the transmission before it’s time for your second lunch.”

  He laughs at his worn-out joke. Being impressed with my determination and progress isn’t going to keep him from poking fun.

  He lies down on the creeper, gently, and rolls underneath the Buick. I get under the car myself. The hard concrete presses on my sensitive zits. Ouch.

  I take hold of the transmission while Dad loosens the final bolts with a socket wrench. His grease-streaked forearm tenses at every turn. Those thick forearms are impressive. And he got them without doing wrist curls or reverse curls.

  My own forearms are still thin. Have they grown at all?

  No, they haven’t. They’re twigs, and the rest of your body hasn’t grown much either. You’re still a skinny fuck.

  Damn. It’s the same thoughts that made me take off my shirt in the bathroom to inspect my gains. I keep having to confirm that I really am growing in size, like the logical part of my brain knows. Because the tape measure, the scale, and my heavier lifts are proof.

  So I remember that and get all excited, beaming with pride in front of the mirror. But that only lasts so long until I start doubting again. I have this back-and-forth ten, twenty times a day.

  Anyway, I’m clearly not as big as Dad yet, so what we have in common for now is that we’re both covered in the greasy mess of fixing cars.

  That and the sound of metal on metal, amplified under here, makes me feel extra manly. I almost wanna invite him out for a beer or something.

  “You should take your sister to the park,” he says in a flat voice.

  Says instead of asks—a reminder that I’m a boy and he’s the man in charge.

  If I don’t do it he’ll bring it up again, lay this whole guilt trip on me. That’s why I joined them last Sunday for movie night, even though I’m sick of watching kid movies.

  Yesterday Gaby stayed home and I made time for her, played a game of Jenga and three of Connect Four. Am I really supposed to entertain her every freaking day? It’s not my fault Mely and her family got deported.

  I mean, I feel bad, but what am I supposed to do?

  Take her to the park, I guess. That’s what.

  It will get Dad off my case. Besides, lately I’ve only been recognized once, by this one college-aged guy who came to fix a flat last week. His eyes bugged out something serious, then he quickly said something about the hot weather.

  While Gaby plays in the park I’ll find a shaded park bench and clamp on my headphones to listen to my bodybuilding podcasts.

  So I don’t blast Dad’s eardrums, I turn my face away and shout, “Who wants to go to the park?”

  “Me!” Gaby shouts back, with so much joy in her voice. It almost melts my supertough, Superman heart.

  “Thank you, Flaco,” Dad says.

  Dammit.

  See? Mirrors lie. You’re not bulking up at all. He’s being ironic when he calls you Músculos. You’re Flaco. You’ll always be Flaco.

  Not true. It’s just a habit he has, using that nickname. What about the arm and shoulder measurements I made this morning? I’m making incredible gains.

  Sometimes, my reasoning and facts are no match for those annoying thoughts. I have to start carrying my tape measure from now on. I so badly want to confirm, yet again, that I’m as big as I should be.

  “I’ll give you a few bucks so you can take her to get ice cream afterward,” Dad says. “Wait. You’re not allowed to eat ice cream. I forgot.”

  “Dad, for the millionth time, I’m allowed to eat whatever, but choose only to eat what’s good for building muscles. The right kind of food and the right amounts is how people gain muscle mass. All the websites and even Alpha says so.”

  “Yeah? Well, I want to meet your friend Alpha,” he says.

  Dammit. Why did I have to say his name again? I mentioned Alpha once, referred to him as the owner and trainer at the gym. That he’s my “friend” is Dad’s own invention.

  “What friend, Dad? He’s a trainer at the gym who knows his stuff.”

  Dad keeps working the socket wrench that crackles with every counterclockwise turn. The final screw comes off.

  “On the count of three,” he says.

  He counts down and we both pull. The transmission screeches off the car. I help guide it to the floor between us. It’s light, which blows my mind. All of a sudden, transmissions are light for me.

  All done, I slide out from under the car, feeling every tender zit on my back.

  When I get up from the ground, I thunk my head on the side mirror.

  “Son of a!” I shout, remembering not to curse around Dad.

  An angry heat flashes through me as I rub the spot with one hand. My other hand curls into a fist. The desire to punch the car is so strong that I take a step back, just in case. I take a deep pull of oxygen, like Alpha taught me, hold it for a few seconds. Then slowly let it out.

  “You okay?” Dad asks, rolling into view below.

  “Yeah, I’m okay.”

  He rolls back under.

  That’s not just manly toughness talking. I am okay. I’m used to pain caused by clumsiness. For instance, if I get up to pee at night, there’s an 80 percent chance that I’ll stub my toes against something on my way to the bathroom.

  In fact, I’ve bumped my head about a thousand times before. So hard that the knot on my skull lasts for days. That side mirror didn’t hurt much, I gotta admit. If not for the gear I’m taking, it wouldn’t have been a big deal at all.

  Okay, so maybe shrunken balls and back acne aren’t the only side effects.

  Yesterday the rage grabbed ahold of me in the gym, when this fat guy kept hogging the twenty-pound dumbbells. After ten minutes, it nearly made me turn red with fury until I remembered that my hormones were supercharged. Three long, deep breaths brought my heart rate back to normal.

  Two days ago I dropped the milk carton on the kitchen floor, spilling most of it. I wanted to kick the fridge or wall so badly. Instead, I took a few calming breaths.

  It’s all about the focused breathing. Yoga instructors and gearheads know what they’re talking about.

  Now I catch my reflection in the tinted glass of the Buick—what the fuck? I look really big.

  In fact, I look bigger than I did a few minutes ago! I take a step closer to the window and stand straight.

  Hell yeah! Check out those broad shoulders! I lift my right arm to flex a bicep, and it stretches long instead of going round.

  My enthusiasm sinks.

  So that’s it. The curve of the window is creating a sort of fun-house mirror effect. Making me wider.

  It’s cool though, this glimpse into the future. This is what my body might look like when the cycle is done. I check myself out from the side and my chest juts out more. Nice. My round shoulder looks thicker. Who would mess with that guy?

  “Is the performance over?” Dad’s voice asks behind me.

  Gaby laughs.

  Great. They’ve witnessed me posing. Heat rises to my face.

  Gaby stands there with her small backpack slung over her shoulder and looks at Dad. “I told you he’s becoming a weirdo.”

  I grab the car keys and take Gaby with me, before Dad starts giving me more grief.

  12

  Thirty-two days until school begins

  I CRUSHED that workout and still have plenty of energy. It’s such a high to finish my last set, and to be in the Iron Life office to get injected with more testosterone. As always, the blinds are down and the single fluorescent bulb is way too bright.

  I pull down my shorts to reve
al my left cheek. Put my hands on the desk to steady myself and rest the top of my left foot on the floor. So I don’t tense my leg when I get nervous.

  “Here we go,” Alpha says.

  I feel my face squeeze hard when the needle darts in. Heat spreads in my glute. The burning means the fast-acting steroid is working, that the gains are underway and will continue. I’ve learned to love the burn.

  The office door creaks open. Panic catches in my throat as I turn my head. I see Jake’s shiny parted hair and gray camouflage T-shirt with the black Superman S. I don’t think he owns a shirt without that S. What is he doing here?

  “Hey,” he says, and crunches a bite out of an apple he’s holding.

  Tower follows behind, carrying a blender pitcher—filled with a vanilla protein shake brought from home. “Why’s your foot like that?”

  “I’m not giving interviews right now, thanks.”

  What’s wrong with these guys? This isn’t a show. “Oh, I get it,” Tower says. “It’s so your leg doesn’t tense up, right? That’s smart.” He takes a long drink from his pitcher.

  This may be normal for them, but I’m not 100 percent comfortable with half my ass in full view.

  When the needle is out I pull my underwear and shorts up. “What are you guys doing here?”

  “We came to see the wild shit you’re about to do to Alpha,” Tower says.

  Jake swallows another bite of apple. “Better you than me, Little Man. I wouldn’t be able to do it.”

  “What are you guys talking about?”

  Right then Alpha takes out another syringe from a desk drawer, the cylinder already loaded, and holds it up. “You’re going to hook me up with some injections.”

  “Why me?”

  I don’t get it. Alpha injects himself, and these guys also self-inject.

  “I need a young, steady hand for this,” Alpha tells me, handing over the syringe. “This is Synthol.”

  Alpha explains that Synthol is not steroids. It’s a SEO—a site enhancement oil. It temporarily puffs up the muscle to make it look fuller, for days or weeks, depending on how often it’s injected.

  “The thing is,” Alpha says solemnly, “you have to inject the same amount into the exact same spot in the muscles or else I’ll look asymmetrical.”