by Fred Aceves
I feel myself getting hard. Time to test Alpha’s advice.
The half-flattened cat by the side of the road last week.
How that stomach infection in Mexico made me vomit so hard that some ricocheted off the toilet water and onto my face.
The goriness seems to be working.
“Can we finally talk now, David?” she asks, sitting up again.
“About what?”
Her smile disappears and she’s giving me an evil stare. What happened? It’s like she hates me right now.
She gives her head a slow shake of disappointment.
“You have something important to tell me!” I say, suddenly remembering. “Sorry, my dad has my mind all messed up.”
She texted me last night, wanting to talk. It’s why she came over today. How could I forget that? I haven’t thought about it since.
A boyfriend is supposed to remember planned talks about serious issues. A boyfriend is supposed to ask her about it just as soon as his girlfriend shows up.
“What do you wanna talk about?” I ask her, all ears.
“Well, I already mentioned that you seem obsessed with your body,” she says. “And it reminded me a little of how I was for a while back in middle school.”
“What?”
“I was dieting and thinking of my body all the time. Hopping on the scale every day. Sometimes twice a day.”
“I didn’t know that.”
“Luckily, my mom noticed and helped me deal with why I was feeling that way. And you should do the same thing. You have to try to stop being so obsessed about your body. You look fine.”
“I’m not obsessed.”
“Really?” She tilts her head at me. “I’ve seen you flexing your forearms and checking them out while I’m talking to you. A few minutes ago you were doing some sort of sleepwalking flexing in front of the mirror.”
I laugh at that. Sometimes I laugh when I’m nervous.
“Okay, so I won’t be so obsessed,” I say. Because denying it won’t help. She just witnessed me acting like a freak.
Though I don’t see why being obsessed about achieving an important goal is a bad thing.
“You won’t be so obsessed? Prove it.” Karina reaches into her bag and pulls out a sandwich bag with two brownies.
“With brownies?”
“They’re your favorite.” She dangles the bag in front of me, like I’m a dog being offered a bone. I have way too much discipline for that.
“You have both,” I say. “I’m good. Simple carbs, bad fats, and the lack of protein is not muscle fuel.”
“I know that.” She takes a square out, the surface glistening, and hands it to me. It’s warm on my palm and smells so damn good. “But this is the point. It’s not about feeding the muscles all the damn time. It’s one brownie.”
Maybe one small brownie would be fine. How many bad, non-anabolic calories could be in this thing?
Plus it would be rude to turn down something she made for me.
That’s two reasons to eat this.
The truth is I’m grateful for any excuse to enjoy something delicious for a change. Brownies are the best.
I take a bite. Karina takes a bite of hers.
Wow. It’s deliciously soft and chewy. Most importantly, it’s actually chocolaty, unlike the sludge I drank in the kitchen.
“Mmm,” Karina says, closing her eyes. “Doesn’t this taste better than what you’ve been eating the last few weeks?”
“For sure,” I say.
Yet I’m feeling bad about this. Like I’m destroying my gains by swallowing that bite.
My body is in an extra-high anabolic state post-workout, and I’m feeding it mostly sugar?
But there’s nothing to do now, with Karina watching and judging me. I try to enjoy it as best I can.
After we’re done she leans over for a kiss. I meet her halfway and, even though I’m kind of worried Dad or Gaby might walk by, it’s a long kiss I feel all over. Yes, especially down there.
I break away from the kiss and my brain searches for horrific images.
The Mexican earthquake on the news, the rubble covering those dead bodies.
The shiny, white-tipped zits on my back.
Her eyes narrow at the sight of something on my face. “Are those hairs?”
I go to the mirror on the wall, and move in really close.
Yep. Those are three thick hairs on my cheek.
Wow. The androgen effects of steroids. Or else they’re the natural changes that were already underway. The ones that began with my growth spurt months ago.
I run a finger over the short bristles. “Yep. Three little hairs.”
I turn to her and make my voice deep. Try to sound like Morgan Freeman with a cold. “Guess I gotta start shaving. I’m becoming a man.”
“Mmm-hm.” She looks me up and down. “You were always sort of cute, in a baby bird sort of way,” she says, and laughs. “Now you’re sort of hot, you know that?”
I laugh but she’s serious. No smile at all.
I turn to check myself out again. I’ve always had a small waist. Now I have broader shoulders that give me that V-shape girls like.
Karina is right. I’m sort of becoming hot.
Sort of though, and nowhere near big enough. I can’t wait to hit the gym tomorrow, for my next workout and injection.
15
Twenty-four days until school begins
AFTER A THIRD SET of dumbbell lat raises I got an intense pump going, my shoulders swelling with warmth. I guzzle water and notice I’m good on time. It’s forty-two minutes into my workout and I’m more than halfway done.
With Gaby at home by herself I need to keep the gym visits to ninety minutes, max. I have a no-chatting rule to cut down on how long I spend here. It’s easy to follow today since none of the gearheads are here and Alpha has gone home for something he forgot.
Just like the other two times I’ve left Gaby alone, I popped in a DVD before heading out the door. Told her I’d be back before the movie ended.
She’s safe behind the locked front door. I don’t worry about her using the stove or playing with knives or anything stupid. So why can’t I stop thinking about her? There’s some guilt for sure, the lie that we reestablish every day, the bribe I come home with in the form of candy, so I’m greeted with a big smile that makes most of my guilt disappear until the next time.
I watch the red second hand go around on the gym clock, buzzing with anticipation when my minute break has completed. Since Rassle took off, all I’m left with is two chumps working out. If you can call it working out.
One is around fifty and the other half that, both on different machines. Pathetic. Machines don’t give you the full range of motion, don’t build muscle like free weights and compound lifts. I mean, the guys are lean and all—at least they aren’t fat—but it’s obvious why they don’t have impressive physiques. They don’t exert themselves like me and the serious lifters.
The machines are here to attract those kinds of members. A gym for those driven to greatness wouldn’t keep this business afloat. That’s what Alpha says, so soon there will be even more useless equipment in here. Just as soon as the BeastMax sponsorship check comes and Alpha does the renovations.
More chump members are fine with me as long as they stay outta my way.
I bend down to grab the weight and stand up straight. That which does not kill me makes me stronger. The dumbbells touch just under my navel. I bring them up straight-armed to my sides, like a bird flapping its wings. Go through the whole set, rep by rep, squeezing at the top, really feeling my deltoids contract.
Your arms are small. Pencil thin.
I watch my reflection and wonder if that’s true. Or maybe my shoulder pump is making my arms look small by contrast. Just as soon as I knock out the last rep I’m going to the bathroom to measure the circumference of my upper arms.
I groan with the final, eleventh rep, and let the weight drop to the rubber mats with a thud.
In the bathroom, I wrap the measuring tape around my arm. I confirm, yet again, that my arms are not shriveling.
Then my phone jingles with a received message. It’s from Alpha: Come over NOW.
“What the hell happened?” I ask, looking around.
My first thought, looking at the half-empty house, is that somebody robbed this place. But then why are the TV and Blu-ray still there? They’re sitting on the floor with the cords in a tangle. But the entertainment center has disappeared, along with the matching coffee table. A huge rectangle of lighter beige carpet highlights where the couch should be. The cushy brown recliner is still there. Same with the dining room table with all four chairs.
Nothing on the walls except for the large framed photo of Mindy and Alpha. She flashes perfect teeth, while square-jawed Alpha has that gap in his smile.
Alpha’s in the kitchen, flipping five chicken breasts in a large pan.
“Can you believe it? Mindy left me while I was at work, bro.” He shakes his head like he can’t believe it himself. “She’s probably heading to Tallahassee to stay with her parents or sister, and I gotta go after her. You’re the only one I could call. The other guys are busy.”
He sets down the spatula and hurries into the garage.
I pet Crockett, who’s the chillest dog ever since the gear has worn off. He’s even smaller than last time I saw him. He looks like the Rottweiler that nature intended, only sad.
“Your mom left, huh, buddy?”
It’s clear now Mindy was dead serious about her ultimatum. Alpha didn’t give up steroids so she gave up on him.
A thought occurs to me, so dark that I feel a pang of guilt. Sure, I feel bad for Alpha. I really do. Poor guy just got hit with a serious blow. That sucks. But I can’t help thinking about how this might mess up my gains.
He’ll make it to Tallahassee this evening, no question. But what if he doesn’t come back by tomorrow? I’ll miss an injection, and that can’t happen. If he can’t bring Mindy back right away, I’ll miss even more injections.
That. Can’t. Happen.
I hear Alpha moving and banging around in the garage.
A man chasing after the woman he loves would be super romantic if only he left right away. Instead, Alpha is searching for something first.
And cooking. He doesn’t trust restaurants. Says they claim to use olive oil when it’s refined, unhealthy vegetable oil. That they also sneak in other ingredients so you can’t know the actual macros of a meal.
Alpha comes back with a cooler large enough for a family. Or for one professional bodybuilder.
“She doesn’t even want a baby any time soon,” he says, setting it next to the fridge. “My sperm will be working fine by the time we’re ready.”
He moves toward the cupboards before deciding to open the fridge first. Alpha is a hot mess right now, unable to think, talk, and do at the same time.
“I’ve been all about bodybuilding since before I met her.” He reaches in for the large tub of cottage cheese and drops it into the cooler. “What does she care that I’ll be on gear for just one more year?” He drops two heads of broccoli in too, and a bag of carrots.
Alpha told his girlfriend “one more year” twice before, according to him, but I won’t point out the obvious. That would be a total dick move.
I already feel like a dick, thinking more about my gains than about my friend’s life collapsing.
Alpha walks over to the cooking pan and picks up the spatula. Then, as if remembering it needs a while longer, he goes back to the fridge. Takes the spatula with him.
I take it from him. “I’ll keep an eye on the chicken.”
“How could she do this to me?” he asks, going through the shelves. “I love her.”
It’s on me to be consoling, to say something that will cheer him up. All I can come up with are versions of there are other fish in the sea. Lame. Not helpful at all.
“That sucks, bro,” I tell him.
Okay, so maybe I’m not the ideal friend during this kind of crisis. But I doubt the super-jacked squad from the gym could do any better.
“I’ll get her to come back,” he says, his voice too low to be convincing. He drops a bag of washed spinach into the cooler. “Hopefully soon. I don’t wanna be away too long.”
Yeah, I don’t want that either. My gains! How will I get my injections?
I lift a chicken breast to check. Nope, still pale.
Alpha tosses me a set of keys. “Give those to Tower for me, because he’ll be handling everything at the gym. I need your help for something else. Can you come by to walk Crockett at least once a day and feed him?” He shows me where the leash and dog food is. “I ask because you live close by and have more time than the others.”
“I got you, bro,” I say.
I turn off the burner and set the sizzling pan aside.
Alpha looks directly at me for the first time since I walked in. “That only leaves one thing.” He’s grinning now, which is weird.
“What’s that?”
“I gotta teach you how to self-inject.”
Part of me is like, Great! My progress will continue! Another part is like, Nooooo!
I’ve injected Alpha’s biceps with Synthol on three occasions. But just because I can handle a syringe doesn’t mean I’m down with stabbing myself with an inch-and-a-half needle.
We go to Alpha’s bedroom, where there’s a full-length mirror. It looks burglarized in here too. The open closet doors reveal mostly empty space. Mindy must have taken the dresser. Alpha’s folded clothes sit stacked on the bed. I see the tapered T-shirts he special orders from a bodybuilding website so the shoulders are 4XL but the waist is small.
He hands me the rubber-stopped bottle and syringe. “Load it up, bro. This is what distinguishes you from average chumps. You can do this.”
I fill it, flick it, and press on the plunger so that only one drop leaks out. These injections are what make me feel more like a man than anything else, so why am I shaking like a little boy? I take in a huge breath, as if the extra oxygen contains the courage I need.
“So how do I hold it?” I ask Alpha.
He moves my arm behind me like I’m getting arrested. The needle points at the glute. “Your thumb on the plunger like that. See?”
I tug my shorts and underwear down to reveal my right ass cheek. The syringe is pretty much horizontal.
I’m holding it behind me and have to stab forward. This is going to require some serious hand-eye coordination. Step one is getting my hand to stop trembling.
Alpha snickers. “Chill out, bro. Don’t mess up and shove it up your ass.”
He sits on the bed for a front-seat view of my anxiety. The only way he could enjoy this more is if he were munching on popcorn.
“I’m glad this is entertaining for you,” I tell him. “Glad to cheer you up.”
“It’s a rite of passage. You had to learn eventually.”
I side-look into the mirror, syringe ready. Your arm is so skinny.
Now is not the time. I focus and take a deep breath and tell myself it’s just like all the other times I’ve gotten injected. The easy part is popping in the needle. Just pop it in, dammit. Do it. You’re a man.
My hand trembles less.
“Aim toward the middle of the cheek,” Alpha reminds me with a chuckle. “Do you need me to draw a target?”
I give him the finger with my free hand, which makes him laugh more.
I take another deep breath and, so as not to overthink it, jab the needle in.
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod.” I wanna pull the needle out so badly. No. I have to inject. This is crazy! What the fuck! Ow!
It’s hurting bad for some reason. Even though I’m not pushing in the liquid yet.
“You have the syringe at a slant, dumbass!”
When I straighten it the pain subsides. Then I push the plunger down. As fast as I can to get this over with.
“Slowly!” Alpha says, and laughs s
o hard he leans back, knocking over a stack of T-shirts.
As my right glute burns extra hot, I pull out the needle and press a tissue against the dot of red forming. Why did they used to call steroids juice? More like acid.
I pull up my shorts and try to walk off the pain.
After that mishap with the angle, the burn I’ve gotten used to doesn’t feel too great.
I catch my arms in the mirror again. Where are the gains I’ve made? How is that skinny fuck in the mirror ever going to get respect from the world or revenge on Ricky?
Maybe Karina is right. I’m obsessed with my body. Maybe that obsession is driving me crazy.
Alpha starts packing. He grabs a random stack of T-shirts and shoves them inside a duffel bag. Everything this guy does looks like he’s flexing. Those slabs of muscles contract and shift and elongate with every move. His arms, stretching out his short sleeves, look bigger than my legs.
How cool it would be to look like that. If I did, I wouldn’t worry about looking too small. That idea would never cross my mind.
“This is going to sound crazy,” I say, “but sometimes I see myself as small. Like really small. Smaller than a week ago or even smaller than before I started training.”
He stops packing socks to look at me. I warned him it was going to sound crazy. Now he’s going to think I’m a madman and ask for his keys back. Won’t trust me with his house or Crockett anymore.
“Crazy?” he asks. “That’s normal for true champs, bro.”
“Normal? For real?”
“Sometimes I think that way too. If you’re satisfied with how you look, you stop trying to get bigger.”
He zips the bag and takes it out to the living room. I consider those words. He’s basically saying that never being satisfied helps you achieve your goals.
Do rich people become richer by being dissatisfied with the money they have? Maybe. But I doubt they feel poor. What about athletes? Do they gotta believe they suck at a sport in order to improve?
Something about Alpha’s words don’t make sense.
I head out to the living room, where he calls Crockett’s name and bends over. “Who’s my boy?” he says, using his baby-talking voice. “Who’s my best boy in the entire world?”
