by B. P. Kasik
He was fine for the first couple hours, when he took them to the children’s museum and they amused themselves on their own, only occasionally needing him to step in to referee fights and toy-custody battles with other kids.
Their lunch at McDonald’s went fine. (He wasn’t proud of letting them ingest those processed-chemicals-posing-as-food, but it was cheap and convenient.)
But when he took them to the public playground over by the golf course, the shooting pain in his leg almost toppled him. He managed to get the kids to the play equipment, where his older daughter joyfully took off for the slide, before he collapsed on a bench and popped one of his emergency oxy pills.
“Daddy okay?” asked his younger son.
Jerry pasted on a smile, doing what all parents must do for their children. Lie. “Daddy’s just fine! He got a little owie and is gonna sit down for a while.”
His son inquired further. “I kiss owie?”
Jerry laughed. “If you like.”
His son leaned over and kissed Jerry’s ankle, elevated on the bench to ease the pressure.
“Owie all better?” his son asked.
“Yes, absolutely.” Jerry didn’t have to fake a smile that time. “Owie all better. Now you can go play with your sister.”
“Okay!” And he was off.
Jerry wasn’t used to his son speaking so much. Or exhibiting empathy.
I’ve only been out of the picture a couple months and I’m missing developmental landmarks.
That old cliche about kids growing up so fast? No joke.
The pain kept him distracted. He was sweating profusely as the oxy took its sweet time getting to work. The sensation shifted from a shooting pain to a stabbing pain.
He considered popping another pill, but resisted. He’d heard too many horror stories about injury or accident victims becoming oxy addicts. They would take more and more until they finally ground up the stuff and sniffed it, or shot it up intravenously. No way that was gonna happen to him. He always moderated his pill intake, only using them once the pain hit. His doctor advised him to take them regularly, to “get in front of the pain.” But he didn’t want to risk getting too used to the pills. If that meant a little extra pain here and there, so be it.
He checked his watch. 1:26. He kept checking his watch every few minutes but time wouldn’t move any faster. The sweet relief of 5 p.m. felt like it was never gonna come.
But it did. The pain eventually eased and he was able to take the kids grocery shopping without either one of them falling out of the cart. He was still haunted by the time his son fell out of the cart head-first and wondered if permanent brain damage had resulted. No signs yet, other than the usual brain-damaged behavior of a toddler.
He felt like a hero when he presented the kids at his ex-wife’s doorstep at 5. (Exactly 5, not one minute later.)
She smiled and thanked him and they exchanged tactful pleasantries and Jerry got back in his car and enjoyed the silence.
No more chatter, no more Young Einstein shows playing on his phone, and no more keeping up a positive attitude when he felt horrible on every level. Smiling through the emotional pain had been just as tough as smiling through the physical pain.
Driving home, he had the radio off and didn’t play any CDs. He just let a stupor of thought wash over him as he traveled peacefully along.
He pulled onto his street and saw a tussle going on in the yard next to his house. He stopped the car and got out, limping as fast as he could to the fight. It looked like a couple was being attacked by a man in a trench coat thrashing about like he was being electrocuted.
Jerry grabbed the guy by the arm and hurled him over to the sidewalk. It took a lot of effort to maintain his balance after releasing the stranger, but he managed.
“What’s going on here?” he shouted.
The young Black couple pointed to the shabbily-dressed stranger and said, “We were just walking along and this guy was just staring at the flashing Gym sign, then he looked at us and screamed and started trying to hit and bite us!”
Jerry looked at the stranger. “What’s wrong with you, man?”
The stranger—who Jerry could now see was scraggily-bearded and dressed in rags under the coat—just stared at him blankly. Like he just woke up. Then he hissed something that sounded like, “Srbss,” and got up and ran down the street and around the corner.
Jerry turned to the couple. “Are you guys okay?”
The woman nodded. “Yeah, he bit my shoulder, but it didn’t break the skin. Looks like just a bruise there.”
The man just shrugged. “He swung his arms at us pretty frantically, but none of the hits really connected.”
Jerry looked over at the steadily-glowing Gym sign. “You said it was flashing?”
“Yes!” said the woman. “It wasn’t like on/off flashing, there was some rhythm to it.”
Jerry stared at the warm orange light. “Looks fine now…”
“Yeah,” said the woman. “Anyway, thanks for coming up to help us.”
“Oh, no problem. You sure you guys are okay?”
“Yes, we’re fine.”
“I live right here, I’d be happy to bring you in and bandage you up!”
“It’s really fine, but we appreciate it.”
“Okay. Do you live around here?”
“No. We were thinking about moving here after reading all those articles about what a great city this is. Not so sure now.”
“Okay, well...we’re not all crazy. I promise.”
The woman laughed. “We see that! And appreciate your help. And offers for more help.”
“Just doing what I can to make up for the roving maniacs we apparently have around here.”
“Right,” said the woman with a wave. “Well, keep up the good work!”
“Okay. Stay safe out there!”
They smiled and walked away. At a brisk pace.
Jerry turned and stared at the Gym sign. Taking a nice long look at it, he realized he’d never seen a shade of orange like that. Yes, it was annoying to have it illuminated 24/7, but it really was a lovely color.
Lovely.
Chapter 7
Inside the Gym, the late-night workout crowd drained the last drops of sweat out of their pores before the facility lights flashed and the notification came over the loudspeakers, “Attention Gym patrons! We are closing in 15 minutes. Please finish your workout and cool-off period and have a nice evening! It’s all for your health!”
Harold got up from the hi-lat pulldown machine, dried his face with a hand towel, and did some stretches. He looked around and saw that he was the only male left in the workout room. Everyone else was a woman on the Stairmaster or treadmill, determinedly working out until the very last minute.
And they were all out of his league. Harold was building some muscle tone, but he was painfully short and skinny. The Gym’s personal trainer had been pushing him pretty hard to do some sessions with him, but Harold wanted to work out on his own. He wanted to take control of his workout experience and build himself up. It was a pride issue.
He took some deep breaths and descended the strangely large glass steps to the locker room. He peeled off his sticky workout clothes and wrapped himself up in a freshly-laundered warm white towel as he walked to the shower.
He turned on the water and adjusted the knob to the sweet spot between burning hot and freezing cold. He kept checking the water spray with his hand and when it finally reached Goldilocks-porridge temperature, he took off the towel, hung it on the steel spike outside, and walked in, pulling the vinyl curtain closed behind him.
He stood under the water, enjoying the flow. He liked to take a minute to just relax and let the water wash over him.
He heard footsteps outside the shower. Odd, as he was the only male in the facility. Probably just an employee. The footsteps went away as soon as they arrived.
Harold put his hair under the showerhead, soaking it as he reached for one of the two pumps, one for liqui
d soap and one for liquid shampoo. He knew the shampoo was on the left and pushed the pump with one hand while catching it in the other.
He brought it directly to his hair and starting rubbing it in. The fluid felt oddly warm.
And then he screamed.
His hair disintegrated and the skin on his hands and scalp burned like they were on fire. The burning sensation spread as the acidic shampoo lather dripped down. He flipped the handle to cold, but it brought no relief.
He looked at his hands through agonized, burning eyes to see bubbling, reddening skin. He felt his face and realized it was bubbling, as well.
He shut off the water and reached out for his towel and rubbed his face and head.
The burned skin and hair was torn off altogether by the sandpaper-textured towel. Through a haze of blood and pain, Harold saw the towel was black and had the texture of a giant Brillo pad. It had been switched on him.
The burning and scraping pain sent him into shock and he went numb as he collapsed to the tile floor, fracturing his wrist on impact.
As he faded into darkness, he saw a pair of extremely muscular calves and looked up to see their owner: the personal trainer.
The trainer looked down at him with cold eyes. “Still think you can handle working out on your own?”
Harold tried to scream again as the trainer descended, but it was cut off quickly.
Chapter 8
Jerry limped a bit less as he walked across the nice, sunny street to the Gym. Its bright orange sign felt like a glowing beacon.
He was already feeling better. Working out his leg regularly was helping it to heal and giving him hope for the future. Mere weeks ago, he’d thought he’d never be able to walk normally again. He’d feared the pain would never stop. But the Gym gave him hope.
He made an appointment to exercise with Ben that morning and was looking forward to hanging out. Because he liked working out with a buddy even more than working out solo.
He walked up to the front counter and held up his membership card to be scanned and the employee held up the scanner gun to read it, and...it was his ex-wife.
As the computer “beeped,” Jerry stammered. “Uh....hi, Becky!”
His ex-wife nodded. “Hi to you, as well.”
“You work here now?”
“And you work out here now?”
“You didn’t mention you were looking for work.”
“And you didn’t mention that you could afford a gym membership.”
“It’s a free trial! I’m just testing it out.” Jerry decided not to mention that he could never imagine living without the Gym, even with that weird interaction at the service desk the other day.
“I was kidding. No, I’m happy you’re working out. Exercise is good for you. It’s all for your health, right?”
“That’s what they say! But seriously—you’re working now?”
“I am. The reduced child support you’re paying just isn’t cutting it.”
“But I’m on disability! I can’t help that my salary’s reduced!”
“I know, I know, ho—” and she stopped. Jerry recognized that she was about to call him “honey.” He didn’t hang a lampshade on it or kid her about it, he just let her continue. “Jerry, I know it’s not your fault. You’ll go back to work when you can. But I can’t pay the bills on what you’re sending us.”
“I’d send more if I could.”
“I know. And I’m not gonna sue you for support or anything. I can work for a while, it’s fine.”
“What about the kids?”
“They’re fine, they’re with my mom.”
“She’s alright with daycare duty?”
“She’s fine.”
“Okay.”
Jerry looked over and noticed a new poster on the wall. It was a classical Uncle Sam pointing-at-you poster saying, “I WANT YOU—FIT AND HEALTHY!”
Jerry nodded to it. “Nice. Your idea?”
She looked back at it and smiled. “No, sorry to say. They put that one up without running it by me first.”
Jerry noticed a small group of employees gathered on the edge of the lobby assembling something that looked like a gunmetal cross between a chair and an erector set.
“What’s that?” he asked.
An unreadable expression passed over her face. “It’s a new initiative. They should be offering it soon, but they’re asking us not to talk about it yet.”
“Oh. Okay. Fun. Well...good luck with your new job.”
“And good luck with exercising. How’s the leg?”
“Still hurts, but not as much.”
“Not gonna take the stairs?”
“Not yet. Any idea why the stairs are so big? And made of glass?”
Her face went inscrutable again, then she quickly smiled and said, “There’s a reason for all of it, but I haven’t learned everything yet. We’ll find out in time.”
Jerry nodded. “Okay, then. Bye.”
Becky waved slightly, and then typed away on the computer.
Jerry took the elevator up and looked around the room for Ben. He noticed fewer and fewer normal-looking schlubs each time he came, so it was easy to spot his normal-looking schlub pal, Ben.
They nodded in greeting and did some sets on the ab extender and triceps machines.
There was a group of six older folks, men and women, swimming in a row in the circular pool around the workout area, all wearing red swimsuits. After they made their fifth lap, Jerry looked at Ben. “You imagine being in shape like that when you get that old?”
“I’d love that!”
Jerry continued to push his arms forward and then slowly release them on the triceps machine. “So we’ve never really done the basics. The get-to-know-you chit-chat.”
“That’s true! We have working out together as an icebreaker, but I think us guys are only supposed to talk about sports and stuff.”
“True. So you like sports?”
“Not really. You?”
Jerry shrugged. “I could give or take it. Invite me to a game, I’ll cheer along. But half-heartedly.”
“Well, we’ve got that covered. What’s next?”
“Uh, between sports and stuff, that leaves us with ‘stuff.’ You like stuff?”
“Sure. You?”
“Yeah, stuff’s alright.” Jerry got up and let Ben take a turn on the machine.
Ben breathed deep on each rep. “So we’re all caught up on sports and stuff!”
“I haven’t made a new friend in years. I don’t know the rules.”
Ben finished his tenth rep and relaxed on the machine. “Sucks that it’s so hard for us men to make friends.”
“Indeed.”
“My wife can meet a another lady at the poolside at some vacation resort and five minutes later, they’re trading numbers and they’re Facebook friends and they keep up with each other the rest of their lives.”
“Wow. Your wife sounds impressive.”
“I have no frame of reference for comparison. Only ever been with her!”
“Really?” Jerry winced, knowing how dangerous that could be. If you never played the field, your view on the game would be pretty narrow. “High school sweethearts?”
“Technically, yeah. We were punk kids when we met.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Literally. We met at a No Turn On Fred show up in Alexandria. Hardcore punk band, though they called themselves ‘ice metal.’”
“‘Ice metal’?”
“Yeah, they were funny guys. My now-wife/then-girlfriend and I were both in the scene. She made flyers. I did what I guess you’d now call ‘viral marketing.’ I would paint ‘F’s before the ‘Red’s on every ‘No Turn on Red’ sign in the neighborhood.”
“Wow, that’s awesome!”
“It was! Most were cleaned off ASAP, but there was one sign near 395 where the “F” stayed up for years.”
“I have to say—you don’t come off as a graffiti-prone hardcore punk.”
Ben la
ughed. “Well, fast-forward 20 years and the wife and I are now cogs in the machine. I’m an administrative accountant at LNS Financial. My wife works at City Hall.”
“Ha. Do you guys still like to rock?”
Ben rolled his eyes. “Who has the time?”
“Wow, punks gone legit. You guys are upstanding citizens.”
“As Henry Rollins said, ‘You gotta become something.’ How about you?”
Jerry shrugged. “Wish I had a better tale to tell! I came here to go to college, forgot to leave. Got a liberal arts degree that had every major Fortune 500 company fighting to get me working for them.”
“Nice.”
“So I went into construction and electrician work. Met my wife in town. Life happened. And now I’m divorced with two kids.”
“Aw, man. How old are your kids?”
“Two and four.”
“They cute?”
“Yes, except when they’re not.”
“So you healed from the breakup yet?”
“Yeah, but I don’t feel like much of a catch these days. Especially with this disability I’m working through.”
“Oh, please. You’ll be fine. You tried Tinder? I think I already asked you that.”
Jerry rolled his eyes. “You did. And swing and a miss there, on my part. I need to shape up before I dive back in that pool.”
Ben laughed as they alternated places on the machine. “Which brings us to this current workout.”
“Exactly.”
Ben paused, then leaned a bit closer. “You have any weird experiences in the locker room?”
“Other than being checked out by that one guy who’s always in there?”
“Yeah.”
Jerry looked around, realized he was checking to see if anyone was listening. Which was silly, but it came instinctively. “Well, my locker combination didn’t work the other day.”
“Same here.”
Jerry stared at him. “Is that so?”
Ben lowered his voice to a whisper. “Yeah, and when they opened it for me, I looked and my watch was gone.”
“Somebody stole from you?”