Chemical Pink

by Katie Arnoldi

  Copyright

  This edition first published in paperback in the United States in 2008 by

  The Overlook Press, Peter Mayer Publishers, Inc.

  New York

  www.overlookpress.com

  NEW YORK:

  141 Wooster Street

  New York, NY 10012

  Introduction copyright © 2001 by Katie Arnoldi

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be invented without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages in connection with a review written for inclusion in a magazine, newspaper, or broadcast.

  Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available from the Library of Congress

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  ISBN 978-1-46830-794-8

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  I dedicate this book to love of my life,

  Chuck Arnoldi and to

  Jamie Thompson Stern, a true friend.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Part One

  Remembering may

  Charles

  Ready

  Go

  First Date

  Aurora Has a Look

  Aurora Makes a Plan

  Venice

  J Do

  Closer

  After

  Shot

  Big Time

  Going Home

  To the Airport

  A Private Moment

  Part Two

  The Good Life

  Early Pickup

  Angry Charles

  Next Day

  No Luck

  Instructious

  Saturday Morning Before Breakfast

  Saturday Morning After Breakfast

  Later That Night

  Author Day for Amy

  Aurora’s on Her Way

  Getting to Know You

  Checking In

  Less Than an Hour

  A Lot on Her Plate

  Twenty-three Weeks and Counting

  Charles Needs a Change

  Twenty-one Weeks and Counting

  Day at the Gym

  Words of Wisdom

  Amy Isn’t Home Yet

  At Breakfast with Hendrik

  Intruder in the House

  Nineteen Weeks and Counting

  Phone Work

  Eighteen Weeks and Counting

  Skip

  Reunion

  Get Away

  Change of Plans

  Something New

  Weekend

  Part Three

  Seven Weeks and Counting

  The Mall

  Five Weeks and Counting

  Hungry

  Making It Right

  A Long Night for Amy

  Charles Loved Doughdee

  Back in the Saddle

  Three Weeks and Counting

  What Aurora Saw

  What Amy Saw

  Skip Is Dead

  Dream Come True

  Three Days and Counting

  Show Time

  Prejudging

  Aurora the Pro

  Charles’ Next Step

  Aurora Gives Her Liver a Break

  Aurora’s Big Break

  No Answer

  A Letter from Grandma

  Climb Every Mountain

  A True Friend

  Everything That She Needs

  Aurora Finally Comes Through

  Author’s Note

  Also by Katie Arnoldi

  ONE

  Remembering May

  It had given Charles great satisfaction to rip out the green Italian marble tub, the gold fixtures, the pale green porcelain toilet and matching bidet and to install angled mirrors, harsh overhead lighting and a six-foot-square posing platform in the center of the room. He’d turned his mother’s sanctuary into a shrine for bodybuilding and had a custom-built cabinet installed to store May’s drugs. There was a small refrigerator for the growth hormone and a daybed where they could relax together.

  Charles flipped on the light. The room and all the mirrors were clean. Mrs. Johns kept things up even though Charles rarely came here now. He opened the glass-faced cabinet. Neatly stacked and in alphabetical order were all of May’s old drugs. Aldactone, Anadrol, Anavar, Clembuteral, Cytomel, Deca-Durabolin, Halotestin, Humilane R and Humilane N, Lasix, Nolvadex, Parabolan, Primabolan Acetate, Primabolan Depot, Testosterone Propionate, Winstrol. Some had expired, but Charles couldn’t bring himself to throw them away. Here too, he kept the various depilatory creams, the loofahs he used to scrub away her abundant body hair, the burlap washcloth he used on her face, the antibiotic creams for the boils on her back and inner thighs and the multiple types of synthetic thyroid that they used at the end to undo or erase the sad results of their poly-pharmaceutical adventure.

  May had been a star. She was beautiful and fresh and huge. The judges loved her; she’d been on every magazine cover. If they had just stopped she would be a champion today. No one could have touched May.

  When her voice got hoarse and then finally dropped, neither had been surprised. All the pros had deep voices and Charles thought it sexy. At night he would have May read to him from his financial reports, his head resting comfortably in her lap. Eyes closed, he would envision her success.

  Her skin thickened and became coarse; the pores opened and became visible. Charles spent a lot of money on exotic creams in an attempt to bring back some of the softness. May was a good sport, noting how well her new skin held a tan. Neither of them considered slowing down or turning back.

  Charles brought in the experts when the clitorihypertrophy set in. May was troubled by her growing clitoris, so worried that Charles wouldn’t find her attractive. The doctors confirmed that the virilizing side effects of anabolic/androgenic steroids were irreversible. Charles found himself even more fascinated by May. Her hard, budding little penis compelled him. As it grew so too did his devotion, and May admitted to heightened arousal.

  May was winning every contest. She had offers to guest-pose all over the world. She was in constant demand for photo shoots and was given a question-and-answer column, which Charles ghostwrote, in Flex Magazine. She grew bigger, harder and better.

  For many months her hirsutism was manageable. A light blond down grew on her back and shoulders. Charles remembered climbing into the tub with May, three or four fresh disposable razors on hand. He’d gently soap her back and shoulders, then delicately scrape the foam and hair away. Her body was slick and after the bath he would rub her with oil and marvel at the sheen of her skin. But the hair got thicker and the follicles would become infected from ingrown hairs, erupting into enormous boils. They switched to depilatory creams that Charles applied and then loofahed off, leaving the skin very clean. They found a mild depilatory for May’s face.

  May was famous. It was critical that she stay in shape year-round, to keep her body fat below nine percent even off-season. She relied on Cytomel to keep her metabolism fast, to keep her lean, and diuretics to prevent water retention. It worked for almost two years and then it didn’t work at all. Nothing Charles tried could stimulate May’s natural thyroid. Her metabolism shut down and she blew up like a walrus. He watched helplessly as she grew enormously fat, her beard thick, her features coarse. He assured her that it didn’t matter; he loved her. It didn’t matter if she never competed again. He meant it. But May couldn’t stand herself and she couldn’t stand Charles’ attention. She refused to see him and then she moved back home to Florida. Charles still sent generous monthly checks with his letters.
May cashed the checks but never replied.

  Charles

  Liz Movino had a glorious physique with giant shoulders, a freakishly small waist and a full round gluteal area that kept Charles awake at night.

  It was 9:30 in the morning. Liz usually arrived at 10:00 and Charles needed to be at the front desk when she came in. He had decided that she was the one. His next project. Very promising.

  Charles dressed in his black nylon sweat suit, sat on his elephant foot stool in his closet and put on his white canvas tennis shoes and new white socks. He went into the bathroom, removed his thick tortoiseshell glasses and washed his pale, freckled face vigorously with oatmeal soap and hot water. He dried himself, put his glasses back on and rinsed his mouth with old-fashioned Listerine. His thinning hair was cut very close to his head and needed no attention. He smeared Chapstick over his thin brown lips and rushed out to the car. It was 9:35.

  Charles delighted in the freshness of the sunny morning. He shuddered in excitement as he pulled out of the driveway. Today would be a new beginning, the start of a glorious relationship.

  May had been the first. Beautiful May, strong and blond and very loving. May had needed little instruction. She understood him. She had been so grateful when he got her the apartment and gave her the allowance. She was able to stop wrestling and concentrate on bodybuilding. May, in her marvelous capes and her brilliant costumes. No one had ever made Charles feel like that. So strong, powerful. He loved May, and after she was gone he felt very sad. He missed her still.

  Charles pulled into the lot and saw that he was too late; Liz’s beat-up gold VW Rabbit was already there. He’d just have to walk up and introduce himself. “Hello, I’m Charles Worthington,” he’d say. It wouldn’t matter that people would stare at him, that strangers would know his business; he could ignore them. He would ask Liz to meet with him to discuss her career and certainly she would say yes. He could offer to meet with her in the parking lot if he sensed she was uncomfortable, otherwise he’d invite her back to the house for lunch. They would dine in the garden. Charles would flatter and impress her with his historic knowledge of bodybuilding. He would serve her lovely steamed chicken and vegetables. She would like him even before he mentioned money or offered the agreement. She would love him. Yes, they would have lunch and who knows? Liz was the one.

  Charles locked his car and rushed into the gym. Inside there was a vast sea of machines and it took him a moment to get his bearings. He spotted Liz over in the corner by the calf machines. She wore her pink short shorts with the matching low-back G-string leotard. You could see the gluteal muscles separate and move when she walked, and if you were close enough, you could see striations within those muscles. Her massive legs were tanned that deep unnatural brown that the girls all liked. They exploded out of her shorts, tapered down to lovely little knees and then swelled again into sharply defined calves. Her back and arms were a living map of muscle. She looked beautiful in pink.

  Charles walked past her, his hands buried deep in his pockets, bony shoulders hunched forward. Liz was looking down, so he kept going and climbed the stairs to the loft with stationary bikes. He got on a bike and started to pedal, not bothering to turn the thing on. Liz was talking to Louise Schultz. They had their heads close, whispering. Charles didn’t like it. Louise was a freak. Her abdomen was a giant barrel etched with muscle, always bloated no matter how hard she dieted because all the growth hormone she’d taken over the years had enlarged her organs. Louise was reckless. He knew that she had to put a plastic panty shield in her posing suit so that her grotesquely exaggerated clitoris didn’t show. The judges don’t like to see mutant penises on women. She was short, 5’2”, had a deep man’s voice and terrible acne on her back. Off-season, Louise weighed in at over two hundred pounds. Liz didn’t need that kind of influence. She mustn’t socialize at the gym.

  Liz walked over to the squat rack, loaded up a bar with forty-five-pound plates, then sat down on the bench to wrap her knees. Charles jumped off the bike and hurried down the stairs to the leg extension machine next to the squat rack. He slid into the machine, adjusted the weight stack to twenty pounds, and waited for her to look up.

  “You ready, baby?” Rico said as he walked up behind Liz and rubbed her shoulders. “How you feeling?”

  Rico was tall with shiny black skin, a wide back and long dreadlocks pulled back with a piece of rope. He wore a silver ring in the center of his nose, like a bull’s, and had brilliant white teeth. He’d won every contest he’d entered during the last year, worked constantly as a model, and stayed lean on and off season.

  They aren’t together? Charles felt panicky.

  “I feel good,” Liz said.

  “I’m gonna bust you wide open.” Rico bit her lightly on her neck. “You know I am.”

  Liz and Rico walked over to the squat rack. Charles started doing repetitions on his machine, gripping the seat with both hands, and watching them. Liz put on her black leather weight belt with an inlay of pink snakeskin glued to the back. Did she think the belt was classy? Some sort of fashion statement? She cinched the belt tightly then took the bar off the rack, focused on her reflection in the mirror, and did her first squat. Liz barely went halfway down and Rico was there standing behind her with his large hands on her waist, helping her up.

  “Nice one, baby,” Rico said. “Again.”

  It wasn’t a nice one at all. It was a partial rep. She had cheated. Charles was not impressed, plus he noticed that there was a thin layer of fat on the backs of her thighs just below the bottom of her shorts. He watched and did his own repetitions. His thin quadriceps were beginning to burn. Liz dropped into her second squat, this time deeper, and got stuck at the bottom.

  “Stand up, goddamn it,” yelled Rico. “Quitter? Get up, bitch.”

  Liz stood up and immediately went into another squat, this time deep and perfect. She did four more and then racked the bar.

  “We’re building the world’s best damn ass,” Rico said.

  Liz smiled, wiped her nose on the back of her hand, and hugged Rico, forcing her pelvis into his bulging crotch. Rico grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her head to his, kissing her on the mouth, his other hand exploring the sweat-damp area between her legs. Charles climbed off his machine and walked quickly past the couple, toward the exit.

  Outside there were filthy newspapers and old food containers, rotting fruit and dog shit on the sidewalk and in the gutter. Venice was a hellhole. Charles crossed the street and walked two blocks to the ocean, bought a cold bottle of water at the liquor store, and sat on the concrete bench facing the beach. It was a hot day but Charles didn’t consider taking off his black nylon sweatshirt. He sipped the water and gazed out at the sand and the bodies baking in the sun. This was a wide beach, the ocean so far from him that he couldn’t hear the small waves breaking on the shore. It was quiet here. This was the place the bodybuilders came to. They didn’t read at this beach; they tanned, applied lotion and listened to music. They didn’t swim. He’d never seen a bodybuilder actually go into the water. Here men and women wore G-strings displaying their giant brown buttocks. During the winter when the beach was more deserted Charles had seen a couple of the women go topless. Now that summer was coming, all the girls had their nipples covered by tiny triangles of fabric.

  May had loved it here. Charles used to come and sit on the bench, sometimes with an umbrella if it was very hot, and May would spread her towel in front of him. He would watch her while she tanned.

  Today there were some new people at the beach. Charles didn’t recognize several of the girls and a couple of them were quite nice. As he sat and watched them bake, he felt better. He would find out the name of the blond in the red suit and also that dark-haired girl with the big deltoids. He finished his water and walked back to the gym.

  Joey, the gym manager, said the blond was Aurora Jeanine Johnson. She’d added the Aurora when she won the Southern States Bodybuilding Championship. She was twenty-nine, had a twel
ve-year-old daughter back home in Savannah, and was here alone on vacation for two weeks, training at Gold’s Gym. She stayed at the Marina Pacific Hotel and usually worked out around eight o’clock in the morning and then again at four. The dark-haired girl was named Betty. She was a lesbian, and her girlfriend was a lawyer named Joan. That was all the information Joey had. Charles thanked him, handed him the usual tightly folded twenty-dollar bill and rushed back out to his car.

  Ready

  Charles’ house was on a hill, set in a grove of tall old lemon eucalyptus trees. The trunks of the trees were very white and smooth, and where the branches curved the bark bunched and wrinkled like skin. Some of the trees split into two thick limbs that resembled legs. Charles liked to sit outside in his garden and admire his trees. He liked to press his cheeks and hands to the trunks and feel their coolness. He liked to scrape the white bark with a knife just to see the green raw flesh underneath. When he cut the tree like that it left a permanent scar and he didn’t do it often, although each tree bore his mark.

  The massive wooden house was stained a rich deep brown, It had a dark shingled roof, large beams and heavy wooden doors. The upstairs bedrooms all had wrought iron balconies and from most rooms you could see the ocean. Charles had lived here all his life. When his mother died five years before, he threw away all the family photos and had Mrs. Johns, the housekeeper, take most of his mother’s clothes. He gave away her bed and the furniture in her room and turned her bedroom into a storage area. He sold her jewelry, even the family pieces. He had all the furniture cleaned and the pillows sprayed with a deodorizer to rid the house of her smell. He took his mother’s paintings and donated them to the museum. Paintings of insipid-looking English women, with weak delicate hands laid on their breast, looking off into space or English valleys with streams and trees and flowers, large sailing ships with the captain at the helm. The Elizabethan dining room chairs were sold back to the antiques dealer; her books were donated to the library that bore her name. He threw out all the chutney and biscuits and fruit preserves in the pantry, all the food in the freezer.