by Ray Hecht
“This coming Thursday?”
“Yeah. And that’s about it.”
“Thanks. Can I, like, get started now?”
“Is that what you’re wearing?”
“I guess so.”
“Okay, whatever.”
Ben got a key card, paid cash for a bottle of vitamin water, and started what was intended to be a short workout. He was sleepy to a degree, but figured he ought to try out some of the equipment for fifteen minutes or so. Somehow, forty minutes later he was still there and felt no rush to leave.
He tried almost all the machines, one by one, sitting and reading the instructions, following along to the cartoon men at work, and taking great breaks between reps to catch his breath. Weakly, and hoping the few other patrons didn’t see, he often had to change the weight settings to their near-minimums.
Mostly, he tried to stay out of the way of the big weight trainers. They hung around the bench press zone lifting free weights for the entirety of the night, making jerking sounds and spotting each other crotch-to-skull.
“ARGH!” they all yelled in inconsistent bursts of raw output. The sounds disturbed Ben, and he tried to ignore.
He eventually grew tired and sore (he should have stretched first), but in the distance he saw a thin girl and kept himself going. He grinned at her. She ignored him.
As the night progressed, he realized his khakis and T-shirt in particular didn’t quite fit the scene. Everyone else there, from employees to customers, were clothed in form-fitting tight polyesters, colorful in oranges and greens and greys, elastic and moisture-wicking.
He just rubbed his wet brow with the short sleeve, letting acidic sweat eat into the material. Several more months of this and there would be holes the size of coins.
Walking along the treadmill—not jogging, only walking—he powered through the pain and embarrassment, and decided to gaze up at the television. “Space Squad!” he blurted out loud, and then embarrassingly covered his own mouth. An episode Ben knew very well, having watched it many times over. It was classic, the one where the captain must defeat his own crew’s clones while the clock was ticking for multiversal destruction. Very critical to the season arc. Enthralled, he observed the whole thing all over again. The triumphs, the plot twists. Fifty-five minutes and four miles later, the workout concluded.
Stepping out, he shifted internal gears and stepped upon still floors. The gym had become even emptier. The guy at the desk might as well have been asleep. Ben wandered across the barren wasteland, with only the hum of the pop music and distant television echoes to accompany the sounds of his own heavy breathing.
It took him a second to recognize the thin woman. She was the same who had been working out before, but no longer wore the snug colorful tights. She had changed into a completely different set of clothes, and held an oblong gym bag, strutting towards the door full of accomplished closure. Her hair was jet black and somehow different. She appeared clean and soft. Ben nonchalantly maneuvered himself to walk past the same hallway at the same time. She seemed shorter up close. She smelled like lemons and soap.
“Hi,” he said as they passed each other.
“Hello,” she said back.
“Nice workout.”
“It was pretty good.”
“I’m still getting used to the whole setup here.” He followed as she edged near the door. “I’m new here.”
“That’s great!” She was nice so far. Then, she said it. “I gotta get out of here now. It’s real late.”
“I know. So, like, perhaps next time you can show me around.”
“I don’t see why not.”
“Really?”
“Sure. It’s cool.”
They came to the doorway, and a gust of wind snuck in as the automatic sensor slowly opened before them.
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
It was an empty conversation, low calorie, lacking nutrition. And he knew it. Still, Ben felt quite pleased with himself for trying.
His legs were shaking and his breath failing and his heart beating with a frequency more intense than any cardiovascular technique performed that night. But at least he tried.
Ready to call it a night, he waddled off. When he got to the locker room he realized that he had no clean clothes. Not even a towel. What was he supposed to do?
Sticky and gross, he deemed it safe to return home. At this time, hygiene shouldn’t be a problem. The walk home was brisk. The night was deep. He made it.
Nervously, he approached the door. Lights were on, but lights were often on when no one was home. The roommate’s car was nowhere to be seen. He could hear no noise from the inside.
Ben held his breath and turned his key, and quickly exhaled and inhaled while realizing that he was blissfully alone.
Even his phone had no updates.
He found some clothes to sort and began to rinse himself in the mildew-stained shower. It was a world away from the in-home spa of his last bathing experience. The gym locker room did have some nice spots, but none could match the comfort of a familiar place to get clean. Followed with the brushing of the teeth and laying out of tomorrow’s grooming set.
Perhaps it was the caffeine lingering within his system that caused sleep to come so restlessly. Perhaps exercising at night wasn’t a good idea after all, leaving his body wired and pumped. Perhaps it was the underlying fear that his roommate would reappear, with or without either girl, and there would be a terrible confrontation. Perhaps in fact that was curious about the potentially dramatic fallout and deep down he sought out the inevitable confrontation.
Or maybe he was just anxious about staying in his tiny bedroom without access to his computer and subsequent late-night routines.
In any case, even after masturbating (to some Space Squad and Ice Realm fanfiction, by way of smartphone), he simply could not make the transition from wakefulness to sleep. REM, if you could call it that, came in brief spurs, restless and dreamless. Too bad. He could have used the rest, if not the dreams.
The hours were atrocious. Every glance proved worse. 3:00s and 4:00s, horrible. At a certain point, he realized as he checked the phone for the dozenth-odd time, the sun was about to come up. Might as well make it an all-nighter.
Ben surrendered, letting the insomnia have its victory, and he pulled up some denim pants and buttoned a plaid shirt. The apartment was still empty, and ultimately the coward in him was relieved.
Hunger stirred. It was time to sneak out again, in search of breakfast. It was a strange time. Late, but bleeding into early. The sun hid superimposed past the flat Earth. Some cars whisked by, some more anxious than others. There were the drivers who were up early and those out late. A new day was beginning, forging out from the ashes of the previous cycle’s death. Smoke solidified. A single bird chirped. Then another. More would follow. The sky was cloudless and stained with the ugly color of a muddy-grey orange.
Ben stood on a sidewalk at an intersection, one usually busy but now empty. There seemed to be no need to pay attention to the street signs. At each corner there was an establishment open for business, announced with dying neon lights. One familiar tiny shop sold donuts. One a gas station, but known to be fully stocked with snacks. The final choice being a supermarket with a full deli section.
Taking his time, he carefully considered each option. The gas station was ruled out first. The donuts a likely possibility. Deli sandwiches generally taste better, but have less of a breakfast style to them. Anyway, what’s the rush?
Slowly, Ben unrolled knotted earphones from his left pocket and plugged them into his Grapephone s99. He clicked on the app which opened his Streamtune music account, and chose an alternative folk channel.
The music was loud, and hit him hard. Sad guitars. Lo-fi vocals, barely distinguishable. Melancholic cries of lost loves and broken dreams. That singer who killed himself in the previous decade.
It was a bit morose, and Ben clicked to the next song.
An interesting elec
tronic buzz hovered over the twinging strings. The mood was slightly more hopeful, though had its pains. That new band, from the commercial. He decided to enjoy the song.
As he stepped forward, he noticed some other citizens out and about. Men walking dogs, elderly couples on early morning walks, laborers at the bus stop. For most, the morning had begun.
There were others though, like him. Continuing to reel from the long day before. For them, the night had not yet ended.
There he was, in the middle of the street, and he locked irises with one of them. A girl.
It was her. It truly was.
The one he’d been waiting for.
By her dress, by the way she carried herself, the demeanor, by her very eyes, he knew it. She was like him. She had to be.
The music roared in his ears, too loud.
This moment, he suddenly realized, was what it was all building up to. This moment right here.
Everything else wasn’t real.
The girl skipped along the road, leaving the rest of reality past. Her eyes were real. Dark. Seeking something.
She looked at him. Her lips moved. He didn’t hear.
Suddenly, his phone buzzed.
A friend saluted.
And a dog yelped.
A car screeched.
Blindingly, the sun rose.
Blinding, numbing, screaming, ending, and that was that.
12
Carla
After she sent out the texts, it occurred to Carla that it would be a good idea to power off her phone. In due time, she’d be inundated with replies. That would not bring peace. That would bring sporadic bursts of attention, somewhat refreshing but with further expectations of reciprocation, as well mass time consumption, and ultimately codependence.
She didn’t think it through in that order. Rather, she simply had an intuition that it would be a more peaceful night if she unplugged for a while.
All that tech, she thought. What is it for?
Stepping ahead with measured trepidation, she crossed the road carefully. There were no cars.
The chemical comeup was quick and hard, and the comedown was quicker and harder. Exhausted and twirling, she leaned on the nearest streetlight. It was adorned with stickers and paint pen graffiti and other street art. Cartoon pills smiled at her, full of irony. She didn’t smile back.
Across the road, a weak but steady stream of patrons exited the bar. Minutes at a time, couples and singles pattered on out. Arm in arm, they looked for parked cars and called for transport. One lady tried to kiss a young man on the cheek, and he barely registered, too busy punching in GPS information into the CuberCab database.
What’s the point?
She imagined where the couple might go next. A universe of possibilities for all lost souls. Most likely, they’d do the obvious thing and shack up. It was in the air, there was no doubt; the night’s adventure coming to an end.
Climaxes and epilogues and closures. And death. That was it. Death and fear and entropy created a dense fog with in the air. It made her cough. Yeah, she seconded. Death.
The same air had hovered over Sharon in the entirety of the day they had known each other. It also enveloped that sad, stupid girl who was crying over a guy. That drug dealer, Blake, his place just reeked of it. Most potent of all, the aura of death haunted over the various desperate couples and singles.
She thought about the impending doom of the Minnderrr profile, and she thought as she often did about the aging author of Ice Realm. She thought about the actors on the show, and actors on other shows.
Her mind was spinning at an accelerated pace. Simultaneously, her digestive system was nauseous and ready to puke at any moment. Confused neurons flashed shadows of camgirl websites, Q-Set games Pic Pac photos, Arrowchat profiles, and DayPay transfers. She thought of Wireless zines and drivers and stretchers and empathetic Dougspost call girls and hollow spiritualists. She wanted to type it all down, one-handed by thumb, star it and review it on Yipe and record the moment’s taste and tell the world.
Lastly, she thought of her family. She thought of her mother and grandmother, and even her sister. There was death, yet there was also compassion. Thoughts of loved ones grounded the grey matter spiral back down to the earth, and she slowly returned to reality.
It was the yoga that did it. Deep from the core of her being, as per her training, and she found her breath. Slowly, from the back of the throat, tunneling down from the lungs, Carla took control and forced a steady stream of oxygen down the windpipe. Exhalations of carbon dioxide followed. All through the nose. Stuffy at first, but through force of will she centered and the breath was smooth. The respiratory system had been calmed.
It was hard to decipher how much time had passed. The street corner was now empty. She was hugging the lamp pole as if it was a treasured lover. It would have been embarrassing, but there was no one to see her. Her mouth was dry. Teeth ached. The bladder burned. Simultaneous realizations of thirst and the need to pee gradually replaced the neurological drug haze from the gut to the brain.
She explored her options. Most bars were closed. Bristol’s was around the corner, but it wouldn’t be open. Would it? A mile or so to the west she recalled a gas station, and possibly after the purchase of gum she would be allowed to use the facilities. But could she make it that far?
Relieved there were no creepers following her, she walked freely. A small park presented itself on the diagonal end of a pharmacy parking lot. It wasn’t really a park, it was a more broken swing set and cracked slide behind a dilapidated library. A single rope dangled. Weeds sprouted. Trees and bushes gave a corner some privacy.
She found a space between the bushes and squatted. Panties lowered, the bladder’s release felt like an almost sexual explosion of relief, and a hot stream of urine splashed at her ankles. There was nothing to wipe with—her purse far away back at the parked car—but she ignored the brief feeling of moisture on her crotch. The fabric soon absorbed it as she stood up and put her panties back on, and Carla forgot about her bathroom break.
A part of life. A part not worth remembering. She continued to walk as if nothing happened.
Some of the patterns along the walkway were becoming familiar. She had most likely been here before. In fact, she had been to many of these places. All her life she had lived in the same city. What a waste, she thought. What am I doing here?
She continued with that line of thinking. Her walk did not slow. I could be traveling. I could be taking a train in Europe. I could be at a hostel, meeting new people. Instead I’m here. Here.
I shouldn’t be here. By this time in my life, I should be living somewhere completely new. What do I have here? A few classes? I got nothing here. Nothing but family. What has family ever really done for me?
She thought about her home, her computer, her books, and her mother.
There’s no choice.
Carla made a silent promise to herself. As soon as she could, she would move on.
It wasn’t the first time she promised herself that.
There were stages in life, she knew that. Get a certificate. Meet someone to move in with. Save up. Finally, another city. Then, perhaps, abroad. It was doable.
Soon, she thought, I have to meet someone to live with. A roommate? No. I don’t want to live with a roommate. I want to meet …
She passed by a convenience store that was still open, and the dryness in her mouth interrupted her thought process. She entered and found cash in her back pocket and paid 2.59 for a water bottle, speaking Spanish to the cashier.
Where was I? she asked herself circling the aisles and gulping. The chilled water felt smooth as it drained down her throat. Thoughts backtracked. It was something about the familiar streets. How she never goes anywhere. How she wishes she could see the rest of the world again. And what kept her. People. Classes. Possessions. Computer.
At that, she exited out into the darkness once again and let thought of computers and branched off into new trails.
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Computers led to recent memories, which led to the subject of steamy fanfiction.
She walked faster. The water bottle splashed beneath its plastic enclaves, held tight in the space between forearm and hip.
I got to take tonight’s experience, and write it down. As soon as possible. I need to get home. All that clubbing shit, all those guys I made out with. I experienced it, so now I need to write it down. I probably need more kissing in the story. The princess would totally be into that. And dancing. I need to brainstorm some poetic phrases to describe the feeling of dance and touch while rolling, incorporate it. With the magical rhythm of a wild heart and all that —
Then she saw someone.
She had been walking at a brisk pace for quite some time, picking up a fourth or fifth wind for the night, in order to get back to her car and get home. The road was mostly empty, but as she walked closer to the club and restaurant district the scene grew thicker.
A group of four white people exited Bristol’s. She could see through the windows that the night shift was scant, and half the building’s lights were out. The group who had just left was standing outside indecisively. Two male-female couples, the men on their phones looking for rides or activities, and the women chatting to each other. One man, tall, lit a cigarette. Both women appeared intoxicated; both with hair dyed light. Carla looked. She recognized someone. A man.
Her ex, Timothy.
The one with the drama.
He put his arm around the shorter girl, and there was no question.
The group began walking slowly with the inertia of multiple persons trying to figure out where to go—a spurt and a pause and a lingering friend catching up—and Carla instinctively jumped behind a parked car and knelt down. She felt silly, but she did it all the same. Like a bad TV spy, she squinted past the windshield. There was a white paper ticket in her way.
She was so curious. Whatever happened to Timothy? She hadn’t bumped into him in ages, careful to avoid him after all that shit went down. He still lived in the city? Although she tried not to think about him most of the time, when she did think about him she assumed he had moved. After all, he was the villain of the breakup. Everyone knew that.