by Fred Aceves
Then I stare myself down one last time. Make a pact with myself.
You’re really going to do this, David. For the next three months you’ll eat clean and be all about your goal. You’ll become so unrecognizable that people won’t even believe you were that scrawny kid in the slap video.
This summer you will become the new David Espinoza.
5
Eighty-six days until school begins
MY MOM started a Saturday breakfast ritual that we’ve kept up after her death. During the week our morning routines were, and are, too hurried for us to sit down to eat.
On weekdays I do Gaby’s hair and serve her cornflakes—always pouring the milk because she’s a spiller and I don’t have time to clean up. Dad handles Gaby’s school stuff. Makes sure she has her homework, packed lunch, and everything else in her My Little Pony backpack.
On weekends we have time to ease into the day.
While Dad takes a shower, Gaby and I are making French toast. After she dips both sides of the stale bread slices into the egg and milk mixture, I drop them to sizzle in the big pan. The cinnamon and vanilla, the sweet smell of my favorite breakfast, is really torturing me.
My first muscle meal ever is in the microwave. Eight raw egg whites in a ceramic bowl and a large mug filled with half a cup of oats with one cup of water. According to Van Nelson, they can be cooked all together that way.
Lucky for me we happened to have those ingredients at home already. I gotta buy more, including stuff our kitchen has never seen: lean steak and skinless chicken breast. Vegetables like kale and broccoli. Carbs like brown rice and quinoa.
The diet plan calls for eating double. Normal portion sizes, six meals per day instead of three, to feed the muscle. Stuffing my face all day, plus the gym membership, is definitely going to put a dent in my savings.
I flip the French toast and press start on the microwave for my own breakfast.
Dad comes in showered and ready for work, T-shirt and cargo jeans stained with grease streaks and splotches. “Did you join a new weird religion?”
Gaby looks at me and cracks up.
Since I can’t afford face surgery or walk around in a mask, I did the next best thing. Got rid of my hair with Dad’s mustache trimmer.
“Somebody recognized me this morning,” I tell him. “You were wrong about it not being a big deal.”
As always, he made me mow the lawn early, in full view of passing traffic. Jaime down the street, riding shotgun in his mom’s car, yelled “Bitchslap!” loud enough to hear over the mower. His mom smacked him upside the head for cursing.
“I think he sort of looks like a baby bird,” Gaby says, and cracks up again. “Big head and tiny body.”
“Good one,” I tell her, glad she’s not pressing for details about why I wanna change my look.
She can’t find out about the video. I need at least one person whose image of me is not tainted by that slap.
I set down their plates and go back to get my meal before joining them.
“What is that?” Dad zeroes in on the white, gelatinous disk on my plate. It sort of looks like shiny plastic and is perfectly round. Only the steam rising from it makes you think it might be food.
I explain, and Dad sets down the syrup he was pouring to say, “Let me get this right. You used eight eggs for your breakfast and threw out the yolks?”
“I’ve read that this is the perfect meal before a workout.”
By “workout” he’s no doubt thinking about my weekly run with Karina—another Saturday-morning ritual for me. But this morning when she called I reminded her I’m not ready to be that exposed in public unless it’s necessary.
“I’ll buy more eggs with my own money,” I add, so Dad doesn’t lose his mind.
He doesn’t believe in throwing food away. Gaby can get away with leaving a few bites because Dad finishes it for her.
“This kid, throwing out food.” He shakes his head, still incredulous. “Your own money, Flaco.”
I wonder how many weeks until I outgrow that nickname.
I slice banana onto my oatmeal, the only sweetness I’m allowed. Banana is excellent for my glucose reserves, which need to be full for an effective workout, according to what I read last night. I spoon some into my mouth. It’s not horrible.
“I wanna join a gym today.”
Dad chews and considers me with interest. Then, instead of saying no right away, he takes another bite of food.
Weird.
In this house, new ideas are met with resistance or at least a barrage of questions.
He swallows that second bite before saying, “If you want to, that’s fine. It’s summer and you have extra time.”
What just happened? That was way too easy. As if he’s been waiting for my announcement. Maybe he’s wanted me to bulk up and stop being flaco.
Dad lifts another forkful to his mouth, syrup dripping from the bite of French toast.
I ask, “Can Gaby go with you to work today?”
“Of course. During the week you can go early and get back by seven forty-five, before I go to work. Or go when I get back from work.”
My plan this summer was to drop Gaby off at the auto shop whenever I wanted to hang out with Miguel or Karina, which would be most of the summer. Now I’ll be hanging out with Gaby more than anybody else.
The last few summers, Mely took care of Gaby, along with her own two kids. She was Mom’s best friend, a stay-at-home mom and seamstress who lived on the other side of our backyard fence. Gaby played with her neighbor buddies all day and it didn’t cost us a thing.
But ICE came for Mely, her husband, and kids last November, and weeks later deported them.
I finish with the oatmeal and move on to the egg white disk.
“Are you sure that’s safe to eat?” Dad asks.
As they watch me expectantly, I put the first bite into my mouth. It’s a bit tougher than regular eggs, and gross. Not gagging gross, just the regular, offensive-to-taste-buds gross.
They watch me chew, which I do quickly. To get this slimy yet chewy grub down.
“It’s good,” I lie, and prepare for another bite.
I need to get used to this. From now on, mealtimes are nothing more than refueling for my muscles. When you’re eating tasteless food every two and a half hours that might be the only way to see meals.
When I leave my house a little while later, my cap is so low it covers my eyes. I zip up my hoodie and throw the hood over my head so it touches down almost to the tip of my cap’s brim. As long as my face is covered, I don’t mind sweating bullets.
Then I hop onto my bike to pedal off, just as Karina pulls up to the driveway in her mom’s car. I feel a pang of shame so hard I almost close my eyes. She’s seen the video. If I could choose one person to unsee it, I’d choose her.
She gets outta the car, sporting running shorts and a purple sleeveless shirt that matches her sneakers. “I thought you weren’t leaving the house for anything.”
“Except for work or to go to the gym.”
And to the supermarket, I think to myself, remembering I gotta drop by on my way home.
She closes the door with her hip. God, she’s cute. I really hope she hangs around long enough to see what I’ll become.
“The gym?” she asks. “I was going to try to convince you to come out to the trail with me.”
I tell her about my plan for the new, muscular me. It seems arrogant to say out loud, like Babe Ruth pointing to the fences, but it is going to happen.
“If going to the gym makes you feel better, great,” she says. “But what’s the deal with that hoodie?”
“It’s so nobody notices me.”
“Riiiight.” She likes to stretch out words right before being sarcastic. “Because a guy wearing a hoodie, in the summer, in Florida, won’t draw attention. David, you’re going to either die of heatstroke or melt.”
“I’ll be fine,” I say, and let my hood drop.
The truth is my skin
is already popping with sweat under this thick fabric.
“What did you do to your hair?” She lifts my cap off, and her jaw drops. “You chopped it off!”
I shrug. “It will grow back.”
She nods. “True. But in the meantime you look like . . . What do you look like?”
“Like a baby bird, according to Gaby.”
Karina laughs, and runs a hand over the bristles. “That’s it. Which is to say this isn’t an attractive look for you.” She puts the cap back on my head and kisses me. “Do your thing and I’ll text you later, okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, surprised how normal she seems.
Like she never saw the video. Like the video doesn’t exist. Maybe Karina is even cooler than I thought.
I’m tearing down the street, pumping my legs as fast as they’ll go as the bright sun scorches my hoodie. Air-conditioned cars cruise past, inches from my elbow.
Good thing the gym I found online is only eleven and a half blocks away, behind the Wash & Save. That’s where we used to do our laundry before we bought our secondhand Whirlpool. I had no idea there was anything behind that Laundromat.
I pull into the parking lot, the familiar scent of fabric softener from the hot air vents hitting me all at once.
I bike behind it, along the tall wooden fence. The ruddy, unpaved road slows me down. I bunny-hop over a pothole, ride past a dumpster, and there it is—Iron Life Gym in big letters.
The sign seems as old as the brick building and neither are well kept. With how the sun slants down this early, the glass façade temporarily blinds me with its silvery brightness.
There are only four cars in the parking spaces. Few people working out means fewer possibilities of being recognized. I love this place already.
Please let there be at least another newbie among the experienced guys. Please. I don’t need a bunch of super swole guys making me feel worse than I already do.
And let them be mostly older people who are less likely to come across stupid YouTube videos. I checked in on my video before I left and it’s up to about 533,000 views. It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet, for fuck’s sake.
After I lock my bike up I push through the door. Classic rock plays out of small mounted speakers, barely louder than the rattling AC.
The cool air feels great on my face, hands, and bottom half of my legs.
I take in the wide-open space. It’s the size of a basketball court, with mirrored walls and exposed wiring dangling from high ceilings. Rubber mats here and there protect the concrete floor.
Besides the few old machines, it’s mostly free weights. A long barbell is at each station. The smaller dumbbells are paired by weight on two-tiered racks. Round plates are strewn all over. The red-padded surfaces of the benches and seats are raised on iron legs. Everything is as practical and unadorned as the tools in Dad’s auto shop.
Awesome. This is why this gym is cheaper than the others.
I’m about to take off my sweat-soaked hoodie until I get a good look at the two monsters working out in front of their reflections. It’s like I shrink to the size of an M&M. I’ve never in my whole life felt tinier.
This hoodie is staying on.
A tatted white guy, about twenty-five, is wearing a stringy white tank top with a black Superman S on it. His hair is shiny black and parted, sort of like Clark Kent with a receding hairline.
The guy sits upright, the bar racked just behind his head, and pounds his chest twice before gripping it. As he presses the weight overhead, the muscles in his shoulders shift.
The black guy in the corner is maybe 6'3" and even more jacked. He grunts with the effort of every squat. The bar across his upper back curves from the weight of four large plates on each side.
Don’t stare, I tell myself. As I stand next to the reception desk, waiting for somebody to notice me, I turn my attention to the hand-painted quotes on the wall.
EVERYBODY WANTS TO BE A BODYBUILDER,
BUT DON’T NOBODY WANT TO LIFT NO HEAVY-ASS WEIGHTS
LIFE’S TOO SHORT TO HAVE SMALL ARMS
Okay, so these aren’t profound quotes. This is a gym after all, not the public library. But at least the words are spelled right.
THAT WHICH DOES NOT KILL ME MAKES ME STRONGER
I like that last one, which could be the motto for the two meatheads working out. With how they groan and struggle through their reps, it really does look like they’re willing to die for their muscles.
The only other wall décor are the posters of steroid-pumped bodybuilders arranged into a circle. A young Arnold Schwarzenegger poses gloriously in the middle like he’s the leader—the only bodybuilder I recognize.
The size of these guys is unreal. It’s no wonder that pro bodybuilding is open about drug use. The guys working out here are pretty close to that size, so they must be on steroids too.
A waist-high glass case holds about a dozen trophies, short and tall, with a tiny gold bodybuilder flexing in various poses on top.
A man built like a middleweight boxer stops on his way to the drinking fountain and smiles when he sees me. “Alpha will be right with you.”
Was that a funny look he gave me? Nah. It could have been just because I’m wearing a hoodie while everybody else here is either sleeveless or with short sleeves.
I need to chill. Not everybody will have seen the video.
As he slurps from the drinking fountain I check him out. He has the kind of body I’d kill for. Strong and chiseled, without overdoing it. Damn impressive for somebody who looks close to forty.
I turn back to the trophies. The name Alfonso Richardson is engraved on all the gleaming brass plates, sometimes with the nickname “Alpha” in the middle. Every single one of these trophies belongs to a guy named Alpha who will be right with me. An actual bodybuilder working here. How cool is that?
The names of these competitions are new to me until I come across the trophy that says World Muscleman Championship.
Holy shit! That’s the most important bodybuilding competition on the planet! The Super Bowl of muscles! And Alpha got fourth place this year? This is almost too good to be true.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not into beauty pageants for muscles. Bulking up with steroids and shaving everything from the neck down, tanning and greasing up to flex while 98 percent naked on a stage? No, thanks. But a top pro working here means I’ve come to a hardcore gym. I’m among guys as passionate as me about their goals.
The picture above the case has Alpha’s name on it, and his age: twenty-three. Just look at that physique! Oh. My. God.
Alpha is a gigantic white guy. I’m talking muscles on top of muscles. Flexing in tiny red underwear, he’s as big and ripped and shiny as anybody on that wall. Biceps as big as my head.
His smile really stands out too, with a gap between his two front teeth similar to Arnold’s and a few other bodybuilders.
“Wassup, bro?” booms a deep voice, startling me.
I whip around. The image has come to life. Except the guy is clothed, wearing shorts and a white Iron Life T-shirt with one of the wall quotes: Life’s too short to have small arms.
“Can I help you?” he asks with a smile.
Why am I nervous? He’s not going to eat me or anything. “I’m looking to join the gym.”
“Cool.” He goes behind the reception desk laptop to take my name, my thirty bucks for the first month, and my information.
“There’s a waiver for your parents to sign,” he says, still typing.
Stupid me. Of course there is. But I can’t have Dad drop in. If he sees the size of some of these guys he’ll think steroids for sure and won’t let me train here.
“I’m almost eighteen,” I say, though my birthday is ten months away.
Alpha eyes me. “Almost, huh? I’ll tell you what. We can forget the waiver on one condition.”
“Sure,” I say, so relieved I’ll agree to any conditions.
He turns not just his eyes to me but his whole body. “You
have to promise to be safe and follow the rules. And always get a spotter when you lift super heavy or try to max out. You can ask me or anybody else who’s around.”
A spotter. Gym talk. That must be the guy who helps you lift in case you can’t anymore. Max out must mean lift as much as you can.
I’m learning the language of my new life.
Van Nelson suggests not going super heavy anyway, just lifting what you can comfortably, and never going until exhaustion. I won’t be bothering Alpha or anybody else with anything.
“I promise,” I say.
“It’s a deal, then. So what are your training goals, David?” he asks, searching among papers in a folder. “Endurance, weight-loss, muscle-building?”
To get as big as possible this summer, I wanna tell him. What would be a better way to put it?
He bursts out laughing. “I’m fucking with you, bro.”
“Nice one,” I tell him, laughing along.
He puts out a fist for me to bump, and I do.
Of course the skinny dude wants to gain size.
He slaps a printout on the counter titled Feed Your Muscles. “To pack on muscles, you need to eat enough calories and the right kinds.”
The list of foods is the same as the one on Van Nelson’s plan. Egg whites and oats are featured often in the sample breakfast.
Alpha points a thick finger to the bottom of the printout. “That’s the formula to figure out your caloric needs, depending on your weight. If you ain’t eating enough, no amount of lifting will give you results. Muscles are made in the kitchen as much as in the gym. Got it?”
“Cool, thanks.”
Alpha hands me another printout with a routine. I tell him I have my own workout.
“Does your coach give you a routine?”
My coach? I guess my coach is the guy who played Nightchaser. “Something like that.”
“Cool, bro. Do your thing and if you wanna go heavy or max out, holler for me.”
I head to one of the benches covered in red vinyl and patched with duct tape. I’m ready to blast my chest and triceps, the parts highlighted for Van Nelson’s workout.
The long bar is heavy all on its own, maybe fifty pounds. I warm up by bench-pressing it without additional weight, hoping the three other members here—all lifting big—don’t look over at me.