by Fred Aceves
“David! What are you doing here?”
Chatty, see? When he can just scan his card like the others and walk right on past with a simple hello.
Besides, I should be asking him what he’s doing here. This isn’t his usual schedule.
“Working,” I tell him. “I hold things down here in the afternoons.”
“Why aren’t you in school?” he asks.
Why don’t you mind your own business? I wanna shoot back.
But I won’t, because angry thoughts are easier to keep to myself lately. A good thing about being off gear.
“I’m going to adult school,” I say. “We get out early.”
He nods and stands there. Doesn’t move toward the locker room or gym floor.
“Have a good workout,” I tell him, pressing him to go.
As if he didn’t hear me he says, “That quote on your shirt is one of my favorites.”
That which does not kill me makes me stronger, my T-shirt says.
“It’s the only Iron Life quote I really like,” I say.
“I mean that it’s one of my favorites of all time,” Rogelio says. “Nietzsche has some great quotes.”
Neecha? I’ve never heard of that bodybuilder. Never bothered to look him up.
“He was a German philosopher,” Rogelio says.
Okay, so he was a philosopher. Why is Rogelio telling me this?
I imagine Neecha as an old man with white hair and a beard. Something like Santa Claus or how they draw God in cartoons. The truth is I’ve never read any philosophy.
“You really got into fitness,” he says. “Good for you. Looking good.”
He’s making fun of you. You’re smaller than he is.
A sort of “hmph” sound comes out of my nose.
“What’s that?” Rogelio asks.
All of a sudden the logical part of me understands that I do look better than when Rogelio first met me. So he’s probably being sincere. “Nothing. Never mind.”
“You don’t like how you look?”
I open my mouth to speak, but then all I do is shrug.
“Do you want to talk about that, David? When I was your age, I struggled with muscle dysmorphia, and it’s something anyone who’s into fitness needs to watch out for.”
“Muscle what?” Now I’m really interested. It sounds like some disease you catch at the gym.
“Muscle dysmorphia. Basically it’s this idea some people, mostly guys, get in their heads that they don’t look good enough. You obsess about your looks and over food.”
“That’s not me,” I say right away. “Have a good workout.” I don’t want to hear more.
“Um, okay. Thanks. Take care of yourself.”
I watch him walk away. See him slide some 25s on the bar to warm up with the behind-the-neck press.
He’s a lot stronger and bigger than you.
Sure, but he’s been working out forever.
Excuses, excuses. He’s warming up with weight you can barely lift. It’s true, which makes me feel worse than ever. Just when I feel like my mood can’t drop further, it does, going lower and lower. If I could only gain some size, take a little tiny bit of gear even though I’m supposed to cycling off.
But no. That’s dangerous. Then I think of that other thing I can do to gain some size fast. Instant size. I text Ray to ask him for Synthol. Tell him to add it to the order Alpha and I already sent him for our customers.
24
WHAT I LOVE most about riding in Alpha’s Jeep is how connected I feel to everything we pass. With the top down, the world out there feels within reach. Everything’s so vivid. It fills me with a joy I haven’t felt in a while.
Or maybe I’m just happy because I’m on my way to pick up my Synthol. If can’t do gear for another two weeks, at least I can puff up my muscles a bit.
An expected expense, one hundred seventy dollars. No big deal. It’s not like I’m spending on other stuff, like dates with Karina or other girls. I’m waiting until I get my size back—my confidence back—in order to start going out.
“Hot girls,” Alpha says, nodding toward the Starbucks.
They’re coming out, drinks in hands, one in tight jeans and the other in shorts. Yep, totally hot.
Maybe that’s another reason I’ve been so depressed. No action at all. Alpha needs some action too. It’s been over a month since Mindy left him.
“You need to get on Tinder and get laid, bro,” I say. “They got all kinds of girls on there, you know?”
He drains the last of his protein shake from his bottle shaker. That’s his silhouette on the bottle, him flexing one arm. He gets so much free protein powder from the endorsement, he can afford to give me some. It tastes the same as the one I used to drink.
He keeps his eyes on the road and says, “Tinder ain’t for me. I’m old school. Prefer to meet girls in real life.”
“Next month in Miami seems far away,” I tell him, meaning the Mr. Florida competition.
Alpha and the gearheads were telling me how it is at those meets. Though most girls don’t like guys as big as Alpha, the ones who do tend to show up. Even the guys who place fourth or fifth might have groupies.
During competitions, pro bodybuilders know what it’s like to be rock stars.
“You’ll meet girls in Miami, but what about now? You only leave the house to go to the gym.”
Alpha says nothing. Just stares straight ahead, his face unreadable.
I worry about the guy. Sure, he’s right that all his sleep and all that chilling on the recliner watching Netflix is good for his gains. He needs people though.
I mean, lately I’m bummed all the time, but that’s because of the way I look. Alpha is always huge. Even if he lost half his muscles he’d be big. Once I get my gains back I’ll have the confidence to talk to Dad and Gaby finally. I have to make the first move because Dad hasn’t tried contacting me once, even though I’m sure Culler High called him after my fight. It’s not like people call you up to ask for an apology. They probably don’t care that I’m smaller, but it’s hard to look at anybody when I can’t look at myself in the mirror, literally. I’m just too bummed for anything.
Alpha though? It makes no sense that he’s so sad and mopey.
Alpha pulls into the long, curved driveway to park behind Ray’s Ford Expedition inside his open garage. There’s a classic Harley Fat Boy right beside it, midnight blue and black.
Ray is an AT&T executive who does well even without selling gear. The last time we came here we chilled a bit inside his smart home. I got a kick outta opening the blinds and pouring water into my glass from the fridge with voice commands. He’s a tech junkie who didn’t get a chance to show me even half his gadgets.
“Stay in the car,” Alpha says when I unbuckle my seat belt. “This is going to be quick.”
He opens his hand for money.
“Why quick?” I ask, and stuff my wad of cash into it.
Fourteen hundred and fifty dollars. Two cycles for new customers and the Synthol for me.
“He’s really busy today. Told me to come by myself.”
He gets out and goes to knock on the door.
This sucks. Even if Ray doesn’t have time to chill or show me more of his house, I would’ve liked to say hi at least.
I flip down the visor to look at myself in the mirror.
You skinny fuck. Pencil thin and pathetic.
No way to argue against that. It’s not like I can shut my brain up like I did during the summer, by hopping on a scale or measuring my gains or lifting heavier weights. Though I do hope I’ll feel better after the Synthol injections.
All of a sudden, I remember the other reason I wanted to see Ray. So I could ask him about taking a tiny bit of gear during an off-cycle. This morning when I walked into the kitchen, Alpha was popping Tren and washing it down with water. Claimed it was only one tab, not four, and it’s every other day, not daily—therefore totally fine.
It goes against everything I’ve read a
nd heard, even from Alpha himself, so I wanted to double-check with Ray.
Now I get it. That’s precisely why I’m out here in the humidity like a jackass. Alpha didn’t want me to dig deeper.
Alpha never seems to get smaller because he doesn’t get smaller. Just keeps taking and taking.
Like some drug addict or something.
Rogelio said something about obsession. Dismal muscles? Morphic muscles? I pushed it out of my head because, well, whatever.
I bust out my phone now to look it up and Google corrects me: muscle dysmorphia.
Muscle dysmorphia is a fixation, often to the point of delusion, in which a person believes that they are not muscular enough, too slender, or too little. However, the individual often presents with a normal build or can also present as brawny and large.
My heart wiggles. That sounds like me and Alpha, I have to admit. No wonder I wanted to shut Rogelio up so bad.
The website explains that it’s a mental disorder. A second website says the same.
The following website, written by a bodybuilder in recovery, says the condition usually goes undiagnosed because people don’t realize it’s a problem. Because going to the gym and eating right is seen as positive.
The websites sort of make sense, but even supposing they’re right—what am I supposed to do? Give up the gear and gym? I’m small as fuck now and I’m supposed to be okay with getting smaller? Not going to happen.
Besides, Alpha and I have a drive for greatness. What do psychologists know about greatness and sacrifice? What do they know about going that extra distance in order to be your best self?
Nothing. They just probably want everybody to be average.
Fuck average.
Back at home, Alpha is loading the syringe with Synthol while I’m trying to forget the look on his face when I injected him with it in the summer. We’re in the bathroom where the light is the strongest.
“Don’t worry,” Alpha says. “Oil doesn’t burn going in.”
“So why did you make those pained sounds and sometimes twist your face when I injected you?”
“Because the needle sort of hurts going in.”
The oil reaches four cc’s in the cylinder. I’m getting half a cc of Synthol in all three heads of both shoulders, and one in each pec. I have measured out the location and marked the right spot with a black marker. One inch above each nipple and three spaced out on the side of each shoulder.
I can’t wait for the instant size that should hold up just before my next cycle starts. I just wanna look into the mirror without feeling disgust.
Alpha flicks the cylinder to remove the tiny air bubbles. Pushes on the plunger enough so that one drop clings to the tip of the needle before falling.
“Ready?” he asks.
“This is crazy,” I say.
“No shit. I’ll be doing it for the competition, because my peaks need it. But you don’t need this.”
“Come on,” I say. “Let’s get this over with.”
I close my eyes like with my first gear injection. The needle penetrates my left pec. I told myself to hold on to the pain but it hurts like hell.
I’m surprised by the loud sound that comes from me, with my lips pressed so tight.
“Relax,” Alpha says.
Damn that needle goes deep. The oil oozes in like a warm tingle. He was right. It doesn’t burn. It’s only the poke that hurts.
Alpha slides the needle out—that doesn’t feel too great either.
Alpha stabs my right pec, taking his time with the injection.
“Aaaaargg,” I say when it goes into my right shoulder.
It hurts more with every jab, like the needle keeps getting thicker, until he finishes with the left shoulder too.
“All done,” he says, setting the syringe on the counter.
Drops of blood leak out of my chest. Even more drops from my shoulders. Alpha pulls some toilet paper from the roll to wipe it up. I rub several alcohol-soaked cotton balls on all the perforations in my body. The aim was perfect. I just hope the angle and the amount was precise.
Alpha leaves me alone in the bathroom.
But totally worth it. You’ll be less pathetic than you are.
Which is true, but then another thought creeps in. It’s not about your body though. It’s about your mind. You’ll never be big enough, to your mind.
I rub and squeeze my chest, like I’m fondling myself. After a minute I move onto my shoulders. I work on them with my arms crossed, looking like a steroid genie about to grant some wishes. I switch back to my pecs, and then one more time to my shoulders.
Done with that, I look into the mirror again. No lumps—great—but where is the extra size?
Why did it work when I injected Alpha but it didn’t work for me? Did Ray sell me some bullshit?
I head out to talk to Alpha about it. “Hey, bro.”
“Let’s see what you got,” he says, his back to me.
He takes his plate of food outta the microwave and turns to me. “Nice!”
“Don’t bullshit me, Alpha.”
The smile becomes a frown. “You see lumps? You see something asymmetrical?”
“Where’s the increased size?” I ask.
“I’m looking at it, bro.” He’s back to smiling. “I’ll go get the tape measure.”
Alpha comes back and wraps the tape measure around me, getting the middle of my shoulders and the top of my chest. “See? An almost three-inch increase.” He laughs. “That’s champion mentality. You wanna get even bigger, and you will. Just wait until you’re back on a cycle.”
Champion mentality? Or a sickness?
“Have you ever heard of muscle dysmorphia?” I ask Alpha.
He tilts his head at me. Then picks up his steaming plate again.
I say, “It’s when you think you’re—”
“I know what that bullshit is,” he says, heading outta the kitchen.
I follow him. “Why is it bullshit?”
“Because there’s nothing wrong with wanting to get bigger, right?” He takes a seat on the recliner, plate in his lap. Pulls on the lever just enough so his feet rise yet his body stays upright. “Just look at what your gains have given you.”
“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with gaining muscle. I’m talking about what the term means.”
Alpha looks at me with narrowed eyes. Then he sighs and takes his first bite of green beans.
What’s up with his attitude? I’m not trying to be annoying.
“We’re driven to be our best selves,” Alpha says, a bit of green mush in his mouth. “That’s not a mental disorder. It’s called motivation. Do we feel small? Sure. That’s what keeps us motivated.”
“But tons of people are motivated to do things and you don’t hear about it becoming some mental disorder.”
“But, but, but,” he practically shouts.
A chill runs through me. I’ve never seen him angry like this.
“Forget it,” I say, and start to walk away.
“Listen to me,” he says, and I take a step back. “Nobody is perfect, okay? We got an obesity epidemic in this country because people eat junk. We got people drinking alcohol every day from the moment they get home until they go to sleep. Just because that stuff is socially acceptable doesn’t mean it’s good. Agreed?”
“Definitely.”
“Okay. Well, we take gear in order to be our best selves.”
What does that mean? How is being as muscular as possible your “best self”?
Alpha grabs his fork and spears a bite of chicken.
I ask, “Why is having a great body better than anything else?”
“Fucking hell.” He lets his fork drop on the plate in anger. Some quinoa falls off the side and onto his shorts.
“Sorry, I’m just curious.”
He pinches the tiny fluffs of seeds and tries to drop it back on the plate. It turns to mush in his fingertips.
He breathes deeply, in through his mouth and out
through his mouth. Just like he taught me. But it’s not calming him one little bit. I can tell.
He looks up at me now. “Are you just going to stand there asking me questions or are you going to let me eat in peace?”
I walk to my bedroom and close the door. I don’t want to be anywhere near him when he’s angry like that.
25
I’M BACK! With more energy than ever, more confidence and quicker recovery times after each workout. Most importantly, after two weeks on my cycle, stacking three types of gear, I have my gains back. Real size, not the Synthol puffiness.
I got nine more weeks of growth left on the cycle. Every day closer to my goal of becoming a YouTube teen sensation. I’ve even started jotting down episode ideas, topics the other guys have never even touched on.
There are fewer thoughts popping into my head of me being too small or too obsessed or anything else that totally bums me out.
Best of all, with my confidence back I was able to post pictures on Instagram earlier this week, and even got a date because of it. A girl named Isabel commented u look great on one of my shirtless pics, so I commented on some of hers before deciding to DM her.
A gorgeous girl, no doubt the hottest one in her high school one town over. Which means she doesn’t know that I used to be Bitchslap David.
I hop into the steaming shower and start with the soap, loving the curves of muscle on my body. My balls have shrunk again to a tiny hard mound.
Done with the regular soap, I bust out the orange acne soap Tower recommended. Pour some on the back scrubber and attack the newly arrived zits for a good two minutes. I’m trying to stay hopeful.
After I dry off and change, I head out to the living room, where Alpha is practicing his choreographed posing for Mr. Florida next week. I’m grateful for the music playing—he chose some upbeat electronic song. It’s a heads-up to expect my roommate in skimpy red underwear.
There he is, holding a side biceps pose in front of the mirror angled against the wall. He’s looking more shredded than before. Judges want to see the definition of every muscle, so Alpha has slathered dark oil on from the neck down to help with that.