by Fred Aceves
The pyramid flames with a flash before settling into a steady burn.
Alpha won Mr. Florida this afternoon. He might have the most impressive physique in the world, so beating out every guy in the state was a cinch. Even with that one drunken night.
After a four-hour drive back from Miami, he and Rassle stopped by the supermarket for this celebration. They left Tampa yesterday morning. I stayed here to hold things down—watched over the gym and the house.
When Crockett starts barking crazier than normal, I know they’ve pulled up to the driveway.
“Here’s the champ!” Rassle announces. He’s carrying three full supermarket bags with one hand and opens the gate with the other.
Alpha walks through, lifting the trophy high enough so leaping Crockett doesn’t knock it outta his hands.
The trophy, marble and gold-colored, gleams even in the fading evening light.
“Congratulations,” I say, and try for something like a hug.
It’s not easy getting your arms around Alpha. He gets his free arm around me just fine though. Damn near crushes me.
He lets go. “There was no close second place, bro. I absolutely destroyed the competition.”
Rassle gives me a fist bump and says, “This guy wanted to leave right after the damn show and interview. Can you believe that?”
The grin slides off Alpha’s face.
Rassle is referring to them not staying all weekend to hook up with girls. I gotta steer away from this awkward topic, keep the moment fun and happy.
“He wanted to come back and celebrate with his friends,” I say.
“That’s right,” Alpha says, setting the trophy down in the middle of the table.
“David, there were some girls there like you wouldn’t believe,” Rassle says, handing me the heavy bag of meat. “If I had girls half that hot waiting for me after I got finished wrestling a gator, I wouldn’t be in a rush to come home.”
“Let me throw some of these steaks on the grill,” I say.
“I love my friends,” Rassle says. “But y’all would’ve had to wait a little bit longer to celebrate. I mean, it makes no sense to—”
“Hey,” Alpha cuts in. “I’m going to hit the shower real quick before the others show up. I still feel greasy from the posing oil.”
After lots of hovering over the sizzling meats, the guys worried about the steaks being overcooked, and me telling everybody to back off, we’re all grubbing at the table.
The night air is nice. It’s full of hazy light from the porch, and the smell of meat and onions.
The grill oozes smoke from round two, which is barbecued ribs.
It’s eight of us, everybody but Alpha and me eating and drinking whatever the hell they want. The table is full of pretzels, Doritos, and other chips. Plus all the fixings to heap on the baked potatoes: butter, cream, bacon bits, and shredded cheddar. We don’t cheat, Alpha and I. We stay looking lean and good.
As usual, nobody says much while feasting. I look around at all of them. The wide shoulders I want so badly. The roundness of the biceps when their arms are bent, the forks about to go in their mouths.
That’s what real men look like.
I take a drink of water and try to think of something else.
You’ve gotten your gains back, and even some few extra pounds, but you’re still a skinny nothing of a boy.
Sometimes these guys serve as inspiration, and other times they just make me feel like crap for being half their size. Not even half. All of a sudden, Jake asks about Mitch Bayer.
“Mr. California is next week,” Alpha says.
“It was today,” Jake declares with certainty. “Mr. New Jersey is next week.”
Avaristo Mendoza from New Jersey won number two in the World Muscleman Championship last year.
Launch asks, “Who’s Mitch Bayer?”
Powerlifters are all about how much you can lift, not how good your physique is, so I explain that Bayer won the WMC last year. “He’s Alpha’s main concern.”
“Yep!” Rassle is looking at his phone. “It was today. Bayer won Mr. California alright, but the guy ain’t at your level, Alpha.”
I lean over to have a look. Bayer looks amazing—I can’t deny that—but Alpha is bigger with more definition. His biceps’ peaks, which were lagging, are now more impressive than Bayer’s. Partly because I’m so damn talented with the needle.
“It’s true!” I agree.
While everybody else looks for it on their own devices, Tower hands his phone across to Alpha, who takes it with curiosity.
His expression doesn’t change as he studies today’s picture, zooming in to look at different body parts.
I know what’s happening. He can’t see the truth. He needs other people to confirm it.
“It’s a wrap for Bayer,” Ray declares. “The championship is all yours, Alpha.”
Devon says, “Keep going hardcore, brother, and that motherfucker doesn’t stand a chance.”
After everybody agrees, Alpha’s back to smiling.
Now Devon stands up, lifts his fourth beer of the night, and waits.
“You going to stand there looking like a bloated Statue of Liberty?” Jake asks.
“I’m waiting for you guys to quiet down so I can propose a toast.”
“I’d like to propose you buy a Weedwacker to deal with some of that armpit hair,” Rassle drawls.
Devon takes a sip of his beer as he waits for the laughter to die down. This time he lifts it up as high as his chin. “Is this better?”
“Better,” everybody agrees.
“To Alpha,” Devon says, “who has the biggest, leanest, most amazing symmetrical physique in Florida.”
“On the planet!” I say, feeling proud.
Alpha lifts both of his fists. “That’s right!”
“That’s what I meant!”
“So why don’t you try again?” Tower suggests.
“Why don’t you all shut the fuck up?” Devon fires back. After clearing his throat he tries again: “To Alpha, who has the best physique the world has ever known!”
Shouts of “Damn right!” and other affirmations rise up in the night.
“To a man we all admire and love!” Tower throws in.
To a man who can’t get it up, I think to myself. It pops into my head and I force it out right away.
“To Alpha,” I say, “who will be the next World Muscleman Champion!”
The guys get even louder because of my last comment. They’re hollering and banging the table. The backyard is so loud a neighbor might call the cops. Even Crockett starts barking.
Alpha is suddenly shy from all the love, but just look at that face. Beaming like when he walked in with the trophy. I admire his dedication and his hard work, the sacrifices he’s been willing to make.
Who am I to worry about Alpha or judge him? I’m going to be happy for him tonight. I’m going to be happy for him for the next few months, until he returns to Tampa with the WMC title.
28
THE JEEP’S car alarm jolts me awake. Crockett’s bark from the backyard is even louder.
“My Jeep!” Alpha shouts. “Thief!”
I hop off the bed, slip my bare feet into sneakers, and dash outta my room. I’m running through the living room, through the open doorway, past the honking Jeep with its flashing lights.
There’s Alpha, bare-chested and barefoot, tearing down the street, arms and legs pumping like mad.
He’s fast but I’m faster. I gain speed on him as I try to make out who we’re chasing. Towering streetlights send down yellow splotches of light. A block and a half away, a lean guy in a hoodie enters the glow for a moment.
He’s not getting away. I’m Nightchaser running through downtown streets, after the group of guys who framed me.
My heart beats pure adrenaline and my fists tighten from the excitement. I can already feel my fists slamming against the thief’s face. All that rage I’ve had to keep at bay is bubbling up and for once I c
an let it loose.
This thief fucked with the wrong guy.
“Get him!” Alpha shouts when I bolt past him.
The alarm and Crockett’s barking start to fade as my sneakers steadily scratch against the asphalt. My eyes, now fully adjusted to the dark, fix on the silhouette of the thief less than a block away.
He enters the light on the corner and cuts left. I’m going full speed toward that corner when I hear a pained howl behind me.
“EEEEEyaah!”
I look over my shoulder—Alpha’s arms are flailing as he slows down.
I stop. “Alpha?”
I’m torn between checking on him or continuing the chase.
When Alpha presses a hand against the middle of his chest, I run through the dark toward him.
“Alpha! What’s wrong?”
There’s no answer and his hand stays pressed to his chest. His face contorts in the harsh yellow light as he struggles to breathe.
“Call 911!” I shout into the night. “Somebody call 911!”
This will be okay. This will be okay.
But I think of his heart. Of the plaque buildup and how the heart is just another muscle that grows on gear.
I grip the sides of Alpha’s shoulders, hold him as best as I can as he wheezes.
“Breathe, Alpha. In through the nose and out through the mouth.”
It’s the technique he taught me for controlling rage. I’m not sure it will work for whatever’s happening to him.
Lights in houses have switched on. Windows cast soft glows onto the lawns.
An old man in pajamas hobbles out from the house in front of us, cordless phone pressed to his ear.
“They’re on their way!” he shouts at us. In a lower voice he says, “Yes, that’s the address.”
“Alpha,” I say to my friend’s twisted face. “What’s going on?”
As an answer, he slips from my grasp. Drops on both knees and topples sideways. His face changes from tensed to relaxed.
“Alpha!”
I shout that as loud as I can, as if he’s only in a deep sleep from which I can wake him up.
I put my two fingers to the side of his throat.
“They’re on their way,” the old man repeats, finally reaching us.
“I don’t feel a pulse!” I let out in a panic, my own heart thumping wildly.
Maybe I’m not doing it right. It’s not like I know first aid or anything.
The old man goes down on one knee with much effort, to check for himself.
An ambulance siren sounds out, somewhere west, faint but getting louder as neighbors appear on their porches.
I watch the man’s face. Study the deep lines on his forehead and around his mouth for a sign. I wanna see a calm expression, better yet a smile. Anything but that look of horror he’s showing now.
“What’s wrong?” I ask in desperation. “What’s going on?”
The man lowers his hand and says, “He’s dead.”
29
I LIKE to have the TV on. Louder than normal so I can hear it from any room. It gives me the feeling that I might step out to the living room and see Alpha there, watching Netflix or sports, maybe in a good mood like he was sometimes, ready with a quick joke.
With the TV off, the crushing silence of the house is unbearable.
There’s some congestion on I-275, due to a car accident. Commuters are advised to take the Lynn Street exit . . .
For weeks after Mom died, I would play the kitchen radio in the evenings, just like she would while she made dinner.
In my room, I button up my new white shirt. The one I wore to Emily’s party, way back in May, no longer fits. I’ll put on the black tie on my way to the funeral. Tower should be here in about twenty minutes, and I’m running late.
. . . and lawmakers expect the bill to pass without any pushback.
Out in the living room, Crockett rests on the recliner, curled in a half circle. Just like when Alpha went to Tallahassee for Mindy, or to Miami to compete, Crockett got sad by the second day without Alpha. He has moved from his favorite spot, the middle cushion of the couch, to Alpha’s favorite spot.
Mindy told me she’d pick him up after the funeral. She showed up at Tampa General a few hours after Alpha died, an absolute wreck.
In the kitchen, I put a heaping scoop of kibble into Crockett’s dish.
. . . which will remain closed until the health department does a thorough inspection.
Alpha’s parents have the Jeep and will be figuring out what to do about the gym. I really hope it will stay, and I can keep working there.
As far as living here, Mindy was nice enough to give me six weeks to figure out what to do. I’ll find a cheap room to rent, which shouldn’t be too hard. I can’t go back to Dad’s house.
I know I’ll make things right with Dad though, as soon as I can. For the sake of Gaby anyway, because Dad won’t stop seeing me as a drug addict, won’t accept me for who I am.
I don’t know what to do, what to say to him. Don’t wanna think about it either. For now I just need to make it through today’s funeral.
The woman’s body was dumped near I-275 in Lutz . . .
I pull out the big box of thirty-six eggs to start on my breakfast. An eight egg-white omelet, with a cup of oatmeal and banana. I should’ve eaten around seven a.m., to get my workout in by now. But I didn’t sleep well last night and got up late. I’ll have to hit the gym later.
When I place my hand on the fridge door to shut it, I notice the growth hormone on the top shelf of the door—a tiny clear bottle you gotta refrigerate. The other steroids I collected from the whole house, put in this one box, and shoved it deep under my bed before Alpha’s parents came over.
I haven’t taken a single injection or popped a single pill since Alpha died. I got as far as loading the syringe, but in the end couldn’t go through with it. I’ll get through today, and tomorrow I’ll start again. As long as I keep eating big I should be fine.
But when I break the first egg, I imagine the taste and texture, the slimy egg whites in my mouth and sliding down my throat. No way.
So I’ll make a meal replacement shake.
. . . although above capacity, will receive forty abused puppies . . .
I put a scoop of whey protein into the blender, followed by a half cup of oats, and a whole banana. Fill it halfway with water.
A push of the button emits a sound like a speeding motorcycle. The ingredients mix until they blend into a smooth light brown goop.
I turn off the blender and drink. It goes down my throat like wet sand.
. . . right here from our very own Tampa. Alfonso Richardson, known as “Alpha” in the bodybuilding community, is another life lost to anabolic steroid abuse.
I walk out to the living room, pitcher in hand, to get a better look at the TV. It shows him doing his posing routine at the last WMC. The flashing from cameras lighting up his darkened and oily skin.
He had won Mr. Florida three times, including this year, and last year he placed fourth in the World Muscleman Championship, the most important bodybuilding competition in the world.
Then it cuts to a special report.
Studies show that steroid abuse has increased a staggering four hundred percent in the last year. . . .
So that’s it for Alpha. A brief mention of two competitions and then they drop numbers. Treat him like a statistic.
There’s no mention that he was a successful businessman, the owner of Iron Life Gym for three years. No mention that he was the face of BeastMax Nutrition.
What really gets on my nerves is there’s no mention of his actual life, the day-to-day details of who he really was. I guess you gotta get kidnapped or murdered for reporters to wanna find out about the real you.
If they’d asked me, I would’ve told them Alpha was a great friend, always there for me and supportive. Whether I needed advice or a place to stay or was just depressed and doubting myself.
In fact, the youngest deat
h from a steroid-related heart attack this year has been a seventeen-year-old boy.
My heart feels like it stops and I fix my eyes on the boy on the screen. He’s bigger than me, with sculpted arms and six-pack abs—looks absolutely great. I mean, he looked great. Now he’s dead.
What if that happens to me? I try to think of myself dead, but it’s a hard thing to imagine, you not existing. I can’t do it. Maybe it can’t be done. All I can think about is Dad and Gaby and how sad they’d be.
I try to push it outta my mind as I hear the reporter say stuff like impressionable youth and teenagers and ignorant of risks.
The sludge in my stomach turns and turns.
Experts say tens of thousands of young men are at an increased risk of dying early from complications brought on by steroid abuse.
There’s a quick cut to man with a graying beard wearing a white coat in a doctor’s office, the words Jonathon Weber PhD on the bottom corner of the screen. That’s the expert whose articles I read—and then ignored.
There are various factors contributing to this increase in anabolic steroid abuse. Girls and women have long felt the pressure to be attractive, as we all know. Being constantly confronted by images of impossibly thin models, many young women try to achieve that look. They go to great lengths and develop bulimia or anorexia as a result.
Boys and men are increasingly subjected to images of overly muscular men with visible abdominal muscles, and are feeling the pressure to drastically alter their bodies.
Dr. Jonathon Weber mentions the images we get bombarded with. The video games and movies. I’ve played those games and have watched those movies. Hell, I have a poster of Nightchaser hanging in my room.
He mentions how the action figures have grown in size.
What kind of message does it send to boys when everything they are told to admire is unattainable without drugs? When their role models are bulking up with the help of illegal drugs?
The irony is that steroid abusers are often health oriented, but they are using drugs that do irreparable damage to their organs, to their livers and hearts in particular.
I grab the remote on the coffee table and turn off the TV.
If I hear one more mention of heart attacks caused by what I’ve been taking, I’ll lose my mind. I swear I will.