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.
For my first real set I put a small plate on each side.
I lie back on the bench and slide under the bar. Grip it a bit more than shoulder width apart, like Van Nelson did in his video. I’m going for one rep less than exhaustion.
I lower the weight to my chest and push it out, careful to keep the bar even with every lift. After some struggle with the ninth rep, I rack the weight.
There’s a tightness in my chest that I sort of love. It burns, as if the muscle growth has already begun. The clock ticks off the seconds. In sixty I go again.
“That ain’t heavy!” Alpha shouts.
For a moment I think he means my bar, but he’s shouting at the huge guy squatting in front of him. “One more rep, Tower, you pussy!”
The drill sergeant motivation is working. The squatter’s—Tower’s—face twists angrier as he stands up again, letting out a monster grunt. He’s definitely going extra heavy, maybe even maxing out.
“Hell yeah!” Alpha helps him rack the bar. “That’s what I’m talking about!”
Tower, wincing and breathing heavy, says nothing back. He picks up the small bucket by his water bottle and lifts it to his face.
Is this really happening? I tell myself no way, but a second later he quivers, so the answer is clearly yes. I hear the gag over the music, which can only mean vomit. He spits three times into the bucket before setting it back down.
When he glances over his shoulder in my direction, I turn my eyes to the clock. Not smoothly at all. I damn near gave myself whiplash.
I consider what just went down. A guy at this gym, my gym, lifts so hardcore it makes him sick. I like it. How cool to be among such dedication.
“Insanity,” a voice says behind me.
The middleweight boxer guy slides a large plate on one side of the bar.
“Yeah, these guys are freaks,” I say.
After we do our respective sets, he introduces himself and I do the same.
It turns out Rogelio is a real estate agent with two kids.