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.