10 . . . 11 . . . 12 . . . . .
Beads of sweat crept from Bing’s hairline to the divot crinkles lining his eyes, blinding him. Above, his arms and shoulders shook to control twin, dangling stacks of rusty, black iron. Both sets of knuckles were white with red creases spanning quivering palms and fingers.
He lowered the weights, forcing as much grace as he could.
SLAM!
He shook his head as he levered himself up and to the edge of his old bench, planted as it had been forever behind worn boxes and dusty trinkets in the corner of his father’s garage.
Four more sets…
A warm, swollen heaviness ballooned its way about the back of both Bing’s arms. But the daunting reality of having to work more muscle-groups tomorrow, and then more the next day, and so on, threatened such vast infinite toil it seemed to want to break his resolve upfront and send him quietly out the back to smoke and forget. He wouldn’t this time, he knew . . . even if it would mean the exact opposite of what it promised, delivering only more conviction for whenever his next start date would roll around.
Bing finally realized just how and why there would be no more turning back. His direction was set, and further delay felt utterly intolerable (despite not mattering).
Besides, he already saw himself standing up where he would be soon: his spine dead straight, his arms wide, his chest open and proud. He witnessed his own face aglow sporting a smile spawned straight from the sun to illuminate everyone in the world, showing them all just how special and funny they each were.
How many times had he tried to hit these same weights growing up? He remembered having made it through the odd full week . . . but rarely two or more. Then throughout his prolonged slide from chubby dreamer to lanky stoner to personified version of despondency congealing in the heat of a tiny apartment or seedy car, the weights had remained mostly still. Sure, they’d lurk and loom a little from their shady corner home. Their improper disuse had always been a source or symptom of discouragement. And now they tried to taunt him all the more, in a new way, silently screaming details of all that their continued employ must entail.
But Bing grinned. Pages of old exercise magazines swept back up through his mind, brown-tinged and speckled, sporting perfectly lit photographs of ridiculously enhanced specimens. He could vividly recall all the tables and routines he had spent so many years committing to using.
There was a flash, followed by the usual taps of preparation.
spend money to fill ur time
learning other people’s ways
without ever doing anything,
then feel bad about urself
for the wrong reason.
Bing chuckled. All the reading . . . and the money, and soul-searching, and desiring . . . and… He saw so plainly all at once how none of it could have ever taken the place of simply getting himself into a few positions and pushing iron against gravity until he couldn’t anymore.
Another flash followed.
u do it once u’r left
with nothing but to test
if what’s in ur head
is worth anything.
There was more, perhaps, than could be properly scratched across a screen. And what of undetected worlds yet unborn in the blankness surrounding every digital skeleton past idea . . . maybe worlds of unknown moving pieces, and characters, and scenery? There were definitely friends laughing in pajamas around a cluttered table somewhere. There was a comedian donning a cool leather coat, designer jeans, and converse shoes. There was laughter of all sorts . . . deep, squealing, tearful, belting, free…
Bing breathed slow and steady, pushing the air down past where it went as he flexed his back beyond straight.
The wood and rafters above were a maze of flickering lights and cobwebs, providing just enough distraction to make his next sets almost welcome.
But there had been another flash, which he came close to deciding need not be captured.
or u do it to pursue ur dreams
with the ones u love
for as long as u can.
And speaking of loved ones, it had long occurred to Bing that he would need another name . . . an alias . . . a character he could be free to truly be himself as. Otherwise, lines might never get blurred, or touched . . . or even outright crossed and snickered back at.
He quickly fingered the name “Bing Pugloci” out onto his iun so he wouldn’t forget.
I don't know anything 