Tall and leggy, with long brown hair worn in a ponytail, she was still one of the most beautiful women he had ever known. She wore a black T-shirt and blue jeans, her feet bare.
She also looked nervous.
“Hello, Alex.” “Hello, Megan.” “Come on in. Susie is about to pop.” He put the dog down, picked up the presents he had brought, and followed his ex-wife into the living room. Oh, well. Two out of three… They had put up a large tree, an eight-footer, easy to do in a place with such high ceilings. The tree glistened with lights and fake snow and ornaments and tinsel. There was a fire in the wood stove, burning brightly behind the thick glass. Susie was on her knees under the tree, amidst a pile of wrapped gifts, grinning.
And standing by the old plush blue couch was a stranger, a big man with a full beard. He wore jeans and a blue workshirt and cowboy boots. He looked to be about thirty, a good ten years younger than Alex, and at least five years younger than Megan.
Megan walked over to the bearded man. She slipped her hand under his arm, smiled at him, then turned back to look at Michaels and said, “Byron, this is Alex Michaels, Susie’s father. Alex, this is my friend Byron Baumgardner. He’s a teacher at Susie’s school.” The big man grinned, showing nice, white teeth, and ambled over to take Michaels’s hand.
“Glad to meet you, Alex. I’ve heard a lot about you.” Michaels felt his belly twist into a frozen knot. S. This was Byron.
He forced a smile as he stuck his hand out.
“Byron.” The two men shook hands. Michaels shot a glance at Megan. She had looked nervous, and now he knew why. Here was a nice surprise on Christmas. Meet the new boyfriend.
Your replacement.
“Can I open my presents now, can I?” “Sure, honey,” Megan said.
Michaels smiled at Susie as Byron moved over to stand next to Megan. The bearded man put his arm around Megan.
Michaels felt sick. He wished the ground would open up and swallow him.
He wanted to be anywhere on the planet instead of here. Anywhere, for any reason.
Saturday, December 25This, 11 a.m. BethesDa, Maryland On his back on the bench, Platt squared himself under the weight, put his hands on the bar in a false grip, and took a couple of deep breaths. Counting the bar, 440 pounds lay heavy in the bench-press cradle. He nodded at the spotters on both sides.
“Ready,” he said.
The two gym rats, both hard-core steroid boys bigger than he was, moved in a hair and put their hands under the end of the bar, not touching it, but ready, just in case.
Platt gathered himself to lift the weight off the rack. Took another deep breath, and shoved, let part of the air out as he cleared the stand and began to lower the Olympic bar toward his chest.
The first rep went up pretty easy.
“One,” the gym rats said in unison. Like he couldn’t fuckin’ count.
Second rep was a little harder, but he got it to lockout.
“Two!” The third rep was hard. He had to blow it up, arching his back, to get it locked.
“Three!” He knew his limits.
“I’m done, take it,” Platt said.
The two body builders caught the ends and helped him rerack the barbell.
Platt blew out a big exhalation and sat up.
The guy on the left, who had a shaved head and a purple sweatband above his eyes, said, “leemme try a few.” Platt nodded and switched places with Baldy.
As he squared up on the bench press, Platt glanced around the inside of the place.
They had a pretty decent setup here at the new Gold’s Gym.
Lotta free weights, a bunch of piston machines, some bikes, rowers, elliptical walkers, and stair climbers. They even had one of the new peg machines in one corner. Mirrors on all the walls. It was Christmas, but there were twenty people in here working the iron. Gym rats, most of them, serious body builders or weight lifters, most of them on the juice. You didn’t miss a workout because it was a holiday.
You’d never get anything done that way.
You could always tell somebody who was stackin’ serious “roids. They had that crepe-skinned, veiny look, the whites of their eyes got yellowy, they were usually balding, and a lot of them had acne on their back and shoulders. In the locker room with their clothes off coming out of the shower, some of ’em had bitch-tits and little bitty balls and peckers too. But they were strong, as Baldy on the bench here showed Platt. He did ten reps with four-forty and racked the bar by himself, then sat up, grinning.
“Okay, I’m warmed up. Lou?” The other gym rat traded places with Baldy, then Baldy and Platt spotted him while he did his benches. He only made eight reps, and Baldy called him a pussy.
“Want to do another set?” Baldy asked Platt.
“No, thanks. I got to go do chins and dips.
I can come back and spot if you need it.” “Cool. Later, dude.” Platt headed for the chinning rack. Strong, both of the body builders, stronger than he was. Then again, he didn’t take anything but vitamins and a few aminos and supplements, and he didn’t have to worry about his liver rotting or getting brain cancer or shit like that. Or ‘roid rage.
Blowing up and killin” somebody who cut him off in traffic. Fightin’ for fun was one thing, losin’ control was some thing else. And these guys were so strong they tore muscles and ripped tendons right off the bone sometimes. He’d seen a guy benching six-fifty once rip a pec. The muscle rolled up his chest like a window shade, and the guy was looking at major surgery and a lot of down time.
Stupid. Wasn’t any point to all this stuff if you weren’t healthy enough to enjoy it.
His sweats were already soaked, but Platt figured he could do a couple sets of chins and dips, no weight, alternating, to finish off his pump.
Half an hour in the sauna and hot tub, a shower, and he was done.
He wondered if that ben to place over on Wisconsin was open today, A couple plates full of grilled chicken skewers and rice with hot and sweet sauce would sure taste good about now. He’d go check it out.
Saturday, December 25th, noon Sugar Loaf Mountain, Boulder, Colorado The big fire roaring away pushed the cabin’s chill into the room’s corners.
The place smelled of cedar and woodsmoke and pine. Wonderful.
“Merry Christmas,” Joanna Winthrop said.
She raised her champagne glass and tapped it against the glass Maudie held.
“Same to you,” Maudie said. They drank.
“Mmm. This is great,” Winthrop said.
“It ought to be. It cost eighty bucks a bottle.” “Jesus, you spent that kind of money on champagne!” “Not me. It was a gift from an admirer. I think he wanted to lick it off my naked body.” “Why didn’t you let him?” “Because we went to a movie and he made a disparaging remark about one of the actresses who was a few pounds overweight.” “Ah. Fat jokes, the squash of death.” “Unless you’re fat–then it’s okay.” Maudie sipped at the champagne again.
“I’ll send him a nice thank-you e-mail for this.” “I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” They giggled.
“So, tell me more about this Sergeant What’shis-name.
Anything serious in the offing?” “Too early to tell. So far, all we’ve talked about is computers, about which he knows zip. But he seems like a sweet man. And he admires me for my mind.” “Uh-huh.” “Well, either he does, or he’s very, very clever about taking the long way around to get my pants off.” “Hah. Men will cross a desert in July on their hands and knees over broken glass if they think they’ll get laid when they get to the other side.” “True. But I have a good feeling about this one.
How many men have you met who will admit they don’t know some thing about everything?” “So far? Let me see… oh, if you total them all up, about, roughly, approximately. none.” “So I’m one up on you.” “Oh, girl. You got a picture? How about a comm number?” “Oh, no, you don’t. You should be able to find one in California.” “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? I’m thinking about putting an ad in the personal sections of the local alternative weekly paper.
“Fat, ugly woman, smart, looking for man who can appreciate me for my mind.” It would be inter esting to see who answers.” “I’m sure that would work.” She lifted her glass.
“Cheers.” “Uh-huh.” They drank. They laughed some more.
There were worse ways to spend Christmas.