Waiting Weights
“What am I supposed to do? Work until I keel over and die?”
“Pretty much,” said Janelle, the bartender.
“I can’t,” he replied.
“Can’t what? Work?” she said.
“Yeah, I’m over it.”
“Then how will you afford to see me?”
“You mean these drinks aren’t gonna be free if I quit my job?” he joked.
She sighed, then said, “No, Blake. Give a mouse a cookie and all.”
“I know, I know,” he said before gulping down the last two inches of his pint, wiping his mouth, and burping into his armpit. “Sorry.”
“No offense taken. At least you apologize for being a pig.”
Dropping a twenty on the bar, Blake said, “See you tomorrow?”
“Not like I can quit,” replied Janelle, drying a glass.
“You could.”
“And what, abandon my bar?”
“Just saying,” he smiled. “You could.”
“And you could quit your job, lose the gut, and find a woman.”
“Already have,” he winked.
“Gross!” she said, then burped in his face.
He laughed, waved it off, and walked out of the bar. Home was five blocks away, but he wanted to go for a stroll. He turned the opposite way and meandered, buzzing from the drinks and her hair; it smelled like cheap shampoo and cigarettes. Not his favorite aroma, faint reminders of another.
The next block, he shook his head at a panhandler and patted his pockets. He watched the cars, counting only the blue ones. He kicked a rock until it fell off the curb; he frowned. Looking for another rock, he started counting cigarette butts. There were twenty of them by the end of the block. He blamed it on the bus stop. Less pollution, sure, he thought, but there’s more litter. The next block, he kicked an empty whisky shooter until it fell off the curb. It landed upright; he smiled.
Blake walked a few miles the wrong way. He never went to this side of the city; he had no reason to. He only went to Janelle’s because they met in college. She was friends with her; how he met her. Janelle never had a thing for him, never would. Blake knew they were just friends and that he was becoming a mere customer. Janelle was a good friend to her. He was a bad friend and felt like a worse boyfriend, believing that to be the reason he lost her. He found another rock and kicked it hard. It skipped into a bush, disappearing underneath, never to be seen again, like Macy.
She left months ago. He woke up, and Macy was gone. No note. No text. No voicemail. Was it an Irish goodbye, her favorite way to leave parties? No, it was her way of becoming a ghost haunting him, torturing him with uncertainty. He filed a missing person report with the police; they found her. Macy wasn’t missing. She was gone.
He walked until the way ended. Blake turned around to go home, but he was lost. He couldn’t remember if he had gone left or right at one of the street corners. It didn’t look like the same road. In the distance, he saw the bridge he took to work every morning and evening, except Sundays. Blake pulled his phone from his pocket; it was dead.
Closing his eyes, Blake listened to the cars. He imagined Macy driving past, living her life close and far away. He felt her everywhere he went, except when he got drunk. Janelle wouldn’t let him run up such a tab in her place anymore. “It’s too sad,” she would say, “You’re cut off.” So he drank a little less, figuring it was healthier. It wasn’t helping him forget Macy anyway. She moved on. He didn’t know how. Making things worse, he didn’t know the way to his apartment.
It was dark. Blake was in the city’s industrial district. Every business was closed. Only the streetlights were on. He started walking the way he came; the way he thought he came. Blake couldn’t see any rocks to kick or cigarette butts to count. Cars drove past. He couldn’t see the color, so he didn’t count the blue ones. He walked, looking for landmarks: fast food signs, street names, anything to orient him. Nothing could.
He and Macy moved here months before the breakup. Macy wanted to be close to her college roommate, Janelle. Then one day, Macy didn’t want to be close to anyone. Janelle told Blake she also felt abandoned, her limit of sympathy for him. Blake figured Janelle blamed him for Macy’s disappearance. He suspected they were meeting without him; that Janelle was keeping tabs on Blake for Macy, and for the money in his wallet.
Blake walked until he saw a building across the street with the lights on. The windows were nearly blacked out, but fluorescent lights were bright behind the tint. He squinted and read the sign. It read: Maxed Out Gym.
He jaywalked after a car passed. It was silver or maybe that awful slate grey. Four were in the parking lot, none were blue. He went inside and heard familiar music: 1970s rock and roll. He smiled, enjoying the classics. A young man was at the desk.
“Can I help you?” the gym’s assistant said.
“I’m lost,” Blake said. “Can you tell me how to get to Hearthstone Apartments?”
“No idea, bro.”
“Can I use your restroom?”
“Members only.”
“C’mon, bro,” Blake replied wryly.
The man sighed and stood. Pointing to the rear of the gym, he said, “There. Behind the power racks.”
“Thanks,” said Blake, squinting to read the assistant’s nametag, “Taylor.”
Walking to the men’s room, Blake discerned an old, recognizable musk. Something he hadn’t nosed in years: sweat and chalk. He was never a gym rat. He joined with friends in college for a semester. He quit when they did. Then he found Macy.
After using the urinal, still buzzing, Blake figured he’d do a set. Taylor was busy with his phone; he wouldn’t notice. Sure, no waivers were signed, but what did that matter? He’d squat to see if he could. The worst that would happen is he’d get kicked out of a strange gym in an unknown part of town.
Blake loaded a forty-five on each side of the bar, entered the rack, ducked under the weight, and put it on his shoulders. It was heavier than he remembered. He was unsteady and in jeans. The bar wobbled as he walked it two steps back, one step wide; as he was taught, from what he remembered. Blake descended, cutting the reps high; he didn’t care. He did five. Racking the weight, he laughed.
He forgot her under the bar.
He walked to the front desk and said, “I want a membership.”