Bulky

This flash fiction piece was written as a story companion to the day 3 drawing prompt Bulky from the 2020 Inktober prompt list. Click here to see the drawing.

I don’t know why I come to this gym. I hate going to the gym. I hate exercise. I hate people that exercise. I’m surrounded by bulky, hulking dudes who never wipe off their machines, and these tiny little waifs with pony tails so high and long I have to resist yanking them like a bell rope every time they bounce past me.

It stinks. Literally, it stinks.

Of sweat and ambition, two things I always found distasteful. No where do the two intermingle quite so pungently as in a gym. Out of everything that happens in places like this, the classes are the things that irritate me the least. At least there’s some semblance of community, there, some other reason to visit these dripping halls other than to stare at yourself in the mirror while you sculpt an image that entices you to keep staring.

Zumba, though. What a dumb name. I take a spot at the back of the class, in between two women who are stretching determinedly. Their eyebrows raise at the sight of the only man in the class, but otherwise they ignore me. That’s another reason I prefer this to running the circuit of machines upstairs: abstaining from those girls’ game of oh, don’t mind while I bend over right in front of you to pick up these two pound dumbbells I’ll only lift for ten noodly reps before I trip and ask for your help to get back up again.

There’s no who’s looking at who and why in these classes. There’s less of a competitive spirit, here, and certainly fewer social ladders to refuse to climb. I mean, it’s a Planet Wellness, not a Country Club, although, I guess, in the 21st century, one has essentially replaced the other … at least for the yoga pants-wearing class.

Silly music starts to play and the trainer at the front of the class tries to pump everyone up. I jiggle and gyrate this way and that, along with the group. Sweat starts to drip down my back and I try to ignore it. Everything about exercise makes me uncomfortable, physically and emotionally. Soon, my face feels like it's encased in a mask made of fabric that doesn’t breathe, a second skin pasted to my own, preventing cooling air from reaching it. Shortly after that, the trainer tells us all we’ve done a good job and class is over, and I mumble, Thank God under my breath.

People break off into smaller groups to stretch together and, ostensibly, make plans to go out somewhere together. That’s better than the nonsense I always see upstairs, the numbers being exchanged between bubbly girls who un-ironically call themselves Gym Bunnies and the men lifting weights who didn’t even bother to remove their wedding rings.

On the way out of the class, I trip and bump into one of the bulkier guys who usually don’t come downstairs.

“Watch it, dweeb,” he growls out at me. His rudeness is so unnecessary and unexpected all I can do at first is blink, my mouth hanging open.

“Excuse me?” I sputter.

“You heard me. Coming out of your Zumba class, eh? Women’s locker rooms are to the left, make sure you remember to change your tampon.”

“Keep the ‘roid rage to yourself, dude.” I keep walking, heading toward the showers, not particularly fussed. It’s the kind of thing I’ve come to expect from the buffwads that live on these weight machines. But apparently, he’s more bothered than I am because I feel a hand clam on my shoulder and yank me bank, spinning me around and slamming me into the wall.

“Whad you just say to me, you creepy little fairy?” His hands are clenched in fists and I can tell he genuinely wants to get in a fight.

“Didn’t get any offers during your workout today, big guy? Gotta do something else to make you feel like a man?”

That does it. His big, red face bulges obscenely with veins as he rears back to take a swing at me. In the two seconds I have between the beginning of the swing and the end, I nod at the security officer behind the desk and the end of the hall and duck down.

The next thing I hear is the cracking of plaster and drywall. The dust of it lands on my balding head. Above me, my new friend struggles to pull his fist free from the wall where it's embedded. Four security officers rush up behind and help by yanking at his shoulders and pinning his arms behind his back.

“What the —”

I stand up.

“I’m happy to inform you that you’ve earned a lifelong trespass from this and every other Planet Wellness in the country.”

Mr. 'Roid Rage struggles against his escorts. “Who do you think you are, you little—”

Taking a business card out of my pocket, I flick it in his face and let it fall to the ground. He sputters, angrier than ever.

“Owner and CEO of Planet Wellness and Clean Smoothies, Inc. Oh, and thanks for your non-refundable, year-long membership, buddy.”

He keeps struggling against the officers as I walk off, happier than ever I decided to hire more security earlier this year.

I really do hate going to the gym.