miss calling home…
Alexander Michaels rang the doorbell of the house that had once been his. It was a big, wooden, two-story home built in the early 1900's, at the top of a slight rise, with a high front porch at the top of ten broad steps. When the house had been built, it had been just outside what was then the city limits. Boise had engulfed the neighborhood long ago, but the houses along the street were still much as they had been a hundred years past. Outside of a new paint job that matched the old pale blue, and a couple of repaired steps and slats in the porch floor, the house looked the same as he remembered it. The same glider he'd installed when they'd bought the place hung on rusty chains at the south end of the porch, looking out over a somewhat cold rhododendron bush that would blossom a hard pink come the first warm weather. He'd spent some wonderful hours in that squeaky old wooden swing, looking out over that rhoddy bush, listening to the wind play in the big Doug fir trees that shaded the lot.
He heard his daughter's footsteps and her yelling as she raced for the door. 'Daddy's here! Daddy's here!'
Susie flung open the door and jumped. With her present under one arm he had to make the catch one- handed, but she helped by wrapping her arms and legs around him and hugging him tight. She wore a pair of red- flannel pajamas and butter-yellow fuzzy slippers. 'Daddy!'
'Hey, squirt. How are you?'
'Great! Great! Come in, we've all been waiting on you to open presents!'
Michaels stepped into the house, and what Susie had said registered.
We've
Susie slithered down and took off running down the hall for the living room. And sure enough, little Scout, the poodle who thought he was a wolf, came sliding around the corner from the kitchen, scrabbling on the hardwood floor, trying vainly for traction, to greet Michaels. The dog barked once, saw who it was, and wagged his tail so hard Michaels thought he might fall down. Michaels squatted and put the presents down as Scout ran and jumped into his arms.
Two for two, he thought.
As he stood, the little dog licking his face, Megan stepped into the hall from the living room.
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.
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 work-shirt 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. So. 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.
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 bodybuilders caught the ends and helped him re-rack 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, 'Lemme 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 bodybuilders or weightlifters, 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 ‘em 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 bodybuilders, 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 something 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.
