Hulk

        I looked at myself in the mirror with measuring tape in my hand as a dark-skinned man with a large, square jaw and Cro-Magnon brow stared back. He looked small. Flat. I put the end of the measuring tape under my right foot and raised the other end to the top of my head. Six feet and five inches. I wrapped the tape around my right arm where my bicep and tricep peaked. Twenty-three inches. Down a quarter of an inch. My heart sank.
        "What do you think, Ollie? Am I ready?” I looked down at my midsection. My abdominals were just about visible. I wrapped the tape around my waist. Thirty-five inches. I wrapped the tape around my back and chest, just under my armpit. Fifty-seven inches. I sighed. Down a half-inch. Ollie didn’t respond. Sixteen weeks of meticulous calorie counting and a diet plan designed to preserve the muscle I had worked so hard to sculpt and I was still losing too much muscle mass.
         I walked over to my bed and put the small, stuffed tyrannosaurus on top of my pillow. Ollie was a gift from my father, Micky. I was nine years old when the man stumbled over to me on Christmas morning and handed me the dinosaur.
         “Here you go, Jon,” he mumbled, staggering over to me. Your mother said you liked dinosaurs.” I thought his breath smelled like urine, but it was whiskey. It was the only thing he ever gave me, and although he didn’t completely disappear until I was fourteen, it was the last Christmas I can remember spending with him. I kept Ollie.
         “Still a long ways off,” I admitted as I took once more glance in the mirror, then sat on my bed and put my shirt and shoes back on. The smell of bacon had crept into my room.
I opened my bedroom door and turned sideways so I could fit through the doorway. Mom must have heard me because she yelled in the hallway as soon as I closed the door.
         “It’s about time - it’s almost eleven!” I rounded the corner into the kitchen as she was scooping a heap of bacon onto one of the plates. I quickly calculated that since one strip of bacon is seventy calories, I could have between eight and ten strips. My mom was short and wide, never wore makeup, and usually tied her ash-colored hair back in a knot.. There was an empty carton of eggs and a dozen shells lying on a paper towel on the counter next to her. Ninety calories per egg, and high in protein. I can have ten of them as long as I don’t eat any carbs today.
         “I’m sorry, mom.”
        “I figured I would finish up the bacon we have, it’s been in the fridge for a while.” She seemed kind of bubbly. Probably because it was Saturday. Our day.
        After taking her plate over to the small table next to the doorway, Mom began picking at her thumb-sized portion of eggs. I placed two plates in front of her, on the opposite side of the table: one with what looked like a pound of bacon, and the other a golden mountain of unborn chicken. I sat down and began eating with my head down. I could only fit one thigh on the chair so I extended my right leg out to my side to keep my balance. After a few minutes of silence only broken by my nose-breathing and the sound of metal clanging against ceramic, my mom spoke up.
        “So how’s all that gym business going?” Mom asked as she finally gave up on her eggs. I gladly scooped them off her plate.
        “Ok.” I kept stuffing mouthfuls of fuel into my face. The bacon was slightly crispy on the ends but mostly soft, just the way I liked it.
        “You aren’t going to sign up for that competition are you?”
        “I don’t think so. No.” I started to anticipate what was coming. I shifted my attention back to the plate of eggs.
        “Good!” She smiled, but she quickly pursed her lips and squinted as she looked out the kitchen window. “It’s all the way up in Seattle! What would you even do without your mother there?” I continued shoveling eggs down my throat. “I don’t like what goes on at those bodybuilder things anyway. A bunch of drugged-up, roid-raging gorillas in their underwear letting themselves be scrutinized hundreds of people? Why would you even want anything to do with that?” She stood up and took her plate over to the sink.
        “It’s the Northwestern Championship, mom,” I said after a brief silence as I neared the end of my breakfast. “They can win a lot of money. Some guys get fitness modeling contracts. Sometimes they pick out guys for movies.”
        “That’s ridiculous. No one wants to see those men prancing around half-naked.” I lowered my head and scooped up the few remaining bits of egg.  She finished cleaning her dish and walked over to the fridge, pulling out a large pork tenderloin. “I thought I could teach you how to cook this tonight.”
        I got up from the table and brought my dish over to the sink.
         “Don’t forget to use the soap. Don’t just rinse it and throw it back in the cabinet like you usually do,” she added. “So what do you think, pork or pizza tonight?” I felt a nervous heat rise from my stomach to my chest, while my limbs went numb. I must have stared at the running water for a while because Mom seemed to get impatient. “Well?”
         “I was going to go out tonight,” I answered, still staring into the sink.
         “Out? But it’s Saturday,” her voice grew deeper as she enunciated every syllable. “With who?”
         “Peter,” I replied as I looked up at her. She had both hands on her waist.
         “And where? You’re not going to be drinking, are you?” She raised a finger at me..
         “No. The movies.”
         “Oh. Well, alright,” she sighed, turning around and looking at her feet. “Fine. Go ahead and stand me up. I can play cards by myself.”
         “I can stay home next Friday and Saturday,” I offered. She didn’t respond. She started taking cans out of the grocery bags and slamming them on the counter. I went to sit down at the kitchen table again and stared at the floor. I saw her feet turn around in my peripheral vision but didn’t look up. “Mom, I really want to go out tonight.” She turned around again. “The only place I go is the gym. The rest of the time, I’m here. Don’t you think you’d be happier if you went out more too?”
         “Went out? Where? A fifty-nine year old woman going to a bar alone? What am I, some sort of cretin?”
         “Maybe some people from work…”
         “I’d appreciate it if you stopped telling me how to live my own life,” she interrupted, moving the pork loin back into the fridge.
         “I just thought maybe you’d be happier with a boyfriend or something,” I mumbled as I lowered my head and fidgeted with my fingers. There was a long pause.
         “I will never trust another man again, Jonathan.” She ran out of cans to slam on the counter, and seemingly at a loss for how to express her anger, she began crying. “You remind me so much of your father.”
        I struggled to breathe for a brief moment. She used to cry like this all the time when my father was around. I could hear them fighting from my room as I held Ollie as tight as I could. Sometimes my mom would come in with red eyes and reassuring words.
      “It’ll be okay, honey,” she’d say. “Your father just had a little too much to drink is all. Just try to sleep.” Other times I would wake up the next morning and no one would be there. Then, every once in a while I would walk out into the kitchen in the morning and see her blood-encrusted hair mopped over her face as she slept slumped over the kitchen table. I snapped back to reality and grabbed the Pizza City menu next to me, sighing.
        “I can cancel.”
        After we ate that night, we played five-card poker before Mom decided to go to bed. It was ten-thirty. I stayed in the living room and watched Arnold Schwarzenegger duel Lou Ferrigno for the 1976 Mr. Olympia in Pumping Iron. I always idolized Lou Ferrigno ever since I saw The Hulk when I was young. He and I were the same height, so I was able to relate to him more because most modern bodybuilders are around 5’9. I followed his routines to the letter, even ate the cement-paste protein shake that he sponsored. But the real guy was nothing like what I saw in The Hulk.
        When I first watched Pumping Iron, I was shocked to see poor Lou Ferrigno, struggle to socialize with the other competitors and being bullied around not only by an Arnold Schwarzenegger who was three or four inches shorter and forty pounds lighter, but his own overbearing father. I was always afraid it would be like that if I signed up for a contest. Two-hundred-forty-plus pound behemoths at five-percent body fat eyeing each other down like they’re in a prison yard, playing mind games, and giving awful posing advice to make you look like an idiot in front of a couple hundred people? Maybe Mom was right after all.
        I went to my room and set the alarm on my desk for 6 AM. There were seven pill bottles on my desk. Every night I went through them one by one: two multi-vitamins, one 5000IU Vitamin D caplet, two 1000mg fish oil softgels, three creatine caplets, 30mg of zinc, 450mg of magnesium, and 5g of branched-chain amino acids. After the multivitamins, I stopped and left the rest in their respective “Saturday” containers. I turned off my alarm and my head hit the pillow.
        My heart flew out of my chest and down the hallway when my phone sucker punched me out of my slumber. I had only been asleep for a few minutes. The caller ID read “Peter.” I answered.
        “Dude, what happened tonight? I had a surprise all line up for you.” It sounded like he was in a wind tunnel so I assumed he was in a car.
        “I’m really sorry man. Something came up.” I tapped the base of the lamp on the table, turning it on as I shut one eye to brace myself for the light.
        “Oh yeah?” he asked after a slight pause. “Well, check it out, man. I didn’t tell you, but I invited Marla and Danielle out tonight.”
        “Danielle?” I sat upright.
        “Yeah, you know, the cute broad at the desk in the gym.”
        “Yeah, yeah. I didn’t know you guys knew her.”
        “Well, it turns out she gets her hair done at Marla’s salon. I brought Marla into the gym the other day and they recognized each other. She’s definitely noticed you before, man. I asked if she wanted to come with and she was pretty excited to meet you.”
        “Oh,” I answered stupidly. “How was the movie?”
        “Fuck the movie, dude. I’m waiting for them to get out of the bathroom so we can come pick you up and head out again. Better hurry, bro. Be there in fifteen.” He hung up before I could object. I hated surprises. That familiar nervous heat crept up through my stomach and into my chest as I scrambled around the cramped room. Without a thought I settled for a black button-down shirt, blue jeans, and the black Adidas I always wore. My heart pumped faster than it did during my squat routine. I looked at the mirror. My hair? Fine. Trimmed short. I silently wondered if I should leave the top button on my shirt open. Too obnoxious. I fastened the button. After reconsidering, I opened it again. I cracked the door and peered down the hall to see if my mom’s lights were out. With the coast clear, I sneaked through the house and waited out on the porch for Peter to pick me up.
        The red Honda pulled up after a few minutes. I stuffed myself inside the cramped car and had to ask Marla to push her seat up so my knees weren’t in my chest. Peter and I bumped fists, I said hello to Marla, and Danielle looked at me and smiled. I made eye contact with her and quickly looked away, for some reason choosing awkward silence over conversing with a gorgeous girl on our way to the restaurant. She had green eyes, a short, fit body, and black hair that contrasted completely with her porcelain skin. She was wearing a denim skirt with black leggings and a red sweater. She really did doll herself up. I didn’t really understand why. Danielle and I spent the car ride listening to Peter tease Marla about her abilities as a stylist.
        We pulled up outside Fast Eddie’s Bar and Grill. I loved it there. They gave such huge portions. I felt slightly relieved that Peter was doing everything he could to keep me comfortable, including completely leading the conversation. But when we finally sat at a table and Marla had Peter’s full attention, Danielle must have decided enough was enough.
        “So are you a bodybuilder? Like in contests and everything?” she asked. I hadn’t heard her speak before. I wasn’t really surprised, either. She squeaked more than she talked. I thought it was cute.
        “Um, well not exactly.” I unconsciously started tapping the side of my thumb against the table. “I lift, but I’m not a professional.”
        “Why not? You’re like the hulk.” She smiled. I didn’t know if she was making fun of me or somehow enjoyed talking to me. A scene from Pumping Iron entered my head: Lou Ferrigno, ashamed and insecure about his speech impediment, was standing quiet and alone in a corner while the rest of the bodybuilders are celebrating after the contest.
        “I, uh…”
        “Hey folks, welcome to Fast Eddie’s. My name’s Greg and I’ll be serving you today. Would you like to start off with some beverages?” I silently thanked God for the chance to collect my thoughts.
        “Yeah, what’s everybody want?” seconded Peter, who had been growing louder the longer we waited. Marla asked for a strawberry daiquiri, Danielle asked for a Miller Light, and I asked for a Diet Coke. “And I’ll have a Guinness.” The waiter disappeared almost as fast as he shown up.
        “Why don’t you have a drink?” asked Danielle as she fumbled through her purse for a second and pulled out a pink phone.
        “It would spoil my training.” I skimmed nervously through the menu without really registering the words I was reading. “And my father was an alcoholic,” I blurted out. I wished I hadn’t.
        “Oh,” she answered, “I’m sorry.” Her cheeks grew red as she buried her face into her cell phone. Marla was quiet and Peter had a stupid look on his face. None of us spoke for a few agonizing seconds until divine providence once again struck in the form of a short, skinny, teenaged waiter named Greg juggling our drinks. He put on his fake smile and asked us if we were ready to order. The girls both had Caesar salads. Peter ordered a chicken sandwich and I ordered two twelve-ounce steaks with a side of potatoes for each.
        “Jesus, Jon. I thought you were on a cut?” Pete asked. Pete usually weighed in at around two hundred pounds at six feet tall. He had a bald spot on the back of his head so he always wore the same Colorado Avalanche hat, except when he was on duty. “I mean, I do about three thousand calories on a diet myself, but that is your weekly cheat meal? Not fair.”
        “What are you dieting for, Jon? You don't need it,” Marla asked, finishing her first daiquiri.
        “Jon’s thinking of signing up for the Northwestern Championship,” interjected Peter, scooting his chair closer to the table.
        “Oh? I thought you said you weren’t a professional?” asked Danielle.
        “It’s an amateur competition, not professional. Most of the pros use all that clenbuterol, dianabol, growth hormone, insulin injections…” answered Peter.
        “What?” Danielle and Marlene looked at each other.
        “Steroids,” Peter sighed. “But not me and Jon here. We’re completely natural. Right, bud?” Peter did a mock most-muscular pose, slightly twisting back and forth to show off to his pretend audience as Marla embellished a yawn.
        “Yes,” I answered. “But I’m not signing up.” I really wanted them to change the subject.
        “Dude, why not? You’d dwarf damn near everybody there. How many people have ever seen twenty-three inch arms in their life?” asked Peter.
        “I think you’d win,” said Danielle, twirling her hair. “You know, I’ve been handling the sign-ups at our gym. It’s not too late, we still have some applications for that in the office. It’s the one going on up in Seattle, right? I could get one for you if you want.”
        “No, really, it’s okay. My diet hasn’t been going well and I’ve lost too much muscle. I’d never get in shape in time.” I saw Archangel Greg in the corner of my eye awkwardly walking over to us with our food.
        “Well, damn Jon. If you’re not doing it maybe I should. You’d be my only competition!” Peter said with a chuckle and a grin. He tossed back the last of his Guinness and asked for another glass of water as Greg the waiter, whose mood had for some reason changed for the worse, arrived at the table and haphazardly dished our food out to us. Peter went back to dominating the conversation as we ate, bragging about his promotion to Lieutenant and about how Captain was only a short time away.
        “Then I can retire young and not have to pull over asshole BMW drivers until I’m fifty,” he boasted. I breezed through my two plates and another Diet Coke. I even started to feel a little more comfortable around Danielle. She was patient. She even kept asking me about lifting. I never met another girl who actually seemed interested in my one hobby.
        “Since I was fourteen,” I answered after she asked how long I had been lifting weights. “Pete and I met when we got to high school and started lifting together.” She poked my forearm. I thought I should have probably flexed, but I just stared stupidly at her finger.
        “It’s like a rock,” she said as she turned to graze a little more on her salad. After about an hour, Marla had clearly knocked back too many daiquiris, because she kept slurring her words when she harassed Peter for not buying her anything, and then demanded to go dancing. I got tunnel vision. Dancing? At a club? With all those other people there? Peter shook his head, but called for the check anyway. As we climbed back into the car, I tried to make my escape.
        “Hey Pete, mind dropping me off? I gotta get up early.” Danielle was quicker than that.
        “Oh, no way. No way you’re getting off that easy,” she declared. “You good to drive, Pete? Marla’s definitely not.”
        “Hey, fuck you,” Marla giggled.
         “Yeah, it was just one beer. Besides, I’m a Lieutenant now. C’mon Jon, enjoy yourself,” answered Peter. The air left my lungs and I gave in.
         I was afraid of cramped spaces and I was afraid of crowds. I felt beads of sweat forming on my forehead on the ride to Fluid. I thought it was a lame name for a nightclub. When we got there and walked in, I noticed the bouncer was eyeing me carefully. Marla dragged Peter onto the dance floor and Danielle grabbed my wrist and turned in front of me.
         “C’mon, let’s dance. Don’t worry about these people. They’re all drunk,” she said as she began guiding me to the dance floor. After navigating through crowds of obnoxious dancers, we arrived in the center of a mass of drunks all fist-pumping the air. They smelled like sweat and mustard from a mile away, but it was the only open space. Danielle put her back to mine and started swaying her hips. I stood with my hands at my sides. The music was so loud that all I could hear was static, the air was disgustingly thick and humid as if someone was breathing in my face, and there was a beautiful girl trying her best to like me. It was sensory overload.
        I heard some scattered laughs from other ends of the club. I wondered if they were laughing at me. I probably looked like a clown. A six-foot-five clown that stood tall enough so everyone could take notice of the fact that he can’t dance. I took Danielle’s hand and turned her around.
        “I’m sorry, but I really have to go.” She blinked at me with her mouth open as I made my retreat away from the dance floor. Someone spilled their drink on me, but I kept walking past the bouncer that thought I was trouble, and down the street toward the bus stop. I kept my head down and walked fast, listening to the sound of my shoes pat against the cement as the music grew quieter and quieter. I crossed the road to get to the bus stop and heard someone in heels clacking down the street.
        “Wait, Jon!” I turned around to see her speed-walking across the street, her shoes tripping her up every few strides. “Jon?” She asked as she approached. I assumed she wanted me to speak first. I didn’t really have anything to say. I kept my hands in my pockets and looked at her.
We stood in silence for a moment before she took a napkin out of her purse and handed it to me. There was a phone number on it.
        “That’s my cell. I’ll be honest, I was kind of afraid of you whenever I saw you at the gym. I’m glad I got to meet you, though. You’re not what I thought.” She stepped toward me again, but I didn’t know why. Her looked changed from hope to disappointment. “I guess I should help Pete with Marla. I hope you’ll give me a call sometime. Even if you don’t, come say hello in the gym sometimes. You’re a sweet guy.”
        I looked at my feet. She backed up a few steps, then turned around and walked back to the club. After a few more minutes of waiting, I got on a empty bus with a driver who, judging by his expression and half-closed eyes, was clearly on his last round for the night. I moved to the back and waited for my stop, wondering why I even bothered keeping the napkin in my pocket.
        When I got home, all the lights in the house were on and my mother was sitting in the living room with her arms folded across her chest. I froze in the doorway.
      “It’s one in the morning,” she stated as she furrowed her brows.
      “I’m sorry, mom.”
      “Have you been drinking?”
      “No.”
      “Don’t lie to me! I can smell the booze on you from here! You waited until I went to bed and snuck out behind my back!” She stood up, placed one hand on her waist and pointed the other at me, like she was yelling at her dog. “Your father used to do the same thing! Coming back drunk at some odd hour in the morning! Why do you treat me like this?”
      “I’m sorry, mom. I just wanted to go out with my friends for a few hours.” I finally regained feeling in my limbs and closed the front door.
      “Your friends?! That lunkhead Peter? My lord, I don’t know why you hang around with that loser. He’s a bad influence. Is he the one that put that contest idea in your head? Him and that trashy girlfriend of his?” She stepped around the coffee table and walked around to the back of the couch.
      “He’s not a lunkhead. He’s a cop. A lieutenant, in fact. He, Marla, and Danielle all think I can win,” I answered. I could feel my body heating up. I didn’t like it when she talked about Peter that way.
      “Wait. Danielle? Who’s Danielle?” she asked, squinting.
      “I met her tonight. She works at the gym,” I responded, lowering my head and fidgeting with my hands.
      “Oh so now some random drunk whore at a bar knows what’s best for my son?
      “She isn’t a drunk whore, you bitch!” Mom’s slap connected firmly with my right cheek. It stung more than I expected. I stared at her in the eyes for several seconds before she broke down crying.
      “You’re no good. You’re both no good,” she sobbed. I thought of my father. My own eyes started to well up. She ran to her bedroom and slammed the door. I fought back the tears as I walked bleary-eyed into my bedroom and lied on the bed. When my eyes opened, the sun was up. I looked out my window and there were kids playing street hockey in the driveway across the road. The sun beamed through the window and warmed my face as I stared outside. I still had my clothes from last night on, and my shirt still smelled like vodka and cranberry. I pulled the napkin out of my pocket and read the number. 970-331-6067.
        I breathed in deeply, then exhaled. Not satisfied, I did it again.
      “Okay,” I said to myself. “She likes you. She wants you to call her.” I flicked open my phone and sat down on the edge of my bed.
      “Hey, it’s Jon from last night,” I practiced. “No, that’s stupid. Uh, ‘What’s up? This is Jon.’” I took my time pressing the numbers. The phone rang twice.
      “Hello, you’ve reached the admissions department of the International Federation of Bodybuilders. My name is Christina. How may I help you today?” I almost dropped the phone. Instead, I got up and started pacing around my room as I spoke.
      “Uh, is there a Danielle there?”
      “Danielle? Sorry, I don't think there are any Danielle’s in this department. Can I do anything else for you? Did you want to register for any of our sponsored competitions?”
      I stood still for a moment.
      “Hello?” The woman was still on the other line. “Sir? There’s the Northwestern Championship in Seattle and the Mr. Connecticut in Hartford.”
      “Yeah, uh, sorry,” I replied. I breathed in deep, smelling the vodka and permeating stench of my gym bag next to my desk. “I’d like to register as a competitor for the Northwestern Championship.”