PART 2

POWER HOUSE

11

He really rubs me the wrong way, Sally thought as this new kid, who had been coming to the gym for about a month, danced through the front door. Yes, these vegan people can be quite a handful from time to time, but since Sally's doctor had recommended that she switch to a more plant-based diet, she understood - unwillingly, but she understood. The kid was sporting those ultra tight gym shorts that reminded her of the aerobics craze of the eighties, where guys zealously jumped around in their tight spandex and revealed a little bit too much. But that’s not it either, she thought. Was it the celery-esque body structure that resulted from lifting baby weights and doing all sorts of downward facing animals? Nope. The overly feminine gestures and facial expressions? A little, but no. What was it then?

"Hey Sally," celery kid greeted her, and pushed a flier over the counter, "have you thought about my idea?"

On the flier: celery kid and two of his bros, lying on their backs with their legs spread wide. And through the v-shape came a big, fat grin from each member of this illustrious circle of men. To spread their legs even wider, they wrapped their hands around their ankles, giving you a nice good look at their buttholes and genitals.

Ah, there it was, Sally thought and cried out: "Hell no!" Not that ball tanning shit again," and returned the flier to its sender, "And if I find you handing one of these out to my clients, I'm gonna take care of your balls once and for all. You hear me?" 

The boy took the paper and it disappeared into his messenger bag. Without even looking up, he headed for the locker room with his tail tucked between his legs and Sally felt an instant wave of regret wash over her.

Wasn't she the one who should understand this kid better than anyone? Wasn't she as excruciated as a young woman who wanted to become a bodybuilder? Female bodybuilding was ostracized, expensive, and didn't pay jack shit. Even the top ones couldn't live off their art form and had side jobs. But Sally always had a keen sense for business, so she and a friend made promo videos in which she posed belligerently and lustfully, promising the viewer the time of their life - if they could handle it, or better yet, her. It was never sexual, but she had to think of all the men she had to wrestle to make ends meet. All those disgusting bums with money and their need to be dominated by a woman the size of a prize bull. A fetish that paid good money, money that kept a roof over her head and the heads of her two children. It kept the fridge full and the medicine cabinet stacked with steroids and growth hormones. In one of those videos, Sally was shown in black hot pants, a military-green tank top (no bra), holding a fully automatic assault rifle as she gracefully walked through a wrecking yard in high heels. Through a series of jump cuts, the viewer saw Machine Gun Sally leap over the tops of a dozen crushed cars, juxtaposed with crash zooms of her well-oiled, glistening muscles that reflected the golden afternoon sun. The closing frame showed Sally in a power pose atop a stripped-down army truck. 

She shouldered the gun, flexed her biceps and looked at the wristwatch, then directly at you and said: "I'm too hot to handle, too cold to hold Machine Gun Sally, and you know what time it is! Call 555 - 0800 75 03 if you think you can handle a real strong woman".

Explosion, cut to black, it's a wrap.

"That was harsh," Kendra said, interrupting Sally's daydream.

"I know, I know, I'll give him a few more minutes under the tanner," Sally said as she tidied the table, which didn't need tidying at all, so she didn't have to meet Kendra's self-righteous gaze.

Kendra tilted her head, grinned, and said in a voice slightly higher than her usual pitch, "How about throwing a few minutes of fake sunshine at a starving student?" 

Oh, is that how you want to play it? Catch me at a low point and squeeze? Sally thought and looked up and met Kendra's grin. It turned into a wide smile, revealing her perfectly white and even teeth. She was a beautiful creature, tall, long limbs, curved in all the right places, and blemish-free ivory skin. Hell, even her toes were breathtaking. True, time was on the side of the twenty-year-old, but hey, you still gotta work for it. But Kendra wasn't just all body, behind those bright gray eyes lay a bright mind that majored in Biophysics at OCP University. 

"God damn it!" Sally said. "How can I say no to that smile? Just remember me when you're one of those hot shot scientists with your big fat paychecks." Reluctantly, she reached under the counter and produced a gold chip.

"Thank you, thank you, thank you," Kendra's smile grew even wider. She took the chip, leaned over the counter and kissed Sally on the cheek, "You're the best, Sall."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever," Sally breathed through her teeth, sneaking a peek at Kendra's perfect butt as she walked to the tanning booths. 

"No, don't take that one," she said as Kendra held the golden chip against a small box at the booth. "This one's broken, something funky with the wiring, it gets super bright and hot as shit and we don't wanna burn those beautiful buns, do we?" Now Sally had a million dollar smile on her face. "Take number two, I just cleaned it."

12

Kendra disappeared into the tanning booth and Sal continued her stroll down the streets of Memory Lane: 

The year was 1990 and Bodybuilding was young. A seedling that needed a lot of nurturing to come into full bloom. Because back then, it was still viewed by the public as a carnival sideshow:

"Come and see what your eyes won't believe! Human oddities for your amusement and our profit. Creatures that will make you question the existence of a merciful God. Dwarves, giants, Siamese twins, bearded ladies, savages, snake charmers, fire eaters. We have them all!

The heads of the IWBBF (International Weightlifting and Bodybuilding Federation) wanted to bring bodybuilding out of the shadows and make it an Olympic discipline. Turn a freak show into a billion dollar industry selling supplements, gym memberships, training equipment, etc. And to do that, they needed a face - and a body. They needed a champion who could win the hearts of the masses.

It was at the 1990s Mrs. Olympia contest (the Superbowl of bodybuilding) in Sydney, Australia that the IWBBF wanted to make a statement to the world. They booked the Sydney Opera House and pitted the meat mountains against each other in this dignified venue. 

It was also the year Sally turned pro. She had her sights set on the title, a title that was more than just prize money, it was a door opener. It came with huge incentives: endorsements from big brands, magazine covers and a potential springboard into Hollywood stardom. It was her ticket out of Endsville. 

Sally arrived in peak condition. She had the mass, she had the proportions and was vascular as hell. And to perfect her posing, she worked two months with a ballerina:

"It is not just the static pose that is important. It is the transition from one to the other," the ballerina said. "People are watching you all the time. So you must be graceful in every movement of your performance. That will set you apart from the competition.”

The only one who could be dangerous to her was Sonja “The Hulk” Robinson, Mrs. Olympia from 1985 to 1989. Unfortunately earlier this year, while filming "Buffarella, an Amazone in New York", she had a motorcycle incident and was in no shape to give Sally any trouble.

So when Sonja won the contest, it was a shock to everyone. If you believe the muscle magazines of the time, it was the biggest booing in sports history. The crowd that filled the Sydney Opera House was so enraged that they tore off the armrests of their seats and threw them on stage. Sal was unaware of any of this, just standing there, fifth place, numb with disbelief. All her dreams shattered right then and there. All the sacrifice, the hardship, the pain - all for nothing. She felt like such a fool. A fool who put all her money on the wrong horse and lost the game of life.

At first she thought Sonja had pulled some strings, schmoozing the judges to win them over, but it was much bigger than that: Sally could not be sold to the public as a short, black and openly gay woman. No matter how well she performed that day, she never stood a chance. Sonja, on the other hand, was tall, white and straight and had already proven herself to be star material. She balanced her physical might with great humor and prodigious charm. A mix of sweetness and sass, mock arrogance and mock innocence. Sal kept to herself, didn't talk much, and preferred to let her body do the talking. So it was not a hard choice for the elderly white men of the IWBBF as to who their champion will be. 

Sonja exploded that same year, making one blockbuster after another, becoming famous and using her fame to make another big leap into politics as the world's first female president with a fifty-five centimeter biceps. And bodybuilding was taking the world by storm.

Sally quietly walked out of the opera house, turned her back on the sport forever, and vowed never to be so excruciated again. That day the Powerhouse was born, a place where Sal decided what goes down, a universe she ruled, where she was God Almighty and the laws of nature bent to her will. The place was never much more than a badly isolated warehouse in the industrial part of town. It wasn't fancy, it had weights, mirrors, showers and two tanning beds. The plumbing was bad, the plaster was peeling off the ceiling, and the posters of the once biggest and baddest hung sad and faded from the walls. But it was also so much more: It was the living embodiment of Sal's values, it was honest and it was focused.

13

Ron sat motionless in his car on the Powerhouse parking lot. He drew three pills from his gym bag, took a deep breath and dry swallowed them. He looked in the rearview mirror. The clean shave had given way to a three-day stubble. If he had hair on his head, it would have been ruffled. He wore dark shades that reflected a beautiful August morning. The air was already hot at 10:18. There had been a quick and heavy rainfall a few minutes ago, and the air smelled of hot and wet concrete.  

(How can it be so beautiful? This makes no sense.)

Ron wore the shades every day of the week now, no matter if it was overcast or night, it kept people out. Because you can hide so much, but never your lying eyes, and he didn't want anyone to see those bloodshot bags, red from crying, lack of sleep and booze.

He looked at the car key in the ignition and grabbed it. It would have been easy to turn them over, start the car and drive away. And he wanted it so much, but there was this voice in his head. 

(And where do we go from here? Back home and veg out on the couch? Not eating, shitting, and peeing ourselves until we die of an infection from bed sores? Is that how you want to be remembered?)

"Of course not!" he shouted into the empty car.

He took the key and peeled himself out of the car. The suspension sprang back to its home piston, squeaking in sweet relief, glad to be unburdened. Ronny pressed the button on the key, the lights flashed in unison with two faint beeps from the horn. The car was locked, but to Ron it felt like it was mocking him. 

(It's all your fault.)

He forced a smile and made his way to the powerhouse, shaking his head to clear his mind of those wicked thoughts he felt creeping in.

(It’s all your fault. It’s all your fault. It’s. All. Your. Fault.)

The voice became louder and louder with each step he took towards the entrance. 

(It’s all your fault. It’s all your…)

He grabbed the doorknob.

(…fault.)

And opened the door, and then there was utter silence in his head, a black hole where even light cannot escape. If it were possible to drop a needle in someone's head, you would have heard it drop right then and there. It was horrifying, and he wished the voices were back.

14

"Hey Sal," Ron said, and even he heard how painted on it sounded.

"Hey big guy, we were startin' to miss ya. How ya holdin' up?" Sally asked sincerely.

Ron Herrington looked at the counter and tried to think of something witty to hide his pain and confusion, but the black hole in his mind kept sucking it all in. The seconds dragged on. He took a deep breath, his lips opened a little, but closed again when there was nothing to fill them with.

"You won't believe what happened earlier," Sally said and Ron was relieved that she was taking the initiative, "The new kid, honest to God, tried to sell me that ball tanning shit again. Kids have too much time on their hands these days, I tell ya."

Was that a little movement in Ronny's face?

"I told him off," Sally kept pushing. "I hope he learned his lesson, because if not, I think I'll have to threaten him to let you off the leash."

"Thanks Sal," Ron smiled and shyly played with the adjustment strap of his gym bag, "I really mean it," and then turned around. He was a big guy, but not a man of many words. However, Sally understood.

"You betcha," she said and saw a broken man heading for the lockers.

The lockers were on the other side of the gym, so Ron had to walk past the handful of people already working out. It was like the hospital all over again, everyone staring at him or looking away with extra effort. He felt their attention like a thousand needles.

(You attention vultures. If only you can feed on another man's misery and pain. You can smell it, huh? Yeah, come and get it - that sweet squalor.)

He passed three young boys, no more than twenty years old. They looked like triplets with their matching haircuts and outfits: Messy bangs with faded temples. White Nike shoes and black shorts. White tank tops and little gold chains dangling from their chests. 

(Chicken breasts)

Ron felt old.

Then there was Kendra getting it on at the Cable Crossover Machine. And getting it on was the right idiom, Ron thought. She was on her knees, holding a cable behind her neck with both hands. To work her abs, she dipped her upper body forward and down and then came back up.

(She looks like she's training for the annual Givin' Head competition.)

It didn't help that she wore a skin-colored workout bra and matching yoga pants with cream-colored outlines around her buttocks. If you saw her out of the corner of your eye, she looked naked. She had a stunning body and a face as beautiful as any on social media, but that uniformity scared Ronny.

(Fucking dump is what she is. Look at her. Gobble, gobble.)

"Ronny ma man, good to see you." Samuel Johnson pressed the words through his clenched teeth, bench-pressed the 150 kilograms three more times, and let the weight fall back into the mounting brackets. The former Special Forces operative rose from the bench, red-faced and swollen, and held up one hand. He waited for Ron to do their Dutch and Dillon - Predator Handshake routine. Ron pounded Sam's hand and gripped it tightly. Both men looked at each other closely as they had a standing arm wrestling match. Sam's fists began to shake.

"What's the matter," Ron said with a relaxed smile, "the C.I.A. got you pushin' too many pencils? Huh?"

Ron respected Sam Johnson, a man in his fifties, who had seen a lot and probably done a lot more. He still looked great and went hard on the iron. 

Ron tightened the grip and slowly pushed Sam's hand down, "Had enough?"

"Make it easy on yourself, Dutch," Sam said, trying to keep his composure, but had to give in. 

Both men started to laugh and after Sam caught his breath he said, "Really good to see you, man.

"Good seein' ya, too, buddy. But be careful with those weights, don't want to see ya gettin' hurt."

"Ah, piece of cake. That was just my warm up set."

"Ain't nothing but a peanut."

"Yeah, buddy!" 

Sam got back to his chest workout, but not before glancing over at the Kendra. Ron watched him, watching her, and thought that even though their handshake was a tribute to the 1987 movie Predator, the title was pretty fitting to Sam.

(Creeper. Perv.)

Ron's nose caught a whiff: salty and earthy, with a hint of lilac that made for an irresistible contrast between savory and sweet. Kendra brushed lightly against him. The air became electrically charged for a moment and discharged with Kendra's shy smile.

"Hey Ronny." She said, stroking a strand of hair from her face.

"What's up, K?" he tried to say coolly, but it sounded way too forced. She was about to cool off from her workout, beelined to the elliptical bikes, and hopped on one. Ron saw tiny drops of sweat on her forehead, upper arms, and décolletage, just like Alexa's after sex. He felt aroused and guilty at the same time.

(Oh, yeah. You could so do her. You're a free man now, look at her, so fresh, so tight, everything is where it needs to be.)

Ron shook his head to wake up and headed for the locker room.

(Ha! Who's the creep now?)

The door flung open and Celery Kid stepped out with a quick stride. He looked down at his phone, did not see Ron, and ran straight into the concrete wall of a man.

"Oh," Celery Kid said and stumbled on, "I - I - I'm sorry, I didn't m - mean to, I was just."

"It's all right, kid," Ron said absently.

Celery Kid dropped his head and goose-stepped into the cardio area.

(Faggot)

"Hey!" Ron yelled at whoever was putting those thoughts into his head.

Celery Kid stopped dead in his tracks. His shoulders shot up, almost touching his ears. He didn't dare turn around and braced for impact.

"What?" He said ruefully.

Ron's irritation turned to anger. Without a word, he disappeared into the locker room and slammed the door behind him. Celery Kid's shoulders rose again, he waited for the pearly gates to open. But when nothing happened he lowered his shoulders and slowly turned around and let out a big, fat sigh of relief.