TREAD
DREADFUL - EVENT #15
For some, the gym is a place of worship, where God takes shape in the barbells, dumbbells, disinfectant wipes, and lingering mosaics of sweat on the benches. Communion consists of protein shakes and overpriced power bars that advertise how lame you are without them. These devotees are the mainstays, the populous that weave around the occupied machines and idles in the walkways for half an hour. They will gladly pay fifty dollars a month to ensure their second home is always available. They have no job or life outside of spending multiple hours each day pumping iron, taking pictures of themselves between sets, and throwing towels over their shoulder. They treat this sacred ground as if it were the local dive bar where everybody knows your name and they’re always glad you came.
For others, it has become an obligation, a mindless duty that must be fulfilled. Perhaps a New Year’s resolution set them down this path, or a friend of a friend passed along a workout schedule that would finally get them fit. They tolerate the older men who walk around the locker room with their testicles dragging against the floor. They avoid the pockets of youths who are present for the social media clout. They ignore the meatheads who grunt, groan, and perform an entire aria as they lift enough weight to collapse the roof of a car. These faithful dwellers serve their time and retreat as quickly as possible when the sentence is completed, only to trudge back the following day.
For most, the gym is, well, a gym. It holds no special sway over them. Sometimes they go; other times they don’t. Consider it a Schrodinger’s Cat type of scenario. It exists because gyms generate money. It exists because gyms ply people full of endorphins and keep them healthier than becoming intimately familiar with the couch.
Not everything needs an elaborate reason to be.
For Mar, she goes to the gym to escape the overwhelming depressive nature of her roommate, Juniper. As Mar exits the apartment, she begins a one-way dialogue in a hush as if the walls will absorb her words and spill them back to any passerby.
“That girl is an odd duck, Mama. An odd duck. All those reality TV shows have rotted her brain and made her loony.” In this instance, Mar is referring to Juniper’s salivation over a package she technically stole from the mailroom. Mar tried to dissuade her friend from opening it, but her pleas didn’t sway the lost soul. “She is different from when we first met. If I saw her now for the first time, I’d . . . I’d, hmm, I’d not engage. Disengage, you might say. But here we are. Choices are made. Rent is too high to survive on my own. Isn’t that the truth? Mama, I just don’t get that odd duck. I mean, she could lose her head and still try to scratch her nose. All she does is consume, consume, consume. Does she even breathe? I do not know. I do not. Maybe we should have a sit-down with her. Maybe we flood her with the southern charm you instilled in me until she crumbles. Maybe . . .”
The diatribe continues until Mar winds her way around a corner that brings her into view of the elevator and the man who steps absentmindedly onto it. She hears him jabbing a finger against a button, presumably to close the doors. “No, no, no,” she warns, raising her voice enough for anyone to hear. The walls be damned. The man ignores her threat and stabs his finger with more ferocity until the doors obey the command. Mar dashes toward the closing doors and glimpses the man within. He lets out a smug smile, dripping with the understanding that now she has to wait.
“You blue-bellied bitch,” Mar calls out, slapping a palm against the now-closed doors. The grease from her hand leaves a temporary imprint before disappearing like magic. Mar could take the stairs. She should take the stairs, but that means exerting some of the energy she has reserved for the gym. See, Mar believes the body is a battery, only built with a finite amount of energy. While she chooses to expel some of that precious energy at the gym, taking the stairs is an unnecessary waste. “Mama, do you believe the gumption of that crustaceous swill?” Mar lets out a squeal of frustration before straightening her back and removing any tension.
Mar knows her faults just as clearly as she is quick to pick them out in others. Sometimes, she allows herself to get swept up in other’s actions. Juniper disregarding her advice about the package had been a trigger for her. Mar almost took the knife and tore apart the zucchini underneath. Instead, she opted to avoid such senseless mutilation. Kill ‘em with kindness or passive aggressiveness. That’s what Mama ingrained in her.
Mar counts the seconds to pass the time. She makes it to forty-eight before the elevator returns to the fourth floor. Down she goes to the ground floor, riding alone. The light overhead flickers without fail, as it has for the last three weeks. Mar sighs and taps a foot off the floor. “So slow,” she comments. “Always waiting on others.”
From the elevator, the gym (or labeled on the sign as the FIT ESS ROOM—the N fiercely scribbled out by an unknown assailant) is to the left and two-thirds of the way down the hall. For whatever reason, the gym comprises two floors. The windows span from floor to ceiling and look out into the expansive pool/patio area. Nobody can decide whether the folks outside are in the fishbowl or if it is the people in the gym. The first floor is littered with various machines that target all the core muscle groups. They each squeak and squawk to a unique beat based on the intensity of the user. There is no coordination or logic behind the equipment’s placement. Walkways are tight, with shins constantly banging on protruding metal objects. Near the door is a mirrored wall blotted with dried sweat stains. Underneath, a row of unorganized dumbbells and two benches wait for engagement. The seats are worn, and pieces flake away from poor maintenance.
The second floor is home to the treadmills and ellipticals. Whenever someone is trotting away on one of those machines, the ground shakes, each step a thundering reminder of the damaging impact on one’s joints.
As expected, this gym is a gym like all others. If you have experienced one, you’ve cracked the code.
Mar walks in, expecting all eyes to be on her. She tosses her phone and keys onto the nearby table with an intensity that demands people to look at the disturbance. The problem is that no one else is on the first floor. The machines hover in purgatory, destined to a mechanical existence of being useless until in use. The television propped in the corner blares with tragedies, questionable statistics, and warnings of death. Above, Mar hears the constant thumping of someone using a treadmill.
“Mama, where are my fans?” she says, spinning around once to ensure the question has no answer.
Mar struts around the floor, bashing her shins three times on the protrusions. Her curses are quiet and curt, as only a true Southern belle could master. She finds a suitable spot where any fans, both outside and on the second floor, would have a clear view of her. The warmup is an essential part of any workout to avoid injury and buff out any stiffness. Mar begins with jumping jacks, somehow completing them out of rhythm. Her arms dangle then wave like long blades of grass succumbing to vicious winds. Her legs spasm and jerk outward. Her entire body convulses in a beautiful display of poor coordination.
Shame doesn’t exist for Mar. She pauses her movements, has a word with Mama, and opts for something simpler.
Mar positions her legs shoulder-width apart. She thrusts her butt back as if it wavers just above a plush seat. She moves her arms into a rigid ninety-degree angle and locks them in. The downward movement begins. Mar squats over and over again. The motion burns her thighs, but she focuses her attention elsewhere. She cranes her neck to spot whether or not her gym crush is up on the second floor.
Sure enough, he is. Why wouldn’t he be? Patterns and cycles are followed by all, and it’s clear that he is a daily gym parishioner. Mar sneaks another glance at her crush. He appears to be talking with someone on the adjacent machine. Her crush trots with such sweetness that her heart swoons and falls over itself. A man of that regard doesn’t even sweat. He’s too perfect for something as weak-minded as that. Mama wouldn’t like the color of his skin, but that’s something she will keep between her and God. Every feature of her crush’s body is proportionate and chiseled and dripping with beauty. When Mar first spotted him months ago, she thought that wrangling him in would be easy. Reality has proven to be more of a burden. Her crush occasionally looks her way, but he appears distant and disinterested.
It’s okay, though. Mar can be patient when it pertains to something she deserves.
The warmup lasts for three more agonizing sets. The squats waver in their effectiveness about halfway through, but Mar persists, demanding that her crush notice the extra work she is putting in.
And he finally does.
The look is brief, practically microscopic in time. He glosses his eyes over Mar like a camera capturing a panoramic shot. His eyes settle on something behind her, toward the other half of apartments that sit beyond the pool. His face contorts, wrinkling that wonderfully symmetrical nose and puffing out those plump cheeks even further.
As Mar gawks at her treasure, a hand floats up from behind the control panel of the treadmill her crush occupies. The palm faces outward. The fingers are straightened to the point of almost bending backward. The hand stops in view for Mar to see. Is he summoning her? He has to be, right?
This is it. This is it, Mar thinks. A smile forms and widens across her face. It’s big enough to hurt, to flatten her lips until they lose all shape. But Mar is swept up into the dreams of a future where picturesque images emerge of what their life will be like together. Her purpose is limited to the man she finds. Generations of women have performed this dance to perfection. She can’t break the cycle. She can’t be the one who ends the unspoken vows to what it means to be a faithful, obedient woman. She needs to flourish, spread those wings far enough that they scrape against the walls and crowd against the ceiling.
Oh yes, oh yes, oh y—
A flick. It’s only a flick at first, but it indicates something. Mar blinks and uncrosses her eyes from their lingering stare. She notices the hand flick again. The faintest wave. Not one of summoning. Not one draped with pleasantries.
No, the motion carries urgency. Human instinct tells her that much.
Mar looks from the hand that’s pressed outward and up to her crush’s face. She gives him her full attention, willing to do anything for this genetic anomaly.
A word forms on his lips. He mouths it three times, although Mar understood it right away.
“Help.”
The key to a quality workout is combining cardio and weightlifting. One without the other is like a one-sided penny. Is such a thing possible? Well, no. Not unless the object is two-dimensional. Anything existing in a three-dimensional space would have at least two sides. Can something be four-dimensional? That exists, right? Is there a single dimension? A dimension from which all other dimensions stem? How many dimensions could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck dimensions?
The questions spray like machine gun fire inside Damian’s mind. He is lying flat on the bench with two forty-pound dumbbells resting softly against his chest. His breathing is marginally labored by the extra force pressing into his ribs. He is gathering up the strength to begin his set, but, as usual, his mind is intent on exploring side cavities and alleyways.
Di·men·sion. It really makes you wonder how words form and then sprout multiple meanings. You can determine the dimensions of an object, or you can be stuck in the fifth dimension playing hopscotch with dust mites who know Spanish.
The protein powder provokes bizarre thoughts in Damian. He scratches away his dimension contemplation and refocuses his energy on the task before him. With a timid grunt and a slight arch of his back, Damian heaves the dumbbells upward. His elbows move up and in until they are locked into a straight position.
“That’s one,” Damian says, deciding to count the rep at its highest point.
With deliberate control, he eases the dumbbells back down until they hover a few inches above his chest.
This is the monotony of the daily routine.
Rep after rep. Sets and then more sets. Documenting his numbers within an app he pays fifteen dollars a month for. The constant struggle of reeling his mind in from needless tangents. (“A man who lives near the beach and frequently gets lost could be considered a tangent tan gent. Ehh?”) The repetitive motion of re-racking weights and grabbing new ones that are slightly heavier. La- di-da. He spends at least an hour in the gym to achieve minimal gains that could be wiped away within two months of stagnation.
In essence, the gym is a contract with the devil. The fine print shows all the tedium and time that most will never devote. And for the few who do, the results never last. That toned, buffed-out meathead you see at the gym? You are catching them at their best. They are riding the shortest, stubbiest gravy train that’s ever existed. Or dipping so heavily into steroids that their balls now mimic M&M’s.
Damian knows about contracts and illicit drugs and minuscule testicles. Damian has scoured forums and absorbed all the mystical wisdom the masses pass out to any passerby. They always want new recruits because, like a true pact with the devil, new sacrifices keep business booming and bloated.
The fitness room at The Amorphophallus has become Damian’s haven. For a complex as large as this one, the two floors are usually barren, minus the occasional visitor who keeps their distance. It isn’t as if Damian doesn’t have other interests, but there is something soothing about the gym. A solitary nature mixed beautifully with camaraderie if such a combination enthuses you. The ability to transform yourself into something new, whether it is gaining or losing a piece of yourself. While not much of a reader, Damian considers the gym to be the most open-ended choose-your-own-adventure novel.
Today, Damian is working his way through his chest and legs routine. Unlike some, Damian enjoys leg day and feeling the soreness radiate out from his calves and up through his thighs. That’s where his mind chooses to focus itself after the third set of dumbbell presses. He’s ready to move on. Chest lifts are for vanity. Chest lifts are for people looking to sunbathe on the patio. Damian prefers to be well-rounded, not to resemble the shape of an ice cream cone.
With the dumbbells back home, Damian plots his course through the machines and stops at all the leg-centric ones. Leg press, calf raises, leg extensions, and hip adductions/abductions. Beyond the machines, though, the actual goldmine is waiting on the second floor. There, Damian surveys his domain: four treadmills, three ellipticals, and three stationary bikes with seats like bricks that are prone to probing your asshole. Damian tried the bikes once and walked like a duck for the rest of the evening.
He chooses the second closest treadmill. It’s proven to be the most reliable and doesn’t wobble and quake nearly as much as the others. A benign fear exists within Damian’s psyche that the treadmill will eventually collapse and disintegrate into a hundred pieces while he is at full tilt. The sudden explosion of plastic and gears and screws will send him both backward and downward, crashing neck-first into the padded floor and dragging him against the surface until his body meets the wall, producing a horrid puddle of muscle and meat. Would his muscles cushion him from the worst of the damage? Would anybody come to his aid as he lay screaming? Would—
Tan·gent.
Di·men·sion.
Damian casts aside improbabilities and steps onto the treadmill. The button scheme on the control panel is basic, even for the greenest cardio enthusiast. Damian stabs a finger at the giant button labeled GO, and the treadmill whirls to life. The tread starts out slow, like a waking giant unfurling itself against the backdrop of a new day. As his legs stretch and bend against familiar ground, Damian increases the speed until his pace is above a casual walk but beneath a jog.
Damian digs into his pockets. He produces his phone and earbud case, placing them both into the cupholder on the side of the control panel. Several months ago, Damian discovered the power of podcasts. While allowing his mind to wander led to interesting excursions, the best way to pass the time during aerobic exercise is to listen to others rant, ramble, and regale an audience. The actual content of the podcast doesn’t matter. Give him murder mysteries, fictional stories woven into harrowing tales, or a trite rundown of the day’s news. Regardless, Damian found that time skipped by faster and somehow matched the pace of his accelerated heart rate during the peak of his workout.
With earbuds in and a determined look plastered to his face, Damian taps the up arrow on the control panel until his legs pound against the tread. From here on out, he will increase his speed by .1 every thirty seconds until he is in a sprint. He relays the usual plan to himself before getting lost in a twelve-part podcast about the (diabolical) avocado industry.
Three minutes into the run, Damian feels a rush of wind and a displacement of sound. His earbuds crackle with feedback. The soothing voice from the podcast stutters and cuts out for an entire sentence. When it returns, the monologue switches to something more sinister. A single word repeated in that same inviting voice.
“Tread . . . Tread . . . Tread.”
On it goes, matching pace with Damian’s rhythm. He moves a hand to his phone and pauses the podcast. The voice continues. Slightly faster now.
“Tread. Tread. Tread.”
Damian pulls out an earbud and examines it. His eyes waver and readjust to the object held close to his face. He tries not to focus on the increasing likelihood of him making one misstep and tumbling off the machine. The earbud gives him nothing, remaining the same inanimate object as it’s always been. The word pulsates in his other ear. Faster now. Much faster.
“TREADTREADTREADTREADTREADTRE . . .”
The voice is urgent and practically begging Damian to keep up.
He doesn’t. Instead, Damian tosses the loose earbud into the other cupholder and dislodges the one still tethered to his ear. He then holds his finger against the red button until the treadmill agrees and powers down. Within seconds, Damian regresses from a run to a trot to a jog to an amble and finally to nothing at all.
“Something wrong?” The sound is sudden and sharp, delivered in a thorny whisper.
Damian grips his hands against the control panel and falls back onto his heels. His head spins toward the question. His heart hammers even faster than the brief run produced. “Jesus Christ,” he yells out as he locates the man now standing on the treadmill to his left.
“You got the wrong guy,” he says, throwing up his hands in dismay. They are dirty, stained with an unknown gray substance that leaks out in a cobweb pattern. “I’m well beneath someone of his standing.” The surprised look on his face from Damian’s reaction subsides to something warmer. Some could argue that the man appreciated the reaction. Everyone finds at least some joy in startling another.
“Where . . .?” Damian tries to ask before his breath hitches.
“The stairs over there. Just like you, I suppose,” the man says, somewhat incredulous. “Using them to bring me here is their sole purpose.” The man considers this. “Sad,” he concludes.
“Why . . .?” Damian tries again and fails.
The man sticks out his neck and beckons Damian to continue. “Why . . . what?”
“I—”
The man waves a hand to stop the proceeding. “Actually, don’t bother. I really can’t stand pleasantries, you know? That period of time when two things blather back and forth like chattering termites. How are you? Why are you here? Are gas prices always this high? When will the weather not be dreary? I mean, questions are fine. Essential, even. But the boring ones are such a waste. Like an endless desert. Sweeping hills of sand. And more sand. More and more until you’re choking and coughing on it like poison. Sand never looks different, does it? You examine one grain and you can rest assured that each one that follows looks the same. A dull sight. There’s no beauty to it, you know? Tragic, when you consider its abundance. Let’s just skip it all. Zip right on by. I’ll still provide you all the information you need—which isn’t much—but in a rapid-fire format. Is that fair? Of course, it is. Fair is fair is always fair, even when one begs for the fair to be moved over there.
“Anyway,” he man continues, “my name is unimportant, but I’ll provide it to you since you are likely to ask. People are prickly about a stranger who omits their name. I’m Buzz. Some call me B or Bub, although you have not earned that right. Outsiders need to abide by rules, you know? Rules rule, so they say. Hierarchies exist so ladders can be climbed and tumbles can occur. You must ascend my ladder. Metaphorically speaking. It may be more appropriate to state that you need to descend my ladder. Yes, yes. You see, the deeper you go, the greater the pleasure. Gluttony overfills the cup and puffs out the cheeks. Gluttony breeds and births envy. Without either, why even bother?”
“I—”
It’s now that Damian notices Buzz’s dilated pupils. Even in the blinding light of the fitness room, Buzz’s eyes appear to be ingesting as much as they can. Something is off about him. Foreign in a way that Damian doesn’t understand. The man has a proportionate body that would never draw unwarranted attention, but upon closer inspection, he is wrong. His skin seems loose. His hair seems tacked on and askew, as if it were a cheap wig. Damian can tell that the man’s bones are brittle and fragile underneath the heavy clothing that no one would wear to the gym. It’s almost like he stepped into this body. An oversized suit that could be corrected by a semi-decent tailor, but Buzz doesn’t care for perfection. There’s no need for it. He just needs to be presentable and inviting enough to kick-start a conversation.
“I—” Damian tries again, stuck in a permanent loop.
“What were you listening to?” Buzz extends a grimy hand and juts out a finger toward Damian’s phone.
Free from his tongue-tied bondage, Damian unveils a complete thought. “A podcast. About avocados.”
“Avocados? Really?” Buzz chews on the information. “Tasty,” he says as if he completely disagrees. “Hey, do you like music? You ever listen to music when you run?” Buzz sticks out two fingers and pretends that they are legs running. His fingernails are cracked and yellowed.
Wrong, wrong, wrong. It’s all wrong, Damian thinks.
And yet, he proceeds. As decided long ago.
“I listen casually to different genres, but I don’t have a favorite.”
“I noticed this trend long ago,” Buzz says. “Maybe you won’t get it because you’re not a lover of music, but I’ll share it with you anyway. When people sing about transporting themselves to heaven or hell, it’s always via stairways and highways and doors. Doors are somehow very popular, as if either of those places would have a need for them. An open-air concept feels more appropriate. You ever think about this?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“Oh,” Buzz says, disappointed. “But why aren’t there any songs about treadmills, you know? Imagine a treadmill that, when you step off the back, it deposits you before the Pearly Gates or spits you out in the fire-drenched hellscape of Hell. I think that could be a hit.” Buzz clears his throat and fathers some lyrics. “Tread, tread, tread on down/Follow the sounds around this fair town/Tread, tread, tread to your home/Let it become the place you roam.” He nods in approval. “I’ll let you steal the idea if you want. Change the words, though. They suck. Free of charge. You won’t owe me nothing. Just listen to me babble for a bit longer. I don’t get out much, you see. I mean, I could. Whenever, really. Freedom. Flexibility. All that stuff you people want. But sometimes, I get into a rut. I complete my chores and see to my responsibilities. I do this faithfully and fully for eons. Millennia. Until time no longer functions—not that it ever has. And then, suddenly, I wake up from being perpetually awake and realize that rules are cruel. Masterful creations by something I no longer trust. Dysfunction exists. Even in a barren, desolate, soul-crushing place. You understand? When I’m ensnared by this crippling shit, I run. I slip into something nice and go for a walkabout. Do you understand?”
Damian feels constricted. Something is keeping him tethered to the treadmill. He wants to move on from this and go back to his apartment. With that option unavailable to him, he responds with “I don’t think I understand.”
Buzz scrapes a fingernail across the control panel on his treadmill. He seems curious as to what each button does, although he presses none of them. “Don’t worry about it. I speak in arcs and loops. It’s tiresome for my acquaintances. They all say, ‘Yo, Bub, what gives? Going on another tangent?’ And then I say, ‘What? Huh?’ And then we just forget about it . . . Hey, do you like real estate? Own any property?”
Damian laughs. He can still do that. He tightens his grip against the handrails, digging into the squishy surface. How out of touch is Buzz? “No chance. I’ll probably never own property. Prices are . . . stupid right now and will never be normal again.”
“Ah. Hmm. Ohhh! What if I told you I had an opportunity for you? A chance to invest at the ground level of something, well, groundbreaking?”
“I’d think that you were talking to me in bad faith.”
“Bad faith?” Buzz muses at the phrase. “Faith has nothing to do with this. Real estate is simple. Buy, squat on the plot until you’ve turned a profit, and then never, ever sell. Regardless of what anyone chatters on about. Land equals power, okay? You know? Look, I got the perfect spot for you. Up and coming, you might say. Some may argue that the area is a bit run-down, but it’s underdeveloped. Under seasoned, yeah? We need pioneers like you. We need trailblazers. People who will root themselves to a singular place for a long, long time until their voice gives out. Are you interested?”
“Not particularly.”
“Why not? Did you not like my sales pitch? I’m open to feedback. All criticism is constructive to me. I can handle it,” Buzz says.
“Multiple reasons. You are some bum off the street. I don’t have the money for something like that. I actually don’t mind living in an apartment, contrary to how others may feel. Also, you’re a bit pushy and, overall, you stink, look filthy, and give off a weird vibe. I’ve entertained you enough. You can leave now, or else I’ll call—”
“No, no. You’re right. I can be somewhat grating. See, I don’t have many friends. Most things that interact with me are forced to. Much like you right now. I am continually fascinated by the stupidity of people. You feel it, don’t you? The energy is off. Everything is still. The air feels damp and soiled. No movement. Your life is over. Not yet. Not quite yet, but it will be. This place is streaked with all sorts of harbingers. Damian, you will be one of the unluckier ones tonight. I can guarantee that.”
“What does any of that mean?” Damian reaches for his phone, but it is no longer in the cupholder.
“If it’s any consolation, this wouldn’t have saved you,” Buzz says, waggling the phone before Damian. Buzz then flicks his wrist and tosses the phone over the railing. It sails down toward a machine on the first floor and plunks off the side before colliding with the ground.
“What the fuck was that for?”
“If I told you who I was, you wouldn’t believe me. If I told you why I was here, you wouldn’t care. But if I showed you, you would be terrified . . . Why don’t we play a game? Something that will not make this whole evening seem futile. If you win, I’ll give you an opportunity. If you lose, you’re mine. Seem fair?”
Damian shifts his right leg to the side until it moves from the tread to the plastic panel that runs along it. As his leg reaches the edge, it freezes, inhibited by an invisible wall. “Really?” he questions. “That’s not fair.”
“I will admit,” Buzz says, “that none of this is fair for you. The rules are cruel, but they must be followed . . . How fast do you run, Damian? What do you call it . . . your personal best? What’s your personal best?”
“I don’t know.” Damian taps his shoe against the barrier. No sound or visible feedback returns to him.
“I think you know. Actually, I know you know. Oblige me, would you?”
“Why does it even matter at this point?” Damian asks.
“That’s a poor attitude,” Buzz says. “If you recall, I said I’d give you an opportunity. That is new to me. Usually, I would just whisk you away and be done with it. No haggling allowed, you might say. But, but, but . . . I’m feeling gracious today. That’s why I chose a gym. That’s why I chose you. All of this is atypical to my typical torment.”
“So you agree that this is torment?”
“Of course,” Buzz says, showing his disheveled teeth. “I chose that word for a reason.”
“But you are—”
Damian’s treadmill powers on and begins to move, unenthused and undetermined, but fast enough that Damian still needs to reposition himself to walk and keep pace.
“I tried to make this interactive. Like a . . . like a choose-your-own-adventure book. I hear you are fond of those. I tried to be disarming and sociable. I understand that I look off, but I’m doing my best. We all can’t be perfect like you. And here you are, making a mockery of this situation. It’s okay. It’s okay. We can skip it all. No more friendly banter. No more playing with my food. I will say, though, that easy prey never leads to satisfaction.”
The next two things happen simultaneously. The treadmill beeps a handful of times, and the speed increases to where Damian is now engaged in a trot. Behind him, the air sizzles and pops. The pressure changes and heat licks against his back. Damian turns just enough to notice the oblong shape seared into the floor. The border rotates and maintains a purplish tint. Everything in the middle is a mix of swirling browns, reds, and oranges.
“Is that . . .?” Damian starts.
“A portal. A gateway. An entrance. Choose whatever word you’d like. It will suffice. For you, consider it to be your incentive to run. Once you fall in there, you no longer exist here. So, what do you say, Damian? Want to test your endurance? How does an hour sound? Let’s see if all the time you waste here is enough to grant you an opportunity.”
Damian doesn’t answer. He focuses his eyes ahead, debating internally about the likelihood that any of this is real. It’s easy to dismiss ridiculous situations as fiction. It’s far too easy to cast off bizarre individuals who spew random thoughts and morph them into puzzling monologues. None of this feels hazy like a dream or pushed so far into insanity that a distorted mental state is the only justification. This isn’t any of that. He is here, in The Amorphophallus, treading, treading, treading. Just like he always has. Trying to stay a few steps away from the edge.
“Starting to sweat,” Buzz says. He is leaning against the handrail of his treadmill, somehow both looking at Damian and examining something else in another corner of the room.
“Yeah, that’s what happens when you run. Why don’t you try it out for yourself?”
Buzz uses a bony hand to pick up his pant leg. Underneath, the skin is glued together along the shin. A thin but noticeable line disappears into his sock and extends up past his knee. Where the skin is pushed together, it bubbles and looks infected. “I would fall apart if I tried. This was a last-minute thing, you know. I didn’t get much notice.”
“You are just going to watch me the whole time?”
“Time means nothing to me. Your life would have had much more meaning if you thought the same.”
Damian wants to retort, to delve deeper as to who or what this thing is, but he can feel his chest tightening just enough to constrict any words. The treadmill beeps again. The pace quickens.
Down below, the woman appears. The same one who always shows up when Damian is at the gym. It’s eerie, although not entirely surprising. Damian completes the same cycles as everyone else, so it only makes sense that another person would have a cycle that overlaps with his. The issue is her slight obsession with him. She stares and gawks at him as if she thinks he is a celebrity. He knows her intentions because she isn’t the first. Damian is a fetish for her. The dark skin, the curly hair. The idea of Damian is what appeals to her. Something exotic. Something ethnic. This woman doesn’t want him; she wants to stand out. She eyes him up and down, just like the others. She sticks out her ass and tries to capture his attention in a variety of flirty ways, just like the others. She envisions herself bringing him to Sunday brunch and introducing him to her countless girlfriends, all cardboard cutouts of one another. The friends will giggle and snicker at her boldness. They will treat him nicely enough to his face but unravel all their racist thoughts in private. Damian would (read: has) put up with it because he thinks it is what he’s worth.
Whether he is right or wrong about this stranger, Damian can’t say, but he continues to stick to what he believes to be true. That’s why he has ignored her.
Until today.
With his phone in pieces on the ground floor, this woman may be his only option. As Damian lifts his hand enough to capture her attention, the woman’s face uncoils from staring off into space and notices his gesture. Damian doesn’t consider what comes next as he mouths the word help to her.
Before Damian realizes, the woman has scrambled up the stairs and is standing on the treadmill to his right. This whole evening has gone from a solo venture to a group gathering.
“Hello,” she says, suppressing a laugh. “Is everything okay?”
The machine beeps. The tread picks up its pace. Damian is running now. His arms pump in a violent yet controlled motion. His breathing becomes disordered and chaotic. He has done this a thousand times, but never with this feeling of an immense weight pressing down on him as if Buzz is riding upon Damian’s shoulders. He can’t help but think why anyone enjoys this, even when they aren’t being forced to.
Buzz leans his head enough to see past Damian toward the woman. “He is fine. Just a bit of competition we have going on here.”
“Doesn’t seem like you are competing,” the woman observes.
“How astute,” Buzz says. “Hey, do you like real estate? Own any pr—”
“No!” Damian shouts, still running. Always running. He attempts to discard the exhausted feeling that is overtaking him. “She doesn’t want . . . your fucking property,” he says.
The woman blushes at this. She nods her head in agreement.
“Fine,” Buzz says. “I came for one, and that’s what I shall leave with. What’s your purpose then, Mar?” he asks.
If Mar is shocked to hear Buzz use her name, she doesn’t show it. Instead, she fires off a levelheaded response. “Who the fuck are you, you fucking greased-up pig? I’ve seen gutter rats cleaner than you.”
“I’m sure Mama wouldn’t appreciate that fiery tongue you have. Me, on the other hand, I could find a use for it. Come over here. Come over and tell me everything,” Buzz hisses. He spreads his arms and beckons Mar to step closer.
Nobody speaks. Damian’s feet continue to pound against the tread. He can feel the allure of the portal. Maybe it’ll bring him to another di·men·sion. A part of him wants to explore. Dallas is timid and predictable and sterile. The streets swarm with the same traffic. The stores discount the same products. The portal may dump him out into a realm where his thoughts couldn’t even formulate what exists.
As Damian contemplates his next step, Mar moves from her treadmill over to Buzz. “Listen here, you lame duck with your annoying quack. Something ain’t right in the buttermilk up here. You got that down-on-your-luck vagabond look. I don’t suffer fools or the homeless, so get all ten pounds of you out of this fucking gym before I kick your dick up into your lungs.”
Buzz looks down at Mar and takes in the threat.
The machine trills again. The tread quickens. Damian groans as his legs grow heavier against the ground. He can feel himself dragging. The control panel shows his pace is now set at ten miles an hour.
“It’s a real shame that I can’t take you both.” Buzz leans closer to Mar, ensuring the following words are heard and felt. “We like the ones who resist the best. But your prize awaits, doesn’t it?”
“Fuck you. Fuck this,” Mar says. She winds back her arm and slingshots it forward to the inside of Buzz’s knee. Upon connection, a bone pops and Buzz topples over sideways like a Jenga tower dismantling. He falls to the ground with a thud and a shriek of shock or pain. It’s impossible to tell which. Out from behind his pant leg, a flap of skin unfurls itself and flops to the ground. Buzz remains still for long enough that one would question if he had commissioned a painting of the scene.
“People always underestimate a well-placed punch to the knee,” Mar muses.
Mar uses Buzz’s inactivity to move back over to Damian. While he doesn’t notice, she passes right over top of the portal, seemingly unaffected and unbothered about it.
“Let’s go. We should probably get the fuck out of here,” she says.
“I . . . can’t. The portal,” Damian says.
“Huh?” Mar’s face contorts into confusion. “Don’t be daft. Let’s go.” Mar reaches over onto Damian’s treadmill and yanks out the red plastic disk inserted into the control panel. Immediately, the tread slows. Damian feels his legs sigh with relief. His chest will heave somewhat uncontrollably for another minute or two, but he will live.
“Thank you,” he ekes out.
“Christ, what the fuck happened up here? Sometimes you just need to move on. You can’t entertain the insane,” she says, attempting to answer her own question. Mar latches onto Damian’s wrist. The tread is still completing its downturn, but she yanks him toward her. Damian half stumbles off the treadmill and takes three quick steps to regain his footing past the row of treadmills and in front of the stairs.
“How?” he asks. “I couldn’t . . .”
“Holy shit, both of you talk entirely too much,” Mar says. She squeezes his wrist tighter and guides him down the stairs. “You remember how these work, right?” It’s hard to say whether her shift in tone is because of the situation or if she is using it as a way to impress Damian. Either way, he nods and follows behind her, his legs barely picking up enough to avoid his shoes from scraping against each step.
Halfway down, a voice booms behind them. “Dramatic timing, you know? You always need the illusion of escape.”
Damian and Mar turn as Buzz leaps onto the railing. He is now naked, unashamed to show them every detail. He balances himself upon the railing and shakes like a dog trying to get dry. His skin starts to dislodge and fly across the gym in weighted globs. They smack against all the surrounding surfaces and slide down to a resting position. Steam rises off Buzz and flutters toward the ceiling. The blood and muscle underneath the now discarded body slops to the floor in one nauseating mass. Buzz moans in pleasure, a deep, unrelenting sound that stings the ears.
“Probably a sign to keep moving,” Mar says. She tugs on Damian’s wrist, and they continue their downward journey. They ignore the whoosh sound from behind them. They choose to disregard Buzz’s pleas for them to stop.
“Oh no, please don’t go. How will I possibly catch you? I’m just a pathetic person, tethered to this ragged form.”
As they reach the first floor, the air throughout the room swirls and spins. They don’t see it, but Buzz unfolds his wings and swoops down from the railing. He is foreign now. No longer human. No longer anything associated with this world. His body is black. Each muscle is thin and threaded, straining against whatever qualifies as his new skin. He is taller, faster, untethered. His eyes glow white.
With snarled teeth, Buzz arcs down toward Damian and Mar. Mar lets go of Damian’s wrist and takes the lead. They pivot around the corner toward the only exit, but Buzz has the advantage. He stretches out a hand, lathered in a goo that oozes off him, and grabs hold of Damian. He is lifted off his feet. The two fall back into the wall and collide with one another. The mirrored wall further down shakes and considers breaking. Mar recoils from the carnage and chooses to keep pressing forward.
Blood pours from the back of Damian’s head. The edges of his vision blur and bend.
“Shh, shh, shh. It’s okay,” Buzz says, his voice more thundering than before. “We will fix you right up.” He runs a finger along the back of Damian’s head until it’s covered in blood and then smears it across Damian’s face. “How’s that? Don’t be scared. You tried your best, but you didn’t follow the rules.”
Damian is lost. Damian lost. It’s over.
As the portal reemerges in front of him, Damian is intoxicated by what awaits within. Torment. Suffering. All of it is for nothing. All of it serves no purpose. “This isn’t fair,” he says.
“Like I said,” Buzz says, hoisting Damian’s body into a standing position, “this whole thing was never meant to be fair. Now, stop treading and dive in.”
Buzz pushes Damian into the portal and follows behind.
“Mama, I couldn’t save him. It was me or him. Me or him. Y-y-you always told me to put me first. And I did. I had to, even though he was my crush. My God, what the fuck was that thing? What the fuck is going on here?”
Mar is now in a controlled jog toward the elevator. Every fourth step, she looks over her shoulder to see if anything has leaked out from the gym. She keeps envisioning her crush creeping into her periphery and begging for help.
Mar reaches the elevator and mashes her fist against the UP button. The elevator pings, the door opens, and Mar steps inside. She holds her apartment key between two knuckles. She’s ready. She’s hunched over, waiting, waiting, waiting for her crush to step into view.
“You left me with it,” he will say. “You’re next,” he will condemn.
The door closes before anyone or anything steps into view. Mar relaxes just enough to feel the knot in her back ease. She stands up straight and takes a deep breath. “Mama, did I just watch someone die?” Whatever boldness and brash words Mar once had have now dissipated. The electric panel in the elevator flickers with each passing floor. Although it feels immensely longer, only a few seconds pass before the doors open again on the fourth floor. Mar takes tentative steps until she is deposited into the hallway. Everything looks the same. No carnage. No bits of skin plastered to the ceiling or sagging to the floor. No portals to another place that she has no interest in exploring.
Mar threads her way through the hallway until making it to the familiar door. Contrary to Juniper’s objections, Mar hung a dry-erase board. Every so often she changes the message in her flowery font. For the last week, she has had a simple phrase of “Happy Halloween!” written with a mediocre jack-o’-lantern drawn in the corner. Not her best work, but it was effective enough to stand out from the surrounding blandness of their neighbors.
As Mar stands before the door, the board is now cracked into two pieces. A single letter has been smudged and replaced by a jittery hand. The deep red color of this fresh addition stands out from the other letters.
“Happy Helloween!” the sign now reads.
Mar grabs the board and rips it away from the wall, leaving behind several marks against the painted door. She tosses the board down the hallway and watches it clatter and bounce away.
“It’s going to come up behind me, isn’t it? It’s going to snatch me and lock me away in its hellhole. Why? Why?” Mar says, becoming more frantic.
She turns back to the door and tugs at the handle. “It’s locked. It’s locked,” she says. “Juni, let me in. Juniper!” Mar yells, banging a fist against the door. The frame rattles at the bombardment. “Juniper, open the fucking door!” Mar screams. She doesn’t care about the neighbors. She doesn’t care about Mama or looking unladylike.
She just wants to be home.
The assault continues until Mar brings her other fist up to the door. Upon ramming it once against the door, she feels the sting of her keys still gripped in her hand. “Goddammit, you dummy,” she scolds herself. Mar retreats from her onslaught and fumbles with the keys in her hand. She sorts through the keyring until she finds the correct one. She spares one more glance down the hallway toward the dry-erase board because curiosity is a sin everyone commits.
It’s gone.
Instead, her crush stands where the board was. His head bobs and wavers. His clothes have been ripped away, revealing the scorch marks underneath. His mouth moves, repeating the same word over and over.
“Help.”
“No, no, no, no,” Mar says. She turns away from the nightmare and presses the key into the lock. “He’s gone. He’s gone. Get inside the fucking apartment,” she says as if terror can’t pass beyond the threshold.
As if terror isn’t already waiting.
Mar rams a shoulder into the unlocked door and stumbles into the apartment. She slams the door shut and flicks all three locks. The sound is satisfying and signifies sanctuary. “Okay, okay,” she says, working to catch her breath. “You’re fine.” The words are shallow but sufficient.
Mar closes her eyes and steadies her breath. She leans back to push all her weight against the door. Isn’t this what everyone does when they think they are safe? When Mar opens her eyes, she sees death.
Juniper’s corpse is sitting in a kitchen chair before the opened box. She looks serene, outside the fact that her head is missing. No, not missing. It’s stained against the walls and ceiling. Chunks of skull and brain matter have redecorated the apartment. An explosion. An outward force so strong that the kitchen cabinets have rippled and the furniture throughout the room has bloomed to far corners.
Mar gasps and lets out a small squeak. She can’t leave. She doesn’t want to. Running would be the best option if something wasn’t lurking outside.
Mar steps closer until she can see the viscera that sits within Juniper’s neck. The blood and sinew are dried and caked. How long has it been? Time loses its power when death is introduced. If Mar were to stare straight down the hole in Juniper’s neck, what would she see? Instead, Mar grabs Juniper’s cold, lifeless arm and intends to squeeze it until the sensation wears off that she is standing next to her dead best friend.
Before that can happen, a noise awakens in the hallway. Mar looks over and sees a creature uncoil itself from the ceiling. Wings burst outward as they swallow up the slender, fragile body attached to them. The wings press against the walls and ceiling, crammed into the tight space. The antennae flicker and bend. The abdomen is solid black, a sharp contrast to the deep orange wings that are segmented by uneven white lines. The creature flaps and steadies itself. The wind rushes down the hallway and beats against Mar’s face. Her hand is still gripped to Juniper. She will never let go. She has seen death too many times in her life. It’s unfair. It’s cruel when the rules are never consistent.
The creature hums. A melancholy sound. One of sadness and obligation. Mar forces her eyes shut to minimize the pain that radiates in her ears. The humming infiltrates her, shows her what everything is. It doesn’t give her a choice. Death defines all. Mar feels the madness rise through her. A fast-acting cocktail. Mar surrenders herself to it. Mar still recalls the peace that spread across her mother’s face ten years ago when she surrendered herself, when she let fear be replaced by acceptance.
Mar will do the same. She keeps her eyes closed as the beautiful creature frees itself from the hallway. Mar can smell the earth. Mar can taste the unholiness leaking from this thing.
The humming intensifies until Mar feels a trickle of blood leaking from her ears.
Mar may have lost, but she is found.
The wings surge open to their maximum width and shroud Mar in their embrace. Oh, she has been found. She is whole. She is saved.
As her bones crack and her body compresses, Mar forces her screams to subside. It allows her to squeeze out a final word.
“Mama.”