Page 34 of Script Swap
“Oh, you know, wallowing in my own crapulence.Full disclosure, I stole that fromThe Simpsons.” Sometimes, Bobby’s face doesn’t change, but you get this clear feeling that you’d better cut the ’tude.“I mean, fine.Just wading through revisions.The never-ending story.Starring David Bowie with extra eyeliner.”
“That wasLabyrinth.The Neverending Storyhad that dog that was also a dragon.”
“See, this is why I love you.Those muscles are a lie.There’s a noodley-armed nerd somewhere deep inside you.”
Bobby also knows when to move on.“Are you going to keep working?”
I looked down at my screen.I was going to have to buy a bigger barn because these Catchimals only had one thing on their minds.
“Uh, yeah.Kind of in the middle of something.”
He gave me that big, happy grin.“I’ll come get you when dinner’s ready.”
It wasn’t lying.Not really.I was—I was burned out.
I just needed some time.
Chapter 8
Believe it or not, the next morning, I was back at the gym.
This had become a thing for me.And not in a good way.
Here’s the thing about gyms.There are lots of people.There’s music.And then people are listening to their own music.And they’re talking to each other.And there are mirrors.And people are looking at themselves in the mirrors.And they’re looking at you.And no matter how hard you try, you sometimes end up seeingyourselfin the mirrors.And weights are clanking and people are judging and did you know that treadmills keep goingforever?Like, the manufacturers don’t even build in a safety mechanism to disable them after you’ve run a mile.
I won’t even mention the locker rooms except to say this: there are a lot of gentlemen (usually older) who are way too comfortable with their bodies.
Oh, and the smells.
And one time I saw a guy cleaning under his toenails!
Okay, I’m done.
(For now.)
But building some muscle and losing some, uh, tummy was part of the Straight to the Moon: Dashiell Dawson Dane, Rocket Man Improvement Plan.
And the secret weapon in my plan was Chester Lamb: certified dreamboat, unofficial personal trainer, and world’s gentlest bully (ace edition).
Here’s the thing about Chester.He’s soft-spoken.He loves photography.He is weirdly into puzzles that have more than twenty-four pieces (my max capacity).He lives in his parents’ basement.And I know what you’re thinking: he’s some pasty, misbegotten thing that probably has to shield its eyes when it comes out into the sunlight.
Sadly, life isn’t fair.
Chester is the dictionary definition of eye candy.He’s got dark blond hair that’s messy on top and shaved short on the sides, he’s got an incredibly cute beard/mustache thing going on, and he looks like some ancient Greek sculptor made his body on a good day—so many muscles.Unfortunately, it turns out hegotall those muscles through hard work and perseverance and all sorts of other terrible things.
He’d taken pity on me at the gym when I’d gotten myself trapped under a barbell.(Like, literally—it was pinning me to the bench, and everybody was going about their business, pretending nothing was happening.Although I’m pretty sure if Mr.Cheek had been there, he would have gently pressed down on that barbell until Bobby Mai was free again.) And after saving my life and soothing my ego, Chester had appointed himself in charge of all future physical self-improvement.
He was in these cute shorts and a tank today.The tank showed the sun lifting weights.The sun was smiling.It was so adorable—and it was so early in the morning (nine o’clock)—that I almost screamed.
“We’re starting with cardio,” Chester informed me.
“I’m going to scream,” I warned him.
That made him laugh for some reason.But while he was laughing, he also manhandled me up onto the treadmill and pressed something, and then it was either run or get sucked under and wrapped around the treadmill belt like a cartoon character.
After our “warm-up,” which is such a cruel lie that I feel like there should be legal recourse and some sort of compensation, Chester made me lift weights.Lots of weights.Heavy weights.(Okay, notthatheavy.Althea Wilson was using the same weights, and she’s in her seventies.Also, she’s a total babe.) And then I had to throw a medicine ball.And then I had to dopush-ups.(The horror: cue a montage of embarrassing memories from high school PE.)
But here’s the weird thing about exercise.Somehow, it tricks your body.Your body doesn’t realize you’re trying to kill it.Your body, for some reason, thinks it’s a good thing.And then all these hormones start rushing through you.(Are they endorphins or are they hormones?Are endorphins hormones?Should I see a doctor?) And your head doesn’t feel as—is smoggy a thing?Like, when everything in your head is gray and thick and heavy, and some days you aren’t even sure you can get out of bed, except you know Keme will put a snake under the covers if you don’t?And after a while, even though you can’t breathe and every inch of you feels like it’s on fire, you start to feel almost… Well, I almost saidnormal.But I guess I meantgood.
