Hard, Human Bodies

Wilson clutched the treadmill rails, his sweat dripping. He was nearly dead on his feet, but he’d done it, four miles in seventy minutes.

“Well Mr. Thirty going on Forty, that was impressive,'' said Donna, his perpetually tanned, perpetually blond, perpetually perfect trainer. She’d used the nickname he’d given himself on his first day at the gym, Kinetics. It had become their private joke, and one of Donna’s verbal spurs to make Wilson push harder.

Six years working for the insurance company had begun to weigh on him, literally, as in “thirty pounds beyond ideal body-weight.” For Wilson, at five feet nine inches tall, this meant “fat,” a word he didn’t like at all. And so, three days before his thirtieth birthday, he'd joined Kinetics, the spectacular facility the insurance company’s HMO had built the year before. All employees got a big discount to join.

“Not so bad,'' he said, wiping the sweat with his towel. “Four miles, seventy minutes.''

“You said you'd never be able to do four miles in one day.''

Wilson leaned over to gasp some much needed air, wondering if the time had come to ask Donna out. He’d been wanting to for a couple of weeks now, but had always balked. It was now or never, so he said, “You know, I was wondering if…..”

Wilson reached for his towel, and dipped at the sweat streaming down his forehead. When it became apparent he was in no hurry to finish the sentence, Donna said, “You were wondering?”

Wilson struck his forehead, play-acting the dummy who’d just forgotten something important. “Oh yes. I was wondering if I could start something new. I feel very strong now.”

“You've done weights, cardiac, spinning. I think it's time for enhancement.''

“Well, you’re the expert.” Wilson had heard the word before. Idle comments in the hallway, the sauna. People spoke about enhancement quietly, almost sotto voce. Wilson wasn’t sure what it meant, but if Donna thought he should do it, then he’d do it.

Behind them, an electric drill screamed, and they turned to see what was going on. In the glassed-in aerobics room, workmen in white smocks hived about massive contraptions they were assembling out of levers and pulleys, copper wiring, and shiny plastic molds. Each of the vaguely robotic shapes wrapped around a padded seat, and was crowned by a rack of electronic monitors.

“What are they?'' Wilson asked, surprised at how quickly they’d materialized. He didn’t remember seeing them during his session with Donna the Wednesday before.

“A new type of exercise gizmo.'' Donna said, returning abruptly to the subject. “Enhancement takes a little while. But you'll be amazed. You’ll be a completely different person.''

“What do I do?”

“Just get a referral from the HMO. They’ll give you a password, too. For the enhancement website.”

“OK.”

“Then we’re all set for next Wednesday?” Donna flashed Wilson one of her big sunny smiles.

“Sure,” Wilson said, aware that he’d missed yet another opportunity to ask her out. Yes, he desperately needed an edge of some sort, a cave-man club that would make him irresistible to women, to Donna. Maybe enhancement would do the trick.

Wilson headed for the lockers, and showered quickly. Done and dressed, he headed past the check-out desk, nodded at the attendant, and took his leave through the revolving glass entrance-way. As Wilson exited into the evening, an incredibly attractive couple approached from the parking lot. Tall, muscular, with chiseled features and swept-back yellow manes, they prowled like lions following a blood scent. As they passed, Wilson felt a thrill of fear, then admiration, then envy. Someday, he swore to himself, he was going to be like them.

* * * * *

Wilson had been sitting in the claustrophobic room for ten minutes, having already spent thirty minutes in the empty waiting room, where he’d filled out a medical history form and read several three-year old magazines. The office was located in a not-so-nice part of town, and Wilson had scanned the debris-strewn parking lot before getting out of his car. His family doctor in the HMO had made the referral.

Wilson glanced at his watch. It was getting late, 1:30PM, and just as he was starting to worry he’d miss his afternoon meeting at the office, the door opened. The man who entered was slight and balding, with gray at his temples and stooped shoulders. He held a clipboard.

“Wilson, I presume,'' the man said in a weak voice.

“Yes.''

“I’m Dr. Gracken.''

Wilson smiled, relieved to be getting on with it.

Dr. Gracken glanced at the clipboard and said,
“How long have you been at Kinetics?''

“Three months.''

Dr. Gracken made a notation, then asked, “Left or right handed?''

“Right.''

“Role up your left sleeve.''

As if on cue, a young female technician in a white smock pushed in a medical cart, on top of which lay a very large hypodermic needle.

“Wha wha…what’s that?'' Wilson asked. He’d never seen such a large needle.

“Think of it as designer vitamins.''

“The needle’s huge.”

“Not everyone makes it this far,'' Dr. Gracken said, dabbing cotton at Wilson’s arm. Then, before Wilson could respond, the doctor thrust the needle deep into his bicep. It pricked red-hot for an instant, but before he could scream the fire went out as if doused by water. Whatever was in the syringe oozed cool through Wilson’s arm and shoulder, and made his mouth taste like acetone.

Dr. Gracken pulled the needle out, swabbed again, and said, “That's it.''

“That’s it?”

“Yes. Now it’s just a question of three, maybe four weeks.''

“When I start to strengthen?''

“Well, that’s stage one, the genetic anomaly. Then you build strength.”'

“Genetic anomaly?' Wilson said, a tremor in his voice.

“Yes. No one told you what to expect?'

“Not really,” Wilson said, reviewing the useless conversations he’d had with his family doctor.

“But you read the webpage?”

“I skimmed it,” Wilson lied.

“You’ll need these.” The doctor handed him a bottle of large purple pills.

“What for?”

“It can be stressful at times, enhancement.”

With that, Dr. Gracken’s cell phone rang. He studied the number for a moment, frowned, and excused himself, telling Wilson that he had to take the call. Wilson rolled his sleeve down, then stood to adjust his shirt. His arm was a bit stiff, but not bad at all considering the size of the needle. As Dr. Gracken hadn’t dismissed him, Wilson sat back down and waited. But at 2:30 PM, when it finally became apparent the doctor wasn’t returning, he decided to leave.

On passing through the waiting room in a huff, something caught Wilson’s eye. He glanced without stopping, only to stumble as it came into view, someone’s idea of a bad joke, a mask, or a fake doll perhaps. But it wasn’t a joke, because the man’s gigantic head slumped into the neck stump without sutures, and the flap of skin hanging down across his forehead clung seamlessly to his receding hairline. He groaned something at Wilson through a pea-sized mouth, and raised a hand with webbed fingers. As Wilson recovered his balance, he tried to listen to what the man was saying, but didn’t understand a thing. Cutting the man off, Wilson said excuse me and rushed out though the front door, feeling bad about his rudeness, but glad to be out of there.

* * * * *

Wilson sipped at the squeeze bottle on the treadmill, having just run four miles in sixty eight minutes. It was improvement, but hardly enough to justify what he’d been through these past few weeks. He still had his fundamentally dumpy form, which included a pudgy face on the verge of acquiring a second chin. Either enhancement wasn’t working, or it was taking much longer than he’d been led to believe.

“What's wrong?' Donna asked, picking up on Wilson’s sullen mood.

Everything, Wilson thought. When his genetic anomaly had begun to manifest, he’d nearly had a heart attack. Dr. Gracken answered one or two of his desperate calls, telling him not to worry, that all was developing according to the usual parameters. Unsure about this, Wilson paid a visit to his family doctor, who told him that Dr. Gracken knew better than anybody, so not to worry, which put Wilson back on square one. Wilson asked for a consult outside the HMO, but the adjusters greeted his request with stony silence, reminding him that this might require a re-evaluation of his medical history, with possible dismissal from the health plan. Square one again. Wilson went to the enhancement webpage, read it backwards and forwards, and found nothing but generalities, frustrating vagueness. Nor did Google searches do him any good. It was as if everything of possible relevance had been erased from cyberspace. Despite all this, Wilson was coping, figuring others had gone through it, too. He said,
“Nothing's wrong.''

“Can I see him?''

“Here?'' Wilson asked, looking about at the crowded line of treadmills. Donna nodded toward the empty aerobics room, and they walked off together, finding privacy behind ten giant exercise machines, now fully assembled, standing in the acid glare of the lights like quiescent robots, waiting for a command. Wilson lifted his arm and pulled the Velcro strap open, removing the pouch carefully.

For the past week, Wilson had watched with fascination, then horror, as his “genetic anomaly” changed from a dot-sized mole into a tiny man, a transformation that had taken place very quickly, almost on an hour to hour basis. Wilson had found some consolation in a trip to Wal-Mart, where he’d gone on Dr. Gracken’s recommendation, finding the rack of Velcro pouches after twenty minutes of searching. Not one Wal-Mart associate knew what they were, much less how to use them. But it wasn’t rocket science. Part of the genetic anomaly had fully formed, although it remained attached to Wilson along the length of its back, legs, and arms, which had just sprouted that morning. The anomaly had a head of black hair and a penis, but his eyes hadn't opened yet, and his lips were sealed by a thin membrane of flesh.

“Isn’t he cute!'' Donna exclaimed, stroking him with her finger. “Does he have a name?”

“Name?” It seemed a bit unsavory to Wilson.

“Poor little man. Keep it simple, call him Willie.”

But Wilson wasn’t interested in names. Now he’d got Donna in private, he asked her, “OK, now level with me. What comes next?”

“What do you mean?”

“Christ, you know what I mean! I mean, my arm, my genetic anomaly.”

“That’s just part of the process,” Donna said, bringing out her sunny smile.

“Process? For god’s sake, Donna, I’ve got a man growing on my arm, and this is normal?”

“No one ever said enhancement was easy.”

“I know. No one ever said anything.” Wilson looked off, forlornly.

“Have you taken your meds?” Donna asked.

“You mean those purple pills? They’re on my nightstand,” Wilson said, evading the question because he hadn’t taken any.

“You know I don’t give many enhancement recommendations,” Donna admonished him.

“I’m thankful, really I am”

“The genetic anomaly stage is difficult. I won’t lie.”

“I understand,” Wilson said, backtracking.

“You know, I was wondering. How’d you like to hangout? That’s if you’re not busy this Friday.” Donna touched his arm.

“Us?” Wilson barely managed to say through his blushing surprise.

“I guess we’ll have Willie along.”

Their Wednesday session basically finished, Wilson and Donna used the last few minutes to make plans. Wilson headed off for the lockers then, a new spring in his legs, understanding that enhancement, like anything worthwhile, would take time. And now that he and Donna were going out, he had all the time in the world.

Preparing to shower, Wilson noticed a young guy, vaguely familiar, flexing his muscles in front of the triptych of full-length body mirrors that had just been installed in the men’s lockers. Wilson marveled as he worked his naked body, twisting to one side then the other, putting one arm out then the other, and following with the legs. Muscles rippled through his torso, like snakes moving about beneath his skin. When Wilson realized he’d been staring, he hurried off to the shower, embarrassed. Later, as Wilson blow-dried his hair, someone shouted see you later, and he turned to see one of his casual gym acquaintances leaving, a middle-aged teacher who’d been at Kinetics for awhile now. It came as a shock when Wilson realized the teacher had been the man flexing at the mirrors.

* * * * *

Pleasantly numbed from his workout with Donna, Wilson went to bed and fell asleep quickly. The dream seemed to take possession of him quickly too, as if it had been waiting for the first hint of unconsciousness to pounce. It was an uncannily vivid dream that had something to do with machines. Yes, machines cranking up, switching on, whirring electronically, strobing with faint green pulses, clicking their spidery mechanical legs. One by one they marched in the darkness, hard, human bodies, as machine-like as the machines themselves, obedient to the computer-doll that lorded over them, whose thoughts were louder than any amplification of a computerized voice.
“You sorry piece of shit. You good for nothing mother-fucker. You ugly son-of-a-bitch,” it said, as if it were talking not to the machines, but to him, Wilson. As if it were shouting directly in his ear.

Wilson sat up in fright, in the dream’s clutches and untrusting of the room’s silence. He waited for the machines to switch on again, but they didn’t. A dog’s bark in the distance was reassuring.

“You good for nothing mother fucker,” came the faint voice right beside him, at the instant he felt the pain in his arm. He twisted for the light on his nightstand, switched it on, and saw Willie glaring at him, his tiny face contorted in rage and mouthing obscenities.

“You ugly son-of-a-bitch,” the genetic anomaly said as Wilson reached for the pill bottle, his hand trembling, his heart racing, wondering if he should call Dr. Gracken, an ambulance. He swallowed a pill, then another.

“I can’t believe what a stinking piece of shit I have to put up with,” Willie said.

“There, there, everything’s OK,” Wilson said, trying to reassure himself as much as the little man. He glanced at his own arm. The Velcro pouch had come off and lay in shreds on the bed. There was blood, but not a lot, and the cavity that had cradled the anomaly had already healed with pink flesh. Wilson reached for his cell phone on the nightstand, dialed Dr. Gracken, but the call went to voicemail.

Wilson jumped from bed and started to dress, Willie shouting obscenities at him, stomping on the nightstand. With his pants on, Wilson approached and sat down to try and calm him, but it didn’t do any good. As Wilson stood to put his shirt on, the drowsiness seeped into his bones like warm massage oil, and it all began to make sense. After all, they’d warned him. They’d given him medications to help, which he’d been foolish not to take until now. As Wilson lay back down and wrapped himself in the ticklish glow of the sheets, he thought of Donna, of the way she’d looked at him during his workout, wondering if his suffering was over at last, if he would now begin his enhancement trajectory. A shiny black wave of nothingness washed over him.

Wilson woke to bright sunlight filtering through his window. He jumped from bed, grabbing his housecoat. The alarm clock on the nightstand read 9:00AM. He was going to be late for work, something unprecedented in six years without a sick day, six years with perfect performance reports. But as he started for the shower, the memory stopped him dead in his tracks. His arm! Wilson looked, but his arm was as he’d always known it, at least up until the genetic anomaly. As he searched for any hint of scarring, the voice came from somewhere in the bedroom. “You goddamn lazy bum.''

Wilson walked around the corner of the bed and spotted him, the three foot version of himself. Willie’d fashioned a pair of boxer shorts into pants, and looked comfortable sitting against the wall, his hands behind his head. “Aren't you gonna say anything, dick-head?''

“You seem very angry,” was the only thing that came to Wilson’s mind.

“I see. You want “cuddly baby” or some kind’uv pet.''

“No. You’ve been very upset, that’s all.”

Rather than responding, Willie jumped up and headed for the living room. Wilson swallowed a pill from the bottle and followed.

“So this is where you watch television?'' Willie asked.

“That’s it. Is there anything I can do, to help? ”

“I’m fine, really,” Willie said amicably. “Sorry for last night. I don’t know what got into me.”

“No problem at all,” Wilson said, feeling the fast-acting drug starting to kick in.

“You’d better get going, or you’ll be late for work,” Willie said.

Wilson took his leave to shower and dress. As he headed out the door for work, he saw that Willie was completely engrossed with the TV, using the remote like a pro to surf the channels.

* * * * *

It was a little after 5:30 PM when Wilson opened his apartment door, wondering about what he’d find there. He'd called Kinetics to speak with Donna, but she'd taken a sick day, and his calls to her cell went to voicemail. Same with Dr. Gracken. But the fact of the matter was, Wilson found himself on the verge of fundamental relief, now that he had his body back intact, now that the genetic anomaly stage of enhancement had run its course. As for Willie, he wasn’t Wilson’s responsibility. Not really. Wilson walked in, carrying a sack of Chinese take-out, for two. The soft sound of classical music greeted him. A jazz man himself, he paused to listen to the orchestral sounds, the airy interplay of flutes and violin, the mournful jesting of the French horns. It was relaxing. Wilson put the food down, then headed for the living room.

A fully grown man, topping probably five-ten and wearing jeans and a T-shirt, sat on the couch in front of the TV, holding one of Wilson’s photo-albums in his lap. Startled, Wilson glanced about the room, and was about to ask him what he was doing there when the man said, “It’s late, I was getting worried.''

Willie! Dumbfounded, Wilson stared at the apparition of himself, if you brush-stroked and photo-shopped the imperfections away, and hardened the body. Willie was what Wilson wanted to be, and was trying to become.

“I get upset at the past.'' Willie changed the subject, looking down at the photo album. He started to cry. “My parents, it's been so long.''

Wilson saw the pictures of his mom and dad. They were alive and well but he hadn't seen them since Christmas. “Your parents?''

“Once a year at Christmas isn't enough,'' Willie said, tears leaking down his cheeks.

“Do you remember anything, I mean, from your past?'' Wilson asked.

“I have one?”

“I guess.” Wilson said, although he hadn’t given it much thought.

“Is that Chinese food I smell?” Willie hopped up and headed for the kitchen, letting Wilson’s question hang. Looking back at Wilson from the kitchen, he said “Let’s eat.”

Wilson had been hungry, but not now. He went to his bedroom, picked up the pill bottle and shook it. There were quite a few left, so he took one, sat down, and waited. In a little while, he found his hunger returning, and was reassured by the realization that Willie was probably mature enough to go out on his own, the sooner the better. Deciding to bring it up with Donna tomorrow, face to face, Wilson joined Willie in the kitchen.

After dinner, they went to the couch to watch TV, with Willie sitting quietly as Wilson cruised his favorite shows with the remote. But the medication had made him drowsy, so he decided to retire early. After brushing his teeth, he grabbed a couple of sheets for Willie to sleep on the couch, and headed for bed. He set his alarm then stretched out, as the medication wrapped him in warm cocoon. Wilson fell asleep almost immediately, and like the night before a vivid dream possessed him, the whirring of the machines and their prickly shackles, all in somber tones of gray that exploded with sudden light, and the screaming of the music. Wilson opened his eyes and squinted into the harsh overhead bulb. He lay spread-eagled on his bed, his arms and legs tied tightly with nylon ropes. In the background, classical music played, lilting into his bedroom through the open door.

Wilson tugged at the ropes and screamed, “Lemmee out’a here!''

Willie appeared at the door. He’d been crying again, and his cheeks glistened.

“Lemmee out’a here,'' Wilson screamed.

Willie approached with a knife and said I love you as he raised it.

The knife came down, hard. It went up then down again. Up then down again. Wilson screamed until his genetic anomaly put a sock in his mouth, but his eyes stayed open until the end.

* * * * *

Willie woke to the honied sunlight of early morning, and lay in bed for a moment enjoying its sensation of pillowed warmth. He felt the mass beside him and remembered what had happened, how he’d been compelled to act, to neutralize....

Hey Mr. Thirty going on Forty....

......his genetic brother, who lay so peacefully he seemed to be sleeping. Willie turned, saw the pale body, the open eyes, the sock in the mouth. He touched him but flinched. How cold he felt. The nickname, as if spoken aloud....

Hey Mr. Thirty going on Forty....

....came into his mind again, with a sense of déjà vu that possessed him, that flowered with memories, his mother and father, his elementary school beneath the elm trees, his first grade teacher, images he could cherish or forget, cry about or laugh at. Yes, they were at his fingertips on instant dial-up, the portfolio of a life he could open as the mood possessed him, or when he needed to insinuate himself into a situation demanding a human presence. Yes, HE HAD IT, the essence of his being, the Wilson-ness of who he now was.

Wilson jumped from bed, full of energy and motivation. He had a date with Donna that evening. Finally. And although she’d asked him out, that was all about to change. From this point forward there’d be no more hesitation about anything in his romantic life or on the job. There’d be no more excuses or failures of will, no internal conversations about personal shortcomings because there were none. Before dressing, Wilson glanced at himself in the mirror. He was so muscular and sleek that he had to flex, he had to see the muscles rippling along his flanks, his biceps bulging into lumps the size of softballs. Done, he stuffed his gym clothes into his duffel bag and left for Kinetics for a quick workout before heading to the office. The new machines in the aerobics studio were up and running, and on the look-out for hard, human bodies.