Atticus Lish - Preparation for the Next Life

It’s okay to slow it down. Two seconds down, one second up. Feet through the floor when you’re going up. Eyes on the ceiling. One-two.

The next time she squatted, she did it slowly, which made it harder, and she laughed. You’re doing good, he said. She started getting hot, her navy tracksuit whispering between them. She felt him behind her, his arms brushing her ribcage as if he were about to cup her breasts. The exercise became very demanding on her legs and heart. The only thing that mattered was if she could make her legs stand up. When she was afraid to squat again because she thought if she did she wouldn’t be able to stand back up, she made a desperate sound that meant I quit.

They walked in together like two people in leg irons taking steps at the same time and racked the bar. Then she moaned aaiiii and wanted to collapse.

He changed the weight on the bar, putting the big plates on, and lifted the bar off the rack and backed out and squatted. The big plates rattled like dishes in a cupboard when a train goes by as he went up and down. There was no point in spotting him. It was more weight than she could ever lift. Halfway through his set, he started resting, sucking up air, before he squatted. When he squatted, he started straining at the bottom, exactly as if he were constipated and trying to force himself to shit. Then he would manage to stand again. She watched him. His face turned red, he was gasping.

She didn’t think he could do another. He squatted again and when he tried to stand, his back rounded forward. Thinking he was in trouble, she ran to help him. The barbell had 225 pounds on it. She felt his heart pounding through his back and his body shaking as she struggled to help him. He groaned aaaghh and he stood up. She had no idea if she had helped him. He walked the barbell in and reracked it and immediately turned away from it as if it made him sick.

Thanks, he said, his chest heaving and his face covered in sweat.

He took his sweatshirt off soaked in sweat, threw it on the ground, and limped around to the side of the rack to take the plates off for her. Underneath, his Jack Daniels No. 7 Whiskey t-shirt was soaked through. His thick tattooed forearms were wet. The sight of him filled her with determination.

She took the bar off onto her back and got in position and began to squat, already expecting the pain before it began. She went to the last rep where she couldn’t hold herself anymore and he had to pick her up under her arms. She screamed out loud.

The pain made her angry and she stalked off. Then she returned, serious and ready to spot him. He loaded the bar deliberately, and she helped him do it.

They worked through her entire program, Skinner leading the way. He did everything that she did, set for set, even though it was a woman’s program. When they needed to know what was next, they would check the magazine pages, their noses sweating on it, the pages coming apart in her hands, and with his head down he would lead her to the next piece of equipment. She followed him, stepping around the men, a V of sweat down her front as if she had been digging sand all day.

Guys noticed them and said, That’s how you do it. Go hard or go home. They bumped Skinner’s fist, holding in their own fists the sponge or friction paper or other homemade device with which they gripped the weights.

The last exercise they did was flutter kicks. He and Zou Lei lay down on the floor and moved their legs like goose-stepping soldiers. They got to fifty and her feet fell on the ground. One hundred, he said. No, she said. But she pulled her feet up again. They continued kicking and counting together, chanting the way everyone does in group calisthenics. At one hundred, both of their sets of feet fell on the ground. She groaned and held her stomach. When they stood, they left behind sweat patterns in the shapes of themselves. She stared down at their spirit-patterns on the ground. The intensity of the exercise made her think strange things.

Now, they were resting on the back stairs, where the gym stored its ladders and junk. Plaster buckets, cardboard boxes, paint rollers blocked the fire exit below. He had bought them MuscleTech protein drinks in French Vanilla. Sucking the heavy liquid up the straw was another form of weightlifting for her neck. She patted his damp solid shoulder through his sweatshirt.

You give me a good working out today.

He reached over and pinched her behind.

That’s gonna be tired after today.

Aaii, she cried but leaned forward so he could feel it better.

Someone came down the back stairs looking for the exit, and he stopped gripping her until the guy figured out you couldn’t leave from here and went away.

Can’t get out here, dude, Skinner said.

When they were alone again:

You let your hair grow, she said and touched his damp head. His dark hair stood up stiff with no direction to it, just radiating out of his head. She made a fist in his hair, and he let her rock his head from side to side. Too much hair.

You like it short?

Yes. She rubbed his cheek with the whiskers on it. You are such good teacher today. You don’t want to be like soldier no more?

Nah, he said. He rubbed his whiskery face. I’m sick of the army. I’m gonna grow my hair down to my ass. I’m gonna get a beard down to here. What do you think? He held his hand down at his waist.

She said, Maybe it should be longer.

What do you think about here, to the knees?

That’s better.

And I’m gonna get a robe too.

A robe?

Yeah, like one of them long dresses. And a turban.

Oh! she said. You should get a turban.

I know, he said. I should. Gonna start praying five times a day. You know what that’s about.

Oh, yes, she said.

I’m gonna pray — and he brought his hands up to his face as if he were washing his face with God’s word or God’s water — and said: Allahu akbar.

Good, she said. Very good. What else you will do?

Well, I’m definitely going to blow myself up. I’m going to go into the Dunkin Donuts and blow myself up and kill, like, a good ten people. All the traffic is gonna get fucked-up for like 45 minutes. People will be late for work. And then of course I’ll go to heaven for my reward of 77 virgins. Only I won’t want virgins. I’m gonna ask for some hoochie mamas.

You will be very busy in heaven, she said. I can visit you or you are too busy in this hoochie mama?

It’d be nice to stay in touch, he said. Do you mind waiting in line?

I wait in line. I think it is worth it. Because I am better than those 77. I think when you see me, you will pick me.

I’d pick you, he said.

You do?

Yeah, I would.

She sucked on her straw and finished her protein drink, which popped and rattled in the straw. She swung her foot, staring straight ahead, her tracksuit and her clothes beneath it wet and cooling. He laid his hand on her leg, which felt smooth and shapely and solid and naked under the thin polyester. He felt the muscles flexing in independent groups as her knee moved.

Their palms were brown with rust from the bars. Even though her hands were calloused, she had torn her palm doing deadlifts. He held her sweaty palm and she squeezed her hand open and shut around him. He felt the metal, dirt, and sweat on her hand, which created a glue between them.

In the afternoon, they went down to Jackson Heights where the whorehouses were. The whole street was meseras bars with Central American men sitting stone drunk at the tables, their hoods over their heads, sleeping on their arms, holding forties, using the bottle to climb up like a banister. Skinner told her at night the trestles in front of the fruit markets would move all by themselves — a sight to make you jump at two in the morning — and this seeming paranormal activity was because a body was sleeping under it.