“I can’t believe how you’ve changed,” my mother said. “You seem like a grown man and it’s been a while since we’ve had one of those in this house. I’m not even sure we did when your father was here. You know you are welcome to move back in. Oh, by the way, Mr. Thompson had a stroke.”
“I know. I heard that. But that’s okay. I like where I’m at.”
“You just don’t want me to meet your girlfriends.”
“You are so astute,” I said.
“I knew it. Are you using a condom because…”
“Mom, I’m not seeing anyone right now. I’m just working a lot.”
“You’d bring your girl to meet me, wouldn’t you? You’re not embarrassed of me?”
“No, now why would you say that? Of course, I’d bring her here.”
“And we’d have Sunday dinner together. That will be so nice.”
I did not want to move back. I had dreams of moving into an apartment of my own. I hoped in another year to be done paying on the garage—even though old Man Thompson was in a nursing home, his daughter was monitoring my payments. An apartment and a car—small things to some people, but to me they were stepping stones, out of my immediate reach, but clearly someday attainable.
I had decided that the way to get ahead was to focus and work toward those goals with steadfastness. Paying off my debt, an apartment, a car with a nice stereo, maybe go to medic school, and of course the one that consumed me the most: find a good woman, get a home, have a family of my own.
Three mornings a week, I worked out in the backyard of my boarding house, lifting cinderblocks. Fred had given me some routines I could do: presses, curls, squats, step-ups onto the picnic table. I liked walking around in sleeveless tee-shirts when I was off duty. For the first time in my life, I had muscle definition. I liked posing for myself in the mirror. I began to believe that I might be attractive to women. I had seen that girl Carrie a few more times at the bar, and while I still had not spoken to her, I knew that one day I would, but I needed to be careful. I didn’t want to appear desperate. I had faith my opportunity would arise.
***
“Dude, you’re looking okay,” Fred said. “But if you really want to get pumped up, I’ve got the shit for you.” He showed me a little vial. “Deca Durabolin. I inject twice a week. Man, it gives you monster workouts. Check out my guns.” His arms were massive with veins bulging out of them like ropes. I didn’t say anything but his head was bigger than it had been. It looked almost swollen.
“I’m not injecting myself with anything. I don’t like needles.”
“It’s not just the muscles, but the sex drive. I’ve got three broads I’m doing now, and a waiting list. I’m telling you this shit PUMPS YOU UP!”
I didn’t say anything to Fred, but I had read about that stuff, and while I heard it could increase your sex drive, in the end it caused you to grow breasts and made your nuts shrink. I wasn’t that desperate—at least, not yet. I had faith in my own plan.
I got up every morning, and if it wasn’t a day to lift weights, I ran. That’s right, I ran. I started out going maybe one hundred and fifty yards, worked it up to a half mile, and before I knew it I was running three miles a day. I was eating well, and I was working all the time. My existence was like that of a soldier. Sleep, exercise, work and occasionally drink lots of beer with the guys.