The dog days of post-college unemployment had to come to an end eventually. Spencer hadn’t cleaned his apartment in weeks so it smelled like sour milk and marijuana. His father arrived in an Armani suit and spent an hour lecturing him about hard work. Spencer was struggling to fix the garbage disposal which had been belching black liquid into the sink. He hardly listened. His father had a connection which landed Spencer a walk-through of the office building of the Johnson company headquarters — he had little choice in the matter. His father had even left him a new pair of slacks and a button down.
The receptionist was about his age. He frowned at a tablet nestled in the crook of his arm, stabbed at it with his stylus. Spencer was pleasantly stoned throughout his tour and barely noticed the guide’s frequent distractions and discourtesies. A chemical smell of disinfectant permeated the building. They stopped at a steel door which required a code for access. It eased open into a cavernous room lined with hundreds of squat racks up and down the padded floor. They were each paired with ellipticals, treadmills, captain chairs, and dip machines. Stacks of free weights rested in massive racks along a hundred feet of mirrored walls — at the end of it were twenty rowing machines and stairclimbers.
“If there is a new piece of equipment, bossman will make sure to purchase it,” said the guide proudly.
“This is a lot.”
“And you are free to use this, any of it. In fact, we like to keep an atmosphere of fun, low-stakes competition. You did not hear this from me, but some holiday bonuses are awarded to the winners.” He motioned towards an LED leaderboard. Names scrolled past and Spencer noticed a few records he could easily beat. “But be warned,” the guide continued. “This is quite the popular perk around here. Think of coming in early.”
Feeling motivated for the first time in months, Spencer rose before his six a.m. alarm and set out for the building. When he arrived, the parking lot was nearly full. And despite all that space, hundreds of employees had filled the gym wall to wall. In the back, a crowd encircled two of the elderly ladies from accounting. At the squat racks, Spencer counted an incomprehensible four plates on each side of the bar. The women screamed, spat, and the crowd bellowed when they finished. The receptionist declared, new record!, tapping away at his tablet. Floodlights turned the room a dark crimson and bass-boosted EDM music roared from hidden speakers; air horns sounded as well.
Later that day, Spencer worked alongside all these people as if the morning had never happened. He marveled at the two ladies in accounting. They were, by the mere eye test, Hyundai grandmothers, plump with varicose veins. They had just been savages in the weight room, oozing primal energy. The incongruity was enough to make Spencer chuckle the whole afternoon.
The next morning he set his alarm even earlier — five a.m. But somehow, absurdly, the gym was even more packed, and even more veiny psychopaths slammed creatine shakes and screamed for new deadlift PRs.
It was three a.m. when his alarm rang next. Surely, no one was unhinged enough to wake up an entire six hours before their shift began. Spencer arrived at the parking lot cautiously. There were only a few cars in the front lot and none in the garage overflow either. He opened the front door and the building lights flickered on as he passed through. He typed the code into the gym doors and, mercifully, the room was empty. Spencer added a plate to both sides of a bar and began his workout routine. It was silent and every noise he made echoed across the room.
Eventually, however, he heard the padding of feet. A figure moved towards him. It was a man in his early 40s, absolutely shredded and entirely soaked in sweat. He wore tight red spandex which outlined an unapologetic bulge in his pants; his blue tank top was dotted with white stars. He stretched just a few feet from Spencer.
“You’re Spencer. You’re new.”
“Hi. Yes.”
“I’m Jack.”
“Okay.”
“Your boss.”
Spencer stiffened.
“I’ve looked over your work so far, and I’m going to be honest. It’s some of the worst work I’ve seen in my many years at this company. How did you get this job?”
“Um…”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. Don’t come back, okay?”
Spencer finished his tricep pulldowns and headed for his car, defeated. The sun was just about to rise and Spencer was already dreading what his father would say. Before he fully escaped, however, the receptionist hailed him from across the parking lot.
“What a move. Three thirty in the morning. That’s definitely a record. Listen, I heard what the bossman said, but I promise you, if you show up tomorrow at the same time, he’ll have to bring you back.”
So he did just that. The next morning, he barged through the building and immediately loaded the squat rack with plates. He did double the sets and screamed with each rep.
Jack was in the corner with his father, the two of them laughing back and forth. Spencer only heard the dull echo of their voices, but nothing of what they said. They never approached him.
After his workout, he found his office had already been taken. A middle-aged bald man decorated the space with Star Wars memorabilia. Eventually Spencer left.
At home, Spencer found his sink coughing up black filth again. But he was too sore from the workout and fell asleep on his couch. He awoke to his phone buzzing — it was his father.
“You’ve got the job!”
Spencer stared at his phone until it went dark. He listened to the strangled gurgling of the sink and sighed — he set his alarm for the next morning.
Stephen Mirabito is an English teacher working in Littleton, Colorado. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in the Walkabout Creative Arts Journal, Constellations Magazine, and Peatsmoke Journal. He is currently a candidate of the University of Denver’s UCOL Professional Creative Writing program.
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