Cinemorphosis

Tag: short-story

  • Flex Day: A Tragedy in Tube Socks

    Flex Day: A Tragedy in Tube Socks

    Another Flex Day had dawned—yet again a gaudy parade of icebreaker drivel, PowerPoint piety, and educational workshops led by people who looked like they’d been conjured by a bureaucratic séance. Against my better instincts—and with a flicker of masochistic hope I should’ve interrogated—I signed up for a session titled Exercise and Mental Wellness. It was being held in the Hobcallow campus gym, a crumbling monument to deferred maintenance and broken promises. If buildings could sigh, this one would’ve let out a long, exhausted groan. Everything about it screamed “run,” but I ignored the sirens blaring in my skull and walked straight in, armed with denial and a water bottle.

    The gym was a fluorescent-lit dungeon, the kind of place where even the light seemed desperate to escape. The air reeked of mildew, ancient sweat, and the crushed dreams of generations who’d suffered through dodgeball and underfunding. I could practically hear the scent—a low moan of institutional despair.

    Then the “fitness expert” took the stage. He looked like he subsisted on steamed kale and unprocessed anxiety. His limbs were pipe cleaners, and his tube socks rode high up his shins like he was waving tiny surrender flags. A whistle hung from his neck, though it clearly served more as costume than command. The guy had the aura of a substitute gym teacher in a 1979 after-school special—minus the charm. With the fervor of a man unveiling the cure for cancer, he launched into a sermon on the redemptive power of push-ups. According to him, daily push-ups could defeat depression, boost classroom charisma, and chisel us into statues Michelangelo would envy.

    I sat among fifty or so other professors, all of us bearing the glazed, shell-shocked expressions of people who’d just survived a bureaucratic earthquake. When the whistle-wielder asked for a volunteer to demonstrate the proper push-up, silence fell across the gym like a dropped curtain. Heavy. Suffocating. It was the sound of collective academic burnout, of souls ground into dust by budget cuts and endless committee meetings.

    Eventually, someone was nudged forward. “Volunteer” was a generous word. The man was more of a human offering. He shuffled onto the stage in a suit that draped off him like wet laundry. His glasses clung to his face like they were afraid to be part of what came next. He moved like a man who had made a series of increasingly regrettable choices that had all led here.

    Then he went down for the push-up—and the moment collapsed into slapstick tragedy. His arms gave out instantly, like a folding chair kicked from behind. His glasses launched from his face and slid across the gym floor, desperate for escape. He lay there wheezing like a deflating accordion, the very embodiment of what happens when the intellect thrives and the body is left for dead.

    You’d think someone might offer sympathy. A supportive chuckle. Maybe a smattering of ironic applause. Nope. The room was pure stone—emotionally fossilized. A few professors exchanged murmured postmortems. Most stared ahead with the blank-eyed stillness of DMV patrons or people deep into a hostage negotiation.

    And when it finally ended, I fled. I bolted, heart pounding, mind racing, lungs grateful just to be outside again. It wasn’t enlightenment I’d found that day. Just confirmation: some kinds of despair really do come with a whistle.

    After surviving thirty Flex Days—each one more spiritually numbing than the last—I’ve come to a grim conclusion: these spectacles aren’t designed to make us better instructors. No, they’re the bureaucratic equivalent of waterboarding. Their true purpose is to remind us, in the most humiliating way possible, that we are not free agents but indentured servants to a cabal of institutional overlords who wouldn’t recognize actual education if it bit them on their lanyards. The activities they concoct—team-building scavenger hunts, trust falls, and workshops on how to smile while grading—aren’t just irrelevant to higher learning. They are a brazen insult to critical thinking itself, proof that the people orchestrating these charades are not only disconnected from the classroom, but from basic cognitive function. Flex Days are not professional development; they’re intellectual purgatory dressed up in business casual.

  • How Your Flintstones Moment Made You Pursue Higher Education

    How Your Flintstones Moment Made You Pursue Higher Education

    Charlene’s office had been a shrine to immaculate control—gleaming surfaces, aligned papers that looked like they’d been measured with a laser level, and an air of clinical precision that could make a Swiss watchmaker weep tears of admiration. But that day, the outside world was doing its damnedest to breach her fortress. A dust storm had rolled into Hobcallow with all the subtlety of a biblical plague. It was mid-afternoon, but you wouldn’t have guessed it. The sky was choked in an apocalyptic shade of brown, casting the office in a bruised sepia tone. The overhead lights flickered like they’d given up hope. Dust smeared the windows like greasy fingerprints on a crime scene, and Charlene—who waged holy war against dirt—cringed at every grain that dared defile her glass.

    If anyone could stare down Mother Nature and win on points, it was Charlene. You’d have bet your last protein shake on it.

    She tried to tune it all out and focus on her latest mission: turning you into some kind of intellectual demigod for her next newspaper feature. She tapped her pen on her notepad with the kind of sharp, deliberate rhythm that could cut glass. Then she leaned in, smiling like a predator who’d just cornered a wounded animal. “Tell me,” she said, “what were the defining moments that led you to pursue higher education?”

    The wind screamed outside like a banshee in heat, but you leaned back and let yourself drift. “There was this bouncer gig I had at seventeen,” you began. “Maverick’s Disco in San Ramon. Three bucks an hour—ten cents above minimum wage. Free soda, free peanuts. I thought I was rich.”

    You could still picture it: a swirling disco inferno of polyester pantsuits, platform shoes, and hair sculpted into helmet-grade updos. The Bee Gees were on loop, the dry ice fog never cleared, and the lights pulsed like a migraine. It was paradise—until it wasn’t.

    “At first,” you said, “I thought I’d struck gold. I got to flex my lats and mingle. But after a while, it all started blending together. The same couples, the same fights, the same sweaty desperation. One night, mid-shift, I had this epiphany—Fred and Barney cruising in their Flintstone-mobile, but the background just repeated: tree, rock, house, tree, rock, house. That loop ruined the cartoon for me. And suddenly, it was ruining my life, too.”

    Charlene’s pen was flying. You could tell she was high on narrative gold.

    “Maverick’s became my Flintstones moment,” you said. “Week after week, the same loop: wide-eyed people chasing magic and leaving with hangovers and broken heels. And I realized I was part of it—punching the clock, buying into the monotony. I needed something more unpredictable. So I chose college. I needed to break the loop.”

    Charlene looked like she was about to levitate from her chair. The dust storm outside didn’t matter—she was in a state of pure journalistic ecstasy.

    And then you got honest.

    “But look at me now,” you said, and your voice had that creeping bitterness you couldn’t quite stifle. “Degrees? Check. Stable career in higher ed? Check. And what have I built? A life of structure and repetition. Same workouts, same egg whites, same damn protein shakes, same naps, same Angels game every night. I wrapped myself in the very loop I thought I’d escaped. The Flintstones background just changed colors.”

    Charlene’s pen froze mid-air. Her gaze snapped to you with a gleam of ice behind it. That calculating smile returned—sleek, practiced, a smile that had shut down board meetings and ended more than one marriage. “We won’t tell them that part,” she said sweetly. “That’s just between us.”

    You felt the temperature drop, despite the swirling storm outside. It was the smile of someone who took pleasure in control—over narrative, over outcomes, over people.

    You glanced toward the window. The storm was still there, clawing at the glass like a desperate thing. But Charlene’s smile? That was the real weather system in the room.

  • The News Anchor of the Shallow End

    The News Anchor of the Shallow End

    A poolside pestilence—you knew him as Roland Beavers. He was the kind of poolside companion nightmares were made of. Picture it: a pudgy man in his early thirties with dishwasher-blond hair clinging lifelessly to a scalp that looked perpetually annoyed at its assignment. His physique was more Pillsbury than gladiator, his chin having taken early retirement sometime around 1996. And yet, this proud specimen insisted on strutting around the pool in lava-red terry cloth trunks so tragically undersized they clung to his hips like terrified hikers on a cliffside. The stretch marks? They splayed across his skin like graffiti sprayed by a disgruntled street artist.

    Naturally, Roland had an explanation at the ready for anyone who dared lock eyes with him long enough to hear it. Those stretch marks? Not from powdered donuts, perish the thought. No, they were the battle scars of a world-class daredevil—his words—earned from leaping off the cliffs of Acapulco. You could practically hear the collective eye-roll from the pool regulars every time he launched into one of his airbrushed tales of aerial glory.

    But Roland’s true calling wasn’t daredevilry—it was unsolicited poolside broadcasting. Armed with a crumpled newspaper, he’d take up his post like an aging news anchor, providing loud, unfiltered commentary on every blurb and headline, under the delusion that everyone within earshot was waiting with bated breath for his take on gas prices and tabloid divorces. His “audience,” meanwhile, muttered oaths under their breath, praying he’d take up knitting—somewhere indoors, ideally underground.

    You watched his social cluelessness peak during innocent pool games—playful couples tossing a football or frisbee back and forth. For Roland, this wasn’t just casual recreation to be observed; it was a direct invitation. He’d launch himself into the water with the grace of a bowling ball dropped from a rooftop, crashing into their game like a forgotten uncle showing up drunk at a family reunion. The couples would pause, stunned, then shuffle off with expressions reserved for people who talk during movies.

    And heaven help the women just trying to sunbathe in peace. Roland, ever the gallant poolside creep, took it upon himself to offer his “services” to any woman within spraying distance. Whether it was spritzing their backs with water or offering to rub in sunscreen, Roland never missed an opportunity to “help”—oblivious to the fact that his mere presence was enough to derail an entire afternoon of tanning and tranquility.

    These long, unwanted days at the pool weren’t just for his entertainment—they were an extension of the strange domestic theatre unfolding upstairs. His mother, Nadine, loomed over the scene from their apartment balcony, a woman built like she could bench-press a Buick, her muu-muu rippling in the desert breeze like a circus tent threatening lift-off. With her hair wound into curls so tight they looked ready to spring off and attack, she’d bark orders with the authority of a drill sergeant with a megaphone.

    “Slather on more sunscreen, Roland!” she’d bellow, veins throbbing in her neck like they were sending an SOS in Morse code. “Get inside and eat something! You’re wasting away!” This, despite the fact that Roland had a good 40 pounds he could have “wasted away” without anyone shedding a tear.

    You’d think all this doting and nagging might eventually motivate Roland to get a job—maybe contribute something to society, or at the very least give the rest of you a break. But no. Roland and Nadine were comfortably buffered by the settlement from a lawsuit tied to Roland’s brief, disastrous stint at flight school in San Diego. Apparently, his dorm mates decided his face needed some rearranging, and after a skull fracture and several court dates, Roland walked away with a broken head and a windfall large enough to fund his permanent poolside residency.

    So there he was—your unwanted mascot in red trunks—coasting through life on lawsuit money and his mother’s militant affections, interrupting your peaceful afternoons with unsolicited news updates and delusions of former glory. Thanks to the faded glory of his imaginary daredevil days and a bottomless box of Chardonnay, Roland Beavers remained the persistent echo of everything you were trying to escape.

  • The Man Who Refused to Unpack

    The Man Who Refused to Unpack

    Chief among your apartment acquaintances in the godforsaken desert was Leonard Skeazy, an attorney from Santa Monica who had been lured out to this sun-scorched outpost by a fat signing bonus and a monogrammed office chair, yet couldn’t shake the gnawing resentment of having been exiled to what he considered a cultural wasteland. Leonard treated “style” not as a preference but as a full-blown religion. He wore custom-made Speedos purchased at a boutique in Santa Monica—yes, he actually made return trips to the city just to replace them when the pool’s chlorine dulled the jewel tones of his sacred spandex.

    With his long, curly hair and eerie, borderline-glasslike blue eyes, Leonard looked like a lounge singer who never graduated from the Holiday Inn circuit. He was a man of eccentric habits and hygiene choices that defied both logic and cologne. Despite being well into his thirties, he clung to the bachelor fantasy of meeting “the right girl,” though his criteria seemed more fitting for a dating pool in Cannes than in a desert town where a GED qualified you as a local intellectual.

    Leonard could be found most afternoons sprawled poolside, his skin glistening like a buttered croissant under the sun, blasting Kenny G from his battered boombox as if smooth jazz were some pheromonal weapon. His breath often carried the unmistakable bouquet of last night’s Chardonnay, perfectly matched by his habit of sneaking sips from boxes of white wine stashed like contraband in the fridge.

    Curiosity—and let’s be honest, a lack of better options—led you to visit Leonard’s apartment one day. It was a bachelor pad in the bleakest sense. Despite his high income, his apartment felt like a holding cell with Wi-Fi. The living room featured a single couch, a TV perched on cinder blocks, and—because tragedy loves detail—an ironing board, which he used religiously to press his endless collection of gaudy silk ties. The walls were as blank as his emotional availability, barren beige expanses that caught the flicker of the TV and projected ghostly shadows over the serpentine lines of his slithering tie rack.

    Then there was the bedroom. No dresser. No closet system. Just three open suitcases that served as a rotating archive of silk shirts, vintage cologne, and desperation. It was as if he’d never truly unpacked—a subconscious protest against the idea that he’d actually settled in this armpit of a town. The fridge, naturally, was a tundra of emptiness save for—you guessed it—more boxes of white wine. This was a man who had chased the scent of money straight into the middle of nowhere, only to insist he hadn’t actually arrived.

    Leonard was a ghost haunting his own life. A man who treated his presence in this town like an extended layover, still clinging to the fantasy that he’d be boarding a first-class escape back to the coastal glamour of a life he probably never really had. You couldn’t help but wonder: what kind of man gets seduced by a fat paycheck only to spend his days in self-imposed purgatory, where the only things thriving are his excuses and his growing graveyard of faded Speedos?

    You supposed it was easier for Leonard to pretend he was just “passing through” than to admit that he was, in fact, a permanent exhibit in this forgotten museum of stalled ambition—a relic draped in silk and denial, clinging to the illusion of a life that had long since evaporated.

  • How to Pick Up Girls and Get Stung by Reality

    How to Pick Up Girls and Get Stung by Reality

    The 70s were a carnival of ostentation and fakery. You strutted through junior high dances in Angels Flight bell-bottoms, paisley Dacron shirts, platform shoes, and pukka shell necklaces. In summer, you bared your tanned chest in fishnet tank tops and more gold chains than a Vegas lounge singer. Instead of building character, you sculpted a persona: muscular, flamboyant, visually arresting.

    Even your face had to match your aesthetic. Inspired by the Cosmopolitan magazine’s “Bachelor of the Month,” you fixated on cheekbones and jawlines. Compared to Robert Conrad or Jan-Michael Vincent, you came up short. So you sucked in your cheeks—first occasionally, then obsessively—until you learned to speak while biting the inside of your face. You’d come home with raw, bleeding cheeks. You’d walk through school with puffed lats and exaggerated posture, only to be mocked by your classmates.

    You were the punchline of a sitcom, a caricature of yourself.

    This was the decade of the Mock Apple Pie—Ritz Crackers masquerading as apples. Authenticity took a back seat. Fakery got shotgun.

    Perhaps the high priest of this philosophy was a man you called Frank Reeves.

    It was the summer of 1977. You were spending every Saturday at Cull Canyon Lake, slathered in Hawaiian Tropic Dark Tanning Oil—zero SPF, all banana-scented seduction. And every weekend, there he was: Frank Reeves. Late twenties. Owner of a black 1976 Camaro with white racing stripes. Wavy brown hair, manicured mustache, deep tan, blue Speedos, white puka shells, and a gold chain glistening over his chest hair. He carried a Playboy cooler, a boombox, and a Frisbee, and he reeled in women like it was a sport.

    You noticed that he always said the same things in the same order. Every Saturday, it was: “Paid my uncle five hundred for that paint job… Dad owns clothing stores… Helped him manage since high school… Waiting on a Hollywood callback… Own my own house in Parsons Estates.” He said “Parsons Estates” like it was a holy incantation.

    Frank Reeves wasn’t just a cliché. He was a walking, Speedo-clad composite of How to Pick Up Girls!—Eric Weber’s infamous book of manipulation. You recognized his lines. You knew the script. He embodied the Playboy ideal: cosmopolitan, cocky, a god in his own eyes. And every Saturday, a new woman bought the lie.

    You watched him work, all while reading your parents’ paperback version of The Happy Hooker on your beach towel. Then came the bee sting. A shriek. A girl gasped. “You stepped on a bee!”

    Reeves tried to laugh it off, but his swollen foot looked like a smoked ham. Sweat poured down his chest. He collapsed, hyperventilating. Paramedics came. He was in anaphylactic shock.

    You never found out if he survived. But the image stuck: a man all pose, no substance. A fake warrior devoted to a fake gospel. And like all fakes, he was eventually undone by something real—a bee, of all things. A tiny truth with a stinger.

  • Barbells and Boundaries

    Barbells and Boundaries

    Late one Saturday afternoon, you were marooned in your bedroom, held hostage by the epic saga playing out in your kitchen. Paul Bergdorf, a plumber with the emotional subtlety of a freight train, had been battling the kitchen sink since morning. His oversized toolbox had exploded across the linoleum floor like a mechanical crime scene. Every few minutes, you heard a grunt or a thud, the sounds of a man locked in mortal combat with ancient pipes.

    Your mom strolled into your room with a face that mixed gratitude with a romantic optimism that always smelled like a warning.
    “It’s so nice of him to do this,” she said.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked.
    “He’s not charging me.”
    “Of course he is.”
    “No, he’s a friend.”
    “He’s not your friend, Mom. You just met him.”
    “His name is Paul Bergdorf. One of my girlfriends introduced me to him.”
    “This isn’t going to end well.”
    “Keep your voice down.”

    Right then, Bergdorf bellowed from the kitchen, proudly declaring that the sink had been fixed. Your mom hurried away. You stayed in your room, knocking out reverse barbell curls while watching through the sliding glass door that connected your room to the atrium. Beyond that was the kitchen, where Bergdorf stood like a sweaty gladiator, wiping his greasy mitts on a rag. He looked like a bloated baby trying to cosplay as a man: massive belly, oil-streaked jeans, beat-up boots, and that tragic attempt at a combover. His blue eyes were permanently glazed, his nose red and bulbous like a squashed tomato, and the house now reeked of his sweat mingled with low-grade cologne.

    He turned the faucet on, then off, proudly displaying his handiwork. “Now before I go,” he said, puffing out his chest, “I just want to say—I may not be the best-looking guy around, but I can grill a damn good steak. I’m talking big, thick, juicy slabs of meat. How about joining me next weekend for a barbecue?”

    “That’s very nice, but no thanks,” your mom said, her tone firm.

    Your forearms burned from the 50 reverse curls, but you kept going, switching to wrist curls as if preparing for battle.

    “I’ll get us some prime steaks,” he pressed on. “You won’t believe how tender they’ll be.”

    “Thanks again, but I’m busy.”

    “All I ask is one chance to serve up the most delicious barbecued steak you’ve ever had.”

    “No, really. I’m not available.”

    “Just pick any weekend,” he insisted, “and I’ll deliver a steak you’ll never forget.”

    Your forearms were bulging. That was it. You dropped the barbell, stormed down the hall, past the dining room, and burst into the kitchen like a SWAT team with a moral objection.

    “How many times does she have to say no?” you demanded.

    “Hey, let’s cool it,” Bergdorf replied, raising his hands. “I was just asking your mom out. I fixed the sink. It’s the least I could do.”

    “If you want to volunteer your plumbing skills, great. But fixing a drain doesn’t entitle you to date privileges.”

    “I just wanted to make her a steak!”

    “Okay, we get it. You’re a steak wizard. Good for you. Now pack up your tools and get the hell out.”

    You towered over him, finger pointed at the front door like an Old Testament angel. Bergdorf glared, shoved his tools into the truck, slammed the door, and roared off, trailing a plume of driveway dust behind him.

    Your mom just stood there, stunned.
    “You scared him away,” she said.
    “Next time, let’s just pay the plumber.”

  • Nicknames Are a Life Sentence

    Nicknames Are a Life Sentence

    You sat in the soaked bleachers of Canyon High on a rainy Friday night, the stadium lights casting a sickly greenish-yellow haze across the field. The Canyon Cougars were facing off against the Hayward Farmers, but all eyes were on their freshman linebacker phenom, Jack Del Rio—part football player, part demigod in cleats.

    Next to you, Liz huddled under a massive umbrella. Between the two of you sat a bag of popcorn that had long since surrendered to the rain, each kernel tasting like soggy regret.

    Off to the side, you noticed the girl they called the Tasmanian Devil. She was marooned on a solitary slab of bleacher, her jacket soaked, mascara melting like the villain in a low-budget horror flick. No umbrella, no allies, just rain and raw adolescence.

    “Tasmanian Devil’s got that look,” you said to Liz, chewing a kernel that crumbled into sadness on your tongue.

    “What look?” she asked.

    “The one that says she knows her life is a steaming pile of crap.”

    Liz nodded slowly. “Poor thing.”

    “Do we even know her real name?” you asked.

    She gave a small shrug.

    “Exactly. She’s been sentenced to that nickname for life. Might as well tattoo it on her forehead.”

    As the game dragged on, the rain lightened into a mist, coating everything in a kind of apocalyptic glow. The crowd buzzed as Del Rio took the field, and a man behind you barked, “That kid’s going pro, you mark my words.”

    You leaned toward Liz. “Jack Del Rio and the Tasmanian Devil—two trains, opposite tracks. One’s off to glory, the other’s derailing into a swamp.”

    “We could invite her over,” Liz offered.

    You waved like a deranged game show host. “Need an umbrella? Want to join us?”

    She shook her head. Her eyes stayed on the ground. Her jacket soaked through like a sponge left in a car wash.

    “At least you tried,” Liz said with a sympathetic smile.

    You shifted the conversation. “You mad at your dad?”

    “No,” you said, surprising even yourself. “If anything, I’m relieved. There’s less tension now. No more walking on eggshells.”

    Liz nodded. “After my dad left, my mom never dated. She’s allergic to men. She’s got this fortress of piano recitals, farmer’s markets, and gin rummy with Grandma. Her friend circle is basically a man-repellent sorority.”

    You sighed. “I’m dreading my mom dating. She’s too nice, too open. Men could run circles around her.”

    “You can’t control everything,” Liz said.

    “There’s this awful book called How to Pick Up Girls! It’s like a predator’s playbook. If some sleazeball uses that on her, I swear I’ll Hulk out.”

    Liz laughed. “You can’t be a bouncer at your own house.”

    You squared your shoulders. “Watch me.”

  • Welcome to the Kids of Divorced Parents Club

    Welcome to the Kids of Divorced Parents Club

    It was a cold November Friday night at Canyon High School, and the Frosch Dance had been in full swing. Freshmen and sophomores had packed the cafeteria, KC & the Sunshine Band’s throbbing disco beats pulsing through the linoleum and cinderblocks. Boys had huddled on one side, girls on the other, like oil and water at a chemically unstable mixer. You’d stood with Hewitt and Kaufmann, scanning the room for Liz Murphy.

    Kaufmann had jabbed his finger across the cafeteria at a girl who looked like she could’ve started for the Raiders. Broad shoulders, neck like a redwood stump, and a forehead that could stop a speeding truck—she’d stood alone, her eyes glowering from opposite ends of her face like rival sentries. The dark pouches beneath them added to the haunted look. Her mouth, locked in a scowl, might as well have been carved in stone.

    “Must suck to look like the lead singer of Meat Loaf,” Kaufmann had snickered.

    “She’s known as the Tasmanian Devil,” Hewitt added. “Flashburger was yelling ‘Hit the deck! Tasmanian Devil on the loose!’ when she came near the quad. She’s got a twin brother. Both in special ed.”

    “That’s gotta be rough,” you said. “Getting ridiculed every minute of your life.”

    “You probably get used to it,” Kaufmann mused. “Grow a thick skin.”

    “Or maybe you don’t,” you said. “It’s like that myth from Mrs. Hanson’s class—the guy chained to the rock getting his liver eaten every day.”

    “Prometheus,” Kaufmann confirmed.

    “What a hellish life. Constant Prometheus treatment.”

    “Do we even know her name?” Kaufmann asked.

    “Nope,” said Hewitt. “Just Tasmanian Devil. That’s it.”

    That’s when Liz Murphy had walked in, burgundy top hugging her in all the right places, jeans so fitted they might’ve been sewn on. Her red hair flowed behind her like a cape made of fire, and her middle finger was braced, injured. She spotted you and made her way over.

    “I almost didn’t come,” she said. “Emergency room after volleyball. Dislocated my finger. It swelled up like a balloon.”

    Kaufmann cleared his throat. “Sorry on behalf of all the guys for being assholes to you in middle school.”

    “We called you names we shouldn’t have,” Hewitt said.

    “Like Giraffe?” Liz raised one eyebrow.

    They nodded, shamefaced.

    “Yeah, it sucked going home crying myself to sleep every night.”

    “But look at you now,” Kaufmann said.

    “Yeah, lucky me. But I wonder—what if I still looked like a giraffe? Would you still be assholes, or am I only off the hook because I changed?”

    “I can’t honestly say,” Kaufmann mumbled.

    “Be easy on us,” Hewitt pleaded. “We were barely thirteen, super immature.”

    “Not like now?” she said, dripping sarcasm. She turned to you. “You never treated me like that.”

    “Jeff was too afraid of girls to talk to them,” Kaufmann cut in.

    “Diana Nesbitt asked Jeff to kiss her in seventh grade and he fainted,” Hewitt laughed.

    “That’s exaggerated,” you protested.

    “We had to revive you with smelling salts,” Hewitt said.

    “I didn’t faint. I walked into a pole and got disoriented.”

    “You fainted,” Kaufmann said. “We have over a dozen witnesses.”

    “Jeff’s come a long way,” Liz said, slipping her arm around your waist.

    “Wow,” Kaufmann said. “You guys going steady, or what?”

    Liz studied your face. “I don’t know. We haven’t had a DTR.”

    “A what?” Kaufmann asked.

    “Determine the Relationship.”

    “Holy crap,” Kaufmann said. “That would scare the shit out of me. Sounds like an FBI interrogation.”

    The lights dimmed, and “I Hope We Get to Love in Time” started playing. Couples moved to the dance floor. Liz took your hand and led you to the center.

    Kaufmann yelled after you, “I hope you’re blushing, McMahon, because if you’re not, I’ll blush for you!”

    Two minutes into the song, a blood-curdling scream erupted: “Who crushed my face?”

    The music stopped. Lights flipped on. Lori Walker was clutching her eye and shouting that someone had slammed into her. All fingers pointed at the Tasmanian Devil. She insisted she’d just been heading for the drinking fountain.

    Mr. Reinhart rushed in, handed Lori an ice pack, and tried to calm things down. Lori jabbed an accusing finger, curses flying. The Tasmanian Devil ducked behind the soda machine and started crying.

    Mr. Reinhart followed. “You can’t stay there all night.”

    “Wanna bet?”

    “I’ll call your father.”

    “You do that.”

    “Wait in front of the cafeteria. It’s not safe back there.”

    “Why not?”

    “All the electrical stuff. You get shocked, that’s a lawsuit. You hear me?”

    She got up and followed him out.

    The DJ apologized and cued up “For the Love of You.” Liz pulled you close again.

    “I did something really stupid last week,” she said.

    “What?”

    “I found my father.”

    “What do you mean?”

    “I hadn’t seen him since I was little. My cousin found him. He’s in a trailer park in Union City. We went there, and I saw him through the screen door, shirtless, eating KFC, drinking beer, watching Kojak. He screamed at the TV, spit flying. I walked back to the car, told Susanne to take me home. I knew I’d never see him again.”

    “Did you tell your mom?”

    “Hell no. She’d kill me. After the divorce, things were never the same.”

    “Speaking of divorce,” you said. “Something’s up with my parents. My dad took this so-called job promotion, but I think he wants out.”

    “What kind of job?”

    “Travel-heavy. Six months a year.”

    “Oh yeah. He’s a goner.”

    “Divorce City. I can smell it.”

    “Stand in line, Jeff. Soon enough, you’ll be in the Kids of Divorced Parents Club.”

  • Canyon High School’s Mythic Bruiser

    Canyon High School’s Mythic Bruiser

    You had just stepped onto the concrete plaza of Canyon High School, a fourteen-year-old bodybuilder armed with a cafeteria tray loaded with a burger, a salad, and a milk carton—your pathetic nod to nutritional balance. You devoured your lunch in monk-like solitude, your pockets clinking with ten Argentine beef liver tablets, swallowed like they were Tic Tacs of the gods. The cafeteria’s noise faded as you retreated to the shade of the overhangs, the lockers looming behind you like post-apocalyptic filing cabinets.

    Then came the charging beast.

    A teenage mass of muscle and menace barreled toward you like a linebacker with a vendetta. His head was absurdly wide, shaped more like a boulder than a skull. His black sweatshirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms that looked like they’d been sculpted out of poultry—two Thanksgiving turkeys in full flex. His hands were sausages wrapped in leather, his calluses more rugged than your self-esteem.

    “Hey, shit sack.”

    You flinched. This was Falco Labroni—the school’s mythic bruiser. You’d heard the tales. Now you were living one.

    You managed a nod.

    He eyed you like you were a science experiment gone wrong. “You look like a sad excuse for a bodybuilder.”

    “Sorry,” you muttered, like a kid caught microwaving a fork.

    “So, you work out, huh?”

    You nodded again, trying not to visibly shrivel.

    Falco snorted. “You look like you should be running track, not pushing iron. You’re doing everything wrong. You need to check into a hospital, get fed through a tube, and save your calories with an electric wheelchair before you can rejoin humanity. You might be the worst thing to happen to bodybuilding since pink dumbbells.”

    You looked down at your frame. Okay, maybe you were a bit slim. But still…

    “I wear extra-large shirts,” you offered.

    “Who cares about your damn shirts? You’re a disgrace to the international bodybuilding community. What’s your diet?”

    You recited your list like a desperate catechism: eggs, steak, chicken, brown rice, bananas, peanut butter, whey, fruits, veggies.

    Falco looked like you’d just admitted to eating cat food. “Forget the steak—eat the fat. Open a can of fruit cocktail, toss the fruit, chug the syrup. That’s the path to greatness.”

    He zeroed in on your neck.

    “Why’s your neck so scrawny?”

    “No clue.”

    “You ever try trap squeezes?”

    “No.”

    Falco then described a sadistic exercise involving sky-staring and daily two-hour neck contractions. You gave a half-hearted nod, already certain you’d never do it.

    “Who’s your favorite bodybuilder?”

    “Arnold Schwarzenegger.”

    “Good. Anyone else?”

    “Frank Zane.”

    Falco recoiled. “Frank Zane? That elegant pencil-neck? He’s not a bodybuilder—he’s a decorative lamp.”

    “But his proportions—”

    “Remarkable proportions? Jesus. Don’t ever say that again.”

    You stood your ground. “He’s in my top three. Serge Nubret, too.”

    Falco leaned in. “You know who I am?”

    “I think so.”

    “Then don’t throw these artsy names at me.”

    “You strike me as more of a Sergio Oliva guy.”

    His eyes lit up. “Now you’re talkin’. But I want to be bigger than Sergio. I want to evolve beyond humanity. Grow gills. Be the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I want people to faint when I take off my shirt.”

    The bell rang.

    You grabbed your books, feeling like Atlas with a paperwork burden.

    Falco looked at you like he was almost amused. “You one of those students?”

    “Trying to keep up a GPA.”

    “So you’re one of those assholes.”

    You nodded. “Apparently.”

    “Cool. Meet you here tomorrow.”

    Thus began your strange friendship with the school’s resident man-beast. Freshman Rick Galia later gave you a full hour-long tutorial on how to survive high school under the gaze of Falco Labroni. You took notes.

  • The Cinnamon Apocalypse

    The Cinnamon Apocalypse

    You shaved with your father’s vintage Gillette Super Speed razor and immediately sliced the tip of your chin. A small crimson droplet formed—a blood-signed pact with manhood. You showered, scrubbed away the dried blood, threw on jeans, and topped it off with your prized Larry Csonka Miami Dolphins jersey.

    When you stepped into the living room, your mother was parked on the couch, Carly Simon lamenting through the speakers as she ate raw hamburger meat with Lawry’s Seasoned Salt, her fingers slick and red like she’d just committed a low-grade crime. She stared forward with the calm of someone contemplating Earth’s pending expiration date.

    “Mom, can’t you cook that?” you asked, half-gagging, half-pleading.

    Without looking at you, she speared another bloody hunk and took a bite.

    Then came the honk. You bolted outside to find Gutierrez in his orange Karmann Ghia, a discount rock star with his bushy sideburns. Susan Bowman, the blonde British exchange student, sat next to him. Crammed in the back were Rick Galia, Cheryl Atkins, and Liz Murphy, packed tighter than socks in a suitcase.

    “I can’t fit,” you said.

    “No problem,” Galia said. “Cheryl and I will get in the trunk.”

    “You can’t be serious.”

    “We’re creating a mobile make-out den. McMahon, close the trunk.”

    You did.

    In the back seat with Liz, you caught the scent of strawberries and ginger from her hair and cinnamon gum on her breath. She looked like a holiday ornament come to life in her green sweater. Your hands were sweating like you were mid-squat with a barbell.

    You thought about that puberty film in biology—the one where a guy lifts his arms to reveal industrial-grade sweat stains. Not helpful.

    At the pizza parlor, you all hit the salad bar and settled in. Galia whipped out a wad of cash like a game show host. “Dinner’s on me.”

    Turns out his dad’s shark-bitten surfboard sold for two grand. You doubted the story until you remembered Galia could sell sand at the beach.

    You hated the pizza, said so, and earned your first dose of “Greenridge snob” accusations.

    Afterward, at the theater, Shampoo was sold out. So was The Apple Dumpling Gang. You all opted for One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, but had 40 minutes to kill.

    Truth or Dare began. Your confession? You had a cousin who dated Ginger from Gilligan’s Island. Weak. Then came the bionic beach vision fantasy. Stronger, but still humiliating.

    Liz, amused, asked if your muscles were bionic too and squeezed your bicep. You were melting inside.

    In the theater, she rubbed her boot against the metal chair in front of her. The sticky sound made you want to crawl into the floorboards. She did it again.

    “Please stop,” you whispered.

    She grinned. “Conditioning.”

    The other couples were busy kissing. You were busy dying inside.

    After the movie, you all piled back into the car. Cheryl sat on Galia’s lap. Gutierrez drove you home.

    Outside your Eichler house, you turned to Liz and mumbled something about a good time. She responded by popping her gum and planting a cinnamon tsunami of a kiss on you.

    And that’s when you snapped.

    With a caveman scream, you launched upward, tearing through the convertible’s soft top like a hormone-fueled jack-in-the-box. You stood half-exposed above the car as the others gawked in stunned silence.

    “What the hell, McMahon?” Gutierrez shouted.

    “I don’t know. I think I’m stuck.”

    Liz was laughing like a lunatic. Neighbors came out filming. A Great Dane named Thor barked in chaos.

    Then your dad appeared with a flashlight and a robe that looked like it had survived Woodstock. “Jeff?”

    “Unfortunately.”

    “I’ve got a hacksaw.”

    He sawed you free. You climbed out, brushed off the canvas bits, and said, “I’ll pay the deductible.”

    Gutierrez waved it off. Galia said the kiss must’ve been nuclear.

    You retreated to your room, tried to decompress with bodybuilding magazines, and realized your mouth still tasted like cinnamon.