Page 11 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
I continue down the hall, noting an abundance of fuzzy gray mounds running the length of the baseboards. The off-white walls are bare and pockmarked with years of thumbtack punctures and residual tape. There has to be a constant flow of students through this place.
I pass an open door and peer in to find a bedroom. It is masculine collegiate in its purest form. The unmade bed has no headboard, clothing litters the floor, and in lieu of curtains or blinds, dark sheets have been pinned—no,duct-taped—over the windows.
Leaning in the doorway in my achy, dehydrated state, I feel ancient. This is a world for which I have zero context. I don’t know if the posters on the walls are for bands or video games or some strain of comic book movies. The desk is a wasteland of textbooks and slim black cans of what I’d guess is an energy drink. I shake my head and move on.
The next door leads to the bathroom I enjoyed with my mystery man, and I take advantage of the facilities. I study my reflection as I wash my hands. Other than the telltale puffiness of binge-drinking after thirty, I look less haggard than I feel. I clean up the raccoon eyes with my fingertips and give my hair a fluff. Man Mountain had liked my hair.
Grinning, I shake my head and reach for the mouthwash. Igargle and swish—thanks again, my minty friend—and replay what I can remember. Thathappened!
I spit and rinse.AndI’m feeling almost human. Things are looking up!
For exactly three seconds.
Then I lurch for the toilet and violently expel the contents of my stomach.
One hideous, sweaty minute later, I’m back at the sink for a second helping of mouthwash. This time, the refresh isn’t hijacked by my body’s attempt to rid itself of the many poisons consumed last night, and I step back into the hallway, leaving none the wiser.
I pass a window—and backtrack.
It’s a view of the backyard. A black frame sits on a concrete slab by the back fence. Grant is hanging on to one of the bars bracing across the top of the frame, doing… something. His legs swing forward, then pump back, and a moment later, he’s levered his torso above the bar. I don’t even have time to wonder how he’ll get down before he reverses the route, swinging himself below the bar. Another launch has him vaulting up again.
A few feet away, Diego is committed to some other bonkers feat of strength. He has a barbell held across his chest and shoulders, with thick weight plates on either end. He squats, then straightens to a standing position, shoving the bar up and over his head with a grunt loud enough to hear over the music they’re blasting. In one movement, he brings the bar back to his shoulders, squats, straightens, and sends the bar up, repeating the cycle… again… and again…
I’ve lost track of how many times the two repeat their respective endeavors when Diego announces something I can’t make out.
Grant replies with a cry, propelling himself above the bar one more time. “Fifteen!” He lowers himself to the ground. The two knuckle-bump as they change spots, immediately getting to work on the other activity.
“They didn’t even take a break,” I marvel.
“Yeah. That set is for time,” announces a voice.
I wheel to find Alistair on my right, wet-haired and glistening, wearing only a towel. Protective instinct has me returning to the window, for fear that looking upon a god in its purest form will extinguish the vision from my remaining eye.Jesus.I don’t even understand what I just saw. An eight-pack?
When he joins me at the window, he’s on my bad side, limiting my view to a sliver of shape and motion. “Diego’s on bar muscle-ups, and what Grant’s doing is just a thruster. It’s a quick grind. Twenty-one, fifteen, nine. Of each.”
Wow.“I can’t imagine doing a single one of either. Let alone forty-five.”
“Nah. The bar muscle-ups can take years to master, but there’s always alternate movements. And thrusters are basic. It’s the weight and volume that wear you down.”
I understand none of this, but it’s nice of him to try to explain. “You’re not out there?”
“I gotta hold stuff in my shoot on Monday. Can’t shred myself on the bar.”
Before I can process the implication of the “shred” comment, Alistair says, “C’mon,” and moves farther down the hall to a door. He shoulders it open, and his towel slips from his waist to flash me his entire posterior.
He recovers in time to spare himself further exposure, bunchingthe towel together as he continues to press open the door. He brays out a laugh. “Almost showed off the goods.”
I just raise my brows and step onto the porch. There are no words.
Alistair keeps a hand on his towel as we cross the patio, still strewn with last night’s fallen soldiers. I don’t know that I made it out here, but if I had, I’m disappointed in myself for failing to rouse anyone to consolidate the recycling.
By the time we get to the yard, the guys have traded places again. They move through the final round with the same speed as the previous sets, and I lose all thoughts for beer cans and the unbroken skin tone of Alistair’s backside as I watch them work. It’s incredible.
Diego spots us. “Ah!” he grunts, the bar overhead. He brings the bar back down, squats, and extends. “Morning—” Squat, extend. “Ellie—” Squat, extend. “Did you sleep—” Squat, extend, “Well? Nine!” He brings the bar to rest at his chest, then drops it to the ground with a thud. “That’s time!”
“Howdy, Ellie!” Grant drops from the bar and fetches his phone from a little stand on the frame, silencing the music, then bumps knuckles with Diego, and the two join Alistair and me.
Alistair extends a fist to each of the guys. “Looking strong. Overextending at the top of some thrusters, though, Grant.”
