Leg Day

It was true, he was sleeping with her. For months in fact. Hector Torres would sit with percolating anticipation on his days off, which were Sunday and Monday. Like clockwork, right around six in the morning, his phone would vibrate with his favorite text of the week. Sometimes it would just be a simple Now. Other times, when her window was larger, it might say Come now but u need to be gone by 11. And on the days when words were not good enough, he would receive a picture that would nearly make his impatient twenty-two-year-old erection shoot through his pants. This was Hector’s Sunday and Monday morning ritual for the better part of a year. She was a forty-six-year-old who ran some sort of business from home, Hector was never quite sure what it was, but it seemed like a pyramid scheme. The guilt would flood him when he would see the wedding photo of Nicole and her husband in the bedroom.

“Your husband sure is a big guy, what does he do again?” he asked upon seeing the photo for the first time.

“He’s a stevedore.”

“Steve? I thought you said his name was Carl.”

“You’re cute,” she laughed, and changed the subject by jumping his bones.

On occasion, after a rowdy session of lovemaking, she would try to pitch the pyramid scheme to him. She would lie under a sheet with her surprisingly still-perky breasts exposed, lighting the longest cigarette he had ever seen. They’re not just an

energy drink, they are an all-natural vitamin packed beverage that will keep you going all day without that dreaded 2:00 crash. It was such a pre-generated speech, one that she could recite with her eyes closed. Hector would look around for the television cameras like he was in a commercial. It reminded him of that scene in The Truman Show when Jim Carrey looks around the room, then asks his wife, “Who the hell are you talking to?”

           It’s all true, he had been sleeping with a married woman. Hector was a trainer at a gym that Nicole frequented, and he was in the best shape of his life. The first time they locked eyes, Nicole was using one of those hip machines, making direct eye contact with Hector while she slowly opened and closed her legs in her skin tight leggings. Did he feel bad about it at times? Yes. But he wasn’t committing adultery, she was. That was how he justified it at least. It was all true, but that doesn’t mean he had to admit that to the burly slob that stood before him. Hector spotted him from a mile away as he entered the gym. He stood out like a sore thumb. Work boots, filthy blue jeans, and a yellow hard hat were hardly customary attire. The visitor approached the front desk like a man on a mission, and Hector instantly recognized him from family photos around Nicole’s house. Jesus, he thought. This guy is even bigger in person. Even though Hector had rippling ab muscles and impressive biceps, he would not want to square up against this man who was built like a refrigerator. 

           The yellow hard hat slammed down upon the counter, eliciting some curious glances from nearby members who removed their headphones.

           “Does this belong to any one of you sacks of shit?” 

           It was a small white case, one that looked even smaller in his bear claw of a hand. Stephen, the manager of the gym came out from his office once he heard the shouting.

           “Is there a problem, sir?”

           He laid his massive hands down on the counter, making a conscious effort to bring his voice to an acceptable tone.

           “I said. Does. This. Belong. To. Any. Of. You sacks of shit?” he sped up the last sentence with an escalation of volume. 

           “Sir, there is no need for that kind of language.”

           “Does this sticker say Omega Gym? I’m pretty damn sure this is the gym I am standing in at the moment.        

“Yes sir, that is one of our stickers, but I have no idea what that is.”

Before Stephen could even register what was happening, the man had leapt at him and pinned his cheek to the glass counter. Leaning in sideways, so he could look Stephen in the eye, he said with a smile,

“You sleeping with my wife, tough guy?”

“Sir?”

“My wife, asshole. She goes here. Nicole Lockwood. Are you fucking her?” he shouted, pulling his scrawny torso over the counter.

“Someone call the cops! Get the hell off of me!” 

Sean and Emilio, two fellow employees, were able to swoop in and drag their boss back to safety. Emilio stood guard in front of his shell-shocked boss who had a line of piss running down his tan khakis. 

“Get the hell out of here and don’t come back. We got your face on camera, bud. You show up here one more damn time you’re leaving in cuffs.” 

The brute raised his hands as he retreated, showing compliance. Hector was staying somewhat out of sight, spotting for someone on the bench press. With each grunt and lift of the barbell, he attempted to keep his face blocked by the weights, showering words of praise and encouragement. 

“That’s it, you’re doing great! Keep pushing my friend!” Hector said, desperately trying to not get involved.

From the second the crazed cuckold walked into the gym, and he unfurled his hairy mitt, Hector knew exactly what was in that little white case. It was the case for his Airpods. And by his calculations, there should only be one Airpod in there, the other one was in his ear. So that’s where I left it, he thought. Just before he turned to leave, perhaps in a moment of justice, the gods of morality judging Hector made Mr. Lockwood glance up, making eye contact with the white earbud affixed to Hector’s head. 

“That son of a bitch! I’ll kill you!”

Sean and Emilio, who were a solid five hundred pounds combined had not left the man’s side. Upon seeing the Airpod, he exploded in a fit of rage and charged, but thankfully it was right into their grasp. They each grabbed an arm and held it outwards, walking him backwards towards the exit as he thrashed and screamed. To Hector, he looked like a man on a crucifix being led by a team of Roman soldiers. While Stephen was still drying the piss from his pants, he dialed the police. Stephen was still on the phone when two patrol cars pulled up in unison, parking in a V-shape to block the entrance. A concerned guest of the gym had already called.

Hector held onto the barbell, looking down to see that he was no longer spotting for anyone. He had gotten up and sprinted to the window, along with every other person in the gym. Stephen had cut the overhead music, and the entire building was silent, no constant whir of treadmill belts or weights on pulleys clinking into each other. About forty noses or so were pressed to the glass, watching the scene unfold in the parking lot.

Customers joked nervously to each other as most of them began recording the ordeal, hoping to have the next big viral video. Exact words and phrases could not be made out as the police followed the unstable, ranting behemoth. As his voice would escalate, the two officers on scene slowly drifted their hands towards their pepper spray, getting locked and loaded. Their thumbs nervously twitched at the canister on their hips, unsure if they should subdue this subject, call for backup, or both. Those that were hoping for their video to end with a belligerent baby rolling on the ground with tears running from his red, swollen eyes, were sadly disappointed. Several more minutes of ranting and raving occurred, ending without fanfare as the man left on his own accord. One patrol car pulled out behind Mr. Lockwood’s truck, escorting him home as he continued to yell on his way out the parking lot, blaring his horn and extending a middle finger out the window.

“Okay, okay, show is over everyone! Sorry for the disturbance, he will not be coming back.” Emilio said, flipping on the music to an 80’s pop station. The clinking of weights resumed. The belts hummed back on. Hector showered, clocked out, and left out the back door. 

Days passed and Hector was convinced that his torrid love affair with the married housewife was indeed over. He checked his phone an obsessive amount the first few days, often placing it face down next to him, hoping to surprise himself with a come over text when he flipped it over. Either that or a text from her husband that said next time I see u, I’m bashing in ur skul. Hector had not been to work in three days, citing a fictional stomach bug as he peered through his closed blinds for hours on end. Nicole was becoming a distant memory in Hector’s brain, just flashes of blonde hair, cigarette smoke, and throes of passion. He would find himself browsing risqué photos she had sent in the past before tossing his phone aside with a sigh, telling himself he was pathetic. 

Eventually he returned to Omega Gym, knowing he either had to quit or face the music. Hector would park out back by the dumpsters, slip in through the back, and then walk on eggshells for his entire shift. Around every corner he was prepared for someone to stroll out, wielding twenty-pound dumbbells, ready to attack. On his third night back, as he was refilling the spray bottles and wiping down machines, he felt his phone vibrate twice in his pocket. Rodeway Inn, 8:00 am tomorrow. Park around the block. The rest of the gym was cleaned in record time as he whistled a happy tune, not feeling pathetic at all.

Just to be safe, he got there bright and early and circled the block twice. There were no massive pick-up trucks in the parking lot, and he spotted Nicole’s blue Toyota Prius parked on his third lap around. Deeming it not a planned ambush, he parked near Nicole, but not too close. The phone buzzed again. Room 229 was all the

text message said. From his car he looked up the staircase and spotted Room 229, third door from the left. The motel was quiet on this Monday morning, which was not surprising at this rundown, outdated motel not particularly close to the highway. There were only three other cars in the parking lot, and a vending machine that may or not be in use. Based on the Coca-Cola logo displayed on the front, which seemed to be an older looking logo from the early nineties, Hector guessed not. Stray strands of grass bled through the cracked, dying pavement. 

When he got to the door, the Do Not Disturb sign was hanging, but the door was unlocked. There were no ashtrays in the room, and there was a plastic No Smoking sign on the back of the door. The damage had been done however, the musty smell of years of cigarette smoke were firmly embedded in every fiber of the carpets and the nicotine-stained curtains. A single queen bed with a god-awful floral bedspread that smelled like mothballs lay next to an end table with a Domino’s menu and a copy of the Bible. An ancient relic of a television sat on four stubby legs on the ground. The wallpaper was a drab olive green, blending terribly with the dark forest green of the bathroom door. The water was running. Steam was seeping out from under the crack of the door, dissipating into the air. It reminded him of the elegant menthol smoke that would circle them after sex. Nicole was always a fan of a good old romp in the shower, he thought. Thinking back on it, maybe it wasn’t the steamy passion of it all, perhaps it concentrated all activities to a location where evidence could be washed down a drain. Except for an Airpod case. 

On the counter by the sink lay her discarded clothes, and hanging from the back of the door was his absolute favorite baby-blue lingerie that she would wear. Stripping off clothes faster than his brain would allow, Hector nearly tripped trying to get his jeans and underwear off. He could hear the drops deflecting off her smooth, angelic skin. Ever so gently, he pulled the shower curtain aside and was greeted by a massive pair of breasts. Ones that sagged towards the armpits, covered in hair. Not the breasts that he wanted to see. Mr. Lockwood stood there, ignoring his presence.

A massive beer belly hung over his waistline which was thankfully covered by a Hawaiian print bathing suit. Water droplets clung to his unkempt beard and mane of shaggy, black hair. The can of beer in his hand looked miniature, and he cracked it open as foamy suds splashed onto his belly.

“Hector Torres,” he said, tilting his head to the ceiling as he downed the beer in one gulp. He left himself in a vulnerable position, but was not worried whatsoever. Completely blind to the wastebasket, he tossed the can over the curtain which landed directly in the receptacle. 

“What a shot! From way downtown! And the crowd goes wild!”

“I think I have the wrong room.”

“Oh no, my friend. You have the right one.”

Hector turned to sprint out of the room, only to catch a full beer can to the back of the head. Spinning around, the last thing he remembered seeing was this dripping bear of a man barreling towards him, ready to pounce. 

On the bright side, he woke up with both Airpods in his ears and he still had his phone. I guess he didn’t think to look through it, or perhaps he did when I was out like a light. The measly light from his phone was enough to reveal the small room he was in. It took several minutes for his eyes to adjust, but he was in a rectangular room with red, metal walls. Small amounts of blood were encrusted to the pallet of cardboard boxes he was on. Moving the small beam of light around the room, the pallets were the only objects in this room. The double doors at the front of the room did not budge an inch, no matter how hard his gym-trained body bashed into it. Between his likely concussion, and attempting to break an impenetrable barrier, he exhausted himself and fell back to sleep. He remembered hearing that going to sleep with a possible concussion was a terrible idea, but his eyelids did not listen to him. 

When he awoke again, a small moment of panic ensued as he realized it was not a dream. Outside he heard the unmistakable sound of crashing waves. Boxes shifted around in his rectangle. They were moving. He was moving. Perhaps he hadn’t noticed until now because he had music to listen to. His phone was dead at this point, and he had nothing else to do except scream and focus on the sound of waves gently crashing on deck. Hector tried to scream for help above the sounds of the sea, but no one came. It was just him and his fort of boxes.

There was no way to be sure how many days even passed. It could have been a month; he had no idea. A day into his journey, he discovered the boxes he had been sleeping on were filled to the brim with Teriyaki flavored Beef Jerky. At least that psychopath didn’t want me to die in here. After finishing his fifth bag of beef jerky one morning, at least he thought it was morning, the entire room seemed to shudder, and an engine groaned like a humpback whale. We’re slowing down, he thought. About an hour later he heard something he feared he would never hear again, human voices. With an ear pressed to the cold steel door, the voices were getting louder. Try as he might to decipher, he couldn’t understand a word they were saying. Then it dawned on him, they weren’t speaking English. What was it? German? Russian?

Voices were now right outside his box, and relief flowed through his veins as he realized this place would not be his tomb. A metal rod screeched through a slot on the outside, and the doors opened, pouring blinding light inside. Hector groaned, partly because of the knot his stomach was in from the dehydrated beef and also from trying to see the world before him. Two shadowy figures slowly came into focus, grabbed him by the arms, and dragged him outside where he fell over. Crumpled bags of jerky spilled from his jacket pocket. He rose to his knees, surrounded by men in orange vests and yellow hard hats. An entire metropolis of multi-colored shipping containers stood in the foreground. Forklifts and trucks with blinking lights hummed between the orderly stacks. Men roared with laughter, snapped pictures, and told jokes in their foreign tongue. 

An older man with big, white caterpillar eyebrows approached Hector and took a knee. 

“Welcome to Rotterdam!” he exclaimed cheerfully. The men doubled over in ear-shattering howls of joy. 

“Everyone, come, come. We will take a picture to send to our friend in America.”

And so they did, forming a semi-circle behind the broken man on the ground, surrounded by empty bags of jerky.