Tales Of The Gurrier

The advertisement in the classifieds section of the local newspaper caught his eye. Not because it was unusual, no, there was nothing unusual about it in the slightest.

One pair dumbbells, used, good cond., must sell, unwanted gift. Genuine offers only. Tel:00-1-38928999.

He read it and passed on. Dumbbells, really, at his age he should know better. And yet, he had been meaning to get in shape. Get back in shape. Not work out everyday. That gym membership lay unused for months, years, gently siphoning funds from his bank account on the 3rd of the month. ‘Useless thing’, he chided, ‘a yuppie tax’. Should get rid of it, and yet, he could never bring himself to cancel the damn thing, fearing it tantamount to a tacit admission of defeat, a small surrender to encroaching mortality. When did he get old? No, not old, not young. No one is old anymore.

But there it was, ‘One pair of dumbbells, used.’ He reread it again. Who buys used dumbbells? Not him, how Francesca would laugh if he brought home used dumbbells. He could afford new dumbbells, brand new dumbbells, top of the line. Hell, the gym was full of dumbbells, stacked in neat black rows against the wall. He watched them while he rode the machines that went nowhere. Or at least he used to, back when he worked out. Standing or squatting on those mechanical beasts, walking to nowhere, pushing or pulling at their long metal limbs, sheathed in black rubber and plastic shoes. Their tiny metronomic brains counting out the endless metres, miles and kilometres to nowhere. How he had huffed and puffed and blown upon them, gazing at those black rows of pure, iron weight, lined up like cannonballs.

But dumbbells were not on his ‘program’. He found, to his dismay, upon filling in the forms, statements disclaiming responsibility for hernias, strains, ruptures and bursting injuries, that one had a program. Tailored specially for him, but one had to work up to dumbbells. In his mind he imagined himself standing before the neat black rows, selecting his favoured weight and mass, hefting it easily with well toned, healthy arms. But dumbbells were not on his ‘program’. One had to work up to dumbbells. He was confined to exercising the mechanical beasts. Escorting them on long, endless walks, bicycle rides and cross country ski jaunts to nowhere. Squatting, harnessed to the grinding gears and spinning tracks, watching others effortlessly grasp some burly, ponderous weight and lift it with ease above their heads. That’s what he wanted.

He waited one day, until the gym was almost empty. Loitering in the shadows by the machine that maximised your backside. Finally the floor was empty of grunters and sweaters, silent of the huffing and puffing and whirring gears of the machines. He padded over to the rows of weights, each one a dense silent mass of iron and sweat. Each one packed heavy, with the potential to unlock his slack useless muscles, to transform his flabby body, to bear him, reborn into the world, shorn of the excesses of life. He selected the closest weight and lifted.

It did not budge. He stared down at his hands; betrayers, and tried again. The thing would not move. Grasping it with both hands he heaved and with a grinding noise the dumbbell slid from the heavy embrace of it’s neighbours and out into the free air.

The weight was incredible. He exhaled explosively, refilling his lungs and grunting with the effort of standing upright. The black iron in his hands dragged him downwards towards the floor, how did they make it look so easy?

‘Hey, hey you there, are those on your program?’ Terrified he turned and the huge black thing slipped from his fingers, crashing into the stacks of weights, sending them clattering to the ground in a chaos of black iron.

He never returned.

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This weeks Flickr fiction was brought to you using this picture taken by Flickr user Fadedmilkyway. Other participants so far this week are Teaandcakes, Tadamack, Aquafortis and Valsha.

This entry was posted on Saturday, December 16th, 2006 at 12:57 pm and is filed under Flickr Fiction. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.