Writing Assignment (ijuh - ch 2)

Writing Assignment

It has always been easy for me to talk about Mark. He's been my muse for the past six years. Even on that first day, it was easy to write about him. Sure, there have been some ups and downs, but I wouldn't change our history for anything. The rough patches have made our current relationship so intense and meaningful. Today we are completely devoted to ‘us’ and to Alex, our son. Nothing will break us apart and that's just the way it is.

That first day I drove to his apartment, he was a complete mystery. Was his apartment going to be flashy or dirty... or was he a stereotypical jock like I assumed? What would his place reveal about his personality?

I knew he had money.

I didn't know he had that kind of money.

His apartment complex was fifteen minutes from my house and twenty minutes from the park. He was basically in a downtown-lite neighborhood. There was a gym a block away and high-class eateries within walking distance.

I hadn't experienced anything like his place before, unless you counted those home improvement shows on HGTV. I’d never been completely comfortable living in the city, and his place encapsulated everything I hated about urban life. There was glass everywhere on the front of the building. Modern. There were other high-rises across the street so any view from his place had to include other steel and glass monsters. There were people everywhere. I know there are lots of people in urban areas… but in Mark’s neighborhood there were always people walking and talking and eating and just… doing stuff. I didn’t like the busy atmosphere, especially with all the traffic. Mark thrived on it, and always has.

We parked underneath his high-rise. Mark waved me into a nearby parking spot because, apparently, he had two reserved spaces.

I thought that his second spot was a waste of money, but would later come to find out that Mark used it all the time because he had many party guests, so the second parking spot was somewhat justified by his lifestyle. He loved to throw parties. Over the next two months, I slowly came to claim that second parking spot as my own. And as for those famous ‘Mark Parties’... they didn’t last long after he met me.

Mark lived on the ninth floor. We had to take the main elevator because he wanted to show off the entrance to the complex and the back stairwell was not impressive. His building was opulent.

Mark looked young... and he was taking a summer college course... so how could he afford a place like this? He said he was a model, but how famous of a model was he? Had I just gotten involved with a famous celebrity? Was that even remotely possible—little old me being friends with a celebrity?

Don’t make me laugh.

Mark showed off his apartment with great pride. And why not, it was beautiful and decorated as if every piece of furniture was selected for a theme and not haphazardly collected throughout his twenties like my furniture had been. Mark's theme was slick and modern—masculine with a lot of black leather. The floors were dark, but not real wood. I guessed that they were porcelain and Mark was surprised that I noticed the difference.

The kitchen counter tops were a sparkling white quartz… or some composite stone, not granite. The cabinets were a classy light gray. I liked grays and whites, but the combination in Mark's place was not what I would’ve chosen. I agreed that it worked for the room and, somehow, the overwrought, industrial style lined up with what I thought of Mark's personality. I saw him as something of a playboy. Something of a high class show-off.

Nothing I'd seen of the decor so far surprised me. And yet... normally when people showed off their wealth like this, it put me on edge. But Mark was so matter-of-fact about it, like I wasn't there to see his money. Like he was proud of his place, but he didn’t need to shove it in my face. I was there to work.

Mark has always been kind of a one-track-minded guy. Sure he jumps from track to track much quicker than me, sometimes so fast that it makes my head spin, but in that moment I was his tutor and only his tutor. And that day his one-track was to finish his essay before midnight.

“I hope you don't mind my stink,” I said.

“I've got a shower. You can use it.”

“Maybe I will, but first we need to get you set up with your priorities. Where's your computer?”

He brought me his little laptop. As with everything Mark owned, it was fancy and the latest model Apple product. I’ve never owned anything Apple other than the first iPod mini waaaayyy back in the day. This computer was too powerful for simple typing—it was a professional computer, capable of editing videos and doing 3D rendering... in your lap.

“What else do you do on this?” I asked.

“Watch porn.”

I cringed. Typical bro.

“What? You asked? I'm not gonna lie. There's nothing wrong with porn. If you don’t want to see it, don’t look under the folder ‘PORRRRNN’.”

“Okay Mark, whatever. You can do so much more than typing and watching videos on this. This is powerful enough to render CGI and make songs. This is like a producer’s computer.”

He didn't know anything about that. All he knew was that it was expensive, fancy and he wanted it.

Okay, so I got a little irritated after seeing his computer. This guy had everything and talked about it like it was an obvious fact of life. Like everyone had such high-speed computers or fancy cars. I wanted a reminder of why he needed me.

“Give me your paper to read through, or do you know what you want to edit?”

“Just take a look at it and tell me how bad it is. I'll jump in the shower first.”

“You should say, ‘take a look at it’ and leave off the qualifier. If you tell me that you think it’s bad, then I’m only going to see a bad paper. You need to talk about it with confidence, like you believe it can be a good paper.”

“Um… take a look at it, then.”

“Sounds good.”

He made a protein shake for himself. I declined, but he put one in front of my face anyway. It was bitter and fruity at the same time. He told me it was his favorite recovery mix. I swallowed as much of it as I could, but when he jumped in the shower I washed the majority of it down the sink.

I was never into supplements and bodybuilding before I met Mark. Sure, I’d always been a runner and ate healthy and had recently started to eat naturally because of my autoimmune disorder, but that didn't mean I knew anything about recovery from exercise or dietary supplements. Mark would educate me very thoroughly on those subjects and my body quickly (and surprisingly) responded.

I read through the first paragraph of his awful paper.

I had to stop myself, shake my head, and start it again two more times. Just saying it was ‘not great’ was too big of a compliment. It was bad. There's no way to sugarcoat it... and I apologize to my husband who will eventually read this story and help me edit it... but that first paper you wrote was complete shit.

For those of you who get upset about cussing and using dirty language, I'm right there with you. I never used to cuss and I mostly keep it out of my novels. Before I met Mark, I could count the number of times I used strong language on both hands, reserving it for only the most important and forceful moments. And I never said anything in the presence of my parents. I used those words basically only with myself.

After I met Mark, everything changed. He's been a very bad influence on me in a lot of ways. In some ways he was good for me, but in a lot of ways he's been bad. Bad, bad, bad. Sorry Mark, but that’s the fraggin’ truth!

That first paper was embarrassingly juvenile. How did Mark get through college with writing like this? He went to high school, didn't he? He had to have learned how to write a simple essay. Right? The paper was like a cobbled-together jumble of disparate thoughts and sentences without any joining words or phrases. He jumped from one idea to the next. There was no coherent theme or context. I didn't even have to ask what he had gotten on that first assignment... the one he said he did so poorly on. I assumed it was a zero. I would have given him an ‘F’ for sure and I'm an overly generous grader—I always gave people the benefit of the doubt.

Editing the paper was going to take a lot longer than I had initially expected. He needed a lot more help than what I could give, surely. For perspective, I considered my usual tutoring services to be surgical and precise. But that paper was practically in the triage unit and suffering from multiple fatal injuries... and also several incurable diseases. If I had my way, we would have started over completely. But we didn't have any time left. So I began making corrective notes, then had to give up. There was simply too much to do.

I clicked on the print icon and prayed that he had a printer nearby. Something rumbled close to his bedroom so I put my head down the hallway and walked toward the sound of the printer.

The sound led me to a bedroom, but it wasn’t his room. This bedroom was too clean and perfect. There wasn't a lived-in feel here. There was a bed and a dresser, but no pictures and no mirror.

Here's another apology to my husband: when I first met you, I pegged you as a guy that would have a full-length mirror in almost every room. I would come to find out that he only kept one in his master bedroom and another in the bathroom. To this day, those are the only full-length mirrors we have, even though we’ve moved houses twice. I'm very proud of him for curbing a small portion of his vanity. My first impression of him was that he had to be incurably vain, but I now stand corrected... there is (some) hope for him.

I picked up the printout and walked back to the kitchen. The main room had this amazing natural light. I couldn't get over how beautiful this central open area was. (And that view!) I was truly jealous, especially since I was living with my parents—I couldn't manage on my own with the autoimmune disorder (and its many side complications that I finally had under control). I was financially stable enough to at least think about moving out, but if I got my own place, every month’s worth of rent would be a thousand or so dollars that I couldn't apply to editors or cover designers or the marketing of my books. And I was only twenty-seven (one year from the age when my father had me, yikes!), so I consoled myself with the idea that I still had time to be successful.

Yes, I moved in with my parents after college, and while I might still be defensive about that decision, it has been justified as it helped get my writing career started. I never would have survived without those first few years working out of my bedroom over my parents' garage. Maybe if I wasn't so mysteriously tired I could have made it on my own (with a mechanical engineer’s salary), but that wasn't how life worked out for me.

I scribbled symbols across Mark’s paper. I had to print a second copy just so there was a clean copy on hand for reference. I marked where he needed a good transition, where his thoughts were complete non sequiturs and how he needed to rearrange some of his thoughts. There was a paper buried underneath all these mixed-up sentences. I wouldn't say that it was a good paper, but it was something that he could hand in. First we needed to get organized.

I shivered.

It was cold in his living room. My clothes were still covered in sweat when we walked in his apartment and Mark kept the temperature so cold that the shirt almost froze to my body. I don't think I would have been warm enough even if I were dry. I would have probably needed jeans or a sweater... so kind of ridiculous. A sweater on a hot summer day?

Mark made a noise in the back hallway, indicating he was done with his shower. A few minutes later I heard the blow-dryer. Ten minutes after that he walked out of his bedroom with his hair perfectly styled. He wore a white tee shirt and blue, plaid pajama bottoms.

I rolled my eyes and leaned my forehead against my fingers as if I was fending off a headache.

“I told you it was bad,” he said.

“That's not it. You keep it so cold in here in the summer that you have to wear long pants to be comfortable.”

“This is comfortable for me. I like it cold, sue me already.”

“I'm freezing,” I said.

“Go warm up in the shower. I'll get you some spare clothes.”

“I'm not going to fit in any of your clothes.” Obviously.

“I've got some spares around here. I think I've got something in your size.”

I explained what he needed to finish on his own if I was going to take a shower. Mark was attentive like a soldier taking orders. He didn't look enthusiastic, but he was determined—as long as he gave a good effort, I could work with him. If he expected me to do the work for him—even if he offered to pay—there's no way that would happen. I would never do that.

He had a single bathroom with a door into the hallway and a door into his master bedroom. I locked them both. He knocked on the hallway door.

“What?”

“Give me your clothes and I'll throw them in the wash. I have a shirt and shorts you can wear, but you'll have to free ball it.”

“Gotcha.” I stripped, gave him my clothes, and locked the door behind me. I tried out the clothes to test if they would fit. They were about my size, maybe a little too small. I was honestly surprised he had something this close to my size. He was at least three inches taller than me and probably over sixty pounds heavier. The fact that he had something this small… I didn’t properly process that thought, I guess. The clothes simply existed. And my only complaint was that they were a little small, not with regard to their origin. I didn't like tight-fitting clothing, but I could wear them for an hour while mine were in the laundry (as long as I wasn’t forced into a stranger’s shoes… I've never been able to wear another person's shoes).

I showered quickly. Normally, I spent at least fifteen minutes in the shower and washed by the light of the moon. But this was not my normal shower, so it would have been rude to get comfortable, though I did explore what he had for soap.

Mark had some really intense-smelling hair products. I only ever used the cheap 99-cent shampoo from the local convenience store. Sometimes I upgraded to the $1.99 basic hair-care products. I never used conditioner. Or body wash. I only ever used soap with a washrag. He didn't have a washrag anywhere in his bathroom. He didn't have a bar of soap, either. I guess that meant I'd have to use whatever was here… this so-called 'body wash'.

I picked a bottle at random and squirted it in my hand. It smelled fresh and minty… maybe I would get out of the shower and smell spicy? My nose didn’t like it.

Today, I leave Mark to take care of all that stuff. He knows what I like and he knows what works with my body chemistry. But being in his shower that first time was like a trip into an alternate reality. I didn't know a guy could have so many shampoos.

I took my time getting dried because Mark needed the time to really sink his teeth into the editing process. I didn't want to be overbearing around him. I had a tendency to get bossy and that persona worked with most of my high school students, but I had an intuition that Mark would be different. He wouldn’t appreciate being bullied. I wanted to play it cool. He was a cool guy and he would probably only respond to other cool, laid-back personalities.

I don't know why I thought that, but I've always been a people-pleaser and a social chameleon. I work extra hard to get people to like me.

Even though we had basically nothing in common and I probably wouldn't see him after I finished editing his paper, I wanted Mark to like me. I wanted everyone to like me.

I slipped out of the bathroom and walked into the kitchen. Mark was typing at a furious pace, which made me happy. I had no idea what he was doing because the computer screen was angled away from me, but he was intent on doing it, whatever it was. That was another good sign. He glanced up at me.

“I got you my old computer. We can work on it as a shared document.”

“Sounds good.” But, actually, I didn't like the sound of that. I had volunteered to help him with his paper, which might have made it appear as if I was willing to do the work for him. But I didn't want to actually work, I just wanted to point him in the right direction. We didn't have time to quibble about the specifics of our arrangement with only a few hours left until the deadline.

So he will use me for one paper…. If he does it again, I’ll lay down the law. I’m only accepting the situation because the deadline is almost twelve hours away.

But I still had a firm determination not do the actual paper for him. Firm!

I logged into Google and he gave me sharing privileges on the document. I looked over the first few paragraphs, which he had rearranged significantly as per my instructions.

“This is much better.”

“Thanks.”

“But there isn't much meat on the bone. This might fly for a high school paper, but if you want to impress your college professor, you're going to need to stick in a few more research facts and develop your ideas a little more fully.”

“Okay.”

“I've got some books in my car. I think they can help you out.”

“You've got some books in your car? What kind of books? You just… got them?”

“Yeah, I did a little reading this past week. I think I stumbled across a few topics that'll be helpful. And if not, I found this really great resource. You'll love it.”

“Okay, dude,” he said.

I hated being called ‘dude’. But as our friendship grew, I playfully began referring to him as ‘dudebro’ because he used both words so frequently. At first I used it as a knock against his limited vocabulary, but then it became a little nickname between the two of us. Then I eventually just shortened it to ‘dude’ and sometimes to ‘bro’. Both of which I now use unironically, believe it or not. I know it’s sad.

I took the elevator down and the elevator back up. My future apartment wouldn't have that luxury and I was often jealous that Mark had an elevator.

I spread my research around the kitchen, showing him what I thought were good ideas so he could read through the chapters by mostly skimming and sometimes including a good point in his paper. I drafted his citation page and made sure that all of his comments were properly cited. I didn't feel unethical doing this for him. I sometimes did this with my regular students—allowing them to do the work while I just polished the technical side of their papers and rounded them into perfect shape.

If Mark wanted to be a good writer and pass this class, then he had to learn the Chicago Manual Style of writing or whatever Style the professor assigned. Sometimes professors switched midway through the semester just to give their students a headache. It didn't happen in most classes, but Mark was in a technical writing class for business and you could never be too certain how sane those writing professors were.

I added the citation page rough draft to the back of his document, then started updating his footnotes. The mess began to look like an actual paper, which was a huge step forward. Those first few visible results motivated Mark.

I know that those first few successes were often huge motivators for my other students. When I worked with someone, I didn't make them do busy work without explaining how to become a better writer. If you hired me to work with your child, then I made sure that they had a good product to turn in to their teachers and also learned a little about formatting documents.

“This is looking good, dude.”

“This is only the beginning. You’re probably operating at a ‘C’ level if we're lucky. What is it that you're aiming for?”

“The ‘C’ would be good.”

“No, you're aiming for an ‘A’,” I decided.

“Okay, an ‘A’ it is. For ambitious!”

“That's good. ‘A’ for ‘ambitious’... I like that.” We shared a smile.

We worked until lunch. The paper was coming along nicely. It was still chock full of typos, but I would let them stand for another hour or two. We were still in the drafting phase. Mark and I had spent a couple hours working on this paper, although judging by the quality, it could have been minutes. He still needed a few more hours focused on doing proper research while we improved and organized his overall argument… not to mention the theme. Then we would move on to grammar and editing, which could be done up until the deadline and didn’t take as much brain power.

I couldn't be confident that we would meet the deadline unless all of our research was done. My goal was to reach the end of the research phase before dinner. I didn't tell Mark that this was the goal. He was still acting a little overwhelmed by the sheer brute force of my writing program.

“Okay, I need some food. What do you want?” he asked, walking to the refrigerator.

“I don’t know. I’ll have to go home and get something.” That would give him plenty of time to get back to work on his paper. “I can’t eat just any old thing.”

“Picky eater.”

“I do it for my energy. I’m a little superstitious.”

“I have fruit and vegetables. I have juices and almond milk. Come over here and pick something out. I have leftovers from Three Bars.”

“What’s Three Bars?”

“One of my friends works there. It’s actually three restaurants stacked on top of each other. The bottom one is the cheaper, faster one. The middle one is like an expensive Italian place. And then the top floor, where my friend is a chef, that’s a four star cuisine experience. Or some shit.”

“I don’t eat meat,” I stated, looking at his leftovers.

“This isn’t meat, it’s turkey. So you’re a vegan?”

“No. But I’ve learned my lesson. Some of the processing the meat goes through… it upsets my stomach and can inflame my body. It’s better to avoid it at all costs.”

“So... do you eat meat at all?”

“Yes, as long as I know where it’s processed. If I don’t, then I assume it was preserved with stuff that will hurt me.”

“This meat was fresh. They go to a butcher every morning. That’s why it’s a four-star place. They take excellent care of their food.” He shoved the turkey meatball in the microwave. It smelled amazing. I hadn’t eaten meat since the beginning of the year, six months ago. Sure, I missed out on some things, but my body felt better. And I wasn’t constantly worried if I would have a bout of exhaustion because I ate something bad for my muscles.

The microwave wafted enticing aromas through the kitchen. Mark dug into the avalanche of food that fell out of the fridge.

“What do you need so much food for?” I asked. He must have just gone shopping.

“I have people over all the time. They know they can eat whatever, whenever.” He pulled out an apple and crunched into it, then made himself a sub sandwich. “I assume you can’t have deli meat?”

“No.” The microwave dinged.

“Here, try this. Everything is naturally grown, preservative free. And it tastes like heaven. Even though it’s a turkey meatball. You'd never know it isn't beef.”

It smelled so good. I should have turned away and stayed strong, but my mouth watered so bad. I had spent the last six months without meat! When I started the diet, the hardest thing for me to give up was bacon. Bacon smelled so good, but it was full of all kinds of nasty preservatives that my stomach could no longer handle. My dad loved bacon. Mom made it for him every weekend.

I had managed to stay strong against the bacon, even when it was paraded in front of my face. I stayed strong against the grilled chicken wings at family functions. I stayed strong against the pulled pork from places where the pork was probably frozen and cheap but tasted like heaven.

Against everything I liked—my weaknesses—I stayed strong. But against a gourmet turkey meatball… I was helpless.

I took a small bite. It was incredible. My stomach rumbled. My nose wanted to sniff the entire meal like I was an animal. I wanted to snort it instead of swallow it. I wanted it on my skin. God, I was in love with that meatball.

“Yeah, dude. Eat it. You need protein after a workout. You’re so fucking skinny.”

“I’m not skinny,” I shot back.

“Your legs are fine, everything else is skinny as fuck.” That was mean. “You should lift. You can come to my gym if you like.”

“I’ve never been in a gym before.”

“Really? I thought I saw you.”

“You were mistaken.” I gobbled down the meatball. After my initial resistance faded, my stomach rejoiced at the amazing meal.

“I coulda swore…. You’ve never been to the gym at the college? Like a month ago?”

“What? Oh…” I swallowed. “I did have a free trial there. Is that your gym?”

“I go there on Tuesdays and Thursdays. I knew I remembered you.”

“What did I do that was so memorable?” I started on the rest of the meal, which also had a bit of the meatball flavor. I was in heaven, distracted.

“Well, you looked lost, for one thing. You were around the free weights and pull-up bars.”

That’s what I normally did for upper body strength. Push-ups, crunches, pull-ups and free weights. And nothing too heavy. Mark remembered my only day in the gym accurately. What were the chances that he was there on the one day in my life that I lifted weights in a gym?

“Then you did something that I swear I’ve never seen anyone do,” he said.

“What?” I couldn’t remember what I did that was so special. That was an unremarkable night as far as I was concerned. It was a little strange that Mark remembered me—actually, it was more than strange. It had been over a month ago.

“There’s this girl. Redhead. Bodybuilder. Very buff. Almost as tall as me. You asked her for help... don’t you remember?”

“Oh yes, she was very nice.”

“Dude, no. I’ve been going to that gym for a few months and I’ve already seen her shoot down so many wannabes. Some people are freaks for girls with muscles like that.”

“She looked like someone who knew what she was doing. She was helpful.” I shrugged.

“Dude, you were chatting her up like it was nothing. I would have swore she was a dyke, but she was so into you. I was like ‘Damn, that dude has game’.”

“I don’t know anything about that. We had a good time and I got her to laugh. I felt bad for taking up her time.”

“Dude, she was into you.”

“Why was that so remarkable?” My skin flushed. I hated when people were attracted to me. First of all, I rarely picked up on it. They had to be really obvious and say something like: do you want to go back to my place… and fuck. I cannot tell you the number of times I’ve gone to someone’s apartment thinking we were going to dinner or who knows what, only to be put in extremely uncomfortable positions. And because of those situations, I wound up thinking that everyone else thought about sex all the time. Meanwhile I’m like, ‘No, I thought we were going to play Monopoly!’

Mark was laughing at me. “I thought it was funny. I've seen so many pick-up artists try to work her over, but you managed to do the impossible. Skinny-as-fuck you.”

I had a strange thought as he said that… last Monday Mark had been a stranger to me, but I wasn't unknown to him. “So you recognized me when we met last week?”

“Yeah. Is that a bad thing?” He could tell from my voice that I was uncomfortable.

“I don’t know. I didn’t remember you. Isn't it a little strange?”

“We talked in the gym.”

“What?”

“In the changing room. We talked.”

Now I remembered him. He was the overbearing guy in the locker room. I hated talking in situations like that, feeling vulnerable. I didn’t want to talk to strangers while I was changing. Now that he brought it up, Mark was also memorable… in that he had walked around naked, like he owned the place. Actually, he had practically shoved his dick in my face.

“Let’s talk about something else,” I said tactfully.

“Sure.” He chuckled at me. “How did you like your meatball?”

“Good. I can’t believe I ate it.”

“I know! It’s turkey, right? You never would have thought turkey could taste so good.”

“No… I mean I haven’t eaten meat since the beginning of the year. That was one of my Resolutions. To not eat meat for a year.”

“Shit! Why didn’t you say something?”

“It smelled good. And I was hungry. And, I just wanted some real meat!”

He laughed at me again. “You’re crazy. I can’t believe you ended your New Year’s Resolution for a turkey fucking meatball.”

“I know! I’ve made it past pulled pork and chicken… and bacon!” Just the idea of bacon suddenly had my mouth watering. I had a feeling that I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back now. “Bacon is the best. Yet what tripped me up was a turkey freakin’ meatball.”

“No, dude. Turkey fucking meatball. Don’t be a pussy.”

“I’m not a… a pussy.”

He laughed. I think I may have sounded exactly like a pussy with that last statement.

“Say it… turkey fucking meatball.”

“Turkey… fucking meatball.” There, I said it. Let’s move on.

“Dude, shout it. Who cares? Say it loud and say it proud. TURKEY FUCKING MEATBALL!”

I sighed. “Let’s get back to the—”

“Say it!”

“Mark, we don’t have time to play—”

“Say it!” He started to chant. “Say it, say it, say it.” Mark could be so juvenile when he put his mind to it.

“Fine!” I said the phrase a little louder.

“LOUDER!”

“It was a TURKEY FUCKING MEATBALL!”

“YEAH, DUDE!” He was pumped up. “Fuck, I need to burn off this extra energy. Now. Let’s go work out.”

“Mark!”

“Okay, let’s get back to work.”

I had to refocus him. To this day, he can be distracted by the smallest things. And he needs constant attention and affirmation. He calls me high maintenance, but I mean… come on! Maybe we both are high maintenance in our own ways. How’s that, Mark? I’ll be generous.

We worked on and off for the next few hours until the paper was completely restructured and dotted with ideas from the books I had brought. We were finally ahead of schedule and I allowed us to take another food break. I hadn’t yet changed back into my clean workout clothes because it was too cold in the apartment.

“Where did you get these books from?” Mark asked.

“Some are from the library and a couple I bought. One of my friends took a similar course in college, so a couple books are from him.”

“Did you actually read all these?” He spoke with a quiet voice, like he was thinking deep thoughts.

“I skimmed most of them.” I had read basically every page I thought would be relevant. I’m a fast reader and was interested in the subject, so it was easy to read.

“I think you know more than I do and I’ve been taking classes for a couple years.”

“Well, most of business is common sense. If you are nice to people, they’ll remember you. And some will reward you. Once you give people what they pay for, you can get away with anything. You want to be extraordinary to your customers, so you have to do extraordinary things for them—make their lives easier in some way. Marketing is all about human psychology, which I find very interesting and I often read scientific papers on the subject when I get my hands on them. I also get National Geographic, which sometimes has brain and mind stuff, and Psychology Today, which is a little sensationalist, but gets you thinking.”

“Fuck.”

“Can you stop saying that word?”

“What, ‘fuck’?”

“Yes…”

“Say it.”

“No.”

“Say the word!”

“No!”

“Then fuck it, I’m not giving up fuck if you can’t even say ‘fuck’.”

“Fine! Fucking give up the word ‘fuck’ for a fucking minute!”

“Yeah, dude! That’s the shit!”

I slapped my forehead. Mark cracked up. I pointed back to the paper.

“We should get back at it again.”

“You said we were ahead of schedule. My brain needs a… effing break, dude.” He winced as he covered for his f-bomb.

“I never should have said that we were ahead. Now you’re relaxing and we won’t get finished. We need to keep going. It’s better to be ahead than behind.”

“I work harder when I’m behind.”

“But you work sloppier. Look at all these typos and mixed up sentences. We need to have time to fix them before midnight!”

“I don’t see anything wrong with it. I don’t mind getting a ‘C’. Fuck, that’s better than a sub-F.”

“Mark!”

“Sorry. It’s hard not to cuss!”

“No! What do you mean, ‘you don’t mind getting a ‘C’?’ If you set the bar so low, that’s where your ceiling will be. We need to aim for an ‘A’ so that you hopefully get a decent grade!”

“I’m happy getting above an ‘F’.”

“I’ve never had a student get below a ‘C’ on a paper and I’m not starting now. We’re getting back to work.” He grumbled at me, but I was undeterred. “You’ll thank me later!”

“You’re fucking insane. Certifiable.” He sat back down at the dining table. “Can we at least go out to dinner?” I glared at him. He didn't surrender. “What do you want for dinner? Are we going to make something?”

Honestly, I didn’t think we’d have time to eat. “Are you that hungry? It’s only five o’clock.”

“I’m fuc… effing starving. How about I call up my friend that made the meatball you had for lunch? He’ll bring us some good, healthy food. And with some free-range meat, if you want it. How about another turkey… effing meatball.”

“I don’t want another turkey fucking meatball.” I paused. “It was good though. If that’s what you want to eat, tell him to bring something.”

“Cool!” Mark got on his phone and sent out a few texts. He got a reply about a half hour later. “He gets off at around nine. That’s way too fuc… effing long. I guess I do use that word a lot, don’t I?”

“Fuck yes.” I had now crossed the threshold of using that word ten times in my life.

“You’re just rubbing it in my face! You little fucker!” He jumped up and ran around the table, then grabbed my head in a lock and messed up my hair. It wasn’t quite a stereotypical bully move because he didn’t inflict much pain, but it was still worthy of an eye-roll. Surprisingly, I didn't close up like a turtle because of his touch—which was my normal reaction.

When Mark let go of me, I calmly got back to work. His second computer was perfect for me. No porn folders. “I’ll let you do some jumping jacks and get a snack if you spend the next half hour really focused on finishing this draft.”

“Then what?”

“Then I’ll give you a full mark up so you know what to fix.”

“Then what?”

I sighed. “Then, if you want to go to the gym, I guess half an hour won’t hurt.”

“Yes!” He clenched a fist. “You’re going with me?”

“Not to the college. I saw a gym on the corner, can we go to that?”

“Fuck yeah! I have a membership. I’ll get you in on a free trial!”

“Mark, what did I say about the f-word?”

“Sorry. You were using it, so I thought it was okay.” He grinned. “You’re a bad influence on me.”

“Let’s focus.”

We ate a quick snack then worked until six. The paper was almost complete and only in need of a final polishing. Mark threw my cleaned workout clothes at me. I didn't want to be in a gym with my tight running tank, but it would have to do.

“Let’s go!” He jumped up and punched me in the shoulder. At that time in my life my shoulders were still thin and mostly bone.

I got up stiffly from the table and stretched. Mark bounded out of the room like an out-of-control puppy. He changed in about thirty seconds.

“Come on, let’s go!”

“Half an hour, right?”

“Yeah, yeah.” He was kind of noncommittal about the time limit.

“We do have more work to do.”

“I know! Quit nagging. I need to get out and do something.”

I changed and we left. The summer heat hit me hard. My skin was cold from his frigid apartment and I got dry goosebumps as I adjusted to the temperature.

We walked the block to Mark’s gym. He had put my borrowed clothes in his bag so I’d have something clean to change into. Mark said he would wash my workout clothes for me again, but I didn’t think we would work up that big of a sweat seeing as I didn't even want to be there.

We entered the gym, another building with a lot of glass and bright lights. I hated it, like I hated the city.

Mark took me to the desk with the receptionist/smoothie maker. “Hey, Kevin! This is Chris.”

Kevin stuck out his hand and we shook. “Hi Chris, nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Mark took control. “I’m going to show him around the gym. He can have a few free days.”

“Sure, Mark. Anything for you.”

“Thanks bro.”

Mark directed me back to the locker room. He held the door open for me. That action stirred a few memories hiding in my head—Mark had held the door for me quite a few times… when we left his building, when we entered the gym, and now entering the locker room.

The locker room was unlike any I had ever seen before. In high school we had gaudy, metal lockers that closed loudly and opened with a screech. The college gymnasium had the same old, ugly things. These lockers were brand new and impressive. The fronts were a Formica wood grain framed by black metal. They swung perfectly and didn’t bang. The seating area was clean; the floor was a smooth, pebble surface. The lights were bright, but not glaring. The mirrors had warm lights around them so that when I saw my reflection I looked like a human being instead of a corpse.

It was a high-class place.

Mark locked our stuff in a locker and took me out to the main floor. I said I didn’t lift weights. He said that this trip would be about establishing limits so he would know where to start me. He had apparently already decided I would be his new workout partner, but in truth I was to become more of a workout project.

“Start at the very bottom,” I said. “You can’t get any lower than me.”

“We’ll see. You said you worked construction?”

“A few years ago with my dad. Now I just do push-ups and things. No lifting.”

Mark put me through the paces. He had me bench press until the weight grew uncomfortable. He didn’t push me to exhaustion—it was just to test my strength. He had me lift weights at different angles to check on my shoulder strength. He had me do tricep and bicep exercises. He ran through some complicated machines that I had never even seen before. At each station he typed stuff into his phone.

Towards the end he had me do leg lifts to work on my core.

He hardly did any lifting other than showing me proper form and explaining why certain moves were better than others. I didn’t really care seeing as I wasn’t interested in lifting or ‘getting big’. The entire process took about forty-five minutes and I had a decent sweat going by the end.

Mark stopped me at the bench press and laid down, commanding me to spot him. I said I hadn’t done that since freshman year in high school.

“Just don’t let it fall on me,” he said.

“Okay.”

He busted through a few sets, whereas I was a lot slower when I did mine. Then we moved to the cables for his biceps and triceps. I followed along, mentally counting the minutes as the clock ticked closer and closer to midnight.

A guy came up to talk to us. Mark had been receiving visitors the entire time he showed me through the exercises. He was like a king in his court. But now that he was focused on his own workout, he kept his answers shorter, but no less enthusiastic. Mark thrived on the social aspect of the gym.

I just wanted to get it over with.

“Okay. You're stronger than you look,” he said when we finished. “I worked up a pretty good sweat. How ‘bout you?”

I glared at him.

I was drenched. My body wasn’t hurting anywhere specifically, but everything felt tight. How sore would I be tomorrow?

“We could always work legs on Wednesday? Mr. Runner?”

“This was a one time thing.”

We walked back to the changing room.

“What didn’t you like about it? I told you I wouldn’t laugh at you. Everyone has to start somewhere. And plus, you’re stronger than you look. Scrawny.”

“I’m not embarrassed. The gym just isn’t my thing.” I hated the bro-time and the culture of checking everyone out. I didn’t want anyone to check me out.

We were talking by our locker. “Okay. Well, let’s get cleaned up and back to work. Shit, it’s almost seven!” He was nude while I was still in my exercise gear, not wanting to show him anything. I was a modest guy and Mark didn’t pressure me. He walked away to the showers.

I was left alone in the locker room. Monday nights didn’t have high traffic, apparently. I sat and waited for Mark. There was plenty of time to change by myself without anyone looking.

But then I gathered my courage and decided to shower. What did it matter, in the long run? I probably wouldn’t be seeing Mark again, anyway.

“Hey, there you are! I wondered if you got lost.” Mark laughed at his own joke.

I took a shower that was two down from his without looking in his direction. I didn’t want to see if he was looking at me, and I definitely didn’t want to give the impression that I was looking at him. He talked to me, but I kept my comments short. He was such a chatterbox.

Then Mark slid over to the shower next to mine.

I slid to the next shower over, giving him a hint to keep his distance.

He laughed at me. I was done showering. “Where are the towels?”

“Take mine,” he offered. He walked out in front of me, naked, wet, and confident. I took his towel, dried off and wrapped it around my waist. I walked out to find a still naked, but dry Mark talking to someone. Mark had a towel draped over his shoulder.

“Hey dude, towels are right there,” he said, pointing to the cabinet behind me. “Devon, this is Chris, he’s helping me with that class I was telling you about. Chris, this is Devon. He’s a good workout partner.”

Devon held out his hand. At least he wasn’t naked. Devon looked at Mark like a pagan worshiping an idol. Mark was good-looking and charismatic—everyone in the gym looked at him; either they wanted to be him or… I didn’t want to think about the other options.

I changed quietly and without drawing attention to myself. We walked back to Mark's place. It was almost dark, but still warm. It wasn’t as blisteringly hot as it had been in the middle of the day, but it was still humid. Mark was once again chatting uncontrollably and showed no signs of slowing down. He was back to his high-energy self.

“Okay, I’m going to get Albert to bring us a couple meals. How does that sound?”

“We need to put a few more hours into your paper.”

“I know, I know. We’ll get started after I make the call.” We got in his apartment and he threw our clothes in the washer. He offered me a recovery shake. I said I already had one that morning.

“How much of that did you drink?”

I didn’t respond—not wanting to lie.

“I saw you take two tiny sips. How much did you finish, don’t lie!”

“You can’t call that a drink,” I protested. “It was like eating cement!”

“How much was left when you dumped it down the sink?”

“I didn’t dump it down the sink,” I denied, but my cheeks turned bright red and my voice must have sounded guilty.

“You are a horrible liar.”

I laughed nervously.

“I’ll make you a small chocolate. Trust me, you’ll be thanking me tomorrow. We didn’t do too much, but I want you fresh and willing to go a second time. You won’t go with me if it makes you feel like shit.”

“I feel fine.”

“I want you to feel fine tomorrow.” He made me a shake and I drank as much as I could stomach.

“It’s so thick! I’m telling you, this is what cement would taste like.”

“Take it like a man,” Mark taunted.

I finished the disgusting drink and stuck out my tongue for verification.

“Just like in Survivor,” Mark said.

“What?”

“Like in Survivor. When they have an eating challenge they make you open your mouth and prove you’ve swallowed it all.”

“Okay.”

“Don’t tell me you haven’t seen Survivor!” I hadn’t. “Dude, we gotta watch it. You’ll love it.”

I thought, ‘You don’t even know me, how do you know if I would like it or not?’ But I didn’t say anything. I nodded noncommittally and tapped my finger on our latest printout of Mark’s paper.

After we settled down, the writing came a lot easier. He asked a few questions and I answered them. I didn’t want to estimate our progress anymore in case that made Mark lose his focus, but I figured we probably had at least a ‘B’ paper. And based on what we started with, that was impressive.

The doorbell rang.

“Thank God!” Mark jumped to his feet and practically sprinted to the door, which he threw open without looking through the eye hole. “Albert!”

“I’ve got the food. Where are we heading tonight?” Albert leaned in close to Mark, but Mark pulled away, eliciting a strange look from Albert.

“Albert, this is my friend Chris. He’s helping me write my paper for that damn professor.”

“Oh.” We shook hands. “Good luck with that. So… where are we heading?”

“Umm…” Mark bit his lip, then looked at me guiltily. “I don’t think I can go anywhere tonight?” He asked it like a question, like I needed to give him permission to leave.

Albert jumped in. “When is it due?”

“Tonight. But we’re basically done, right Chris?”

“You don’t need my permission to leave,” I said.

“But we’re basically done, right?”

“If you want to be done, we’re done.”

He bit his lip again. “Fuck! I’ve got to stay in tonight, dude. Sorry. Plus I’m kind of tired. We’ve been working on this piece of shit all day.”

Albert didn’t look happy. “So I brought food for the nerd? I thought it was for the two of us.”

That sounded like the beginning of a fight. Did Mark have a hole I could burrow into… or maybe a potion to help me evaporate. I hated arguments.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to… didn’t I say… I thought I said?”

“You said bring food for two.”

“Yeah, me and Chris.” He pointed to himself and me. “I’m sorry, dude.”

I couldn’t stand the tension. “It’s okay,” I offered. “I was just going home.” I closed the laptop in front of me. “You two can enjoy your night out.”

“What?” Mark pleaded. “You said we had more to do. Please stay, we’re almost done!”

“You’re at like a ‘B’ at least. Just turn it in. Go celebrate.”

“I thought we were aiming for an ‘A’. Isn’t that what you told me all day. If we aren’t going all the way, then why didn’t I just turn in the ‘C’ paper. I’m not wasting all that time for nothing!”

Now he’s angry at me? It wasn’t me who made a confusing call to this Albert character. It wasn’t me who was the party boy. It wasn’t me who waited until the last minute to work on his assignment!

I would probably never see Mark after we finished this paper. I had dealt with his kind when I tutored in college. They were all friendly with you until they got what they needed, then it was 'so long sucker'.

“We’ll do what you want to do,” I stated.

“I want to finish. You and Albert eat the meals, I’ll make myself dinner.” And that’s exactly what we did. Meanwhile, Mark explained why he had called Albert in the first place. “Chris tried your leftover turkey meatball for lunch. He raved about it, said it was the best thing he had ever eaten. You should put that on your reviews.”

“He didn’t say that,” Albert denied.

I shrugged. “I did, actually, but this is why I never trust reviews. You need to place it into the proper context. I hadn’t eaten meat since the beginning of the year, and Mark caught me in a craving. And I was weak. And I just wanted a taste of meat. So I did, and it was amazing.” My mouth was watering just thinking about that dumb meatball.

Albert laughed at my antics. “So you’re saying I can’t trust your opinion.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying. I probably would have had the same reaction about something disgusting, like frog legs.”

“Frog legs are pretty good, actually. We make them about twice a year at the restaurant.”

“On the upper floor?”

“Yeah, I’m a sous-chef. The same family owns the entire building. I actually live in one of the upper apartments… it’s part of my compensation.”

“That’s pretty cool,” I said.

We finished our meal. After Albert accepted the fact that Mark wasn’t leaving, he was a pretty laid-back guy. He followed Mark’s every comment and hung on his every laugh. Albert laughed longer than I thought appropriate and made sure to compliment Mark at every opportunity. I was slowly getting a better understanding of who Mark was as a person.

Mark was the leader of the pack. All these other guys were the underlings running around trying to make him happy and competing for his attention. First, there were the guys at the gym, then there was Albert. I figured most of Mark’s other friends would be similar. Betas to his alpha.

Whatever. I never did understand why people formed their little packs. There was always that one popular guy surrounded by his hanger-ons. And those sycophants were always looking—begging—for scraps from the popular guy’s table. Disgusting. And I just… didn’t care about that stuff. My life didn’t revolve around status symbols or who could nail the hottest chick. I opted out of the hierarchy and was happy doing it. I didn’t want anyone looking at me, or sizing me up. I wanted to just be me.

Albert sensed that I wasn’t a threat. He threw a few tests my way to gauge my reaction. I didn’t react. I almost laughed at his blatant attempts to rile me up.

When Albert turned away, I looked at Mark and purposefully rolled my eyes. Mark smiled and shrugged.

Albert finally left. We got back to work, but I was tired. It was past ten o’clock at that point. I kept yawning and had already scanned the paper like a dozen times looking for typos.

“Damn dude, you’re making me tired with all your yawning.”

“I know, sorry. I’m normally in bed by now.”

“What!” he shrieked, rattling my brain.

“I get up by seven every morning, especially in the summer. That’s when I start my writing and I don’t end until I take lunch. Then it’s on to editing.”

“What the fuck! You gotta get out more.”

“Mmm…” I rubbed my eyes. “I’m going to lay down on your couch for a minute. Wake me up about half an hour before you turn it in. I’ll give it one final polish to make sure your references are all in line.” I shuffled to his couch and sank into the leather cushions, laying my head against the armrest. There was a throw pillow that I used under my neck.

I was out in no time.