Jim Trainer

Too Skinny, Too Small by Don Bajema Chapter 4

In Uncategorized on October 21, 2013 at 12:45 pm

“Get up,” Dad said.
I opened my eyes to cracked varnish on the plywood ceiling a foot above my face which in the many hours over the years I’d spent tracing it with my fingers, I’d seen, by following certain cracks, etched a map of the old Pirate coastline from the Carolinas down to Florida.
I swung my legs over the edge of the bunk and landed six feet below, silently, just barely quivering the trailer floor and made my way down the hall to the living area-a widened room with a tiny stove, bench seats around a tiny table taken up with a big television.
The trailer rocked and creaked with Dad’s shifting weight between the one shelf refrigerator and the greasy, filthy stove. Most trailers are stabilized with jacks and concrete blocks-Dad just backed it over the concrete slab, unhitched it from the truck, plugged the electrical cord into the box, slid the stairway out from under the door and we were home-that was eight years ago.
We had an awning for a little while but it got blown to shreds and just flaps in canvas strips when the wind comes up.
I get waffles from the ice box for breakfast, sometimes an egg that is cooked over a high flame-Dad’s always in a rush-making the egg white crystallize with grease and the yoke dry as a biscuit.
I open the refrigerator door.
“Any milk?”
“Do you see any?”
“No.”
“So I guess there’s no fuckin’ milk, is there?”
I close the refrigerator door and slide sideways into the chair at the table, you don’t pull chairs back because there’s no room.
“Too fuckin’ hot,” he says.
I glance at the indoor outdoor thermometer he’d bought Mom for Christmas a few years ago.
“Eighty-eight already.”
“Get ya milk on the way home.”
Usually if he said something like that he’d come through but I’d have loved to eat a bowl of cornflakes to help wash down these eggs. The waffles I drowned in syrup.
“Any..” I was thinking butter but..
“We are a bit short in the dairy supplies.”
He got up, “Want another egg. Fix ya a egg.”
He was being nice.
“Yeah, sure,” I said as I got up to go to the bathroom and ducked my mouth under the faucet to wash down the egg yolk-the kitchen sink is broke, that is, it only pumps hot water.
I pissed and slid open the bathroom door to the dining area front room space of the trailer.
Dad turned to slide the egg onto my waffle. Cut a bite of egg and waffle for himself, forked it into his mouth and chewed nodding,
“Protein. You need protein. I’ll get some papaya, dried kind, Russians say papaya and some enzyme in egg protein is the quickest shortcut for absorption.”
He flipped through a stack of sports magazines and training pamphlets, Scholastic Coach, NFL programs. Combine preparation books. But he was big with the Russian track and field programs. Olympic lifts and sprint work. He couldn’t find the article he was looking for,
“Anyway take my word for it.”
I slid in the chair under the hot pan and Dad’s armpit.
“I been thinking a little and all the barbells, and the weights, and all that.”
He shifted through a stack of mail, tossing most of it in a little overflowing plastic pail, he glanced at me to see if I was listening,
“It seems to me, what counts is the muscles contracting-you know? It doesn’t matter what makes them contract so long as the contraction is close to maximum. So that it gets the idea it needs to be stronger in order not to become exhausted, muscles do not want to be exhausted. If they are, and we were designed in prehistory, right, so if you’re out there in the grasslands with the big cats looking for you, you do not want to get tired and slow.”
He linked us constantly to our natural origins said there was the only true identity.
“Your Mom, on every sucker list on the planet.” He kept tossing the mail, now bouncing off the stuffed basket and landing on the floor.
“But contractions done frequently. That’s the secret. So..maybe we don’t need weights at all..and maybe we can up the frequency of the all-mighty contraction because we don’t need a lot or maybe any equipment.”
He flipped the egg. Pushed another frozen waffle down in the toaster.
“Something to think about.”
A perfectly cooked egg riding beneath a waffle soaked in syrup slid on my plate from Dad’s spatula,
“I’ll get back to you on that.”

Advertisements

Pages: 1 2 3

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: