Part of the personal series. Personal are short one off stories done by events inspired first by my own life, and then slightly taking a different turn that I WANT to happen. Obviously names and locations have been changed.
The phone slammed into its cradle harder than I meant, but at this point I didn’t care. Honestly at this point, I didn't give a crap about anything. If management wanted to scold me about things like tone, manners and being approachable they could shove it. Shove it hard with sandpaper. You see, I just spent ten minutes explaining to a woman why an expired coupon from 2017 was not valid anymore, and you fu- freaking think I just told her I keyed her car in the parking lot. Worse part was, this was the easiest thing of the day.
Customer service. Retail. What a Gods damn joke. I swear every person who comes through this line thinks I’m the king of the universe with powers to bend reality. What am I Thanos?
Can I honor their expired coupons?
Can I adjust prices to whatever fantasy number they dreamed up last night?
Can I be personally responsible for shipping delays caused by a blizzard in another state?
Sure. Let me just wave my magic wand.
The worst part? Well one of the worst parts (yes with a s), it's the attitude. No one’s happy, like ever. Nobody walks up smiling, nobody says thank you. Or please. Nope, what I get are sighs so dramatic you think I just ruined Broadway for them. Oh did I mention the eyes rolling so hard I would wonder how they are still attached? Geez, one guy earlier looked at me like I just kicked his puppy because I asked him to swipe his card again. Heaven forbid someone be mildly inconvenienced. And Gods help you if you tell them no. People look me dead in the eye, like I’ve personally betrayed them, like refusing that crusty, crumpled two-dollar coupon is the same as murdering their firstborn.
Screw it, ill say it. Just fuck me.
So yeah. When my fifteen-minute break finally comes around, that’s my time. Me, me and only me. No fake smiles, no “how can I help you today?”, no playing referee between people who want to fight over the last half price piece of shit blender. Just me, silence, and whatever cheap caffeine I can scrape out of the break room. Really anything will do, just as long as it makes the hurting stop for a few minutes. I want to sit down, stare at the wall, and feel nothing. That’s the dream, baby. Not a beach in Cancun, not winning the lottery, just fifteen uninterrupted minutes where no one looks at me like I ruined their lives by doing my job. Yeah that's me right now. I am one more sigh, one more eye-roll, one more “but the customer is always right” away from snapping.
I had just cracked open the only thing keeping me upright, it was, uh..... green? Like hell if I know or cared, it was a neon-colored can of something with enough caffeine to jolt a horse back to life. Definitely something that should have (and probably was) pulled off the shelves for being dangerous, so it was just about the right amount of right for me. I had maybe, three sips before the break room door creaked open.
Who? Why? Go away.
I already had my prepared annoyed face to clearly signal to the person I was in no mood. Unfortunate for me, the person who walked in? Luke. Of course. Of blood course he does. The universe clearly decided I hadn’t suffered enough today, because why ever would I get some peace for once. I sigh deeply. I close my eyes. I count to ten. Not sure if this is going to work this time, but worth a shot. So Luke here is… maybe twenty-three? Twenty-four? Something like that. He's super baby faced, all sunshine and really about protein shakes. Bro is built like a fitness ad, with arms that don’t fit properly in company T-shirts. Oh yeah, and abs he insists on “accidentally” flashing whenever he lifts his shirt to wipe nonexistent sweat from his forehead. I think he flexes opening the microwave. Honestly I think he flexes doing everything.
I take a sip, let the sugary bitterness burn down my throat, and I’m already trying to stay calm inside. Luke is going to try something, says something, show any second... never mind here comes the show. Sure enough, Luke strides in like the room is a stage and he’s headlining. He’s grinning, stretching his arms like he just finished hauling freight, even though we both know all he’s done today is tell old ladies where the clearance rack is.
“Man, long day, huh?” he says, already tugging at his sleeve to show more bicep.
I don’t answer. Not really. I make a noise, half grunt, half acknowledgment, because if I speak too much I’ll start yelling. I don't need up my ass right now. Also, my caffeine isn’t strong enough yet for another “conversation” where Luke manages to turn everything into a story about his workout routine or how many grams of protein he’s had today.
I. Do. Not. Care.
FFS, all I want is the silence. I want the wall of absolute nothingness and the void to take me into bliss. Now, instead, I’ve got a walking gym poster dropping down in the chair across from me, smirking like he’s on a magazine cover, while I’m just trying to keep my sanity in this fluorescent lit purgatory.
Why me?
Luke settles into the chair across from me like he owns the place, all casual confidence. It takes exactly five seconds after that, when I’m mid sip, when he totally accidentally lifts his shirt. There it is, a set of picture perfect abs. So smooth, so tight, so perfectly formed like they have been carved out of marble and moisturized twice daily. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if he did moisturize them at work too. He was all shiny gym brochure stuff. The kind of stomach you’d see in some ad for cologne called Dominance or Ruthless.
And I hate it.
Not because I want it, well ok I did a bit. But not because I didn't understand the hours he put in to get it. Nah that took effort. No boss, I hated it because I can’t even drink my damn caffeine in peace! I can't turn my brain off and riot in peace for a few minutes without being dragged into the Luke Fitness Hour. Bicep curls, core control, something about pecs and cream. It’s always on, it's always going, and it's always display. Always part of the conversation, even when it isn’t. Even when it shouldn't be. My brain spits out a stupid insult that makes me feel better or maybe just distract me: Kid can’t even grow man hair yet. Smooth as a mannequin, and proud of it. Probably thinks razors are a personality trait. Geez I get really stupid when I'm cranky.
Oh wait, sound? Luke keeps talking, been talking this entire time. His voice is a steady buzz, like the overhead lights that never stop flickering. Something about “hitting the gym after this shift” and how “leg day really sets the tone for the week.” I don’t know. I don't care. I’m not listening. I’m nodding at the right intervals (hopefully), gripping my can, wondering if chugging the whole thing in one go will either save me or give me a heart attack. Either option’s fine at this point. Ok maybe the heart attack is a better one.
Ok so don't get me wrong, he’s not even doing it maliciously. This is just Luke. This is just how he exists. But still.
Anyways, Luke’s still talking. He hasn’t shut up since he walked in. His voice drones over the hum of the vending machine, the flicker of the fluorescent light, the bubbling of my patience.
“…abs like these don’t come easy, you know?” he says, patting his stomach with the kind of smugness that makes me want to invent a new curse word. “Hard as steel, man. I could take a punch no problem. Bet even you couldn’t hurt ’em.”
I stop mid-sip. Did this kid just—? Nah... I must be having a sugar high or something.
I glance up to him, over the rim of my can. He’s smirking at me, with that cocky half-grin of his. His shirt is still hiked up like this is some kind of ab showcase. He’s flexing slightly too, like he’s waiting for applause. Or a spotlight. Or something else... As I sit there and blue screen for a moment, shut up my brain is still rebooting, he throws out a few more casual insults. I’m an “old, out-of-shape man,” apparently. Funny how that works. I’m in my early forties, not sixty. I’ve still got working joints and a back that doesn’t creak when I bend over. But sure, I’m Methuselah compared to Prince Protein Powder here. It’s a dumb insult. A childish one. But it lands anyway. I can feel my jaw tighten, heat crawling up the back of my neck. Old? Washed up? Out of shape? Buddy, the only thing I’m out of is patience. Bro still going too, words spilling out like he’s narrating a commercial for himself: “All those crunches, all that cardio. You gotta respect the grind, you know? I could take hits all day right here.” Another tap to his stomach, like he’s daring me. “You? Nah. You’d be doubled over.”
I stare at him, fingers clenched around my can. For a split second, I picture it, just hauling off and planting my fist dead center, watching the smug wipe clean off his face. Not to prove him wrong. Not even for satisfaction. Just for silence. But I don’t. HR you know? I sit there, sipping bitter caffeine, chewing on his words, thinking how sweet it would be to watch his so called steel abs fold under real pressure.
And all I can do is think: Fifteen minutes. I just needed fifteen minutes. That’s all.
Luke leans forward, still grinning, still shirt half up like this is a calendar shoot. “C’mon, man,” he says, tapping his stomach with two fingers. Thump, thump. “Go ahead. Try it. Bet you can’t even make me flinch.”
I roll my eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t get stuck. Or fall out, or any of the other stupid shit people say about rolling their eyes. So you know what I did? May it was to much caffinee? Maybe it was not enough? Maybe I was just sick and tired and stress out of my mind and I needed a out. So I just did what he wanted, I give him a dumb face, then swing my fist in the weakest, fakest hit imaginable. Barely a tap. Nothing that would actually hurt, but might finally shut him up and make him go away.
World of no.
A moment passed, then, Luke actually laughs. Loud, full, genuine. Like I just told the funniest joke in the world. “That’s it? Man, you couldn’t dent cardboard with that!” He flexes again, proud as a kid showing off a science project. “These abs? Untouchable.”
I smile, but not for him to see.
Ok time to come clean here I guess. Truth is, I’ve wanted to do this for a long time. Like since I started working here way back when. When I found his Facebook profile (I searched everyone at work to get a idea who I was working with) and saw his profile pic was him flexing hard core. So yeah I wanted to punch his abs, but not like the fake hit—no, the real thing. Not out of anger, but for fun. I wanted to work them hard and long. So I am into gut punching? What of it? Everyone has a hobby stfu. Now when I was working with him? When the kid’s been strutting around, puffed up like a balloon full of protein powder, convinced he’s invincible? Begging somebody needs to bring him down a peg? That only increased my want... by a lot.
Back in reality, and not my thought bubble, Luke keeps going, voice bouncing around the room like nails on glass. “Perfect abs, man. Hard as steel. Bet I could take hits all day and not even feel ’em.”
I keep smiling. He has no idea. Well ok then bro... Ill give you what you want.
I let the fake smile curl into something sharper. If the kid wanted a show, I’d give him one.
“You want a real hit?” I say, as I quickly press the lock on the break room door. I wanted this to be just us, not us and the whole store going WTF. “Then give me a real target. Take the shirt off and let’s do this for real.”
Luke blinks, surprised for a half second. Oh did I go to far? Thought to much about the act and not what would actually happen? Maybe the kid would back down, maybe he would -then that grin spreads back across his face, wider than ever. He thinks I’m joking. He thinks this is still his stage. Oh goody.
“Alright, old man,” he chuckles, tugging his shirt over his head in one smooth motion. “Hope you don’t hurt your hand.”
And there he is, the moment I really thought would never happen... but there it is. He's flexed hard, veins standing out, abs carved and gleaming under the buzzing lights. I’ll admit it: the kid looks impressive. Solid. Sculpted. Everything he brags about. He stands there proud, chest out, arms spread like he’s on a poster. I set my cup down on the table with a little clink. Stand up slow, this will only last seconds but I will enjoy every damn second of it. I line up me shot, nothing fancy, just steady.
And then— thud.
My fist drives into his perfect stomach. I can feel the muscle there resist, to push back... for about half a second. But bro didn't realize this wasn't a show. My hit was not playful, it was not fake. It was real, soild, meant to be felt. And fuck me, the sound alone is worth it. A dull, meaty smack, followed by a sharp inhale. Luke’s eyes go wide. His whole body jerks forward as he clutches his abs, teeth clenched.
“Ghh—!” The laugh he meant to throw out dies in his throat, strangled into a grunt.
For the first time all shift, all day, my whole damn time here, Luke’s not smirking. He was shocked. He was rocked. He was in pain and really feeling it. I straighten up, shake my hand loose, and watch him stumble.
Guess steel isn’t as unbreakable as he thought.
And Gods, it feels good.
A beat later, Luke drops like a sack of bricks. Oh, looks like bro couldn't take it I guess? He has both arms wrapping around his stomach as if he can hold the pain in place. Or many holding he poor hurt abs in place, like they suddenly fall apart or something. He wheezes, knees hitting the tile, and for once in his loud, flex-heavy life, he’s silent. I walk back to my chair, sit down, and pick up my cup like nothing happened. Take a slow sip, let the fizz burn my throat, mmmm good. Oh, I casually let out too,
“I box for fun, you know. Not bad for an old guy, huh?”
He doesn’t answer. He’s too busy dragging himself across the floor, back propped against the wall like he needs it to hold him up. Arms hanging loose at his sides, head tilted back, sweat dripping down his temple. Really? The kid is actually sweating from one punch. One. Guess he's never been hit before. Now, part of me wonders if this is where I get written up. More like fired really. HR meeting: Kevin struck a coworker in the break room. Not exactly a glowing line for the résumé. Yeah this was really stupid of me to do, but what ever. Is, what it is right?
But then I catch Luke’s face, well hear him get up first, then see his face. It's a mix of fire I never seen before, humiliation on being taking down by "the old out of shape guy" and something ... respect? Bro ran his mouth, and felt push back for the first real time. He felt what it was like to really be hit, and shown all his show pony bullshit didn't protect him. Yeah, he would bury this moment deep and never tell HR or anyone at work a word... but he also would be different around me. In a way, I would be around him too. Bro took a hit and changed... didn't turn in to a total bitch over it.
So I stand, stretch, and glance at the clock. Break’s over. Moments over.
“Yo bro, get your shirt back on,” I tell him, calm, steady, like nothing out of the ordinary just happened. “Fifteen minutes is up.”
He doesn’t move right away, hes still breathing heavy, still holding his stomach. But I know he hears me. He nods his head after a moment, and I head out.
Guess it was a good break after all.
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