Slide - Kyle Beachy [39]
“I ordered you fajitas because I figure even you probably like fajitas. The surprise is gonna be chicken or beef.”
Edsel broke off a section of bread pole and shoved it into the hole in his beard. I would have given damn near anything to grow a beard like the ogre's. He had become a monstrous individual, and the divergence of this monstrosity from the present of middle-American kinfolk should have been stark. The bearded ogre among scores of timid men, women, and children. Instead, somehow, he managed to fit into the picture, to slide himself into their realm. And to thrive.
“You pick up very heavy weights over and over again,” I said. And you do it for women. That's the motivating factor.”
“Let me explain something very simple about this world, this shithole of ours. Whatever they say about the universe, our puny little globe is only getting smaller. The bigger I become, the more of this world I get to claim as my own.” Here the food was set in front of us. Edsel added, “Which is the whole damn point.”
We ate without discussion and stood once the ogre declared the restaurant devoid of prospects. Outside, there was a brief moment of aimlessness before Edsel led us determinedly toward another of the restaurants, presumably in search of Emily the short bartender. I appreciated the return to movement, the sense of journey. Our paths momentarily diverged in the parking lot and we spoke over car roofs.
“You go in there to burn things off,” I said. “So there's got to be some level of catharsis. You go into this smelly old South City gym and direct yourself inward, testing the limits of your body. It's got to be at least somewhat about discipline, controlled masochism.”
“Simple math. I get bigger, world gets smaller.”
At Crazy Sticks we ordered beers and sat at the bar, facing outward. Here, too, the clientele was dominated by families. And no Emily. Edsel appeared undaunted, silent and faithful for what the near future would hold. I was less sure.
“Then why not just get fat? If volume is the thing, why not just eat yourself into fatness? Think about the water displacement of a fat man lowering into a tub. If it's size you want.”
“Fat men lack confidence. Lookit this guy here, blue shirt. Lookit his shoulders. Fat slouch.”
“And you need confidence,” I said. “For women.”
“For the slaughter,” he said, standing.
Nor did Emily the bartender appear during our beer at Bighorn Steakhouse. We drank in silence until I asked what he thought Stuart had meant about Marianne, how she wanted to meet him but not me.
“Don't know or really care. Is she beautiful, this girl?”
“Maybe beautiful inside,” I said.
“And this is really bothering you, is it?”
A little. Yes.”
“Must be exhausting as hell.”
“So confidence is everything,” I said.
“Wrong. Confidence is something, alright, but without technique it's nothing. Lessgo.”
In the car he grunted directions to a place he knew, somewhere he promised would be fruitful. I remained resoundingly unsure how I would react if confronted by a legitimately available woman. We continued quietly westward, straying deeper into the county along roads that became residential, following curves alongside enormous new-construction houses. Then back into a commercial district, car dealerships and fast-food chains and bright colorful signage. He directed me into a strip mall and I parked facing something called the Baja Beach Club. What followed would prove to be his longest and most horrifying lesson.
“Forget the specifics of women. Sooner you stop differentiating, the sooner you realize that the women are not the point. A man's got to start somewhere. There's one thing I learned in Thailand it's that the world is full of people waiting to be overpowered. Passive smiling Buddhists or bored married women or barely legal teenage girls. You get wrapped up in differences, but the point is there isn't any difference