*
“Come on,Dad! Move your tubby ass!” Roman stood twenty-five yards away, at the end of the alley behind my nephew’s gym, encouraging/insulting me as I flipped a giant tractor tire over until it slammed down, heaved it up and lifted it on end, and flipped it over again.
I was shirtless, clad in a pair of ragged, ratty, stained old shorts and a trashed pair of old running shoes. I was sweating like a pig, gasping for breath, and wishing I could heave this damn tire at Roman’s stupid face.
“Iammoving my tubby ass, you fuckin’ annoying pencil dick punk!” I snapped back.
“You’re lazy, is what are, old man,” Roman bellowed. “Flip it faster!”
The asshole knew what he was doing, I had to give him that. Nothing could get me moving faster and working harder than being pissed off, and he was intentionally needling me. The more he teased, ridiculed, barked, insulted, and annoyed me, the angrier I got, and the angrier I got, the harder I worked to get this shit over with.
I had been recently cleared by my doctor for more vigorous activity like this, as I’d spent the last two weeks regularly working on my weaker leg, strengthening and stretching—it still got sore and achy, like it was now, but I could tough it out.
I’d already flipped the tire twenty-five yards one direction, and now I was flipping it back to where Roman stood; the bastard was built like a god, and that was as much motivation as anything he could say. I used to be just like that, and I’d lost it. Wasted it. He stood there all six feet four inches of heavily muscled, ripped to nil body fat, toned, tanned perfection, looking like a blond mirror image of me thirty-some years ago.
It pissed me off.
I was determined to be that again.
So, with the giant-ass tire on the ground in front of me, heavy as hell, and me hot from the sun, I summoned willpower, summoned anger at myself, snarled like the fat shaggy bear I resembled, and heaved it up to shoulder height, reversed my grip, and pushed it forward until it slammed down with a ringing thud. I repeated it again and again without pause until it slammed down inches from Roman’s toes.
He grinned at me. “Good job, Pops.” He checked the stopwatch on his phone. “That’s a record, by the way.”
I controlled my breathing, wiping sweat from my eyes. “Yeah?”
He nodded. “Beat your best fifty-yard tire flip time by a whole ten seconds.”
I looked down at myself: I wasn’t willing to step onto a scale just yet, but I knew I was making progress: I could almost see my toes. Almost.
Roman watched me for a moment. “Dad, it’s time.”
My eyes snapped up to his. “Time for what?”
“To weigh in.”
“Fuck that. I ain’t doin’ this to weigh less, I’m doin’ this to get rid of the fat and look like I used to look.”
He nodded, serious in a way he rarely was. “I know. But to do that, you need some kind of metric for your progress.”
“Last time I stepped on a scale, I damn near barfed at the number. Ain’t going there. I know where I’m at—still real fuckin’ far from my goal. For now, the only metric I need is to look down.” I slapped my belly.
Roman growled. “Pops. Listen to me, okay? Having more specific goals will help. Can you just trust me on this?”
“Why? Because you’ve ever had to lose eighty pounds?”
“No, but because I know what the fuck I’m talking about!”
I spun away. “I ain’t havin’ this conversation with you, goddammit!” I kicked the tire, and immediately regretted it, hopping around to alleviate the sting in my toe. “Just tell me what to do next.”
I heard a door open, then, and my monster of a nephew sauntered out. “Yo, Rome. Maybe you two oughta let me take over. Some objectivity and all that.” Baxter was four full inches shorter than both Roman and I, but was bodybuilder bulky, yet shredded like an athlete. It was ridiculous, honestly.
Roman eyed Baxter. “You think you can make some headway with the stubborn old grizzly, be my guest. I’m just getting pissed off.”
Bax slapped Roman on the shoulder. “Go hit the bags or something. I got this.”
Roman yanked open the door to the gym, frustration in every line of his body. “Dad, I’m just—”
I flipped him off. “Get outta here, Rome. Bax has a point. We’re too much alike for this to work anymore today.”
