Here’s that short story I said was coming. Things are good here, we’re probably going to the beach to watch fireworks tomorrow. If you haven’t sent me your address for postcards, do it do it do it. We ran out of postcards, so we’ve got another round to go out as soon as we go buy more.
Um, that’s all, please enjoy my story. It’s kind of long.
We had a birthday party for Buddy today. He turned eighty-seven, which he swore to us is the oldest he has ever been, though sometimes I think he seems even older. We decided to believe him because he would probably know better than us, and besides, we didn’t want to argue on his birthday.
Good old Buddy has been working at the Pump and Go gas station on the corner of Maple and Oak in Verboort, Oregon since he was just sixteen years old. Oregon has a little old-fashioned rule that says gas attendants have to pump your gas for you. Call it history or pride or angry union folks, but there you go. Buddy reckons Verboort is just about the only place in the world worth living in. It could be because Buddy’s been pumping gas here for seventy dang years, or it could just be that he’s more old-fashioned than any gas pumping law. It could be a bit of both.
It was pretty complicated. They had a dynamic fitness schedule that could be modified according to daily activity and nutrition intake. For example, on long work days when he picked up fast food for lunch, he could move his blue magnet two columns to the right to add the elliptical machine and a round of sit-ups to his workout. When she got home from work, she would note that his marker had shifted and move hers an equal number of columns to the left. The goal was to remain constantly in balance.
Over the years their system had evolved substantially to include any number of daily activities: time spent at work, cigarettes smoked, cups of coffee. The column for calories burnt during sex had proven to be particularly useful. Every morning they would reset the colorful plastic placeholders to their base positions, adjust for hours spent in bed, and start again.
Naturally the system wasn’t perfect. It was easy to forget things that could throw the entire machine out of whack, simple mistakes like not documenting a late-night snack of blueberry yogurt or accidentally counting a sit-up twice. Going out of town had proven to be a logistical nightmare until he’d found a way to transfer the chart onto a spreadsheet on his laptop. Any mistakes could usually be rectified by an extra hour on the treadmill when they got home. Despite some minor hiccups, the routine seemed to work.
There was a reason for such a dedicated health regime. They had been blessed with perfectly complementary bodies, a scientific oddity – they were biologically ideal to fit in each other’s arms. The problem was that their metabolisms were symbiotic, constantly changing in response to the other’s. If he gained five pounds, she would lose it; if she spent an extra hour on the step machine, he would need to match it. In order to avoid the hassle of constantly gaining and losing weight, they organized their lives to completely balance their intake and output. They had decided to be practical about it. It was entirely worth the effort.
At night, when they’d turned off the treadmill and checked the chart for errors, they could finally enjoy the fruits of their labor. Shutting off the lights, they would crawl into bed and burrow under the covers, allow their body heat to warm the cold linen. They could perform an amazing array of cuddles, positions other couples could only dream of, but usually they opted to spoon. She would lay her head on his left arm and hold his other arm like a stuffed animal. His hips and knees would cup hers like they were made for the purpose, which they were, and his toes would rest on her heels. Their sleep was profound, deeper than night and warm. Any amount of calisthenics could be endured for such incredible peace.
Here is a story I’ve been working on! It will be included in my forthcoming short story compilation Eleven Stories That End With Unnecessary Violence.
“I’m not paying you to ask questions. I’m paying you to fill this pony with vanilla ice cream!”