He did the pullups because the bar was available. He really wanted to do bench presses, because bench presses were the first exercises he ever saw on the little TV his dad kept in the kitchen. But the big guys hogged the benches, the guys that sold the pills and the shots and the creams. So he did pull-ups until he ached. He embraced the ache. For years it was all he could embrace.
One of the big men told him he did too many pullups, so he did more.Â
He’d do hundreds of pullups, then he’d walk a treadmill, then back to the pullup bar, then home to paint. Every day.
A boyfriend found the paintings. It wasn’t by design, but it was rather unavoidable; his apartment was a kitchen, a bathroom, and a maze of paintings.
The boyfriend took some photos. He didn’t say yes to the photos, but he didn’t say no either.
The child in the paintings--all the paintings--was described as everything from whimsical to haunting. He nodded politely at whimsical. He turned his head at haunting.
He did pull-ups while the boyfriend became less a partner and more a manager, and the child in the paintings became a brand.
His acrylic child sold detergent, and tourism and a dessert topping he would never touch himself. His child smiled from greeting cards that he would never send.
He did more pull-ups than anyone in the gym.
Sometimes even the big men would applaud.Â
He ignored them.
He ignored the money.
He apologized to his stillborn twin, the little child in the paintings , the boy who counted pullups along with him in his head, and wouldn’t let him quit.
Beautiful
very nice.