O. S. King

This is an extract from the story ‘Disintegration Game’ from my new book of short stories ‘Fame Ate My Girlfriend’. This short story is about a man who is hoping to rebuild his life from the outside in.

Disintegration game

Marlow is trying to remake himself, with his distended belly, chicken-thin legs and receding hairline, his personal trainer thinks he’s expecting a lot, but of course he doesn’t voice this out loud, he gives Marlow congratulatory platitudes and encouragement and showers him with positivity. At first Marlow doesn’t really believe any of it of course, but then there’s also a side of him that thinks, who’s to say he won’t emerge as a new man by the end of the year. It could happen. Others have achieved it.

The gym Marlow goes to stands as an edifice of physical transformation, with its sumptuous surroundings set in a golf park at the fringe of a bustling city, its interior designed to look less mechanical and more earthy and natural. The weights, machines and workout paraphernalia are housed in a building with oak and teak furnishings, splashes of greenery, a large spa, therapy area and moderate-sized swimming pool. There is a cafe and seating in a private garden. Membership is strictly vetted and there is a lengthy waiting list according to the administration of the gym and golf club.

Marlow waited a month for his membership to be approved. In that time his divorce came through, his secret lover left him for a woman half his age and his crush told him in no uncertain words that he didn’t stand a chance with her in this life or the next. Marlow determined that the rejections of late were more to do with his form than substance, he considered himself well-read, easy going and well-travelled. That was what he said on his profile for an exclusive dating agency that only took on clients willing to pay over ten thousand a month for the privilege of being on their books and meeting a minimum of two suitable people a month. Marlow wasn’t sure whether he had signed up more out of social pressures to find someone and become the other half, or whether he genuinely wanted to start again and share his life and all it entailed with someone new.

His personal trainer, Baptiste, worked at the gym full time and had a waiting list of people wanting individual sessions with him. Marlow liked the look of Baptiste, the way he spoke with his deep precise voice, and the how he held himself, head lifted, shoulders back showcasing his broad chest and solid abs. Marlow hoped to strike up a good relationship with him that made the personal trainer invest in Marlow’s dream of becoming transformed, emerging from his rotund, pudgy cocoon into a solid mass of muscle. Baptiste, a veteran of countless personal battles and triumphs within the gym confines and further, had casually remarked that the gym was a factory of the self, where people through sweat and toil, sought to and managed to manufacture better versions of themselves. He firmly believed it was possible for anyone to achieve their ideal body, revealing who they truly were to the world, shaking off the old, tired suit that no one found appealing least of all the person themselves. He suggested that Marlow look into services that could help him get a more pronounced chin through surgery and recommended options for his hair loss. Marlow took down the details, grateful for the all round, confidential service the gym offered and excited about his journey to becoming his true self.

‘One thing we don’t do around here is take short cuts,’ said Baptiste, making notes on his handheld computer. ‘I will make sure you have the necessary nutritional guidance and weekly training programme that you need to stick to. This will complement our one to one sessions,’ Baptiste flashed a smile in Marlow’s direction before returning to his notes. Marlow was a client he wanted to keep, he needed the wealthiest people on his roster to fill up his diary for one to ones. A full diary with dedicated clients made him more attractive to management and put him in the running for a promotion, something he desperately wanted not just for the additional pay but for the prestige. ’You need to dedicate yourself to a minimum of five days a week in the gym to meet the target you have set yourself, and you need to let me know if you have concerns about anything or problems with the routine. You have my personal number and I am available to you 24/7,’ said Baptiste, placing a reassuring hand on Marlow’s thick shoulder.

Marlow nodded, chubby large hands clasped together. He needed to get a manicure he thought. He had been on leave from work for three months, seeing to his post-divorce wounds, and wanted to look as presentable as possible on his return. He worked as an advertising director for a large firm with a portfolio of luxury brands, and there was always someone waiting in the wings to replace him. When he joined the company he couldn’t have foreseen his rapid ascent. It was due to a mix of being in the right place at the right time and his marriage to the daughter of a well-known financier, that made him set for rapid promotion. Thankfully he still had the support of the financier even with the divorce. The financier seemed to think more of Marlow than his own daughter, Charlotte, who was a successful business coach and consultant, and pushed Marlow to do more, be more and rise higher on his own merit. Marlow didn’t think it was important because he had the ability to get people on his side almost immediately. This was mainly when it came to men in the workplace which extended across social activities since that was still the traditional additional networking ground for men in his workplace. He was less successful when it came to women. He felt that his marriage to Charlotte was a result of her father’s preference for him rather than anything special that Charlotte saw in him. Now, he wanted to be equally successful in his personal life as his professional one, and he felt that the only thing holding him back was his looks, his form, his body, his presentation. He felt the deficit deeply since his team was populated by men who looked like they had walked straight off the fashion circuit in major cities – it helped them reel in clients, that much was clear from the hiring choices made by the executives. As one of his charge said ‘No one wants to buy pizza from someone with spots all over their face and really bad skin.’ ….