In the [B-]Doghouse II

It's so goddamn cold in here.

I traipse through the garage on my tip-toes, trying my best not to groan when my calves give out and my heels inevitably have to hit the chilling tiles. How in the hell do girls wear high heels, again? And what kind of a house has a no-shoes policy in the garage? Better yet, what kind of a house has a full, no-holds barred gym taking up every inch of said garage?

The place is no less of a mystery even after Brian finishes giving me a tour of every last one of his three dozen workout machines.

"This is my lats bar, where I pump my lats. And that's my chest press, where I pump my chest. Oh, and here's my dips station-"

"Let me guess, where you pump your dips?"

"Nah, bro, that's where I shred my triceps."

"Ah, but of course."

It's all gibberish to me, somehow even more so than the cheery, mandolin-drenched music blasting from every corner of the room. The singer belts out longing lines in what I can only guess is Mandarin Chinese translated through a facially-paralyzing stroke. Either that or I'm picking up the signature twang of the Canto-English bastard child, Singlish. Bizarre, foreign melodies and ridiculous mechanical opulence aren't the end of this room's cortex-numbing mystique, though. For every inch of every wall that isn't dented with fist shaped holes is occupied by life-sized posters of one of three vintage anime characters squatting in remarkably similar action poses like they're shitting out the colored auras that surround them.

"Didn't know you were into anime," I say, in a feeble attempt to drown the music out of my head.

Brian whips around and stares me straight in the eyes. "What's anime?"

My jaw hangs open. "You know. The show you have all those posters of?"

"Nah bro, that's just Dragon Ball: GT."

"Dragon Ball is an anime."

"It's not Dragon Ball, bro, it's Dragon Ball: GT."

"GT's the sequel to Z."

"What are you talking about, bro? There's only one Dragon Ball and that's GT."

My heart sinks, and I lose the strength to contest my claim any further.

"Oh yeah, you're right. My bad, I was mixing it up with a different show."

"You gotta show me that show sometime, bro. But first, you've gotta help."

Brian's massive frame dives to the floor. With a worm-like nimbleness, he works his way under a bench press bar with three plates on either side and adds:

"You've gotta spot me bro."

I glance at the plates, then back to him. Then back at the plates.

"Heh, you're really funny, B-dog. Good one!"

Brian's entire face follows his eyebrows. "Bro whatchu mean?"

"Dude, I can barely do a push-up. How the hell am I supposed to spot you?"

"Bro, did you, like, drop your balls or something?"

"Yeah, they're like earbuds, y'know. You can always find the first one but the other one's lying around in the most god-forsaken place- like in the refrigerator or something."

Brian laughs like a chicken throwing its head around in search of the last seed.

"Oh man, Og-dog, you're funny, bro!"

And he lifts the bar off its rack.

I panic and assume my best guess at a spotter position, which involves a good amount of shuffling from side to side with every slight shake in his muscles or dip in his form. For chrissakes, that weight's gotta be like two of me! I feel like the unprepared intern Atlas hired after a back injury. By the time Brian finishes, I think I'm at least twice as sweaty as him.

"Look at my pump, bro." His chest jiggles in a way that I've only seen on lewd harem anime. "I've been hitting my macros OD!"

Panting, I reply, "You know what they say, a macro a day keeps the doctor away."

"What are you talking about bro? My dad lives with me."

My face scrunches up on instinct as I calculate whether it's even possible for a doctor to afford to live like Magneto. I'm interrupted amid estimating how much a shark tank would actually cost by a truly simian hoot.

"Oh yeah!" Brian hollers, "Your turn!"

"My turn…" I repeat.

I start to regret every single decision that's led me up until this point. And even as Brian starts to pluck all the plates off the rack like they're grapes, it seems like it was easier to ask someone out in front of the entire cafeteria than it's going to be to survive the next few hours. But, I'm nothing if not committed to the bit.

"Alright bro," Brian says, as I slide into the bench. "Shoulders squared, lower back arched. Keep your knees strong and your feet flat. You're going for 8 on the naked bar. Hold your abs and feel the burn in your chest. You've got this, bro!"

I can't tell whether it's his infectious caveman energy or his remarkably sound advice, but I start to feel the raw power of manhood coursing through my fingers as they curl around the bar.

"C'mon bro! 8 or die!"

I grunt out my entire lung capacity and hoist the bar.

"WOOO, now lower that shit!"

My joints creak like they're lacking oil, but I manage to lower the bar in place just above my chest.

"Now push! And scream with me! ONE!"

"ONE!"

I might be a housecat immigrating a tiger, but this pussy's got a point to prove.

"TWO!"

"TWO!"

Something roars into motion inside of me, and I can feel this radiating activation throughout my upper body.

"THREE!"

"THREE!"

I can do it. I can do it! I'm going to become the world's strongest man. I'm going to lift her up like an anime figurine and throw her around like a body pillow.

"FOUR! HALFWAY THROUGH!"

"FOUR! HALFWAY THROUGH!"

I'm going to fight a bear with nothing but the guns my mama gave me. I'm going to climb mount everest using nothing but my fingertips! I'm-

"FIVE!"

"five"

My shoulders feel heavy, and my head is throbbing. A sour ache cascades along my arms and floods my chest.

"SIX!"

"ssssiiiix"

That's it, I think this is where I die.

"SEVEN!"

"ssseeevvv-"

For a split second, my entire body goes slack. But as I rip open my eyes, expecting to find that I've awoken in another world, all I see is Brian's massive, pale mug grinning at me like there's not a thought in his head. And honestly, it's not like there's a thought in mine either.

"Let's gooo!" He yells, adding a tick to the migraine-o-meter. "You almost did the whole set!"

"Yay," I whimper, still trying to suppress the rising tide of heartburn.

"Not gonna lie, bro. I didn't expect you to try. But you sure proved me, haha!"

"You mean, proved you wrong?"

"Who's wrong?"

"Nevermind."

"I'm proud of you, bro."

And you know what, I'm kind of proud of myself too. That is, until he says:

"Now we gotta finish the rest of the circuit. C'mon, shake those legs!"

Brian bounds over to his next machine and starts toying with the weights. I'd rather be eating mud, but I still didn't get to ask my favor. Plus, I have the feeling that he's the dumb and honorable type, so I follow him to the next workout like a meek sheep to slaughter.

I think I lose consciousness somewhere along the way, because my senses are barely coming back to me now, about an hour later. There isn't a single part of my physical or metaphysical being that doesn't hurt. Bizarrely, though, it feels kind of good. Like some pure-hearted angel left a radiating touch of warmth under my skin. In fact, it's almost tolerable, really. Which is remarkable considering that I'm pretty sure I coughed up a chunk of my lung halfway through.

"Bro..." Brian says, looking off into the anime posters in the distance like a wise sage.

"Yeah?" Is all I can muster.

"You did it, bro."

Is he- tearing up?

"I can feel it. You want to become the strongest in the world too, right bro?"

I can tell he's quoting something. Or at least paraphrasing. He couldn't try sounding cornier if he grew up on the farms five miles west of here. But, through some demented mechanism of the singular shred of me left that feels masculine camaraderie, it's working.

"Yeah." I cough. "I guess."

"You know, bro, you have some real potential. You know that?"

For a single second, I look up at him not as a ginger yeti, but as the man that I'd follow into battle unquestioningly. Someone I'd fight off hordes of orcs with. My general, my king, my-

"Brian, did you finish your homework?"

The voice is wispy, and effete, and yet loud enough that it sounds like it's reaching us from a floor away.

"God, dad, not right nowww!" Brian bellows.

"Remember what I told you about working out your brain, too?" His dad's voice adds.

"I knowww!"

In 5 seconds flat, my icon of manliness has been reduced to a blubbering child, and I to a foolish, quivering mess on the floor.

"Bri, are you talking back again?" Comes another voice, this time smooth like the deep end swimming pool.

"No, daddd! Jeez!"

The incongruity of Brian referring to two different people as dad brings me back to my senses just a bit. Until I realize that it's not a Brian-ism—it's just my first time meeting someone with two dads. Two pairs of footsteps start to creak across the floorboards a wall over, growing louder by the second. Consequently, I also realize how much more terrifying it must be to get chewed out by two dads at the same time. Brian, though, stares through the wall, more mildly annoyed than anything.

I shrivel up into myself, no stranger to being over at someone's house while their parents let loose on them. In fact, I think I've witnessed Ricardo shrinking into a puddle under a barrage of Spanish curses about a dozen times by now. But when the door opens, all I can feel is the most remarkable wave of sunshine wash over me.