Body on the Stage (11 page)

“Actually I’ve been meaning to
talk to you about that, Vincenzo. I’m dropping out, I’m afraid. The
little woman is getting too upset and won’t let me take on another
project. She’s already complaining about the time the theatre takes
up.”

He began the next set, pushing
up the heavy bar with controlled movements.

“Oh no you’ll be fine, I’ll fix
it with her,” said Vincenzo airily. “Once the show’s done you’ll
have lots of time. We can make you the best out of all these guys
and you’ll ace the competition. Cathy will help with your poses and
routines, an’ I’ll make you magnificent. Whadda you say, Mark? Come
on man, a win for you with me as your trainer, it looks real good
for me.”

Mark lowered the bar and shook
the blood back into his arms, then shook his head just as firmly.
“No, Vincenzo. I’m grateful for your help with the show, but I
don’t want to take it any further, thanks. All I want is to get
back to a normal life that’s just work, home and Sherry. At least
for a while. We need to spend time on us for a change. Why don’t
you ask Warwick? He’s looking pretty good under your training. He’d
probably be keen.”

Vincenzo’s eyes flashed with
annoyance but he nodded. “Yes, he’s doing all right. Not as
well-defined as you but plenty of size. OK my friend, you carry on
now. I go sort out a few things.”

Dennis watched him disappear
towards the boxing studio at the back of the gym where Warwick,
Jayden and Ricky had gone to do some cardio work on the punch bags.
Somewhat curious about how Vincenzo might persuade Warwick to
compete, Dennis ambled over to use a machine near the doorway so he
could hear the conversation inside.

“…oh yeah, looking pretty good
with all those muscles, eh? You know what? You should enter the
body-building contest that’s coming up, man, you’d do great. You’re
the best in the middle-weight section, better than all the other
guys round here. With my training and the right food supplements,
you’d ace the contest, man. Are you up for it?”

Dennis smiled to himself at the
smooth-talking Italian.

There was an angry retort from
Ricky. “What the hell? What am I, Vincenzo? I’ve got better
definition than him – why aren’t you asking me to be in your damn
contest?” Dennis could imagine the stocky little guy bristling with
resentment.

“I was just gonna ask you,” said
Vincenzo. “You’re nineteen, yes? There’s a Junior category you’d be
perfect for. You’d cream those little guys, right?”

“I don’t want to compete in some
kid’s competition! Why can’t I be in the men’s section – are you
saying I’m not a man? What’s the point of taking all these bloody
supplements if I’m not allowed to compete with the rest of the
guys? Are you saying I’m just a spotty kid, you bastard!”

Dennis was startled by the naked
rage in Ricky’s voice.

“Settle down, Ricky,” came
Warwick’s deep rumble. “I’m sure Vincenzo knows the best category
for you to compete in. Don’t get your friggin’ undies in a
knot.”

“Screw you! Bunch of assholes
the lot of you!” yelled Ricky, storming out of the boxing room and
flinging his gloves onto the floor as he strode off. His training
partner Simon went to intercept him but Ricky shoved him away. They
all heard him stomping down the stairs and then a loud slam as the
door to the street shuddered in its frame.

“What’s got into those thespians
tonight?” Tony came into the Green Room after crossing the stage
where rehearsals were in progress. “They’re bitching and moaning
out there like girls locked out of a chocolate shop. Adam looked
about ready to blow his stack.”

“Probably sulking about their
outfits or something,” said Gazza. “Or about who goes first for the
dance routines. You know thespians.”

Dennis slipped away to stand
unobtrusively at the side of the stage so he could see how things
were going. Adam stood downstage on the apron, his grey curls
backlit by one of the bright working lights. The actors were
standing in a loose semi-circle in front of him, squinting against
the glare. Their body language ranged from relaxed to fully wound
up, and it was clear who wasn’t happy.

“But WHY do I have to lose my
dreadlocks? They’re a statement of who I am. I’m against all the
crap the cosmetic companies try to make us believe, selling us
shampoo and conditioners and all kinds of useless hair care
products. Dreads clean themselves naturally – you don’t
need
all that stuff!” Warwick was getting himself in a lather that had
nothing to do with soap bubbles.

“You can grow them back after
the performance season,” Adam said patiently. “I’d prefer you to
have normal hair for the show, please. And gentlemen, I would have
thought it was obvious, but would you please defer any intended
tattoos until after the season? I’m sure our audience would prefer
not to be up close to swollen red limbs if things go wrong and
infection sets in. Be patient - in another few weeks you can have
your bodies back, but for now they belong to me. Is that
clear?”

There was a reluctant murmur of
agreement.

“Er, excuse me, Adam?” The girl
playing the part of Glenda the choreographer put her hand up. “Does
that mean we should keep our hair the same as it is now? Only I was
thinking of having it cut short and coloured for my sister’s
wedding next month.”

Adam eyed her. “What
colour?”

“Um, just a dark red, sort of a
plum shade. Would that be all right?”

He sighed. “As long as it’s not
lime green with orange streaks, that’ll be fine. You’re playing a
choreographer so a little outrageousness is acceptable, but we
don’t want you upstaging the boys, do we? Right people, can we get
back to blocking now? Time’s a-passing.”

Dennis tiptoed back to the Green
Room, and finding it empty, followed the sound of voices round to
the workshop.

“Ah, there you are Doc,” said
Gazza. “Come and hold the end of this, would you?” He held a power
drill poised over a length of wood. “The bloody vice is broken and
I need this made steady to put a couple of holes in.” Dennis moved
quickly to lend a hand. Working smoothly together they managed to
get all the components of the night-club set cut and prepared for
assembly.

After a couple of hours of solid
work, Tony called a break.

“Time for food, people. Who’s
for a burger or three? I’ll go and fetch them if you give me your
order and the cash.”

“Where do you get them from?”
asked Dennis.

“Och, from the wee Scottish
restaurant just across the road,” grinned Tony.

Dennis looked blank. “What
Scottish restaurant?” He tried to recall seeing any eating
establishment with tartan décor in the area.

“The one with the golden arches,
mon, have ye no tried their burrrgers and frrries?”

The penny dropped. “I’ll no eat
from the clan MacDonald, man – ma mother was a Campbell!” Dennis’s
Scottish accent was a little rusty but it made the others laugh.
“They’re still trying to kill us but now it’s with fat and salt.
Still, I suppose I could have a chicken salad with low fat
dressing. Can you face ordering something that healthy, Tony, or
should I come over with you?”

“You’d better go with him,” said
Gazza. “He’s likely to subvert your nice healthy dinner with a side
order of greasy fries and some sugar-laden fizzy-pop.”

“As if I would! But come with me
anyway Doc, you can give me a hand to carry it all. I wouldn’t want
to drop Gazza’s sugar-laden fizzy-pop in the middle of the
street.”

As the others tucked into their
greasy burgers, the smell of the oil was almost enough to put
Dennis off his own meal, but he’d still have sold his own sister
for a handful of their fries. He almost caved in and asked for
some, but the thought of all the exercise he’d have to do to burn
them off was enough to dissuade him. That and the fear of ridicule
if he begged for fatty chips now that he’d publicly declared his
intention to slim down and get fit. He chased the last shred of
lettuce round the plastic container instead, feeling he was on the
moral high ground.

After two more weeks of his best
efforts, Dennis reckoned he was actually seeing results. His pants
were definitely a size too big now, he needed a new, smaller belt
because he’d run out of holes, and when he stood on the scales at
the gym he had lost almost four kilograms off his original
weight.

“Dennis, you’re doing really
well!” said Cathy as she entered his new measurements into his
records. “Look at that – eight centimetres off your waist and six
off your hips – that’s great going. Do you feel better for it
too?”

“I guess I do,” he said with
mild surprise. “It’s hard at workout time because I feel
muscle-sore and tired after the exercise, but once that wears off I
have much more energy than I had before.”

The satisfied look on her face
could almost have been described as smug. “So you’re happy to keep
going then?”

“Of course! It’s like
reinventing myself after a long hibernation. I feel like I’ve been
stuck in a cave for a year doing nothing and getting nowhere, but
now I’m kind of reborn…” he broke off, embarrassed. “God, that
sounds terrible. Sorry, I’m talking a load of drivel – just ignore
me.”

‘Oh Dennis, stop putting
yourself down. That’s not drivel, it’s an honest response. It takes
a bit of mental adjustment to catch up with your physical changes,
that’s all. You’ll get back in balance at the end of the process
and find that your normal state is slim and healthy, then it won’t
feel so strange. Trust me, I’ve heard all sorts of responses from
people going through exactly the same experience.” She put a warm
hand on his arm. “Some need a little more encouragement than
others, especially if they’ve been through a bad break-up and had
their confidence knocked.”

“You’re a bit of a counsellor as
well as a personal trainer, aren’t you?” he smiled. “You build
spirit as well as muscles.”

“The two go hand in hand. If
you’re confident and motivated, you work harder and get better
results. If I can improve your mental self-image, you’re going to
realise you’re worth working on, and you’ll be less likely to slip
up and eat junk food thinking that it’s all you deserve.”

His eyes widened. “My God, you
can see into my head! That’s worrying!”

“I’m just quoting what other
people have told me,” she said. “It’s a common feeling. I think a
lot of people judge themselves too harshly and feel inadequate, as
if they’re not worthy of having a good body.” She grinned. “Of
course, others are just plain greedy! I see plenty of overweight
shoppers in the supermarket with trollies full of ice-cream and
soft drinks and cakes, and I bet you anything you like they’ll tell
you they’ve tried everything to lose weight. Ha! Everything except
self-discipline!”

“This is rather a hobby-horse of
yours, isn’t it?” he said drily.

“Oh, does it show that much?
Well tough. I stand by my words. Body weight is a function of food
in and work performed. If you eat too much and don’t exercise
enough, you get fat. Period. It ain’t rocket science.”

“You don’t have to convince me,”
he said gently. “I’m a willing convert now.”

“Excellent! You can be my poster
boy. Once we have you looking trim, taut and terrific, we’ll get
some professional photos done and put you on display. How does that
sound? Your before and after photos will inspire others to make the
same transformation – wouldn’t that be great?”

“I tell you what – why don’t you
ask me again when I’m a bit further down the track. I’m not feeling
like a poster boy just yet.” Cathy in full flow was a force to be
reckoned with but he wasn’t quite convinced he would measure up to
her expectations. “Once I’ve lost few more kilos and built up some
respectable muscles your idea won’t seem quite so intimidating. I
hope.”

“Oh you’ll be fine. In another
eight weeks you won’t recognise yourself. Trust me! If you keep up
with eating right and setting your exercise targets you’ll be
transformed by the end of twelve weeks. I’m really looking forward
to seeing the new you!”

Dennis felt a quiet thrill
inside, a feeling he’d almost forgotten. He hoped he wasn’t reading
too much into it, but it was hard to ignore how good it felt that a
pretty woman was saying nice things to him. That alone would
motivate him to complete the twelve week challenge she’d set
him.

He left the gym that night
walking on air, noticing as he went out that Vincenzo was helping
Mark’s girlfriend with some weights over by the exercise balls.
With his slim brown hands on her bare shoulders he was guiding her
lifts while she laughed up at him. Mark was nowhere in sight, which
was a shame as Dennis wanted to share the thrill of his results. He
knew Mark would be pleased at his own part in Dennis’ progress.
Never mind, he’d go home and tell Janice all about it instead. It
felt good to have some positive news to report after so many sad
phone calls he’d made when her support was the only thing keeping
him going. He whistled cheerfully as he ran down the stairs.

Another week later and another
kilo lighter, Dennis found himself standing in a menswear
department faced with a dilemma. Should he buy new clothes that
fitted him, or was that just a waste of money if he was going to
keep on losing weight? He couldn’t face the thought of buying
second-hand items, so he decided to bite the bullet and buy one new
cheap pair of pants, as tight as he could squeeze into. It was an
alien concept to buy close-fitting trousers after getting used to
buying clothes with plenty of room, but he could see the funny side
as he struggled to tug the zipper closed in the confines of the
fitting room. Some of his belly still hung over the waistband but
there was a lot less of it now. The saleswoman met his smile with a
flirtatious look of her own as she rang up his purchase, and Dennis
left the store with a spring in his step.