As the Weights lift: Just Another Day at Powerhouse Gym 

    The tale I am about to tell is true. The names of the people involved have been changed to protect the innocent and the guilty.

              It all started with me walking in the door to work.  If I had known about the events that were going to take place, I would have called in sick.  It seemed like it was going to be such a normal day. I was kindly greeted by the bodybuilders that we affectionately call “juice-heads” (just not to their faces) and tripped over equipment as I made my way slowly to the front. Everything seemed perfectly fine, until I walked to the desk.

                 As soon as I reached the front desk I was met with arctic glances. I felt as though I had stepped into a soap opera. Everyone at work was on edge and no one was smiling.  The co-owner Riley was even more angry than normal. He came out of his office to yell curse words, before stomping back  and slamming the door. I glance over to my friend Lacey and whisper "what is going on?” She quickly informs me that Riley’s car had been stolen from the beach that weekend. It was taken and used in an armed robbery and a few home invasions, before the car was found on the side of the road completely totaled.

             I let out a small groan knowing that since Riley was having a bad day we would all be having a bad day. I try to smile and lighten the mood, but it didn’t help. Riley marched from his office and looked at me before barking “I’m going on my break. My phone doesn’t work. So don’t call me.”  I try not to laugh as I tell him to have a good time.  

         Once Riley leaves Lacy skips over and in her usual manner blurts out “I always thought Josh was gay, that is until he got married.” I look at her in shock and ask her why she would possibly think that he was gay. She responds that since Josh was always checking himself out in the mirror he must be gay. The moment she states this Josh walks through the door yelling “I’M WHAT?” I quickly interrupt to tell Lacy “He is not gay, but he is a narcissist. “ I was hoping this would help smooth out the situation, but it did not.  Josh looks at me coldly “what did you call me?” I laugh and tell him to go look it up in a dictionary.

      Fifteen minutes later the door to the smoothie bar flies open. Josh barges in yelling “I am not a whatever you called me. Take it back.” I laugh and go on talking to another trainer named Michael. Josh steps behind the bar and begins to get closer to me. We stand toe to toe and nose to chest. He points his finger at me and says “how dare you call me such a bad word.”

                    Michael gasps and looks at me in shock “I have never heard her cuss before.  What did she say?” He begins to list off some  curse words and with each word Josh would shake his head and say “no it’s worse.”  After running out of expletives Michael asked me what I called Josh. I told him and then explained how it was not a curse word.  The boys leave in silence with throbbing brains.

                  Thirty minutes later, I hear  "You Narcissist “  being yelled across the gym. Michael responds “Josh, we don’t say those bad words here. If you say it again I’m gonna wash your mouth out with soap.” Josh replies “Narcissist.” Weights hit the floor as people gasp. Seconds later I hear screams coming from Josh as Michael chases him around with a bottle of soap. Michael, although smaller is much faster, but John is stronger.  Thankfully, Colton their boss interrupts them before any serious damage is done.

                Riley returns later that evening. His mood has not improved, in fact, it has gotten worse. He walks into his office and slams the door.  A few moments later, police are standing at my desk. I smile at them politely and ask them what I can help them with. They inform me that they are looking for Riley. I point hesitantly at his door and warn them that he is not in the best mood. They tell me that they know that, because Riley had threatened to “smash in “the AT &T man’s face if his phone was not fixed by the time he got off work. I feigned a shocked expression, and said “I am sure he was just joking,” but I knew he was serious.   After the police met with Riley they let him off with a warning, because they felt sorry for him since his weekend was so awful.

                Soon it was time for Lacy and Riley to leave work.  And although I had grown accustomed to working the night shift alone this night I felt uneasy.  Suddenly, hands covered my eyes and my entire body tensed up. No one said a word and I tried to figure out whose hands were holding me. I silently began to pray, because I just knew I was being kidnapped. After a few moments a familiar voice breaks through my thoughts  whispering “guess who” into my ear.  I whirl around to face my foe and yell “Ben why would you try to scare me like that. I thought I was going to die, because I  knew those were not Lacy’s hands.” I punch him on the shoulder firmly. He pretends to be hurt, and then shouts “I do not have girl hands. My hands are manly. My hands are strong. ” Ben leaves the room trying to comfort his wounded ego.

             Finally it was time for me to close. I had just started counting the money when I realize that there is  a man standing there watching me. I  had remembered seeing him several hours earlier when he  asked me what time I got off work, but I had never replied. I turn around again and he has disappeared.  I walk to the back to grab the things out of my locker and I see him standing outside the door. Panic strikes my heart, because he is waiting for me! I quickly act as though I have forgotten something at the desk. I scan the gym looking for someone I know, but they have all left.  I spot a man who looks nice and safe (meaning he does not have  any visible gang tattoos or piercings) so I quickly walk over to him and ask him to walk me to my truck. He laughs and says “you’re joking right?” I just shake my head and tell him “I am normally fine walking to my truck alone, but I just need someone to walk with me tonight. Please. “   He looks at me as though he suspects I  have a hidden agenda.  “This is not me hitting on you. I promise. You’re cute and all, but I really just need you to walk me to my truck” I explain quickly.  I’m still not sure if it was the fear in my eyes or if he just wanted to finish his workout , but he agreed to walk me to my truck. As he begin to walk with me he  realizes why I had asked him. He slips his arm around me and talks to me like we are dating.  When I get to my truck he hugs me and says “It’s nice to meet you. My name is Justin.” I whisper my name and a quick thank you before getting in my truck to drive home.

           On the way home I begin to laugh. I remembered how when I first started working at the gym we had coined the phrase “Anything can happen at Powerhouse.” When we created this slogan we did not mean it would all happen in one day, but it did. I wish I could tell you that every day at powerhouse was not as eventful, but it was. We learned to be on our toes because we never knew what was going to happen. When I left work to return to school I was on first name basis with the police. I also had convinced several of our trainers to take an English class so that they could learn other "curse words."  My story about my day at work  may sound like a soap opera to many people,  but to me it was just another typical day at the gym. 

           It all started with a phone call that brought me to my knees. I had just gotten off work when I looked at my phone and saw I had an abnormal amount of missed calls, texts and voicemails. I looked at my phone but in my rush to get home I decided to wait till I got to my house to respond to everyone.  I had just walked in the door when I got the call that changed everything.  When the phone rang, I just knew something was wrong.  It was my best friend calling at midnight on a school night which he hardly ever did. I stared at the phone for quite some time afraid to pick it up.  When I finally answered it, I heard his voice quiver and he told me “Steven has been in a wreck.” I hung up not wanting to hear anymore, because I already knew what was coming next. My parents walked in the room and I saw their tear stained faces and I fell to the ground.  Through my tears I yelled “did he survive?” My mother just shook her head no, as tears flowed down her face. I began to sob, “He couldn’t have died. It must be a mistake” I screamed.

 Images began to flash in my mind of memories with Steven. He had been my friend since kindergarten.  He was the only one who was allowed to call me goofy nicknames.  He was the one who would call me before school just to sing that dreadful song “Hey There Delilah “every single morning at 7 am. How I hated that song. I hated it so much that he decided to start calling me Delilah, just to annoy me.  But no one could ever stay mad at Steven. He was the type of guy who brought flowers for no occasion. He would wash your car without being asked. The memories ended and I knew there was no way he was dead.

             I didn’t want to believe it.  I had just seen him the day before. He waltzed into my work in his normal charming manner singing “Hey there Delilah” as loud as he could.  Embarrassed, I laughed and rolled my eyes. We talked for hours, before he hugged me goodbye and promised to be at my graduation that weekend.

       I began to cry harder as I realized he would not be there. “There must have been a mistake” I said as I picked up my phone to call him hoping he would answer. I was trying to fight the thoughts that I knew were true.  My mom grabbed my phone and hugged me saying “Tabitha, it’s true. Steven is gone, but not forever. You will see him again in Heaven.”

     Before I knew it we were in the car on the way to his parents' house and I tried to control my tears. I ran out of the car and saw my best friend waiting and fell in his arms. The days passed like a blur and I lost total track of time. I sat through the funeral and graduation, but they felt like the same event. There were no posters saying “Way to go Delilah, you did it. I’m so proud of you. ” Instead, there was a sea of faces all trying to pretend nothing had happened.

     Although it has been years since Steven died the event still brings me to tears.  “Hey There Delilah” is now one of my favorite songs and  I miss the moments I had with him, but I know I will see him again.  I know when I get to Heaven he will be there singing “Hey there Delilah” and I will roll my eyes, because I will get to hear it everyday for the rest of eternity. Eternity is a long time, maybe by then he will have learned to sing on key.  

    The Journey of a Frustrated Writer

               As a child growing up writing was always hard for me. I was the type of kid who trembled at the thought of writing, because I believed that my writing had to be perfect. I remember sitting down and crying when I was practicing my print, because it did not look like my mother’s handwriting. I often would become so frustrated that I would erase the paper so hard it would rip.  I was an avid reader and believed that I should be able to write just as well as C.S Lewis or J.R.R.  Tolkien and was frustrated when I could not.  At that time I did not realize that it took practice and dedication to create a story.  I soon found out that there were many things about writing that I did not understand.

               For instance, I did not know that it often takes time for a good idea to develop. It takes patience and maturity for an idea to fully grow. However, often times it’s the writer and not the idea that has growing to do.   This semester, I am going to challenge myself to write a story that has been on my heart for many years. I have found so many notebooks filled with four or five sentences that were discarded, because I could never find the right words to say. Often times my emotions were completely wrong, so I would abandon the story promising to come back to it at a later time. However, I never did. I began to think that I would never write the story, because I did not do it the moment the idea came to me. I would hear stories of people who had journals lying beside the bed in case inspiration came to them, and I would feel guilty.  I began to think that I could never be a writer.

                      As a child I loved storytelling, and I am told I had a very creative imagination. I remember the time when I was about four years old and a cat showed up in my yard. Still to this day, I am convinced that it was not a cat, but a very dangerous panther.

               Although I had this active imagination, my writing was dull and boring. I allowed my education to get in the way of my writing. I tried to conform to every other writer’s style but still felt like I came up short. My friend once told me, “Tabitha just write the way you talk to me, because you are writing this for me.” From that moment on my writing style changed and I found my voice. I learned that writing was a form of storytelling.

          Storytelling for me was fun and adventurous.  It was my way of leaving my world and stepping into someone else’s. When I read I was braver and stronger than I was in real life. It was a form of exploration, and I loved it.  I guess, eventually I became brave enough to start exploring in real life. When I am on missions trips all the guys flip a coin to see who has to go with me. It is not because I am a mean person, but it is because I am fearless and love to explore. I always hear something along the lines of these words: “Tabitha I do not think this a good idea. Maybe we should turn back. This is normally about the time in the horror movies when someone dies.” I always laugh and proceed with what I am doing without a care in the world. There have been some close calls while I have been exploring (a mad crazed dog, a mad crazed person and a few holes in the ground), but we always manage to just barely escape. I leave with my heart pounding with excitement and joy. While on the other hand, the other person is normally glaring at me and sometimes muttering something under his breath.

         However, through this journey I have learned that that is the sign of a writer. Ralph Fletcher says, “ The writer goes out into the world (or descends into the inner world) and returns with both fists clutching a mass of words, ideas and characters, places, stories, insights, possibly poisonous, hopefully not, and waves them, still squirming, still alive, before the started reader” (What A Writer Needs,  161).

             A good writer is someone who can turn the simplest things into a life-changing moment. They are not perfect, but they take what they are given and express it to the world.  Although I still sometimes dread writing a paper, I have learned that writing is a powerful tool, and without it, I am powerless.  I am no longer writing just for me, but I am writing for others. My story does not just affect me, but it affects others too.  If I am ever going to teach someone else to write I need to practice and learn to love writing. I do not have to be a perfect writer, but I must stay true to myself and allow my ideas to grow. Maybe one day I will be a published writer after all. 

Never Just a Letter

                

                                                                  Never Just a Letter

                 The time has finally come I just knew it. I raced outside to check the mail and as I sorted through the pile I found a letter addressed to me with your name on it. Full of excitement I ran back to my room to read the words that bridge the miles between us.  As I begin to read I hear your voice and I see your smile. I hear you say that you miss me and wish I could visit, but for a brief moment, I’m by your side.  Through the letter I see you writing poetry like the people you have studied for years. I see you drawing pictures in hopes that one day you too will be famous. I hear you playing music with your band and being yelled at by your neighbors for being too loud. I smile as you roll your eyes and make a sly comment. I see the books piled up on your desk as you push off homework to write me this letter.  I pick up the pictures that have fallen in my lap and I see the people and places that are dear to you. Your loopy handwriting explains in detail why these things are important and they become important to me too. I close the letter quickly afraid to finish it too soon. I inspect the cover to find you have drawn me a portrait with the new pens your sister bought you. The letter explains that it is the garden view from your window.   I finish the letter as you wave goodbye. Now it is my turn to pick up the pen and paper and transport you here to me.