Hothouse by Chris Lynch Read Free Book Online

requirements because they cannot have just any old scrubs signing on to the service. You have got to be special. You have got to be special, and I have got to be patient.
    But I am growing the mustache. It might sound stupid, but it feels important. I am building the body and the mind as hard as they can be, and I am growing the mustache. Nobody is going to confuse me for an 1890s baseball player yet, but getting started on this is my quiet, for-myself way of feeling that little bit closer to the service, to the guys, to the team. That much closer to the man.
    I am staring at my shadowy reflection in the smoky glass door, opposite my high bench seat in the sauna. I can almost see the man.
    â€œSomebody’s getting ripped,” The Girl says, slipping in through that same door.
    â€œHi,” I say.
    She climbs up to the top bench next to me, sits right close. She is wearing an electric blue bathing suit, Olympic swimmer type. Her figure is Olympic swimmer type. I was not previously aware.
    â€œYou been doing triple sessions at this place, or what?” she says, lightly squeezing my biceps.
    We are the only two people here, but it’s still extremely embarrassing.
    â€œA little more than usual, maybe,” I say, and politely pull from her grip.
    â€œâ€™Roids? I’m betting ’roids.”
    I feel far too weak for this. I start to stand.
    â€œJeez, it’s getting awfully hot in here,” I say, and lean to leave.
    She grabs the seat of my shorts and pulls me back down with alarming ease. I am weak.
    â€œDon’t be antisocial,” she says.
    I lean back against the scalding wooden slats of the bench. Remarkable, how if you move off them after getting accustomed to them, they instantly become foreign and searing again. It’s not the worst feeling.
    â€œSo, you enjoyed the party,” I say.
    â€œI did. Thank you very much for inviting me. What a great group all around.”
    I suppose I do expect her to go somewhere with that. She doesn’t. We sit and become one with the heat. It’s almost like a sound, it’s so baking. The Girl leans back alongside me, feels the same hot slats across her back.
    She makes the sizzle sound, “Tssssz …” but she doesn’t flinch.
    I am no good at this. “So, DJ …” I say.
    â€œDJ,” she says.
    We sit and listen to the heat some more. That’s it.
    I stand for real now, and The Girl is happy enough to let me. “I’m completely noodled,” I say, stepping down to more breathable air. I see my ghosty reflection again as I approach the door.
    â€œLook out for him,” she says as my hand rests on the door handle. I turn. “Just keep an eye. He’s not as strong as you are, I don’t think.”
    I shake my head, and head out of the heat. “Don’t be fooled. I’m not as strong as I am either.”
    Firefighters insist on doing stuff. Everything they do seems to require bigger motion, more action than the regular one-foot-in-front-of-the-other routine of most people’s days. And since these days are anything but routine, they are now insisting on doing something big.
    They are being honored, DJ’s dad and mine. By the Hothouse, at the Hothouse, with a big public show-off of a permanent memorial.
    There is to be a big department-sponsored t’do for the two Outrageous Courageous heroes of the community. T’do is my mother’s term for any organized gathering we are required to attend, especially if she would really prefer not to attend.
    â€œSheesh,” she says after getting off the phone. “This is one t’do I could really do without.” She plunks herself onto the couch. I plunk beside her.
    â€œWell you can’t just t’do without it, Ma,” I say.
    â€œI know that, Russ. I understand there are a lot of situations where you have to do things you don’t want to do, because people feel they are doing those things