Swim the Fly by Don Calame Read Free Book Online Page A

canister with me to the kitchen; I might as well get started right away because, as my pathetic run this morning revealed, I need all the help I can get.
    The directions call for two scoops of protein powder to be mixed with a glassful of skim milk. We don’t have any skim milk, so I decide to just use water. I’m sure it won’t taste much different; skim milk is pretty tasteless to begin with.
    The label says that results should be seen in eight to ten weeks. I need results a lot sooner than that, so I dump maybe a quarter of the can into my glass of water.
    It’s a bit of a mess because the heaps of powder cause some of the mixture to seep over the sides and drip all over my hand. I stir and stir with a spoon but there are still big clumps floating around in the glass. I try to squish the lumps of wet powder against the sides of the glass but this just makes more of the drink spill. I can’t afford to waste any of this, so I give up and just slug back the shake the way it is.
    It’s got the consistency of batter. I have to sort of chew it more than drink it. Also, it tastes pretty awful. Kind of orangey and chalky. Sort of like a baby aspirin.
    It’s impossible to get it all down without retching. I have to force myself to think about something else. I settle on Kelly, and how beautiful she is, and how she thinks it’s cool that I volunteered to swim the fly.
    This works pretty well until the last, thick glob unsticks from the bottom of the glass and slides right down my throat. I gag a little, and a pasty orange bubble forms in my mouth. My whole body shudders as I try not to heave.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I send Sean a text to let him know I’m at his front door.
    Come in,
Sean texts me back.
    It couldn’t have been more than thirty seconds after I’d just choked down the last of my protein shake when Sean called, all excited, like he’d just discovered a gold mine in his backyard or something. I’d told Sean I was busy, but he said I had to meet him at his house immediately. Coop was already on his way.
    “There’s only a small window of opportunity,” Sean had said, then hung up before I could ask him what the hell he was talking about.
    I open his front door and am immediately nosed in the balls by Tug, Sean’s hog-shaped brown Lab.
    “Nice to see you too, Tug,” I say, pushing the dog out from between my legs.
    When you step into Sean’s house, you’re hit by a squall of animal odors so strong it makes your eyes water. His family has more animals than anyone I know. They have four more dogs besides Tug, and I don’t know how many cats, and a parrot who’s always cursing at you. Besides all the animals that they actually own, the Hances also foster pets for rescue services, which is nice and all, but I have to say, I could never live here. Sean says you get used to the wet circus smell and the noise and everything, but I’d rather not.
    “We’re upstairs,” Sean calls out. “In my sister’s room.”
    I walk through the family room, and the other four dogs come out of nowhere and surround me. Yipping and panting and leaping, and wagging their tails. There’s a small hairy white one, and a bigger bristly brown and black one, and there’s a collie, and some sort of German shepherd mix. Don’t ask me their names. I only remember Tug’s name, because every time I come by, Mr. Hance is always saying, “Tug, no. Tug, no. Stop that, Tug. Tug, no. Tug down. Tug off. Tug, Tug, Tug.”
    I give each dog a little pat as I push through the pack, so none of them will feel left out.
    Then there’s the inevitable high-pitched squawk from the corner of the room, followed by, “Assbag. Assbag.”
    “Back at ya,” I say to Sean’s parrot. Her name’s Ingrid, and she’s an African gray. Ingrid was a rescue bird that the Hances have never been able to adopt out. She rocksback and forth on the perch in her cage like she’s happy to have someone to insult.
    “Eat shit,” Ingrid caws.
    “No thanks,