Flash Fiction Fridays: My Whey or the Highway

Garrett Cook here. Ryan C Bradley is one of the most entertaining writers and performers I’ve ever met. His performances are lively, and his ear for language makes everything delectably readable. I’m glad I reached out to Ryan because he deserves all the ink he can get.

My Whey or the Highway by Ryan C. Bradley

after Sigizmund Krzhizhanovsky

Mikey dumped a scoop of protein into his blender bottle. The millionth dusting of powder wafted onto the countertop between the pantry and the fridge. He grabbed the lid off the Formica island behind him. The metal ball clanged around before a rumbling overpowered the sound.

Mikey thought it was an earthquake. But the island wasn’t shaking. He turned as the counter wiggled. The bag of Whey protein, the bananas, the coffee maker, and the other assorted junk crashed to the ground. The cabinet jerked forward, revealing a wooden arm made of the same oak as the cabinet, veins rippling like burrowing snakes. Another arm came out of the other side, before the cabinet stood on two monster never-skipped-a-leg-day limbs. It bent forward, shaking out the medicines from one drawer — various cold remedies, his Imodium, and his wife’s stool softener — and koozies from the other. The cabinet’s doors swung open, and it coughed out useless kitchen gadgets.

It hacked up one last time, spitting out a metal container they’d used to store cashews. “How many sets did you do?” the cabinet asked.

Mikey looked away from the drawers, which sat where its eyes would’ve been.

“I did 5 sets. But I felt—”

“5 sets, total?” Its doors clapped open and shut as the cabinet spoke.

“Yeah. But I had a twinge in my back and I didn’t—”

“What’s the protein shake for? You know Dwayne The Rock Johnson got up at 4:30 this morning, did a heavy leg day, arrived on set at 7, and he’s going to do a back workout at lunch? You think your wife likes you chubby?”

“Melissa loves me.”

“If she’s so into you, when’s the last time she sucked you off?”

“None of your business. I got a meeting. It’s important,” Mikey said. “How are you… How are you?”

“I’m not a metaphysician or a relationship coach. I’m a bodybuilder. Either you want it or you don’t, and I want it. So I’m going to work out.” The cabinet snatched Mikey’s shake. “Save this for someone who needs it.”

“How do you exist?” Mikey said.

The cabinet stomped toward Mikey’s weight set in the garage. He wanted to follow it, but he needed to shower and shave before his meeting. The cabinet would be there later. His job might not be.

***

“Michael, what’s that sound?” his supervisor asked, her voice stern.

“I got a new roommate,” he said. The cabinet grunted from the garage. Weights clanged with so much force Mikey’s laptop bounced in his lap.

“If you insist on taking this meeting from a Planet Fitness, we should reconvene on Monday.”

“No. No. I’ll switch myself to push to talk. We can work through this,” he said.

His advisor pursed her lips, but the meeting continued.

***

Melissa got home an hour or two later, juggling the giant metal water bottle she asked for last Christmas and a purse so big that budget airlines refused to count it as a personal item.

The cabinet rushed over to help.

“Babe, who is this?” Melissa asked, her eyes glinting with a light that used to be for him.

“The cabinet,” Mikey pointed toward the barren spot in the wall.

“I’m whoever you want me to be, babe,” the cabinet said. “Look at this couch potato making his beautiful wife carry her own bag.”

“Don’t listen to him, Mel.”

“I’m not.” Her eyes traced the bulge of the cabinet’s biceps.

***

The cabinet monopolized dinner conversation talking about macros, specifically how many grams of proteins and how few carbs Mikey should be eating if he wanted to blast away the stubborn paunch around his waist.

“I think he looks great,” Melissa said, which did not help Mikey’s self-esteem.

The cabinet swaggered into their bedroom when it finished eating (refusing the tortillas from the tacos Mikey made).

“Where do you think you’re going?” Mikey asked. He’d been raised to never, under any circumstances, go into the master bedroom at someone else’s house.

“I’m going to lie down. Make myself at home.”

“That’s not—” Mikey started.

“Want to join me, babe?” the cabinet asked Melissa. The eye drawers open and closed, approximating a waggle.

Melissa looked from the cabinet to Mikey. “I don’t think I—”

The cabinet nonchalantly stretched its arms upward, muscles rippling. “Who’s going to stop us? He only did 5 sets today.”

“That’s 5 more than anyone who didn’t work out,” Mikey said.

“And 30 less than Dwayne The Rock Johnson during his first workout, and he filmed the climax of a new Fast and Furious movie today. Vin Diesel let him say, ‘Family’ this time.”

“Why don’t you clean up some of the rubble from where the cabinet ripped himself out? We’re just going to… talk. In the bedroom,” Melissa said.

Mikey did not believe they would only be talking. His world tore in two as the bedroom door swung shut.

“Suck me off,” the cabinet said.

Melissa giggled.

Something electronic fired up, whirring loudly. The cabinet groaned. What the hell were they doing in there? She’d never let him use toys.

“Mikey, get in here,” Mel shouted.

He dragged his feet, paused at the threshold.

“Look, I’m 35. I never got jacked no matter how much I lifted, but I kept trying. If you want to compare me to Dwayne The Rock Johnson, I can’t stop you. But I can multiply big numbers without a calculator. I pull over to help turtles cross the road. I love the people who love me, and I show up when they need me and when they don’t. I don’t lie if I can help it,” he said as he entered, “And I don’t want to do any group sex.”

The cabinet’s arms and legs were gone.

Melissa pointed to the dustbuster. “Oh, baby. You know I love you. Veiny muscles look gross.”

Mikey hugged her. She melted in his arms.

“How many times do I have to tell you to clean up the extra powder after you make a shake?”

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