The Ballad of Bartholomew Slater
-Tallulah

Tick-tock. Tick-tock. I hear it in my sleep. In the car, when I’m listening to the radio, just singing along to some melancholy song it creeps into my psyche. At work, in a meeting. On the treadmill, to the beat of my stride. Tick-tock. It didn’t used to be this way. But let’s go back to the beginning…

In my early twenties, I discovered weight-lifting. I had always been scrawny, lanky. Awkward. The proverbial 90lb weakling, with acne and bad hair. In the grocery store one day I was looking for a copy of PC World. Apparently the magazine stocker was confused, because where the technical mags were always neatly stacked, there was instead a whole row of self improvement. Between ‘Shape’ and ‘Prevention’, I spied 'Joe Weider’s Muscle and Fitness'. On the cover, a huge musclehead, tan and glowing, white teeth, with a full head of hair - flexing the monumental bicep of his right arm while his left arm bulged around an athletic but feminine nymphet in a microscopic bikini. “30 Days To Your Dream Physique!” screamed the tag line. His arm was bigger than my torso. And I sure as hell had never made eye contact with a woman like that, let alone put my arm around one. The closest I had come had been Melinda Lynn Donovan. Senior Skip Day at the arcade. She was drunk, but she let me kiss her on the mouth, with tongue, and I got to touch her left breast through her shirt. She didn’t call, and moved to Virginia for pre-college summer school three weeks later. The action had been grim ever since. Slightly embarrassed, I tucked the mag in my basket between the Van Camp’s Pork and Beans and the Claritin, and headed toward the cash registers.

I read the 30 day program from end to end. I designed a workout log on my computer. I filled the counter of my mom’s kitchen with huge plastic buckets of weight gainer powder, creatine, protein shakes, and cryptically named amino acids. I joined the gym across the street from the video game shop where I worked part time. It was the classic movie-version makeover. Over several months I put on twenty-five pounds. I had some pretty decent muscle definition going. I replaced my glasses with contacts, grew my hair out a bit. I wore tank tops and patterned lycra shorts, even in the winter. Eventually, I got a good job as an IT guy for a chain of banks. Chicks were starting to notice me. I finally lost my virginity to a girl who worked in the GNC where I got my supplements. She was pudgy, so I ditched her for the total babe who worked at the Mongolian barbeque next door. I was SO in control, for the first time in my life! I bought myself a little black book, and a pimped out Honda Civic. I’d go to bars after work with some of the guys from the gym or the bank. Once, I even picked a fight with a dweeby guy I knew from chess club back at school. He snuck out the back entrance before I could kick his ass, but it was the first time anyone had ever been afraid of me. I was on top of the world.

But twenty five pounds wasn’t enough. I wanted to see greater results, and the harder I worked out, the more it was obvious I had peaked. I had heard whispers of steroids around the gym, some of the guys had gone from average to huge in just a few months. Raul, one of the afternoon guys had even come in 2nd in a pre-Mr. Olympia pageant in Omaha. Raul was a total stud, and obviously had it going on. How bad could it really be? I thought. There didn’t seem to be any side effects. It’s not like they grew a second head. Or went postal. One afternoon, I pulled Raul aside and asked him what I could do to get bigger. We hid over by the military press machine, and he gave me the number to his “Doctor”. I made the call.

For five years, I purchased “treatments” from Doctor Harold. No last name, I paid in cash. I didn’t pay attention to the names of what he gave me. Sometimes he handed me pills, sometimes he injected stuff. I didn’t care. All I knew is I had gained forty more pounds. I had muscle on my muscles. I had to ditch my twin bunk and get a queen sized bed for my room in my Mom’s attic. Mom was so proud, she showed me off to everyone she could think of. She fussed over me, making sure my meals were prepared on time, that I had fresh fruit for my smoothies. She even sewed me some shirts with expanded collars to fit around my big traps. But then Doctor Harold stopped coming. In his place, a Russian guy named Mischka.

Mischka spoke horrible English. But he did manage to convey to us that Harold had fallen out of favor with the Ukranian Mafia, of which Mischka was a member by blood relation to mob boss Leonid Bravalov. Second cousin, on his father’s side. That left Mischka in charge of Harold’s distribution channels. Most of the gymrats were concerned with the personnel switch. They found some new connections across town. I couldn't care less who delivered the goods, as long as I stayed big, and completely ripped. The first time I got the pills in the little case - with each day of the week and the date carefully indicated – I thought Mischka had really gone big time. How professional! Those other guys didn't know what they were missing. And these tiny little things sure beat those horse pills and nasty shots Harold had unloaded on us. Each month, Mischka brought me a new little case. Each day I dutifully took my pill. For two years, things seemed normal. Then, there was “the month”.

The first time I realized something was wrong, I woke up in a foul mood. I’ve always been a really easy going guy, very quiet. This particular day, Mom burnt my toast. She tried to cover the charcoal with peanut butter and play it off like it wasn’t that dark. I don’t know what happened, but I lost it! I threw the toast across the kitchen, and in one sweeping motion, cleared the table of the breakfast fixings with my forearm. “I’ll be back when you can fix a goddamned decent breakfast!” I yelled. Mom cringed. I thought I saw tears in her eyes. But I didn’t care. I couldn’t recall when I had been so angry. I stormed upstairs. I went to the closet for a pair of khakis. I pulled them on, and what the hell? I couldn’t get them buttoned! I looked in the full length mirror at my waist. Did it seem a little less defined? I thought, hell – Mom must have washed these in hot water. I pulled out another pair. Crap! I couldn’t even pull these over my butt! Third pair, got them buttoned, but they were so strained, the pleats were stretched straight across. What was the deal? I ran to the bathroom and jumped on the scale. I never deviated from my ideal weight of 195 lbs. Today, 204. Crap! In the medicine chest, I looked at my upper torso. Were my pecs getting a little soft? I had heard about the bitch tits that some guys got with steroid use, but there was no way it could happen to me! It had to have been the popcorn I ate last night. Too much salt. I vowed to hit it hard in the gym after work. I even left an hour early to get a sauna in. I decided to take two of my pills just to get an edge. I’d catch up to the correct day of the week with next month’s packet.

The next day, worse mood. I woke up with the urge to kill. I was glad Mom was off with her mall-walking cronies, I wouldn’t have been able to face her. I ran to the closet and grabbed yesterday’s khakis. I put one leg in, then the next. Squeezed my eyes shut and pulled them up. I couldn’t get them past my hips. Same routine as yesterday, but I went through six pairs. Not a one could I get buttoned. Back to the scale. 212. I reviewed in my head what I had eaten yesterday. Burnt toast for breakfast. Half a grapefruit. But then I remembered the first craving. About 10 a.m. I had had the most ungodly desire for chocolate and tortilla chips. I had stopped by the 7 Eleven and got a large nachos with extra cheese, jalepenos, and a king-sized Kit Kat. Maybe a little unusual, but I had worked out so hard later! Of course, there was the package of Bugles with ranch dip and the 17 girl scout cookies in the mid afternoon. And Mom did leave that pan of garlic mashed potatoes and a loaf of French bread. Oh yeah. The Ben and Jerry’s chocolate chip cookie dough pint I ate while watching the Oxygen channel. Come to think of it, why the hell was I watching the Oxygen channel? I vowed today I would lose every last ounce of the weight that had packed on seemingly overnight. I picked out my best pair of nylon designer Nike sweats, hoping I could pass them off at work as casual chic.

The next day, I called in sick. And the day after that. And a third day, Friday. Not only had I gained three and a half more pounds, but in three days I had eaten a Costco sized bag of Peanut M & M’s, a box of Life cereal (dry), a pound and a half of brie, a jar of queen sized manzanilla olives, and had drunk a twelve pack of Cherry Coke, a liter of chocolate milk, and two bottles of Gallo Chardonnay. Something was definitely wrong. I ate the rest of my packet of pills, and put in a “911” call to Mischka’s pager. My gut was racked with wrenching pain. My pecs hurt to the touch. I had what I thought might be a migraine, though I had never experienced one. My lower back was on fire. I figured it was all the crazy food I had been obsessively stuffing my face with, or maybe just a flu bug. So I didn’t call the doctor. But I did finally get Mischka on the phone. He agreed to leave two months worth of pills at the front counter of the gym for me.

I stayed on the couch with Mom’s heating pad on my stomach through the weekend. I found myself mesmerized by Oprah, Days of Our Lives, and Regis and Kelly. I watched Home and Garden Television. I realized I really wanted to find a way to update Mom’s living room with funky but contemporary pieces, which I could pick up at a local flea market. I felt sad for the abused women from rural trailer parks I saw on Dr. Phil. I found myself writing furiously the ingredients for fabulous picnic recipes given by the Barefoot Contessa. I watched a Katharine Hepburn movie on AMC, and Steel Magnolias and Beaches back-to-back on TNT. I knew things were bad when a Hallmark commercial of an elderly Grandma, banished to a nursing home, receiving a lovely card from her middle aged daughter, brought me to tears. I turned down the TV, put on a Michael Bolton CD and had a good cry.

The next Monday, surprisingly, I was feeling better. Still a little blah, but I thought I could make it to work and maybe to the gym. I was able to find one pair of pants that fit – which gave me some hope that I had turned the page on whatever my ailment was.

I got halfway through my day at the bank when something horrible happened. I went to the men’s room to whiz. I stood at the urinal and pulled out my member. Business as usual. But then I looked down and almost fainted. There was blood. Lots of blood. All over my slacks. My boxers. All over my hand. It was coming from ME! How much blood could a person lose before shock set in? I felt instantly faint, and then had the good sense to slip into a stall before anyone else could see what had happened. I started to hyperventilate, but made myself concentrate. I untucked my shirt. I pulled off my jacket and tied it around my waist. Could I pass that off as "fashionable"? I unrolled at least eighteen feet of toilet paper into a huge wad, dipped it in the bowl and tried to clean the blood from my hand and the front of my pants. It just made a bigger mess. I peeked out under the stall for shoes, and when I was sure the room was empty - I made a run for it. I barreled down the back stairwell, and ran as fast as I could to my car – knocking down one of the interns from the loan dept. on my way. Brown cardboard folders and legal documents flew every direction, but I didn’t stop – just kept running, digging my keys out of my pockets and trying not to pass out. I jumped in the car, absently thinking about what the blood was going to do to my upholstery, while simultaneously considering which song to have played at my funeral – Amazing Grace or Pachelbel’s Canon? I jammed the key in the ignition and roared out of the garage at top speed, narrowly missing the Taco Truck on its way in for lunch rounds. I zoomed through traffic, the entire time wishing I had told my Mom I loved her that morning. I wanted to say sorry to the guy I tried to beat up in the bar, and the pudgy girl who I had dumped. I thought about Skippy, the miniature schnauzer I had when I was a kid. Would he be there in Heaven? Oh God, would I make it to Heaven? Were steroids a first class ticket to fire and brimstone? I screeched to a halt at Mercy General in the Emergency zone. I stumbled out of the driver’s door, into the lobby – where I passed out cold right in front of a group of Japanese tourists who were stranded when their bus driver went into cardiac arrest at an Arby’s. The last thing I remember were dozens of flash bulbs. I thought they were the white light… I began reaching for it. Skippy…is that you?

When I woke up, Mom was at my side, looking concerned, with a strained smile on her face. A doctor was repeating my name. "Bart? Bart!" I came to slowly, as the doctor rattled off a litany of medical terms. I was foggy, but I tried to process it. Anabolic Steroids. Okay, fair enough. Testicular atrophy. Oh boy. Breast Development. Shit. Growth of latent female organs. What the hell? Menstruation. Oh Christ! The list went on and on. The doctor had never seen a case like this. Had asked my Mom to bring in samples of what I was taking. She had brought in some of the empty little calendar cases she had found in my bedroom. Ortho-Try-Cyclen. Mischka had not just been selling me pills. He had been selling me THE Pill. Birth control. As in: made for women pills. Stupid Fucking Russian, couldn’t speak English well enough to know the difference between steroids and hormones. The doctor said the damage might be permanent. Oh great. I had turned myself into a girl.

Nine months later, and sure enough – I’ve been having a period pretty much every 28 days. I get real emotional about a week before. I get angry at the drop of a hat and I cry a lot. Strangely, even though I can't control it sometimes, I feel really in touch with my emotional side. I lost most of my muscle, so I joined a different gym. But I don’t have the same drive I used to have. Now I just do some light cardio, read People magazine, and talk to the other girls. I’ve made some really good friends. These women are so accepting. Sometimes we go out for a cocktail and pu-pu's after our workout. During “the week”, I get cramps and bleed like a stuck pig. At the hospital, they showed me how to use a maxi pad, since tampons obviously aren’t an option. My Mom buys feminine hygiene products and Midol for me. I quit my job at the bank and went to work for a caterer. I finally get to use those recipes from the Food Channel! It’s so rewarding to be creative. So all in all, things aren’t that bad.

But there is the one thing. I’m thirty two. Lately, I’ve been so terribly concerned that my biological clock is running out. I get all emotional when I see a small child. It's really time for me to settle down. My girlfriends and I talked it over. Tonight, I’m going to call Raul and ask him to be the father of my baby. Tick-tock.