Back home dudes shame him with handstands on the way down to chaturanga. On the beach he’s the only one jumping up to complete the vinyasas.
So he becomes that guy, rising unbidden from bridge into full wheel and doing a sweet, solitary shoulder stand before savasana.
After class he presents, sweaty and sandy, for an attaboy.
But teacher Whipple congratulates himself. “Dude you’re here without your wife? I’m super impressed! I converted you to yoga!”
Denied his dose of praise, McCormick smiles and nods and walks into the waves, which are cool and soothing, just like the day before.
At beach yoga McCormick checked the other towels. Sunburned ankles, vanilla thighs, sandy glutes. But no buzzing and slapping. The carrion call was for him.
Probably because of the knee he skinned falling of his scooter last week. (Oh, Mikey, remember how you reviled grownups on scooters?)
New flesh came off like pudding skin in the hot-tub. Left a puffy yellow glob. The flies thought he was dead already.
Ten hours later, while June naps, he runs Makena Road. Left his glasses in the room. Can’t read the heart monitor. But he feels fast and hot, even this close to sunset.
McCormick, peeking around the lockers to see who’s creating the ruckus, finds not a skin-tight, crew-cut, but long hair and eighteenth-century beard with a draped tank and mod Nike booties.
Whoa, what’s in the blender bottle? Gym Hipster, chugging, declares:
“This dick’s on my Instagram every day saying, you shouldn’t eat that after weights. I said, hey dick, I am 20 pounds lighter than you, I can outrun, outlift, and certainly outpunch you. Your arms are broomsticks compared to mine. Look at me and look at you, then tell me again what I need to learn about nutrition and definition!”
He’s even with Black Speedo Guy most of the lap, but in the final yards McCormick’s breathing falters. He takes a ragged gulp, a short stroke, hits the wall late.
The victor hoists himself out of the water, making a show of stripping off cap and goggles and pounding his ears.
The principle of this guy is his gut. It’s a big-pumpkin gut, a pregnant-lady gut, hanging way over his distressed Lycra waistline.
“Thanks for the push,” Black Speedo says, winking.
McCormick, who feels kinship with the manatee at even two pounds over his wedding day weight, says, “my pleasure.”