Photo by Alora Griffiths on Unsplash
I find a flier for Xtreme Abs and Meditation taped to the bathroom mirror in a bar. It asks if I’m happy with my body. I shake sink water from my fingertips and look down at my beer-filled belly and shrug. My stomach never really gets in the way, but the flier says first class is free and maybe I needed abs if they were free.
I ask my friends to come with me, but they can’t find a website for the company, so they say no. All businesses know that they need a website to be legit. We don’t go anywhere without a website.
I arrive 15 minutes early because that is what the flier says to do. The address has brought me down an alleyway between a church and a nail salon. It’s dark and wet. A car pulls up and a man gets out. He is tall and has pecs that push through his t-shirt. He asks me if I’m here for the fitness class. I hold up the flier. He says his name is Derek and tells me to follow him.
Derek and I take a side door that leads into the basement of the church. There is choir practice going on upstairs. He tells me to put my stuff down in a room with tiled floors and an empty wooden stage. He asks me my name. He asks me where I’m from. He asks me why I am interested in having Xtreme Abs. He gives me some dumbbells. He tells me that sometimes this class can get personal. I note that there is only one way in and one way out.
No one else shows up and Derek begins the class. He makes me do leg raises, bicycles, Russian twists. I hold boat poses with dumbbells. I lay on my stomachs and lift my arms and legs. Derek steps over me and adjusts my form. My abs burn. I can feel them beneath my stomach. Derek says he is proud of me, so proud, so impressed by my hard work.
We finish the class with meditation. Derek turns out the lights and we sit cross-legged on the floor. He leads us in square breathing. Four second hold, four second inhale, four second hold, four second exhale. We do this over and over. He is behind me and I feel his hands slip onto my shoulders, massaging gently.
Once the class is over Derek asks if I enjoyed it, his sweat-stained shirt hugging his abs. He tells me about his pop-up classes and takes my number so I can join the next one. I thank him.
For the next week, my abs are sore. I can’t sit up or reach for things on high shelves. I look in the mirror to check if there is any difference. I poke my belly but it hangs the same way.
I tell my friends about the class. The basement, the endless reps, the empty stage. They say it sounds creepy, that I’m lucky to have survived. My cousin got murdered that way once. She answered a dog-walking ad and we never saw her again. Someone locked my friend’s sister in a basement for three days once. She only got out by smashing a tiny window. I tell them that Derek is nice, that everything seemed fine, that he counts his reps like the rest of us. They only shake their heads, tell me not to go back.
Derek calls me and tells me that Xtreme Abs and Meditation is meeting at a new pop-up location. He says if I really want those abs, I have to stick with it. I write down the address. He says only the first class is free. I give him my bank information. It’s good to support small businesses, he says.
The pop-up is in an abandoned parking lot at the outskirts of the city. I take a bus then walk five blocks to get there. Derek has packed an extra mat for me. Today I do sit-ups, 6-inch holds, 30-second planks, and plank-ups. Then, I run from one end of the parking lot to the other. Derek chases me for motivation. During the meditation, Derek massages my shoulders, neck, and arms.
After class, Derek gives me a ride home. His car smells like dirty laundry. I tell him my address. He says he knows a short cut. We take eleven back roads until we emerge on my street. He says these roads are perfect for escaping cop cars. I am impressed with his knowledge of the city. He tells me to ice my abs and wait for his next call.
My friends say that this is how it starts. He’s luring you in, getting you alone, taking your money. They say words like human trafficking and scammers. They know all the terms from the podcasts they listen to. Next thing you know, they assure, you will be in the middle of nowhere, no food, no clothes, left to die. I tell them they’re being dramatic, clutching the soreness in my stomach as I laugh.
I continue attending the class, working my upper abs by the loading dock of a CVS, my lower abs beneath an on-ramp to the highway. I do flutter kicks in the back of a Chinese restaurant under a row of hanging chickens. Derek tells me that I must push myself, go to places I have never been before. It is just as much about the mind as it is about the body.
Weeks pass and I am finally beginning to see a difference. My stomach has tightened. The skin is pulled over emerging mounds of muscle. The shadow of six squares is carved into my stomach. I can’t believe they have been there all along. I have always needed Xtreme abs. How could I have thought I didn’t?
One day, Derek calls me and tells me that Xtreme Abs and Meditation has made it big. Like investors with fists full of cash and a nose for a good startup big. He talks about a new studio, a fresh set of dumbbells. About helping people all over the city get the abs they’ve always wanted. He thanks me for being a loyal customer, says that before he settles down, he is doing a PR tour around the world, giving free first classes to anyone he can find. He says he’s going to take a boat, a 90-day cruise. He invites me to come with him.
My friends say that this is it. I’m falling into Derek’s final trap. Murder, murder, murder. You’ll be one of those girls. One of the hundreds. It can’t be true. Nothing adds up. Your name will be on a milk carton, aged, so years later people might sill recognize you. That’s right, they say, there will be no body. They can’t find anything about any investors online. There’s no website, remember? No website.
I pack my bags and meet Derek behind a convenience store late at night. He asks me if I packed bathing suits, ones that will show off my abs. It’s good for the marketing. He says he’s proud of my progress, that I’ve earned my Xtreme abs. I say I couldn’t have done it without him. I hand him my passport, my ID. He opens the passenger door for me, and I get in.
A month later, a waiter brings me a margherita on the deck of a boat. It’s free, like everything else on the tour. The water sparkles around me as I watch Derek lead a class on a dock nearby. A row of sun-kissed vacationers are taking advantage of their first free class and hip thrusting in unison. The class is almost over. Soon they will sit and meditate, soaking up the Vitamin D, the water lapping the edge of the dock. I watch Derek walk from student to student, adjusting their form. He really wants the best for everyone. He cares. He makes sure that I keep up with my workouts. He doesn’t even stare when I sit topless to avoid tan lines. I straighten the towel on the lounge chair next to me for when he returns. Tonight, he is going to make me dinner, fresh salmon and capers, and we’re going to brush up on our Spanish before we reach Spain. I take a sip of my drink and wonder why. Why my friends were so bothered, why no one believed me, why anyone questioned that it was about anything other than the Xtreme abs.
Kale Choo Hanson is a writer and editor. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Peatsmoke Journal, Grande Dame Literary, Glassworks, and Thirteen Bridges. She holds an MFA from Temple University and resides in Philadelphia with her partner.