by Michael Kozart
“Everything’s sold out,” says the sales rep at Sports Bazaar.” She wears a mask with a clear plastic shield like a windshield. “But we’ll order direct from the factory. Neoprene for grip, rainbow hues for fun.”
I feel for her, making the sale’s pitch while I sit curbside in air-conditioned comfort. It’s 98 Fahrenheit in downtown Phoenix. I hand over the AmEx through the car window. She rings me up on a portable device that would have made Jack slobber—Jack and his gadgets. She also promises expedited delivery—two weeks max, arrival by the first week of January 2021.
Jack would scoff at my dumbbells. Primitive lumps of clay, he’d say, even if coated with candy-colored neoprene. He went for anything with a silicon chip, lasers, a graphic display—bells and whistles.
*
It’s well into January. We’re sheltering in place. Supermarkets, hardware stores, gas stations, hospitals, morgues are open. That’s it. Our 55+ Golf Retirement Community—each condo with a fairway view—is a ghost town, as is the world, it seems.
Where are my dumbbells?
A rep named Tony takes my call. He apologizes for the delay and says there’s a national dumbbell shortage. Everyone’s building a home gym.
“Pandammit,” he exclaims.
The closed-caption on the wall phone prints panda mitt.
“Pandammit?” I ask.
“It’s an official word.”
I’d challenge him on that if this were Scrabble.
But he offers some good news: the Nautilus Home Fitness 3000 is in stock and it only costs $2000 more than my dumbbells. Delivery within two weeks.
“Heard that before.”
“Includes installation.”
It’s hard enough paying the HOA fees. I gaze out the window of the breakfast nook.
Not long ago, whole teams roamed the fairway. Now everyone’s golfing singly, except for married folks exempt from social distancing. Everyone’s in white too, like ghosts. White was always the rule here, on the fairway at least, but these days it’s enforced with a $300 fine. I suppose the more things change the more they stay the same.
I ask Tony if this shortage is a gimmick to make me buy a Nautilus.
“Lord no.”
I brush crumbs from the table and stare at the urn that will become a vase for daffodils—Jack’s favorite flower. Next to the urn, a bowl of bananas—Jack’s favorite fruit. They’re browning, meaning they’re ready for the mallards in the water hazard on the ninth hole where a sign says Don’t Feed the Birds. $400 fine. It’s an ornithological fact: ducks love bananas, especially overripe ones.
Tony urges me to consider the Nautilus. “Imagine what you can do with a state-of-the-art fitness center in your own home, in these times.”
State-of-the-art—yes, Jack.
He already had an infrared cooking thermometer, a remote-control waffle maker, an electric pillow-blanket set (useful in the Arctic), not to mention our favorite—the closed-caption. He probably dug the electronic monitoring and ventilation machines in the Phoenix Memorial ICU—everything state-of-the-art.
“Pandammit pandammit pandammit,” I say to wrap things up.
Panda mitt panda mitt panda mitt.
“What do you say?” asks Tony.
“I’ll stick to my dumbbells.”
*
After a nap, I return to the breakfast nook.
Jack relished our clandestine feed runs under cover of darkness, but I’m restless now. I could use fresh air and exercise. Of course, if I had dumbbells…
I put on a tie-dye mask and matching T-shirt that says Philly Phreak, shove the fruit into a bag, and reach the water feature without being cited by security guards. I chuck the bananas, which float like big yellow turds. The ducks love them. Too bad they’re lactose intolerant, otherwise I’d provide ice cream for a banana split.
There’s a tiny lizard doing push-ups on a landscape boulder next to the putting green. I read that it’s a mating ritual—a display of fitness, potency, enthusiasm.
It gives me an idea.
With my pecs screaming, my abs burning, and my game face on (behind a mask), I pull one off. It’s been sixty years since my last push-up, likely in gym class in Philly in Jack’s presence. We were grade-school sweethearts.
A lone golfer yells fore and the ball plops close by.
He arrives in a golf cart and says I’m holding up his short game. I invite him to do push-ups, albeit with social distance. He hems and haws. I complete a second one, lie on my back, and call Tony.
“Tony, cancel the dumbbell order, wire me a refund. I’ve discovered something better than dumbbells or even a Nautilus.”
“Can you buy it at Sports Bazaar?” he asks.
“It’s not for sale.”
“Is it isometric?”
“Nope.”
Meanwhile, the golfer makes his own call. Another cart scoots over from a security kiosk.
Rolling onto my side, I recognize the security officer from previous run ins. He has cited me for dress code violations and avoidance of pedestrian pathways. What can I say? I’m a free roamer. At least I’ve managed to dismiss the citations at our HOA meetings claiming forgetfulness. (Not dementia.) Fortunately, no one has caught me feeding ducks.
The officer asks if I need help. Tony’s on the line. He’s all the help I need.
“Look, Tony, dumbbells and the Nautilus are for the birds. I’ve re-discovered the pushup, and it’s free.”
“It’s your call.”
“Ma’am?” asks the officer.
I expect him to hand me a ticket, but he’s reticent. Maybe he knows something. There’s no privacy in a gated community. When someone leaves by ambulance in the middle of the night, everyone gossips.
In a soft voice, the officer offers to drive me home.
“No thanks,” I say. “Walking’s fine exercise—like push-ups. Very au naturel.” Plus, he’s not wearing a mask as if he doesn’t believe there’s a crisis.
I look around and notice the lawn. It’s pale and sickly.
“Officer, shouldn’t our HOA fees be going to make the fairway green?”
He blames the ducks trampling and nibbling sod. “It’s bad enough someone’s been feeding them. We’ve found the banana remnants. If we catch the culprits, we’ll quack them up.”
I laugh politely.
That’s when it hits me. A sprinkling of fine ash would provide micronutrients and improve root development, making the lawn green again. I should know. I was an avid gardener back in Philly.
Tonight, under cover of darkness, Jack and I will make a final run. In the future, when I do pushups and my chin meets the grass, it will be like a kiss.
“Remember,” the officer says. “Next time, it’s all white. And stick to the pedestrian path.”
*
I’ve got a few hours before dusk. I drive to the supermarket and once again park curbside.
“Daffodils and your ripest bananas, please,” I say to the masked clerk. Jack flittered away our money on gadgetry. Now it’s my turn to splurge.
“Is that all?” asks the clerk.
I mention dumbbells.
“You might try Sports Bazaar. You can still shop online.”
I explain the national dumbbell shortage.
“And here I was thinking we had a surplus.”
On a lark, I also enquire about Häagen-Dazs Vanilla. “Nothing like ice cream in this heat.”
“Someone to share it with?” he asks.
I shake my head. He probably knows the look, even from behind a tie-dye mask. It’s the look of pandammit—or I should say panda mitt.
*
As soon as the sun sets, I sneak off with my bananas, ice cream, and urn, and sit by the water feature, coaxing the ducks closer. They trust me. I reserve one banana for myself, along with the ice cream—my banana split.
I’d try another pushup right now but my muscles—especially pecs—are sore as hell. With the temperature dropping, I decide to spread Jack on the fairway, thinking of something to say. All I can come up with is panda mitt panda mitt panda mitt—the combo of a cuddly bear and protection from things too hot. Maybe that was Jack.
But what was he even thinking when he installed the closed caption? Neither of us were hard of hearing.
I return home, place the daffodils in the urn in the breakfast nook, and look at my reflection in the window. Tomorrow, I’ll try three more push-ups on the green. Kissing the ground is incentive enough. I wonder what it will taste like. Probably not like Jack. And I suppose it’s foolish to think the grass will ever turn green even with his ashes in place. I doubt anything will help, aside from relocating or removing the ducks. But they belong here, as much as we all do. We’re transplants—save for the lizards—surviving in this desert. Jack believed in technology. I’ll stick to the basics—social distancing and push-ups. Of course, a little ice cream, tie-dye, and mischief can’t hurt. The point is, we all have to rely on our own devices.
Michael Kozart hails from Northern California where he works in a non-profit community health center. His fiction has garnered awards, including first place in the 2021 Sixfold competition for ‘Polaris.’ His writing has been nominated for Best Small Fictions and been published in many literary journals including MoonPark Review, Flash Fiction Magazine, Into the Void, Every Day Fiction, and more.
January House Literary Journal 
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