Breathlessly, I unpack the box, carefully placing each piece in the one corner of my unit that receives direct sunlight, so when dawn strikes, its pale grey and black colors will shine gold.  So easy to assemble, the smooth metal adjustable bar wraps its lover's arms around me, the contoured support pad gently taking the weight of my head and my neck.  I grip the edges of the bar, my elbows on the elbow pads, aligning my biceps at right angles along the sides of the circle so my arms are elevated above my head, and if I were back in beginning ballet, trying not to lose my balance, my shaking arms curved in the port de bras position, my thighs tensed to jet into space, I'd burn like the Firebird.  Ready to take me to ever escalating levels of intensity for as long as I can stand it, every inch of
muscle, every striation of oblique tissue, every crunch of my rectus abdominus will protect my heart.  My vulnerability will be vanquished, and
the scars of the past will burn away with each ounce of fatty tissue.  From the inside out, today is the first day of the rest of my life.  Perfect Abs has arrived.

        Twelve crunches per set.  I immediately assume the position, grasp the support bar, and begin.

        Crunch:  this isn't about vanity.  This isn't about revenge.  This isn't about Danny, who kissed me underneath the football bleachers until he came all over me and then used my shirt to wipe himself off before walking away.  Crunch:  this isn't about Curtis, who kept sitting next to me on the bus, reeking of aftershave, pinching me so hard he left bruises, telling everyone he felt me up.  Crunch:  this isn't about Mr. Dutton, the Dean of Discipline and Health Sciences, who kept me in his office for hours giving me free medical exams.  Crunch:  this is not about Charles, my Dad's best friend, who gave me my first drink and my first kiss when I was twelve
years old.  Crunch:  this isn't about any of the rest of them, drawn to flesh that will soon burn away.  This isn't even about every jerk who ever yelled "hey, ugly" or "nice meat, mama" or "there goes some pussy." This isn't about all the strangers on the street with advice, pity, sermons, and muttered threats--crunch.

        This is about the way my mother looked when I bathed her:  picking her up so carefully, gingerly putting her to bed, feeding her medicine, stroking her hair until the day I found her, limp, wet, unreachable. Crunch:  this is about my father, who abandoned us both as soon as he saw she was dying.  Crunch:  this is about survival.  This is about making it alone.  This is about washing rats' blood out of test tubes at the university's experimental laboratory, smelling of rust and disinfectant,
dipping racks of tubes into vats of acid to cleanse them of all residue, droplets of acid singeing my flesh, seeing doped-up white rats stretched on
long cool black tables where decapitations took place, mouths open, bodies so limp even skin looked exhausted, you could see bones.

        Crunch:  I thought all this past would burn away in those vats of acid.  I thought that none of life's viscera could exist in a scientific environment.  I'd push carts of sparkling clean test tubes down sanitized white hallways and scrub myself clean and smooth as glass.  But instead I spent my days in the muck and fumes of animal remains, and one day, I had to quit.

        Crunch:  outside, on the corner, waiting for the bus, across the street, a tan, blonde girl in bikini underwear lounged on a billboard, her whole body exposed, her smile radiating eternal joy and health and strength, the slogan "Perfect Abs" slashed across her stomach and suddenly, that's it,  I thought, that's the answer:   You have to be strong.  You have to make your whole self teflon, so that nothing will ever again stick to your surfaces, so that every touch, every glance, every word will bounce
off, and nothing and no one will penetrate.

        Crunch:  From now on, perfection is my ultimate goal.  I worship surfaces.  A rock hard diaphragm is the only thing that counts in this world. All those silicone enhanced waifs with their cherry lips and their buns of steel and their raccoon eyes - if you can't beat them, join them. With perfect abs, I'll be invincible.   I'll be able to thrust myself at
the universe, saying, go ahead.  Take your best shot.  No one will hurt me, no one will get to me.  I'll have it all.

        Crunch.
 
 

        Every morning at 9:15 I ride the bus through Coralville to a tiny shopping center, one link in a network of strip malls, convenience stores, fast food drive-thru's, gasoline stations, bars, and clothing outlets that run like veins through acres and acres of undeveloped land.  Our store is at the heart of dull, flat, brown fields and hills that stretch forever
into the horizon.   I prefer the geometric agricultural patterns of cultivated farms, squares in different shades of green arranged in neat checkerboard patterns.  Dust and dirt and bits of hay contantly blow in from the fields and clog up the air, and I find the constant heat and dust oppressive.  I get off at the bus stop and walk quickly across the asphalt
and into the Payless Shoe Store.

         The smells of cheap carpeting and chemically treated shoe leather are intoxicating.  Aisles of shoes organized by size, color, and type reach
almost up to the ceiling. These products are newly manufactured, slick imitation leather, your basic primary colors.  The glaring lights and gaudy colors and hard blue carpeting and incessant muzak massage my spine, and my heart starts to pump right up into my target zone.  I knew as soon as I
walked into this store one month ago, responding to a Help Wanted sign from heaven, this was the perfect place for me.  I love asking people "may I
help you find your size?" and although I've been told not to bother the customers, they never refuse my assistance.

         A man comes in and I kneel down among the brown dress shoes and select a dark chocolate loafer with a shiny gold buckle in the center of
its tongue.  The slick leather feels like plastic and holding the shoe open for him, I could slice my fingers on its edges.  I center the shoe in my
lap as he slips his foot in, flexes his toes and steps back.  "These are fine," he says.  "Here," I say, "try the other one--do you need the shoe horn?"  "I don't think so," he says, backing away.  Sometimes you have to coax them.  It's like pushing yourself from intermediate level to advanced. "They go on so much easier with the shoe horn," I say, holding it out to him.  "No, really--these'll do," he says.  Taking off the shoe and gathering up the box, he hops down the aisle toward the cash registers, trying to cram his foot back in his tennis shoe without untying the laces.

Another satisfied customer.

        Suddenly Shane, our store manager, looms over me.  Shane is my nemesis, the drip-by-drip distillation of every man who ever denied my
womanhood.  He stalks the aisles of the Payless like a lion commanding his pride in the surveyance of his terrain.  He's always lurking around, trying to find something wrong in the way I do things.  I'll be working on my arrangements and catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye and I'll turn and see him ducking away, around a corner.  When he interviewed me he gave me a long look up and down, and then he said he was desperate. Since then he seems angry at me for some reason and I feel his eyes on me all the time.

        "Helping customers try on their shoes is not part of the usual Payless service, Sara Lynn."

        "Well, maybe it should be."  I stand up and face him.  A blond crewcut crowns his sunburned face, square jaw, roman nose, blue blue eyes. "He bought the shoes, didn't he?"

        "That's not the point and you know it."

        "What is the point?"  That is the question, the bone of contention here:  as I inch ever closer to achieving my goals, I wonder why Shane is
threatened by my obvious improvements in store policy.  Does he think I'm after his job?  I'm not--I just want things to be perfect.

        "The point is, I was here until after midnight rearranging your-- "

        "My arrangements?"

        "Is that what you call it?  We go by size here, not color.  Size comes first.  You stocked all the new sandals the wrong way.  It's a good thing I doublechecked, or we'd be knee deep in complaints and unnecessary extra work."

        "People respond to color first--a particular shade of pink or brown or even black is what they're looking for, in a particular style.  Helping
them find their size is what we're here for."

        "Sara Lynn-- "

        "Plus, the spectrum of colors arranged tastefully on the shelf is more aesthetically pleasing."

        The fine lines in his forehead crinkle up.  "Aesthetics?  This is a Payless, Sara Lynn."  He sighs and rubs his eyes.  His shoulders, which are
usually rock solid, give a little.  "Look, store policy is not your domain. It's mine, and it's tried and true.  Just do as you're told.  Right now, Cindy needs help in aisle five."  He turns, a smile I can't read flickering
across his mouth, and strides back up the aisle.  He was a champion linebacker, and his squat muscled torso tapers down into chisled limbs. When he crouches down, thrusting the size nine-and-a-half double D widths back where they belong, I can see the muscles of his thighs through his liver-colored polyester pants. 

        My other  fellow employees are all high school kids working part-time this summer.  They consider the Payless a stepping stone, a temporary pit stop on the highway of life, as Cindy put it to me this morning.  We unpack boxes and boxes of the same cheap black pumps, and she rattles on about the beauty school she will start attending in the fall.  I know she's trying to draw me out, but I resist.  When you are building up your muscle mass in the service of a cause, you must guard against being swayed by inquisitive overtures.  She hands the boxes to me and I place them on the upper shelves, thinking, what could we possibly have in common?  Free weights?

        I finally interrupt her monologue.  "Where's Shane--is he still watching me?"  Only he holds the keys to the break room and the restroom, so when I need to relieve myself, I must ask his permission.

        "He's probably on his break right now," she says, "in his cocoon. I think he's going through something."  Cindy gathers up the empty packing
boxes to take out to the dumpsters.  "He's so intense all the time.  Cute, but scary, you know?"

        "I don't think Shane's problems," I say, "have even begun."

        Cindy's eyes widen.  "Whatever," she says, backing up, and then turning, she retreats out the door.

          Each day he takes his half hour lunch break alone, retiring to the backroom littered with empty shoeboxes and diet coke cans, scattered ashtrays which I imagine he methodically empties and wipes clean.  This half hour is sacred.  He is not to be disturbed.  But now I need the key, so I approach the break room, knock on the door, try the knob.  Locked.  My suspicion aroused, I boldly knock again.  Shane opens the door.  His hand clenches a mangled turkey sub.  He looks annoyed.

        "What do you want, Sara Lynn?" he asks, practically grinding his teeth.

        "I need the key," I say, forcing myself to match his steely gaze. I am the only employee statuesque enough to look him in the eyes.  I flick my long dark hair over my shoulder.

        "You've already had your break," he replies, his sculptured body blocking the door.  His eyes are so blue they distract me.  I look over his shoulder and see that the one window in the room is wide open, in spite of the air conditioning.

        "That's not what I need the key for, Shane.  I need the other key."  Must I reveal my bodily functions to you?  I don't say this, I burn it into his frontal lobes with my eyes.  Shane reaches into his pocket, retrieves the key ring, and holds it out to me.  I open my hand and he drops it into my upturned palm and rudely shuts the door in my face.  I honestly don't understand why my mere presence antagonizes him so much. The bolt clicks.

        The communal restroom needs a thorough scrubbing--it smells like a birdcage.  Paper towels overflow the trash can, littering the floor.  I splash my face with cold water because I am hot, flushed, as if I stayed out in the sun too long.  Then I wade through the debris into the stall, close the door, latch it, turn and place my hands, my right cheek, my ear
against the cool white tiles, and listen to the scrape and moan of furniture being moved on Shane's side of the wall.
 
 

        That night I do twenty-five sets.  The moon shafts through the window blinds, bars of light on my stomach reflecting the muscles within. My arms seem to elongate, brush the ceiling.  I crack my knees, my whole body racked and thrashing like a shark torn from the belly of the sea.  The room swells, with each exhalation the walls breath, my seams burst as I change shape.  The ceiling of my room yawns open, and stars fall into my mouth.  It won't be long now.  It's coming--I can feel it.  Pale soft underbelly crystallizing into stone.  What was once soft, and gave and gave and gave, will now be armor encasing nerves and tissue, hard enough to
withstand blows and oaths. When I break down that door, its knob will crumble in my hand like a dead flower.  I will be like the wind rushing into that forbidden room, scattering pin-ups like bodies on a field of snow.  It is possible to burn flesh.  It is possible to strip yourself to the bone.
 
 

        Now Shane is ignoring my corporeal enhancement.  These days, I don't register so much as a blip on his radar.  He wears the white shirts, he rips open the fake Manolo Blahniks, he chews the ends of pens.  When I see him delicately maneuver a credit card, gripping its edges lightly as he returns it to a customer with a dazzling smile, I want to bite off his fingers.

        But his surface is flawed by cracks I am drawn to in spite of myself:  the way his shoulders give when he's tired, the way he locks his doors, the way he wears the same short-sleeved white cotton shirts and fake ties every day.  Today he's unshaven, he even looks hungover, as if something is preying on his mind.  He's so preoccupied he even forgets to
be hostile to me--when I point out to him that the window display looks like something you'd see at a convention for orthopedic shoe salesmen, he laughs for the first time all day. He takes an unusually long break, and there's a fine sheen of sweat that comes off him at the end of the day when he hovers over each employee as we take our leave, the long empty evening stretching before us.  He always says good night, and closes up alone.

        Each night, the corners and walls of my efficiency unit, naked and clean, are waiting for me.  I burned all photographs, all documents, all evidence of the past, weeks ago.  No sign of the people who hurt me or haunt me.  Of the mother I couldn't save.  My father--I think a blank white
wall is an accurate representation of him.

        And in the center, glinting in repose, my machine awaits, murmuring its promise of ultimate fulfillment and power.  But tonight, pushing myself
beyond my limits, I hit a plateau, and my eyes water.  I can't sweat the memories from my brain.  They won't burn away.  They twinge with each
crunch, trapped in the muscles and tissue of my flesh.  If I can transform my outside, why won't my insides follow?  How weightless she was as I lifted her from the bed.  How heavy and empty our lives were when he vanished.  The hands of lovers holding me, needing me, leaving me.  I want to be as blank and as cold as a perfect sheet of ice, but I can never get through, I can never get close enough.
 
 

        I begin to go to the flea market in the early morning hours before work.  I decide I'm ready to start wearing the kind of clothing guaranteed to bust blood vessels.  Soft, tight sweaters with plunging necklines, snug skirts that hug my hips, black net stockings that cling to my legs.  I walk slowly down racks of used clothing, dust dancing in the air, running my fingers along shoulders suspended so close together, feeling the sharp crispness of polyester, the plushness of rayon, cotton so laundered it feels like flesh.  One day I find the perfect shoes, shoes that even the Payless can't top:  genuine white suede platform sandals with straps that crisscross up my calves.  When I dress up and walk down the aisles, stacks of shoe boxes tremble, the walls undulate.   Shane looks stunned, as if he can't decide whether to worship me or have me committed.  Even the interminable muzak shakes itself loose, lets down its hair.

        Finally one morning Shane says, "Sara Lynn, may I have a moment of your time?"

        I follow him to the back of the store, conscious of the hush in our wake.  I can see the tension buckling up his neck and shoulders.  We stand outside the break room's sealed entrance.  When he turns to face me his eyes are bloodshot and I can see a nerve fluttering in his tight jaw,
flecks of grey in his hair, shadows edging his blue blue eyes.

        "Sara Lynn," he says, "don't you feel your attire--don't you feel your attire is just a tad inappropriate for Payless?"

        He's standing so close to me, I can't breathe.  The shadows under his eyes interfere with my thoughts.  I clench my stomach, contract my
muscles.  The clean smell of hay drifts off him.  I waver, saying, "What's wrong with my attire?"

        "Well--no offense but--you look like a slut."

        I want to reach out and touch that fluttering nerve in his jaw, and the realization makes me nauseous.  I've got to get hold of myself.

        "I mean-- " he inches closer, lowering his voice, "don't get me wrong--it's not that you look bad--in another context, I could almost go for the whole get-up.  But here it's--disruptive.  It's aesthetically wrong.  It isn't suitable for Payless purposes.  Look at yourself, go on, look."  He points to one of the small mirrors standing in the aisle.  "This isn't Frederick's of Hollywood.  It's only a shoe store," he croons as if to a wounded animal, "and you're only a clerk."

        The walls stacked high with cheap plastic shoes, the insane muzak that won't stop crowing, the smear of customers around us blur and converge in a rush that brings tears to my eyes.  I stand there in my cheap clothes, clutching my stomach.

        "I quit," I say.  The words are out of my mouth before I even know I'm going to say them.

        Shane actually looks surprised.  His face drops, he almost looks sorry.  "That's not what I meant, Sara Lynn-- "

        "That's what's coming, isn't it?  Here." I kneel down, my calves flexing, and start to unstrap my sandals, saying to cover up my tears, "you ought to start stocking these.  They'd really sell."  The bands of leather ripple through my fingers like water, and then I see his shoes, his plain brown shoes.  But they are so scuffed and worn the leather has rotted and frayed.  Peering, I see that they are regular men's workboots, beaten and cracked with use.  I think, he's just come in from the outside.  He's
walked through fields of mud in those boots.  The cracks, the dirt, the muck on his soles, are what I can't resist.  I stand up, clutching my sandals to my chest.

        "What about your shoes?"  My mouth is so dry I can barely talk.

        He looks confused, lost. "What?"

        "Your shoes - they're filthy.  You talk about my appearance, but look at yourself.  You look as if you've just come in from slopping hogs. You look like you haven't slept in a week.  You look like you've been drinking.  What's going on, Shane?"

        We both look down and see dirt on the blue carpet, our eyes following his tracks to the smear of mud just outside the break room door. I look at Shane but he doesn't look up.  He stands staring at his dirty shoes and something inside him crumples.  His shoulders give, he runs his hand up over his face, through his hair and heaves a sigh like the ends of the earth. And then, I don't know why I do it, but I am touching him, reaching out and cupping his jaw and feeling that nerve beating under my fingertips.

        His hand shoots up and grabs my arm and we both freeze.  Shock flashes up my spine.  I try to pull my arm away but he hangs on and I rock back into walls of shoes, into boxes and boxes towering above us, and they fall, shoes of every size and color rain down on us, burying us in the smell and feel of cheap plastic leather, and we go down.  I get loose and he lunges for me, but I turn, diving for the mirror.  He grabs my ankle and hooks on but I am crawling forward, pushing through pumps, boots, sandals, loafers, sneakers, and cardboard.  I reach out and grab the small foot-mirror and clenching one corner I strain, lifting it and, aiming high, using every ounce of abdominal power as if this is what I've trained for, I heave it at the wall, where it slams, cracks, and slides to the floor. Shane gets a grip on my hips and his arms tighten around my waist and I try to push his arms away but he's got me from behind.  My sweat slicks his hands and one slips down my neck, the other arm squeezing me breathless. He smells like a drunken high school boy.  For a second we are caught, locked together, panting.  I don't know whether to laugh or cry and then Shane says, "All right, Sara Lynn.  All right.  I accept your resignation."

        Peace and quiet descends upon us all.  I look up and see how surrounded we are.  All those anonymous shoppers frozen in abstract expressions of dismay.  I let my head fall back on Shane's shoulder and it gives a little and he relaxes.  For a moment we lie on piles of shoes as if we were all alone, nestled in a bed of hay under the moonlight.  I almost give in to his damp, musky smell, but then we both start, come back to ourselves.  I pull away and stagger to my feet.  Shane pulls himself up on
his hands and knees, takes in air, then stands up.

        I refuse to look at him or anyone.  I start kicking aside piles of shoeboxes and shoes.  I'm sore all over.  I'm going to have to increase my
reps.

        "I'll mail you your check."  His voice sounds so rough, so tired. "Now go on, get out."

        I force myself to face him.  At least he's not gloating--he looks weary, strained, as if his managerial pose isn't worth it anymore.  "I want
my sandals," I say.  I'm not leaving without them."

        He almost speaks, stops, then starts picking up shoes and pitching them down the aisle.  The shoppers unfreeze and start burrowing.  My
ex-fellow employees dutifully replace and restock, reassembling the proper sizes in the proper boxes in the proper slots.  All I want is my shoes.  I want my ivory white open-toed genuine suede platform sandals that lace up.

        Naturally, it's got to be Shane that finds them and holds them out to me, so that I have to take them from the same hands that grasped my jaw,
gripped my ankles, held my neck.  I take them and walk out, kicking aside the waste, feeling my legs as strong as oak, my back as smooth and solid as
marble, my arms and shoulders and chest as prominent as the prow of a ship, but my stomach, my abdomen, is trembling.
 
 

        When night falls, I lose track of the numbers.  In my hands the machine's bars begin to be wet.  I can't stop thinking about mud, tracks, shadows, scars that can't be burned away.  I stop, gasping, and carefully stand up, curling over, then make myself stretch toward the ceiling.  It hurts to stand, it hurts to breathe, I can feel my muscles torn from the
inside.  I need air, so I go out to the one square patch of earth on my block, the tiny back lawn of my building, where black walnuts from a tree roll under my feet, and the moon throbs in the sky.  I lie down on the grass, soaked with dew, and stare up at the tree arching over me.  Deep in the hedges circling the lawn, cicadas pulse like the blood beating in my temples, feeding my heart.
 
 

        The next day, I am drawn back to the Payless.  I tell myself it's for my money, and I expect Shane to intercept me at the door, crack it
open, slip out my check and shut the door in my face, so I wait until his break time.

        When I enter the store, Cindy is working the counter.  She gives a little wave as I approach.  Harold is standing next to her.  I never spoke
with him before, because he never spoke much to me, but now I notice his long pale fingers as they work the register, his sharp nose, curly red hair, freckles.  He is so skinny.  He nods to me shyly.

        "How you doing, Sara Lynn?"

        "All right."

        Cindy has found my check and holds it out to me.  "Here you go," she says brightly, "signed, sealed, and delivered.  I was just about to put
it in the mail."

        I look around and see a display of new sandals, on sale, arranged along a spectrum of colors, from black to brown to green to blue to red to purple to pink to the purest bone white.  For a second, my heart stops.

        "Shane's on his break, if that's what you're worried about," Cindy says, waving the check at me.  "We closed up early last night, didn't we
Harold?"

        Harold nods.

        "He made sure to tell me to see you got your check.  You know how anal he can be!"

        I picture Shane doggedly enduring Cindy's bright sunshiny optimism day in and day out  and I know I can't leave like this.  I have to see him,
to say something, I don't know what.  I have to at least go back and knock on that door one last time.

        I start back towards the room and Cindy trails after me, looking concerned, but stops when I turn and say, "It's all right--I just want to talk to him for a minute."  Alone, I walk up to the door and tap on it gently.

        "Shane?"

        No answer.

        I knock again, a little louder.  "Shane?"

        Nothing.  I step back and look at the door.  It doesn't look that solid to me.  It only takes three good kicks and it gives way.

        I stand at the open door, the lock in splinters, the doorknob in my cupped palm.  Light pours through the open window, which I approach.
Directly beneath the window is a filing cabinet, and pressed against it is a chair, its seat marked by a muddy footprint.  I step onto the chair and crawl up on top of the cabinet, look out the window, see the screen down on the ground, see tracks in the mud leading away across open fields.

        I jump down and follow the trail, made by flattened weeds and tall grasses, the worn path clearly visible.  Smells of sweet hay and colors of
green and blue dazzle me.  The air is cool.  The ground becomes damp, squishy, and I feel mud seep into my shoes, staining the fabric.  There
are trees on the crest of a hill, water trickling down their trunks.  The path curves up a rise, and I feel strong, glad I worked out, as I climb the hill. Now I smell burnt leaves, smoke, and as I come around a bend in the path, I see a shack, its grey wood weathered and flaking, tin roof sagging, and bottles of all shapes and colors are piled neatly against its side, glittering in the sun.  A bonfire is burning, someone is burning trash way out here in the middle of nowhere, and then the door opens and Shane comes out of the shack.  He is carrying an old man in his arms like a baby.  He walks right up to the fire with him, as if he might toss him on, and I'm afraid.  I hug myself, feeling my muscles yielding, soft as open eyes.  I hold myself the way he held me when we were curled together on that pile of shoes. I look down and see how dirty my own shoes are.  After watching the fire for a minute, Shane sets the old man down on a rickety wooden chair, lifts it up and sets it back from the flames.  He carefully takes a handkerchief from his pocket and I see him gently wipe off the old man's face, patting him cool in the glare.  The old man rubs Shane on the side of his head, the way a father would rough over a boy's crewcut, and Shane kneels down in the dirt next to him and they watch the fire.  After a while, he stands and arches his back, stretching, reaching his arms up tothe sky.  A great stone of light is waiting in the water.  Then he turns around, and he sees me.