Ironman by Chris Crutcher Page B

last-minute shopping after a particularly intense workout at the CFU weight room.
    â€œSo what did you get me?” he asks. “Something pretty nice, I’ll bet. Pretty expensive.”
    Shelly laughs. “You’re right. I got you custom-made blow-up biceps that fit under your shirt so you won’t be embarrassed to go out with me.”
    â€œHey, I out-benched you today.”
    â€œYeah, but you used both arms.”
    â€œGood thing I’m in Anger Management,” Bo says. “Otherwise I’d have to jerk you out of the car by yourcoat collar and leave you bleeding in the snow.” It has been an exceptionally hard winter all over the Northwest. Three to four feet of snow cover the ground, and snowbanks reach seven or eight feet in places where the plows have nowhere to dispose of it.
    Shelly snorts and stares out the windshield. “Speaking of Anger Management, aren’t you supposed to be getting out of there pretty soon?”
    â€œOne more week after vacation,” Bo says, “but I don’t know….”
    â€œYou don’t know what?”
    â€œBetween you and me?”
    â€œIraqi Gladiators couldn’t make me break a confidence,” she says. “ What’s between you and me?”
    The traffic light turns, and Bo’s tires spin through the intersection on the ice. “I’m not sure I want out of Anger Management.”
    â€œBrewski, we start before sunrise three days a week. Think of the extra sleep.”
    â€œI swim before group,” he says. “Wouldn’t be any extra sleep.” Though the light is green at Second, Bo brakes for a heavyset man clad in only a T-shirt and jeans and sporting several days’ stubble on his chin as he stumbles from the sidewalk into the intersection, oblivious to the traffic.
    â€œHey!” Shelly yells.
    â€œCan’t hear you,” Bo says. “He’s drunk. Besides, your window’s rolled up.” The man staggers in front of them, goosebumps and purple splotches of cold gracing his bare arms. He reaches the curb and Bo says “shit” under his breath, stomping on the emergency brake as he opens the door. Shedding his down jacket he jogs up behind the man, who flinches when Bo taps his shoulder. “Hey, man,” Bo says, holding the coat in his extended hand. “Take this.”
    â€œWha’?”
    â€œTake this coat.”
    â€œLe’ me alone.” The man pushes the air in front of him weakly away.
    â€œNo, man, take it.”
    The man squints. “Whaddaya want? How come you’re givin’ me your goddamn coat? Whaddaya want?”
    â€œI don’t want anything,” Bo says. “I want you to get warm.”
    â€œGit away from me!”
    â€œTake the goddamn coat!” Bo yells, beginning to shiver in the single-digit Fahrenheit. Drivers backed up behind the Blazer honk as the light again turns green. Bo places the coat around the man’s shoulders and hurries away, cranking the heat to high as he steps backinto his vehicle. He watches in his rearview mirror as the man stands befuddled before sliding his arms into the coat and pulling it tight around his shoulders.
    Bo says “ha!” in satisfaction, then “what?” in response to Shelly’s silent stare.
    â€œThat was nice.”
    Bo shrugs.
    â€œBut I have a question.”
    â€œShoot.”
    â€œWhat are you going to do for a coat?”
    â€œI’m gonna buy a new one. I work for a living.”
    Shelly is quiet another moment, then moves across the seat and places her hand on Bo’s leg and her nose next to his ear. “That was really nice.”
    Bo drapes his right arm over her shoulder and smiles. “It wasn’t as nice as it looked,” he says. “That kind of stuff pisses my dad off so bad it’d be worth it to freeze all winter.”
    DECEMBER 24
    Dear Larry,
    If I were mailing you this saga as I wrote it, you