The Woman at 1,000 Degrees

23 Aldon Heath 2009

There is a man named Aldon Heath and he lives in Australia. I’ve never been there. But he writes to me enthusiastically at the end of his day, which is the morning mail for me. I skim through it, along with the obituaries, and answer if I feel like it. It’s mostly tedious abdominal measurements, really. In the olden days it was said that the people down under walked upside down. In the case of Aldon, this might be true. His mind never stretches higher than his waist, and his waist seems to dominate his whole existence. But I doubt he’s any more gifted down there, even though his entire intellect is stored right there in that small skin pouch split into two compartments.

He works as a muscle inspector in some gym in downtown Melbourne and updates me on the status of his torso the way Icelanders do about the weather.

‘Just got home from a three-hour power session with Bod. It sure takes its toll, working out this hard after a day’s work. But of course, we intend to do even better after your e-mail last week.’

What a bitch I can be.

We really went for it tonight. Sixty minutes on the mill and then bench presses and weights. Bod did 295 lbs on the bench, which doesn’t happen every day. We were the last out, after Jeff gave up on the bench. As I was telling you, he got first prize two years ago and second last year when Héctor won. But Bod is way better than them now. Makes all the difference having Miss World behind you! He’s increased his muscle mass. This evening’s measurements are: weight 196, muscle mass percentage 44, arms 18, torso 48, waist 33, thighs 26. Promise better readings tomorrow. Might cut eggs down to six.

‘Love, yours, Aldon.’

I’d like to point out that the brute writes in a lingo that’s too modern for a woman who learned her English in Greenwich Village bars in the fifties. Lóa has been polite enough to translate some of it for me and discreet enough not to ask any questions.

I allow ‘Linda’ to torment this macho wonder mercilessly. He has absolutely no brain, this guy, and refers to his own body in the third person, as if it were his pet dog. Linda plays along with the game and sends her regards to Bod, saying that she can’t wait to meet him and hopes he’ll be ‘in shape’ when the moment comes. But the beauty queen sets clear demands on results; she only mixes with winners. The Melbourne bodybuilding tournament is imminent, and our man is throwing heart and soul into it. He comes home boiling hot at the end of the day and fries his eggs on his flat belly and bacon on his forehead. Then he downs some steroids, bless him, and something called a protein drink, which Lóa tells me people drink in all the gyms of the world.

It occurs to me that I could try to build up my ‘muscle mass’ with those steroids, but Lóa tells me I’m aggressive enough as it is, without having to top myself off with that stuff. Some body-obsessed relative of hers had a bad experience on that front, showed up at a family do with a puffed-up chest and winged arms, threw himself on the table and started biting it, and got involved in some rape case, which was all fist and fury, however, since one of the unfortunate side effects of steroids is that they shrink a man’s tool to the size of a pea.

No doubt this is also the case with Aldon, the Aussie. The guy’s raving mad.

‘Bod starts his tanning sessions tomorrow. Three weeks to go and everything on full steam. We want to keep the engines going full throttle after the victory because Bod wants to be in top form when he meets you in London. And the pussy ban is still in force, of course. You can trust me on that. The Linda muscle is still a restricted area.’

Miss Pétursdóttir has promised to meet him at the May Fair Hotel in London right after the competition. I’m playing with fire. Because I’ve got a fire organ, too, somewhere, rusty and sooty as it may be.