The Anti-Heroes

Chapter Eight LIV

Chapter Eight

L IV

“Damn, you pack a wallop, girl,” B-Money says, rubbing his jawline. “You might have some repressed rage and shit.” We’re in our third week of training, and I’m really coming to enjoy our sessions. Mostly we’ve just boxed, which feels more and more cathartic.

“I’m so sorry,” I tell him. “I promise you it wasn’t intentional.”

“Listen, if this is what we gotta do, I’m here for it. We’re Gucci,” he tells me.

I still feel terrible about how hard I hit him. I didn’t know I had it in me either, yet a bit of me feels proud about it. Like I have a secret power I’m just discovering each week. When we started to spar with each other a few weeks ago, I thought it would be more like when I took that cardio boxing class, you know, making the motions, swiping at air. Whoosh, whoosh, duck, weave. I never imagined my fist connecting with anything.

Given how exhausted I am tonight, I wasn’t expecting much from my own performance. Deandra had to work an overnight to do inventory, and at the last minute, my mother couldn’t be with Tommy and Tiki, due to menstrual cramps. Given her hysterectomy twenty years ago, it’s physically impossible, but I think dragon pox is too.

So the kids came up to my place last night, and in the few moments they weren’t full-contact, MMA-style fighting (Tiki’s a biter, that’s new), they were tearing through my place. I lost two vases, an end table, and my favorite antique bowl, all within the first half hour. Tiki left toothmarks in my leather handbag. I’d be okay if a dog chewed it, because they don’t know any better. But a seventh grader should.

I try to accommodate my niece and nephew; I try to give them what they want, because I have the resources. Unfortunately, from watching the other women in our home, they’ve learned that what adults say or do for them doesn’t matter, so they have no respect for me or my rules and don’t appreciate any of my sacrifices.

I should be tough, but I can’t help but feel sorry for them. Deandra’s always working, and their useless father (Dee’s words), Dusty, is too busy with his new life to bother. It must be hard for the twins when their dad has no time for them and Dee’s perpetually in a foul mood for having to do all the caretaking.

I’m lucky that my dad was diligent in keeping up with us after the divorce and I never felt like he left us . I had a front-row seat to my parents’ marital problems (largely stemming from my mom’s unhinged behavior), so I understood why Dad had to get out. Honestly, summers and vacations at his house were a treat. Eventually, when he married my stepmother, Judy, she became the mother figure I always longed for. Judy took care of me instead of me having to caretake her. She did everything to make me feel welcome, from embroidering my name on the pillows in my room to recording all my favorite shows. I used to feel terrible about having a nice time in Michigan, so I’d lie to my mom and say we’d had no fun at all. If I’m at all well-adjusted, it’s because of Dad and Judy. When I get married, I’m hoping they’ll walk me down the aisle together.

I wish that the divorce had been a wake-up call for my mom, but it only increased her perpetual victimhood. She never did (or does) accept blame for her actions. Her narcissism opened the door to her hypochondria. She’s been spiraling for years, and my only defense is to comply.

Anyway, I did what you’re never supposed to—I negotiated with the terrorists. To get them to sleep, Tommy demanded I buy him a Nintendo Switch Lite. That was easy and cost less than $200. Done. For Tiki, I had to obsessively refresh Ticketmaster until 4:00 a.m. There were rumors of a secret drop for a Taylor Swift show at Soldier Field. The drop never happened, and now I’m tasked with procuring tickets from a reseller. They start at $1,700. Each.

I know all too well how this story ends.

After a night like that, I just thought I’d sit in the background today, and I was surprised how quickly I got into the boxing part of this evening’s session. When we first started, I’d throw weak little jabs. Zeus would stand next to me, encouraging me to let go of what was bothering me. The more I thought about my daily life, the harder I hit. I was all, Really, Jase? A seventy-five/twenty-five split? Wham! No, Dee, I’d be happy to cancel the dinner reservations it took me two months to get so I can babysit for your terrors. Bam! Sure, Trevor, help yourself to the pricey champagne I bought as a closing gift for my clients! Slam! You feel dehydrated, and instead of just drinking a Gatorade like a normal person so I can go to my scholarship pageant, I have to take you to the ER again, Ma? Sure thing! Ka-bam!

I guess there is something primal about putting on the gloves and getting out all the aggression, even though I’m afraid I may have hurt B-Money tonight. After a particularly solid right hook, I swear I saw little cartoon birds circling his head.

Zeus’s training approach has been different for each of us. When sparring with B-Money, he withholds his swing every time B-Money spits a rhyming bar. For Vishnu, he’s the very model of gentle encouragement, getting into the physiology behind where to hit. He explained that you don’t have to be powerful so much as smart. Vishnu loves the scientific aspect. Vishnu—we’ve learned—works for his parents’ radiology practice. Turns out, that day in the Brew and Chew, he’d been trying to write a romance novel. How sweet is that?

With Emily, Zeus makes a point of mansplaining the exercise to her and then watches with a smirk as she swings away at a punching bag. Emily has no trouble tapping into her anger, and it’s honestly nice to see.

Michael is a successful ad exec, and his longtime assistant just retired. He has no idea how to do anything technological, so he’s feeling a bit like a dinosaur. There was a whole incident where his new phone accidentally captured an unfortunate photo (read: dick pic) while he was in the bathroom, which he somehow sent to everyone in his contacts list. Had he not owned the agency, he’d have been fired. As is, he lost a ton of clients and doesn’t want to show his face (or anything else) at this year’s Clio Awards. For every swing he agrees to take—made particularly difficult by his wardrobe choices—Zeus talks him through something technical. Tonight, it’s about uploading Uber to his phone. I have to give Zeus credit. He’s right about the weak being weak in different ways.

We’re back in the folding chairs, waiting to begin the second part of tonight’s training. Zeus just toweled off, and don’t think I didn’t notice Emily biting her bottom lip. She believes she’s so discreet, but I know her tells. She’s done nothing but complain about him now for weeks. She never obsesses when she doesn’t care.

Zeus returns. His back is ramrod straight, and he’s holding his hands behind his back, which causes his biceps to ripple. A bead of sweat rolls down Emily’s temple, and I’m pretty sure it’s not from the sparring; she finished her turn thirty minutes ago. “You’ve been taking the first steps in a long journey.”

We all beam like kids on the nice list on Christmas morning, emboldened by our individual performances. “Now, tell me what you each fear.”

See you later, smiles.

Zeus says, “You can’t conquer your fears if you can’t name them.”

Vishnu’s hand shoots in the air. “Me! I will name them! I am afraid of change. And new things. I am afraid when I can’t prepare myself for what is next.”

B-Money looks at him. “But that’s life, bro.”

Vishnu nods enthusiastically. “Yes, you are correct. I am afraid of life.”

“That was a really brave share, Vishnu,” I tell him, folding him into a side hug. He gasps but lets me pull him close.

“Hey, Dr. Creeper, did you just smell her hair?” Michael asks. He’s sort of bitchy, but somehow it adds to his charm, like we could sit on a porch with cocktails and canapes and gossip.

“It was not intentional! I am sorry! My face was there and I had to breathe,” Vishnu protests. “I couldn’t not notice the wildflower and citrus of the shampoo.”

“Sweetie, you’re fine,” I tell him, and he grins. When I release him from the hug, he leans against me for a moment.

“I am willing to share more,” he offers. Emily says Vishnu has a crush on me, but I’m not sure that’s possible. I think he’s too shy to like anyone.

“Liv, how about you?” Zeus asks. “What do you fear? What keeps you awake at night?”

I consider his question. Whoa, there’s so much I fear that I’m not even sure how to articulate it all. But if I condense it down, I’d say mostly I’m afraid of disappointing the people in my life, of being any sort of burden or trouble. That’s pretty universal, right? Don’t we all want to be pleasers to some degree?

I was always a good kid, but I didn’t consciously try to be the shiniest, happiest person until my parents split. I didn’t want to be yet another one of my mom’s problems. I earned straight As and I never stepped out of line. Dee went the other way. When I was in the library or at majorette practice or volunteering at the senior center, she was smoking behind the gym, dating guys who drove panel vans, and skipping school. One time she came home drunk with a tattoo across her lower back. (She had the word “Jailbait” made into an orca whale after her kids were born.) Dee craved the attention, negative as it may have been, so she sucked up all of what Mom had to give.

I can’t help wondering if Zeus wants me to say all of this, or maybe he wants me to tell him something more specific, more actionable, something that could be cured by cognitive behavioral therapy? I’m so afraid of not giving him the answer he wants that I can feel my heart palpitate, so I blurt out the easiest phobia I can articulate. “I have a real fear of enclosed spaces. I’m super claustrophobic. Whenever I have a stress dream, it’s always about me being stuck in a confined area.” Dee once locked me in her closet and then forgot about me. Between the dust and the dark and the pungent tang of her gym uniform, I was not okay.

Zeus nods and seems satisfied with my answer. Relief relaxes my shoulder muscles. Emily coughs the word “bullshit” into her hand, and I can’t meet her eye. Okay, maybe claustrophobia isn’t my biggest fear, but it is up there. I give her a tiny pinch and she laughs at me.

“What about you, Michael?” Zeus asks.

Michael shoots his cuffs again, which I’m picking up as one of his tells. “Other than technology? Honey, I’m afraid to get dirty. I mean, look at this suit. It’s Brunello Cucinelli.”

“Yo, that sounds delicious,” B-Money says. He’s not wrong.

“Why do you wear suits to our training sessions?” Emily asks.

Michael is puzzled. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Are you mysophobic?” Zeus asks.

“Of course not, why would I be afraid of chickens?” Michael says, brushing imaginary dust off his lap.

“That’s not what that means,” Emily whispers to me. I shrug, making a mental note to look it up later.

“Then how about you, Blake?” Zeus asks.

“Well, you’re getting into it right there,” B-Money says. “When I hear the name Blake, I’m triggered about how much I’m disappointing my dad, and that scares the living shit outta me.”

“He doesn’t support your music?” I ask. “Has he heard you? You’re really talented.”

“Truth bomb? I’m afraid to perform in front of a crowd, so he’s never had the chance. That’s one problem. The bigger problem is, he wants me to go into the family business, but I can’t. I don’t mess with bugs,” he replies.

“Are you afraid of spiders too?” Emily asks.

“Not the ones around here,” he says. “They’re all pretty harmless and small.”

“Exactly!” Emily crows. Everyone’s puzzled by her outburst but me. Miles spent days after his shower fall with ice packs and ACE bandages around his head, even wearing them on campus. Emily was mortified.

“What’s your family business?” I ask.

B-Money looks oddly sheepish. “My dad’s an exterminator.” That strikes me as an honorable job. It sounds like he’s an entrepreneur. No one gets rich working for someone else, which is a thought I should stick a pin in because Chase and Jase are doing my financial future no favors. They still haven’t given me the chance to talk to them about the Sheridan Arts and Crafts, and every day they blow me off, I get a little bit angrier. It’s been three weeks! I set a goal to get this straightened out by the end of the week ... or else.

(I have no idea what I mean by “or else,” but I like thinking it.)

Emily peers at B-Money more closely. Something seems to dawn on her. Her eyes grow huge and color rushes to her cheeks. For a second, she looks like my old college roommate again, only thankfully without that unfortunate foray into locs. “No. No. Hold the phone. Is your dad the Exterminator ?”

“Did y’all not hear him just say that?” asks Michael, perturbed. His natural state seems to be cranky, sort of like an old cat.

B-Money responds with an embarrassed shrug, and Emily literally flies out of her seat, like she got hit with a lightning bolt or someone dumped scalding hot coffee on her lap. “Oh, my God. Oh, my God. Do you know what this means? Oh, my God! Your dad is the Exterminator! Your father is one of my idols!”

“Did you have a terrible infestation?” Vishnu asks, profoundly confused.

Emily is more excited than I’ve seen ... possibly ever. Definitely more than when we beat the Hokies in the Sugar Bowl. More than when she got plastic straws banned in the campus frats. She’s literally hopping up and down, absolutely jubilant. “Ahh! I knew your face looked familiar, but meeting your mom threw me off. You guys! His dad is Harris ‘the Exterminator’ Robinson!”

“Okay,” says Michael, dismissive, completely bored with conversations that aren’t about him.

“No, you people don’t understand! Holy shit! The Exterminator was one of the 1985 Chicago Bears Super Bowl champions! He was a Monster of the Midway! Your dad was on a poster in my dad’s office my whole life! Do you have any clue how many times I’ve watched him do his piece of ‘The Super Bowl Shuffle’? Ah-mazing! Picture it—this total Mack truck of a man trying to clap along with the beat, dancing super awkwardly.” Emily clutches her heart. “Wait, does he still have the mullet?” Suddenly her response makes sense. Before her parents retired to Florida, they held season tickets. Emily can go on and on about how only true fans understand the grit it requires when you’re huddled in the Soldier Field stands, swaddled in layers of wool and down, trying to drink a beer with mittens and hand warmers, as an icy January wind whips off the lake. No, thank you.

B-Money laughs. “Nah, the Jheri curl was long gone before my time. Thank my moms for that.”

Much to everyone’s surprise, including her own, Emily begins to rap. “‘My name is Harris, but they call me the Exterminator. To all the players on the field, I’m surely gonna terminate ya.’”

B-Money backs her up by beatboxing into his cupped palm.

“‘My horoscope says that I’m a Sagittarius. But if you wanna see stars, I’mma grab my Stradivarius.’ Then do you know what happens? He pulls a motherfucking flying violin out of the air and the dance music stops and then he plays a dirge as haunting as anything. He’s an incredible violinist. Just amazing.”

“What in the hell does this have to do with his fear of bugs?” Michael huffs.

I put the pieces together for him. “B-Money’s dad was a famous football player in Chicago and now he owns a pest control company. I’m sure you’ve seen it advertised. They’re nationwide.”

In unison, B-Money and Emily say his dad’s line from the cheesy commercials: “‘Then I turned my Exterminator fame into Exterminator infamy.’”

“I have no idea what is going on,” Vishnu says, leaning in close, excited nonetheless, like a dog hearing his owners celebrate.

I whisper to him, “What’s going on is Emily just found her motivation to keep coming back here.” Until now, she’s been so iffy about the whole thing.

“Okay! Does that mean you will also be here?” he asks.

“Of course!”

“Then me too.” He gives me a cute smile before blushing once again. If this sweet guy can get past his shyness, he’s going to make some woman very happy.

When Emily and B-Money start quoting the rest of the ad, Zeus asserts himself. “Emily, when you’re finished with your dramatic reenactment, you can tell us what fills you with dread. What keeps you awake at night?”

Emily, her cheeks in high color, considers the question. She shudders and says, “Clowns. I fear clowns.”

“What?” I say. She’s not afraid of clowns, I know this for a fact. The movie It bored her. She’s never even been afraid of John Wayne Gacy, and no clown could be scarier than him. We listened to a podcast about him on a road trip a few years ago, and I had to sleep with our hotel room light on that night, while she went down in about thirty seconds. What’s her angle? Before I can say anything else, she pokes my thigh and gives me a pointed look.

“Who doesn’t fear clowns? So many people in one tiny car is just unnatural,” Vishnu says.

Zeus claps his hands with a mighty boom. It’s so loud, Vishnu jumps. “That’s it for today. This week, monitor your reactions. Challenge yourself. Consider what bothers you and address it differently. Be back here next Tuesday, same time.” Zeus heads back to where his office must be.

“ I’ll be on time,” Michael announces to no one in particular. The fact that we’ve yet to start on time is driving Michael to distraction. I think Zeus does it on purpose.

Emily must still be high on the news about B-Money’s dad because she’s bold enough to yell after Zeus. “Stop! You can’t go yet. You’ve got to tell us what frightens you . This—whatever this is—should be a two-way process. Fair’s fair.”

Zeus stops and appraises her. “Good point.” He doesn’t hesitate. “I guess I fear that Taylor Swift will never produce an album more sonically cohesive than 1989 .”

“Be serious!” Emily says.

He shrugs. “I’m always serious. I have two great loves in my life: exotic birds and Taylor Swift’s music. That’s everything you need to know. They are my reasons for existing. Everything in my world goes back to my passion for these two things.” He opens a door and exits. Seconds later, we hear the opening bars to “Clean.”

B-Money mutters, “My man’s a Swiftie. Did not see that coming.”

I’m still invigorated when I arrive at the office in the morning. Even though I was exhausted, I was too keyed up to sleep, so I stayed in bed later than usual and didn’t have time to do my whole healthy smoothie and oatmeal routine.

Feeling saucy, I stopped at the Brew and Chew for a (lousy) latte and a cruller. This doesn’t sound noteworthy, but this is the first time I’ve ever brought food just for myself to the office. I’ve lived by the “Did you bring enough for the whole class?” rule ever since elementary school. Until today. Now I’m challenging myself to take a slightly different path.

I’m just opening up my laptop when Trevor saunters up. “Hey! You brought doughnuts again!”

Before he can grab it off my napkin, I reply, “No. I brought doughnut. Singular. Just for me.” Then I take a bite.

The cruller tastes like glue and cardboard, but the look on Trevor’s face is absolutely scrumptious.