See, what happened was...Tom, Jeb and I were out in the barn with Juan--Steve's hired-hand--at a time when lifting weights was kind of new. And before I go any further let's get the messy background shit out of the way...
Steve's like a dad without being my dad, cuz I don't even know who my real dad is. And my mom? She's long gone after, first, dumping my actual dad, then having Steve become part of our life and then dumping him and running off. I never hear from her--even when I turned 18 last month. I haven't heard anything from her since '58. Nothing. And now it's 1959, and still not a peep.
What makes it all even crazier is how she decided to send me to this strict Christian school run by some Mormons instead of just the regular old elementary school everyone in town goes to--she's not even Mormon herself, and neither is Steve for that matter. I'm going to graduate soon, so there's no point switching schools now.
But anyway, Tom and Jeb go there with me, cuz their folks are super-sized Mormons--like crazy strict--and even tho we're all 18, we can tell others our age in town know way more about life than we do. They just stare at us whenever we walk by the movie theater--stare, cuz of how we're dressed and how we always walk by, cuz they know we go to that school and aren't supposed to go to the movies.
Now that all that crap is out of the way, I'll just say that being farm kids, we couldn't afford any of those Joe Weider barbells we saw advertised in the back of magazines at the drug store. So Steve suggested we go ask Juan to help us cuz Juan had made his own set.
"I dunno, Steve--Jeez. Can't you ask him for us?"
I watched him rub his solid, unshaven jaw.
"He don't talk to me much, is all," I added, hoping I didn't have to talk to Juan directly.
"That's because you don't talk to him, Todd." He pawed his open-collared, lumberjack shirt, me watching his hairy pecs roll around underneath. "Just take Tom and Jeb with you and ask him. No big deal--he'll be pleased."
Pleased? I never saw Juan pleased in my whole life.
I took one last, lingering look at the body I hoped I'd one day have--at how the bulk of his lumber-shirted shoulders and chest V-ed down his torso into his full-crotched jeans.
"You gonna stand there gawkin' all day, or go ask him?" he sipped his mug of coffee.
Not having a mom or brothers and sisters was fine by me--Steve was more than enough of a stand-in dad to love and admire. I was so lucky that when my mom left us, he wanted me to still stay with him. Only seventeen years older than my 18, he looked hunkier than Rock Hudson and the Marlboro man put together. Just being near him did things to me and my buddies we didn't understand--intense, heart-racing, lump-in-our-throat feelings.
I mean, you gotta understand right off the bat that being farm boys in 1959 Utah meant that we knew absolutely zip about what made us feel that way--we only knew that we did.
And Juan? Juan, if anything made us go mute in total awe. Half Latino and half African-American, Juan was dark-skinned, six-foot-two, maybe 240 lbs, with biceps and chest and shoulders his faded work shirts simply couldn't seem to contain. So we were way spooked over having to interrupt his workout and stammer out our hope that he could help us develop our teen bodies before it was too late.
"No problem," he'd said, wiping his brow. I was so relieved Steve had been right, and Juan didn't mind us asking him. "--but you're going t'have to make your own weights. Mine'll kill you kids."
That's when the fierce-looking giant showed us how to choose different-sized tin cans and mix cement, and make our very own barbells using leftover pipe. He did this with a toleratin' smile in the heat-sheltered coolness of the barn.
"Put 'em outside in th' sun now to set--there's nothing more you can do until they're dry n' solid."
"This one looks ready now, Juan. It's been over an hour."
He gazed at me as if looking right through me. "Cement don't dry in an hour, ok? Now put 'em outside an' go off swimmin' or something."
Jeb quickly began doing as he was told, but Tom and I stood there staring at Juan's button-popping pecs.
"C-can we watch you?" Tom's eyes were darting all over Juan's body. "You know--get some pointers?" He gave out a breathy laugh, tryin' to act natural and not so worshipful.
Juan put his hands on his hips, framing his 30" waist, sizing us up. By then Jeb was back, wondering what was going on.
"You three really want 'some pointers', or just want'a stare at my body?" The smallest of smiles played over Juan's wide, full lips.
We looked at each other, Tom suddenly breaking into an impish grin. "A little'a each!"
Jeb punched him, a resounding smack on his muscled, t-shirted shoulder.
"Hey! Just tellin' th' truth!"
Juan silently began undoing his shirt, watching us go catatonic as his chest came into view.
"Who sent you's over here?"
"My 'Poppa Steve'. He said you'd 'be pleased'."
Truth be told, n' like I said before, I'd never seen Juan 'pleased' in my life. He kind of smiled to himself, though, hearing that. "Oh, 'Poppa Steve' sent you, huh? Well, 'Poppa Steve' ain't gonna be too pleased that I'm way behind in m' chores..."
When that old, torn work shirt fell open, so did our mouths. We saw the carved valley between his gigantic pecs--the undulating ripples of his velvet-skinned abs--and stared at the way even his bellybutton looked muscular, the deep hole stretched open, a stream of black hair going down his brown, muscle-stretched lower belly.
An' below that? Below that was a massive bulge mounding-out his jeans.
"Oh, man!" Tom whispered as Juan pulled his shirt clean off, flexing his pecs--making each one jump and dance--his nipples sitting smack in the center of each slab, poking out like two rivets.
"Like that, do you?" He smiled grimly, then raised his right arm and flexed his bicep into a gargantuan, three-tiered boulder.
"Jeezums!" Jeb stared.
"Sh-i-i-t!," Tom murmured, daring to swear in front of Juan. "I'll do anythin' to have arms like that!"
I just memorized every mountain and valley--the way his deep armpits sheltered a sexy pocket of black manhair--the way his triceps punched out--how his deltoids striated.
"So now," Juan relaxed his pose, "let's see what you three got."
"U-us?" Jeb stammered, his angelic, freckled, pug-nosed face turning pink.
"You want us to....?" I looked down at myself.
"If your so-called 'Poppa Steve' wants me t' train you, then I gotta see what I'm workin' with, don't I?"
