His gym bag felt heavy in his lap. The city bus made his head bump against the window from resting upon it. The rain drops blurred his vision of the cloudy day on the other side of the cold window. His arms criss crossed his gym bag as if he was saying good bye. One shoe lace was untied; the other was double knotted – his life explained perfectly. One foot into Weightlifting, while the other strayed hopelessly in life. Strong and connected with a dream, while life outside of the gym seemed cold and rigid. His heart is strong, but his credit weak. His neighborhood was all brick, while most bricks were missing. Park benches were beautiful paintings, and the sounds of birds were drowned out by the steel mill a mile down alive and well. Heavy coats and low hats filled the sidewalks as the bus pulled over to drop him off after a great day of training with his coach of old, and his work of new. A coach that believed in him, as society did not. The shavings business was hard, but paid for his dream to stay alive.
His head lays heavy with dreams in his studio apartment, as his wallet tries to sleep hungry and depleted. His thoughts are what keep him afloat as his peeking smile is proof as his eyes close, while his body wraps around his long red pillow resting between his legs gives his sore and broken down body support and comfort. The night is cold, silent and calm as he sleeps sound, waiting for another day, one step closet to becoming a Weightlifting Champion. Yes lonely, but occupied by his ambition.
Reality wakes him from the bus stop outside his second story, half cracked window with a loud, “screech!” followed by the loud hydraulics, “tshhh”. The door on the giant bus opened, unloading people from the night shift, to now loading up people for the day shift. The next bus is his, and he now panics while one leg jumps while the other dives into grey sweats with an overly long draw string. C&K beanie and a long white tee gets thrown on fast as he tosses his dehydrated wallet into his gym bag, as if he was picking apples and putting them into a basket. His shoes felt heavy as he ran to the kitchen to grab a bagel with peanut butter. He has been listening to a podcast called, Weightlifting Talk, and the host, Jon North, demands massive food intake for hard training and proper recovery. Jon also talked about not being in the middle of two classes. “Pick one and sit at the top of it!” – Jon yells frequently into the mic. He laughs a little while violently taking a bite of the bagel as if he was ripping the meat from a dead lion. He stood still chewing his stale bagel while glazing across the room out his window, he then grabbed his legs and thought to himself while keeping his eyes focused on the rain still falling from the dark sky outside, “Maybe these shoes aren’t heavy, maybe my legs are crazy sore from all these squats coach has me doing”. He then slapped his hands together to get the bread crumbs swished away, and he then loudly yelled (even scaring himself slightly) “Let’s do this!”.
He grabbed his bag, slammed the hollow cheap brown front door with a poster on it of Dimas looking over to the side in Sydney. He has to catch a bus. He has training to attend to. He has dreams to conquer. He has people to prove wrong. He has a coach to thank.
A beautiful story of a dream being lived out. The story of you, me…..us. A simple story that speaks volumes. A simple idea that is so hard. A simple idea that will soon turn into gold.
The bus stop & the dream.