N.X.

A man in the weight room does not move in synchrony with others. Quite the opposite — he is each in his own world, headphones over his ears like some bellicose gladiator ready to fight until his knees give out. In place of some prancing beast he has the cable machine, its handle stiff and smooth like the tusks of a wild boar. He lunges at these tusks, back locking into position. The eighty-pound weight elevates, hovering by his waist before it plunges to earth with a precipitous clang. After this first tug the gladiator leaps into rhythm, movements widening into distinct extension and retraction of the three-headed muscles at the back of his arms. Again and again he levitates the weight stack, snorting like a wild hog. But a man in the weight room does not hear himself. The only thing he hears is Skrillex screaming in his ears like it’s the end of the world, and so he goes in again for One! Last! Push! After an eternity, the tug of war ends: the man lets go of the boar tusks, which turns into a lifeless hunk of metal once released from his virile grip.