short

            “The point is he doesn’t use me that often,” said David Pinster’s Triceps, the oft underused muscle group after the third straight day of nightly pushups. “Then he expects me to do more pushups each night? I’m up to my ears in lactic acid.”

            “You don’t have any ears,” said David Pinster’s Human Resources Director, who had taken the Spinal Cord Elevator down from the main office – the Brain – for this meeting. It was urgent, so Triceps said in its memo in all caps ‘GET DOWN HERE NOW!’

            Triceps sighed. “It’s a metaphor. You can understand that—you don’t even have a face and I’m looking straight at you.”

            The Human Resources Director shrugged (metaphorically). He (well, it considered itself a he) was a subconscious Human Resources agent responsible for happy workplace conditions for all veins, appendages, organs, and other such departments that needed to vent their issues. Usually, an electric message sped up the Neural Highway, pinging HR (that’s what everyone in the Body called him) about something they wished to discuss. For the past week, every menial limb and appendage – including an impromptu meeting with Toenails – had something to complain about. It wasn’t easy keeping every working part happy in David Pinster.

            These days especially.

            Still, HR smiled (metaphorically) and did his job to the best of his ability, helping each part of David stay happy.

            “Whatever is going on, I don’t want any part of it. Convince the Brain to cut out this pushups business. I speak on behalf of my Muscle Group and a few close friends of mine: Abdomen, Biceps, and even Pectorals. We’re sore and calling it quits unless he stops this new nightly workout regimen.”

            “Why do pushups bother you so much?” asked HR. “I thought a pair of Triceps would be happy for a chance to do pushups regularly.”

            Triceps scoffed. “See, now that’s a stereotype. You think that since I belong to a Muscle Group that exercise is second nature, but it’s not. Ok? You have to be brought up on it, and David never did pushups in his life. Gym class was a joke, remember? When it was time for pushups, he’d hump the floor.”

            “That’s not what he was doing,” HR countered.

            “Ok, maybe not what David was trying to do, but that’s what it looked like. It was embarrassing! I tried to keep him active, twitching whenever I could to remind him, ‘Hey, use me, stupid!’ but did he care? No. He just played video games all day. I bet Thumbs and Fingers are the strongest muscles in the body.”

            They were. “I can’t speak to that,” HR said.

            “I don’t get it, is all,” said Triceps. “Why start doing them? Did he see a movie or catch an infomercial about workout equipment?”

            It was the end of a long week, thought HR. Maybe it was worth sharing a little to get a little. HR put down his metaphorical notepad and pen on the desk, peeling away his glasses with a tired exhale. “Any idea who Bethany Comatanos is?”

            “Cute girl from down the hall,” said Triceps. “Apartment 3, I think.”

            “She just broke up with her boyfriend.”

            Triceps flexed with glee. “I got it, I got it! It’s all starting to make sense. David sees this girl, sees she’s attractive – I should know, I’ve checked out her Triceps, they’re legit – and thinks he has to get in better shape to have a shot with her. Am I right?”

            HR knew what was coming. “Yes, that’s about it,” he conceded.

            Laughter, uproarious laughter. Triceps twitched and flexed, unable to contain himself. “That’s hilarious! David? Our David really thinks he has a shot with a girl like Bethany Comatanos?” More laughter.

            HR cleared his throat, showing a bit more bemusement than necessary. “You don’t think he has a shot?”

            “Have you seen this girl? She’s like a gymnast or something—”

            “Marathoner.”

            “Right, whatever, and here comes our David, walking along—all five-foot-ten and skinny as a twig. Did he think a few pushups was going to bulk him up? As a joke, I could flex more. Tell you what, I’ll do one better: I’ll tell Abdomen to ‘suck it in’ next time David sees her!”

            More laughter and HR rubbed his eyes metaphorically. He had similar confrontations this week. Not one appendage thought David had a chance with Bethany. For this precise reason, heading back up to his office in the Brain was always grayer these days. HR looked to the floor, the same tiled red-and-white blood cell design that hadn’t changed in the past 26 years. “So, you think there’s nothing to be done to help?”

            “Help?” mocked Triceps. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do about it, I’m going to facilitate lactic acid buildup as I’ve always done—on schedule. David likes this girl, but nobody sticks to a nightly pushup routine past day four. Guys like David think doing them for a few days is like that Oxi-Clean guy swooping in and miraculously cleaning up a lifelong mess at outstanding prices. What was that guy’s name? Billy, Millie-something?”

            “I only know if David knows,” explained HR. “Limitations of the job.”

            “That’s right, you got access to his Brain!” said Triceps, sitting up in his chair. “Don’t you? Well, tell me this: how does David have any will to live? I mean it. Seriously, how does he stand waking up every day knowing he’s going to finish outside third place every time? This guy isn’t even going to medal. Doesn’t that bother him?”

            HR grew silent. This was all he needed to hear, another rebelling Muscle Group. They weren’t the smartest parts of the Body, but they held a lot of sway—sometimes literally (David didn’t have great balance).

            “Hey, don’t you think this is a little funny?” asked Triceps noticing HR’s long stare. “I meant it to be funny.”

            HR looked up at Triceps, straightening in his chair. “I don’t like to gossip about what goes on upstairs, but maybe it’s a good sign you aren’t thrilled about pushups. There’s a rumor none of us will be needed for David much longer.”

            Triceps twitched slightly. “Wait, what does that mean?”

            HR stood up to leave, gathering his notepad and pen (metaphorically). “It means that there may not be a David Pinster in a few weeks.”

            “You don’t mean…”

            “Look at my face.”

            “You don’t have one,” said Triceps. “None of us do.”

            “Not the point. It’s just an expression.”

            Triceps was quiet for some time. There were days when he felt weaker than usual, some sort of fatigue he figured, but he thought it was because David was so out of shape. He never considered upper-level management was thinking of clearing house. He had felt the ripples of something big and never considered what it might be.

            “Hey, I was only kidding before,” said Triceps, grabbing hold of HR. “All that stuff about not wanting to do pushups, yeah, just blowing off steam. I can pump out more pushups if David wants. I mean,” Triceps studied the HR’s bowed expression, trying to read his faceless face, “it would help, right?”

            “Couldn’t hurt,” muttered HR. “Just between you and me, I’d expect a memo coming down the Central Nervous Delivery System soon with instructions.”

            “For what?”

            HR gave the look, and Triceps knew what it meant. Then, HR was gone.

            Triceps couldn’t settle down. On his way back to his office, he was bitter. After a lifetime of service – of teaching David how to use his arms as a baby, coordinating his swings of a baseball bat as a toddler, holding steady in a dark bedroom while he learned to explore himself as a pubescent teen (which, Triceps needn’t point out, there was no overtime pay for), and never once protesting David’s career decision to spend his waking days in front of computer screens to type code – this was the thanks the Body would get?

             Despondent, he went downstairs, back to the Arms Appendage, waiting at his desk for instructions.

            A beep at the mailbox of the Central Nervous Delivery System—a memo came through. Triceps hesitated to read it.

            “Everything all right?” asked a new strand of Bone Marrow passing by his office.

            “Yeah,” said Triceps, standing up, smiling at the new hire. She was young, full of potential. “Can I ask you something: why did you want to work here?”

            “I heard good things,” said the new strand of Bone Marrow. “Seemed like a good fit.”

            The memo box beeped again and Bone Marrow retrieved the incoming memo. She read it to her supervisor.

            “Says we’re scheduled for more pushups tonight. For a fourth night in a row? I heard the team over at Abdomen complaining about sit-ups, too. Does David workout a lot? Doesn’t seem like the type of guy to do that.”

            Triceps smiled. “Sure he is. C’mon, let’s get everyone started.”