Sweat

Jake's friend Barry wanted to talk business with him. This was not unusual. About once a month Barry decided it was time for the next revolutionary start-up. Barry's normal job was life coaching, which was essentially going on Zoom and yelling motivational phrases at people for two hundred dollars an hour. Naturally, a guy who could repeatedly sell people that situation had some natural talent going for him, at least in the arena of grifting. 

Jake wasn’t unemployed right now, but he wasn’t not unemployed. He was an aspiring screenwriter who did very little screenwriting and a lot of aspiring. In the meantime, he took shitty freelance jobs, and fewer than he should at that, because he wasn’t the biggest fan of work. Barry, on the other hand, was the kind who completely took over a class project. Jake knew this because he'd gone to class with Barry. Barry's class projects were what he called avant-garde and the other students, clearly jealous, called a sign of mental illness. Barry liked to remind them that 86 perecent of all actual geniuses had some level of mental illness, which was not in any way a real stat but it gave the sheep pause. 

When Barry called Jake up this time, the latter was rummaging through his fridge, deciding between an old, damp subway sandwich and what was either a decent sized biscuit or several pieces of that round breakfast ham stuck together. It was 4 am and he'd just finished jerking off after watching a YouTube documentary about a pair of conjoined twins (unrelated). 

"H'lo?" Jake said, putting his phone on speaker so that the old lady next door would think he was doing late-night drug deals and call the cops on him again. It made him feel unfairly persecuted, and there was nothing Jake liked more than feeling unfairly persecuted.

"Jakey!" boomed Barry, "Hitting the metal while it's hot, I see!" 

Like most things Barry said, Jake had no idea what that was supposed to mean. 

"Totally, man," he said anyway. Then, for the lady next store, "I can make that happen."

Barry did not ask him to elucidate. He was the type who spent most of another person's monologue waiting to speak again himself. Jake was pretty sure he could've said 'I'm bleeding out' and Barry would've said 'right on,' and then enumerated his next plan.

"Listen," he said, "You free right now? I've got a business idea that's gonna knock your socks off."

Jake looked out the window. It was pitch black outside. "It's four am," he said. 

"Mi casa," Barry supplied. "Natch. See ya soon, bud." He hung up and went to do whatever was next on the latest morning routine sold to him by some shirtless alpha bro on the internet, Jake imagined. Dunking his face in a bowl of cold sparkling Perrier or bathing in egg whites or whatever. Jake chucked the mystery biscuit/ham back into his fridge. It made a clunk that sounded more like solid granite than either a biscuit or ham. In spite of himself, he was intrigued. He was also hungry (probably more the latter, if he was being honest) and he knew Barry was likely to have mixed nuts or caviar or finger sandwiches or some other bullshit over there. Hell, Barry could throw all that shit in a blender and serve it up to him right now and it would go down like a dream. That's how hungry he got after jacking off. He wondered if that was a medical problem, but he didn't have health insurance so what the hell.

Jake opened the door to his apartment and clomped loudly out the door, imagining Norma glaring through her keyhole at him. He wished he'd brought a baggie stuffed with flour or something for dramatic effect, but that was too much work. Outside, his Prius had seven eviction notices taped to it. His landlady must have been feeling spicy last night. After ritually tearing off the couple that obstructed his view through the windshield, he slid inside and burned rubber out of there, running over a chunk that was either a piece of garbage or someone's cat on the way out.

Barry met him in the driveway of the absurd McMansion he lived in alone, wearing a terry cloth robe.

"Hey, old sport," he said, channeling Jay Gatsby, one of his idols. He had one of those bandaid-like sleep strips over his nose. Jake couldn’t help but notice he had no food in his hands. “Made it here in one piece in that junker, eh?"

Jake thought that was kind of rich, considering Barry didn't have a car at all right now. He'd decided they used too many emissions and was in the process of ordering something he called a 'mini-copter' (a helicopter you could park on your roof, apparently. How this was better on fuel consumption, Jake hadn't the slightest idea).

"So what's this big idea?" he asked. 

He started up the walk towards Barry's house, but his friend put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him back. 

"I thought we'd knock the meeting out in the sauna."

"I didn't know you had a sauna."

"It's a new addition," Barry admitted, leading him around the side of the house to where what looked like a very small log cabin stood. Barry pressed some buttons on the door and slid it open, gesturing Jake in in front of him. 

"You're going to want to take all that off and throw this on," he said, lobbing a rolled towel enthusiastically at Jake's head. Jake changed down to his underwear, turning around because Barry refused to stop looking at him. "You properly hydrated?" Barry asked his back.

"No."

"Okay, come on in."

Jake turned around to find Barry stark naked, his limp dick staring at him like a shy, fleshy creature. His robe lay on the floor behind him. He was already seated in the sauna, legs crossed at the ankles. He patted the seat next to him. The ridiculous nose strip was still on him. It was the only thing he had on. 

"So I take it the towel's more of a suggestion,” Jake said, sitting on the opposite end of the bench. The door sealed shut in a way that made him feel oddly claustrophobic. A slight humming, hissing noise purred to life around them.

"Now," Barry said, “How have you been, Jakey? Doing good? How's the next big movie pitch going?"

Jake shrugged. "Fine. You know, man. Almost there."

Barry squinted his eyes at him. He wondered what this was about. Barry never typically asked him questions about himself. That was part of why Jake liked hanging out with him. Well, that and the luxury experiences he got to audit in the meantime. This one, however, he wasn't sure about. Heat was crawling up his spine; sweat was already starting to stand out on his forehead. Why did rich fucks do this shit? He stared at a pile of neatly folded towels below a seemingly randomly selected picture of a war horse standing proudly on a bleak plain surrounded by dead soldiers. It seemed an odd choice for a relaxing experience, but then again, overheating wasn't exactly Jake's idea of relaxation in the first place, especially while staring at Barry's micro dick. Dude was definitely on steroids. 

"You know the problem with you, bud?" Barry asked suddenly. "You have no vision. No drive. You want something, you've got to put some sweat into it."

"Well, I guess you'd know," Jake said, laughing awkwardly. "So what about-"

Barry interrupted, snapping his fingers and pointing them in Jake's face. "YES!" he said. "I would, wouldn't I? And that's why you're gonna want to sit tight for this. I'm just gonna get us some snack mix. Hang in there, dude."

Oh, thank god. Jake had been seriously starting to doubt coming up here. The least he could get for sweating his ass off in this bizarre wooden box was some Chex mix or something. When Barry left, shutting the door behind him, he attempted to get more comfortable, sliding his legs apart, leaning back slightly on the little bench. His skin was becoming slick with moisture. He felt like he was back in his ninety-year-old aunt’s house, dealing with the lack of AC all over again. There wasn't much to look at in here- just the wood siding on all four walls and that pile of towels and that damn picture of the horse, which looked smug to him. 

"So, man," a voice started. Jake jumped about a mile, cutting his thigh on something sharp- a splinter of wood or something on the bench. He stared around and saw, in the top right corner of the sauna, a small speaker. "What is it that you've been thinking?" Barry asked, "Creatively, you know. Spitball some ideas at me here."

"Barry, what the hell are you doing?"

"Talking to you, my friend!” 

"No, but I mean, why like this? Are you on that weird shit that yacht guy gets you again?"

Barry gave a burbling chuckle. "Nooo, Xavier's got nothing to do with this, my boy. It is just high time you got some accountability. A little jolt to get you off your ass, so to speak."

At the mention of his ass, Jake reached around to the place he'd been cut; a smudge of blood greeted his fingertips. 

"Barry, can you just get the hell back in here? I'm not interested in whatever this is. I'm not in the mood, I'm hungry, and my ass is fucking bleeding from your seat."

"Ah. He didn't sand that yet," Barry whispered. 

"What?"

"Never you mind, Jakey. Just pretend you're completely alone. Let the ideas flow."

Jake stood up, swiping at the back of his leg with the towel before letting it drop to the floor.

"Hey, those are Hermes towels!" Barry objected suddenly.

Jake swiped the sweat out of his eyes. He was starting to feel vaguely woozy. "You can see me?" he asked the speaker. "What the actual fuck, man?" He pictured Barry in his 7,000 square foot house, stark naked, watching him on camera. Thank god he'd kept his underwear on, he thought as he went for the door. He turned the handle and...nothing. For a second, he felt his vision blur. He wasn't sure if it was from the heat or the gravity of the situation sinking in.

"Barry," Jake said. "Open the fucking door."

"No can do, pal," Barry trilled, sounding like he was having the time of his life. "I've got to get your noggin' joggin'. The sweat releases toxins. Out with the bad, and in with the new."

Jake wiped his face and pounded on the door, just in case Barry was near. He didn't care about toxins or whatever bullshit Barry was spieling on about. His friend was clearly on drugs and trying to kill him.

"Barry, open up or we're gonna have a problem."

"And you're going to have a problem if you don't open your mind to how much bigger your life can get. Everything you want, Jake, IS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF FEAR!” He screamed it so loud that the speaker squealed with interference. Jake's head was starting to hurt. He tried the door mechanically a second, third and then a fourth time after pacing around. 

"Just sit down," Barry urged over the speaker. "Think for a moment. Let go. Relax."

"I can't very well relax when I'm STUCK IN A FURNACE!" Jake shouted, but he sat down anyway because the pacing was starting to make his whole body feel flushed and burning. He stared at the picture of the horse on the wall. It snickered at him. The fallen soldiers around it started to writhe on the ground. 

"What the-" Jake rubbed his eyes. 

"You know," the horse said. "You could appreciate this opportunity. After all the Venmo requests I didn't send you.”

"What?" He looked between the portrait and the speaker. "Barry? Look, if you've got a grudge, I get it. I'm kind of a freeloading jerk. But this isn't the way to..." He trailed off. The speaker was silent. He couldn't even hear the low static crackle that meant the receiver was on. 

"Who are you even talking to?" the horse asked from a mere foot away. Jake jumped and fell, sliding in his own sweat on the floor. The horse knickered unkindly, like laughter. The soldiers from the war portrait it had abruptly abandoned were moaning and calling garbled phrases. One of them sounded weirdly like 'call your mother'. 

The horse stood over Jake and took a steaming dump, while staring him deeply in the eyes. "Pay me back,” it commanded, and the soldier's moans began to echo it, egging it on. 'Pay him back. Pay him back. Pay him back."

"FINE!" Jake screamed. "I'll do it! I'll-"

Something tumbled over him, a full bucket of something that burned and slipped across his skin like freezing rain. Jake shut his eyes, tears running down his face. 

"Whoa," a voice said from above him. "That was hella dramatic."

Jake opened his eyes again to see Barry above him, looking down. He had an empty bucket hanging from one hand and he was mercifully clothed, though he'd kept that stupid nose strip on. Jake looked around. He was still in the sauna, on the floor, but the door was open, early dawn light streaming in. Ice surrounded him, melting rapidly. He reached out with shaking hands and grabbed a chunk, stuffing it into his mouth without thinking. Barry reached for his hand and helped him up. He swayed on his feet, turning his head to look at the picture on the wall. It was just a picture. Of course it was just a picture.

“I’m calling it sweat therapy," Barry said. "Or that's the working title, anywho. The idea being if a person gets desperate enough they'll  bulldoze the block in their brain. And look at you! Blood, sweat and tears, like in the old saying."

"Barry," Jake croaked, pushing his hand away. "That's insanely dangerous. I was fucking hallucinating in there, man."

Barry waved a hand. "I'll tell you what is dangerous," he said. "Living an unfulfilled life!”

Jake started for his car. "I'm getting a lawyer, and I'm suing your ass."

"Give it a week," Barry called after him gaily. "If you don't see results, I've got a good one I can hook you up with."