Heat Wave: Stone Mountain

I stared at Jenson Sommers in shock, not believing what he’d just announced to me. “A one-mile hike up Stone Mountain? Really?” I heard the unmanly squeak in my voice and cringed. I was the furthest thing from an exercise enthusiast, but even if I were, it was the middle of frickin’ August! What were they smoking in the peace pipe in the Human Resources department, thinking this was a good idea for employee-bonding? I looked at my coworker and frowned. “Don’t they get that teambuilding is a crock of s**t? When will they learn that no matter how many incentives they give or parties they throw, the cliques will remain? It’s still high school in this place.” Jenson and I worked for a marketing firm that had over fifty employees. There were several departments. Each one had a popular set and…the rest of us. I thought I’d left that behind in my teens. Apparently, some of us were still stuck in puberty. “Suck it up, Stace. There’s no way around it. You sweat for a couple of hours, collapse in the shade with a beer, and then you’ll have an early start to the weekend. What could be better?” “Not having to do it at all. It’s over a hundred degrees outside! Isn’t it dangerous to be exposed to such high temperatures?” “Quit your whining. There’s shade along the trail, and you’ll be wearing sunscreen and drink lots of bottled water.” I arched an eyebrow. “And you’re this gung-ho because…” His grin was diabolical. “Never you mind the why. Since you’ve been paired with me, I will get you to the top of Stone Mountain, even if I have to drag you there.” I was sure I looked suspicious when I said, “That sounds…ominous.” “I’ll take care of you, promise. Plus, you have no choice in the matter. I’m a competitive son of a b***h, and there’s no way we’re going to be the last pair to make it to the top of that granite rock.” “And if I don’t want to?” I could feel petulance rising within me. “Want to keep your job?” Jenson retorted. “Nice try,” I growled. “You’re not my boss.” He rubbed his hands together and grinned. “It’ll be fun.” Such relentless cheer was nauseating. “f**k me.” He winked. “You wish.” As Jenson went back to working on his computer, I thought to myself, Yes, I really do wish you would f**k me. Jenson and I were the only two openly gay employees in the firm. I had my suspicions about a few others, but they weren’t talking. We’d bonded from the beginning, and fate had placed us in the same department, working side by side in the cubicle maze on our floor. Whatever the case, I’d been attracted to the friendly graphic artist since the day we met. Unfortunately, he was in a long-term relationship, or so he said. Thus, I lusted after him from afar. It didn’t hurt that he was totally my type, multiplied by a thousand. I loved men with red hair, and the more freckles, the better. His almost aquamarine eyes were bright, intelligent, and always had a spark of mischief in them. Sometimes he could be overly aggressive, but I put that down to his enthusiasm for life. Jenson was a lot taller, but thin as a rail compared to my shorter, stocky frame. He liked to do rock climbing in the evenings and on weekends, and loved hiking—the complete antithesis of my interests in reading and blogging about the weird things in the world. My idea of exercise was turning the page in a book or typing. Perhaps my obsession with the written word was why I made a good marketing content specialist. All that aside, as far as I knew, Jenson was still attached at the hip to his trendy, model/actor boyfriend Bransworth Manley. Who names their child that, anyway? I couldn’t compete. The best description for my person would be…nondescript. I just had to suck it up. * * * * Friday morning, at ten o’clock, I stood beside Jenson, hands on my hips as I stared at the mountain before us. “You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, already dripping with sweat. The heat caused my sunscreen to run, and the air felt stifling and muggy as it can only be in Georgia. My head pounded already at the stress of it all. “You can do this, Stace. It’s just a mile, and we’ll take it as slow as we need to, as long as we don’t come in dead last.” “Can’t we just take the SkyRide?” I whined, checking my shoelaces and then tying a bandana around my head to keep hair and sweat out of my eyes. “Nope,” Jenson said as he stretched his legs and touched his toes beside me, the image of the perfectly limber athlete. I hated him. He wore shorts and a tank top, which was soaked, just like mine. The difference between the two of us, aside from his obvious athleticism and good looks, however, was that he was smiling. I was not. Definitely not looking forward to this. “Fine, let’s get this over with,” I replied and got into step with my coworker as we made our way across the relatively flat area before us. I knew that would change, however. There were at least twenty other couples from the company with us, some more enthusiastic than others. Of course, there were the jocks who dressed the part and took off running—spandex, Vibrams, bare-chested. Bastards. After the first eighth of a mile, I’d emptied three of the little water bottles on my belt, one of which went over my head to cool me down. “This is insane!” I griped as I panted, rock after rock, watching as the more nimble among us strode ahead with purpose. I looked behind me and saw a few couples who were slower than we were. Hallelujah. “It’s not so bad. You just don’t do this often enough to appreciate the beauty in your surroundings,” Jenson replied with nary a puff or grumble. Maybe I would agree with him if my skin wasn’t on fire. He acted like he was taking a stroll in the park compared to my blundering progress. His long legs tended to outstrip my stride, so he’d wait for me to catch up, from time to time. Within fifteen minutes, I’d removed my shirt and finished my fourth bottle of water, all while straining my untrained calves ever onward to our goal. As we moved along, men in training for some sport or other passed us. They carried weights in their hands as they went up and down the mountain. What was wrong with these people? Then, after what seemed like hours, we arrived at the steepest staircase I’d ever seen. Apparently, to get to the very top of the mountain—and the end of this torture—we had to climb it. What the hell? * * * * “One step at a time,” Jenson said, urging me forward with his hand on my lower back. I loved that he was touching me, but wished it were under different circumstances, and that he was single. “I’d rather lose my job than go through this ever again,” I muttered, silently begging my legs not to quit and turn me into a p***y. “You know I’ll be right there, telling you how full of s**t you are. Now come on, take another step. We’re holding up traffic.” I looked behind us and saw that a line had indeed formed at the rear. I couldn’t go out like that, no matter my discomfort or fatigue. So I took a deep breath and climbed upward, trying not to cry out at the even steeper end to the staircase. A few more strides and… We reached the top! I felt no shame in collapsing on a bench, flat on my back, while Jenson went to check in with the organizers of this ridiculous event. We weren’t last, at least, but it had been a near thing. My God, everything hurt. A few cool drops of liquid splashed on my forehead. I opened one eye to see Jenson standing above me with a cold bottle of Gatorade, his body blocking out the sun. Ah, yeah! “I love you, man!” He smirked as I sat up and drank the contents of the bottle in seconds flat. “Is that all it takes to get your never-ending devotion?” I wiped my mouth on the back of a hand. “If you only knew,” I replied and burped. “Classy, aren’t you?” “You don’t know the half of it.” He sat next to me. It was then that I noticed he had a similar bottle in his hand, too. “So what’s happening the rest of the day?” I asked, staring at the view of the Atlanta skyline before us. At least it wasn’t too hazy. “The company is paying for lunch. We’ll take the Summit SkyRide down the mountain in groups so we can gawk at the Confederate Memorial Carving, maybe see the Appalachians, and then stumble into the restaurant to stuff ourselves. I could murder three hot dogs, at least.” “What, like this? We’re all sweaty and nasty.” I pulled my T-shirt out of my waistband where I’d tucked it on the climb. “And wrinkled, too,” I groused, shaking my shirt with no hope of being neat anytime soon. “It’s the Big Rock Café—nothing fancy. I’m sure they’ll understand, Princess.” “Hey, now.” I admitted to being a little fussy about my appearance, but I was not a princess. Officially. “If it walks like a duck and wears a tiara…” he began, then was interrupted by the Human Resources Director, aptly nicknamed “Gung-ho Pete,” who began rounding everybody up. As I walked alongside Jenson, I noted the other members of our office who were even more the worse for wear than I was. Was it bad that it made me feel better?