Friday

Brawn

There's a man in an electric wheelchair, and he's watching as a construction crew builds a new Senior Community. His muscles are all very atrophied, and he can't move much.

He's got a thing for these big yellow machines, these big fucking arms and hands, fists, feet, legs. Brawn.

He thinks about what it would be like if he could somehow connect to one of these things... imagines sitting in the driver's seat with sweaty, eager palms. But when he gets there he doesn't need to move the levers. The machine knows what he wants. He imagines the arm of the beast as his own arm, and he imagines wielding it with brutality. He imagines being constructive.

It's when he's sitting in the chair, watching the machines, that he feels strong like them. Soon the work day will be over and the machines will slow to a crawl, tired. Aching. The men in the drivers' seats will go home, and he will have to also. At home he is not alone, and he is weak. He goes to sleep and dreams of bulldozers.