The Weigh-Ins

The gym still smelled like varnish and rubber, same as it always had. Banners hung faded along the walls, curled at the edges, bragging about years gone by. Boys’ basketball, back when they’d gone to state. Girls’ volleyball too, sometimes good, always in the paper. But, that was before.

The bleachers were pushed back now, paint chipped where kids had carved their initials in the side. The scoreboard had died on the vine long ago, numbers frozen in place from some game nobody remembered. The floor still somehow polished, at least enough to make every sound bounce twice.

Back then, back when they were playing those games, they wore maroon and gray jerseys, school colors stretched across their backs. Tiger pride. Sneakers squeaked on the floor, the school song sung from the stands by all the supporters. There was a real camaraderie formed.

Now, everyone stood around in their underwear. Rows of pale skin under the bright lights, rising against the chill that inevitability built in empty rooms like this. The line of flesh coiled from the stage down the sideline, curving past the folded bleachers. No one moved. Arms crossed over chests, hands clasped low, eyes fixed on the floor. Not a squeak from a shoe, no laughter and joyous cheer, no band. Just the faint hum of the lights and the sound of breathing, waiting for the show to begin.

I looked down at myself, standing there in nothing but my underwear and socks. Black briefs, white crew socks halfway to the calf. Didn’t match, never did. Never seemed like the environment to get all gussied up for. After all these years it still felt strange, the whole room full of us stripped down like this, waiting subserviently, trying not to complain. It was only one night out of the year, and besides, there are worse fates.

The volunteers wheeled out the scale. Moreover, they wheeled out a new scale. One unseen before. Not like the old brass beam with its sliding markers we were all accustomed to. This was altogether something different. Sleeker, stranger. Almost alien-like. It hummed low, almost too soft to hear, like a refrigerator running in the next room. No one seemed to notice. For now.

The first man broke from the line and climbed the steps of the stage. He gave the machine a once-over like he didn’t trust it. The volunteers motioned him forward, nodding like ushers at a church. He hesitated a little. Finally relented, took the plunge. The glass face of the scale lit up. It read 24.

The crowd stirred. A low murmur passed through, confused, uneasy. 24 was no weight measurement they were familiar with. That guy was well into the triple digits. Obviously. The whole room had been trained for years, decades, that pounds and ounces were the only currency that mattered around here this time of year. Now, this new machine says 24.

Fear of the unknown began to take hold.

Fear that extended to the volunteers. They might get a reprieve from all this pomp and circumstance of the weigh-ins this time. But it’s not like they weren't privy to any more information than the rest of us. One volunteer drew the short stick to go get answers and clarification on the situation. He disappeared behind the curtain for an almost uncomfortable amount of time. Returned to confer with his team. Once all on the same page, the one nearest the contraption yelled, “Next.”

The line shuffled forward. Another body climbed the steps.

As we waited, the thoughts came. Stories to distract from the chill. Across the way, little Annie waited her turn. Though, I guess not little anymore. Last time I saw her she was down at Dave and Busters, working her way through one of those eating challenges that used to be a joke before they turned deadly serious. Word was even the Beard Meats Food guy walked out halfway through, holding his gut like it might split in two. Annie finished hers and asked for dessert.

Her cheeks fallen soft now, spilling into jowls that wobbled when she shifted her weight. At least she was safe knowing there were no more double digit numbers when she stepped to the scale.

And then there were the ones who’d tried to cheat the system. Like the two skinny roommates from a few years back. Both of them rail thin, always racing to see who could put on a pound, who could keep it. They shared one of those cheap plastic bathroom scales, white with a cracked dial. Every morning they’d take turns stepping on, staring down at the numbers like gamblers watching a wheel. Until one day, one of them got clever. Rigged the scale so it read 5 pounds heavy. The first time his roomie stepped on the scale and saw the extra pounds he’d packed on overnight, he was elated. Little did he know.

Nothing much came of it. There were still babies being born back then. But it definitely torpedoed those two’s friendship.

A cottage industry had grown up around the weigh-in. Restaurants ran food challenges every weekend, whole menus designed to pack 3,000 calories into a single sitting. They called it CrossFit for the gut. Crowds piled in to watch a man choke down a dozen chicken fried steaks or a woman drink a gallon of milk in one go, phones out, bets made across tables sticky with syrup and beer. The winners left with their faces swollen and stomachs distended, carried home like prizefighters. The losers crawled to the bathroom or passed out in the parking lot. Either way, they came back week in, week out.

The gyms filled up too. Heavy-set folks sweating into buckets, some pedaling on bikes until they collapsed, others wired on meth, jittering through deadlifts with glassy eyes. Trainers barked encouragement like drill sergeants, promising they had secret programs, insider tricks. Miracle powders passed back and forth under the counter. There was money to be made in panic and fear, and plenty willing to take it.

The line shuffled forward. Another body climbed the steps.

Then one young man in the back of the skin-and-bones side couldn’t take it anymore. Twitched in place. He looked at the new scale like he was already lined up for the gallows. Weighed his options. Made a break for the door.

He bolted down the line, socks slipping on the floorboards, weaving between bodies too stunned to move. A couple volunteers shouted, arms out, but nobody tried to stop him. The crowd parted just enough to let him through.

He hit the double doors hard, shoved them open, and vanished into the hallway. For half a second we could hear him still—the slap of feet on linoleum, the rasp of his breath echoing off tile, but there was no line of sight. Someone ran over and threw the doors back open just in time to see the light. White and sharp, brighter than any sun. He raised an arm to protect himself, took one more step, and was gone. Vaporized. A flash, a hiss, and a scorch mark on the concrete where his shadow ended.

The doors swung shut. The scene vanished into the unknown. Nobody spoke. Yet the weigh-in dragged on.

If anyone had been holding on to hope at the start, it had been stripped away years before.

There had been a learning curve to all of this, harsh and unforgiving as the town came to understand the nature of the yearly ritual. Highest weight and lowest weight. Two people chosen every year. Knowing the rules never made it easier. The top end was simple enough, some people couldn't help but carry an excessive amount of heft. If they ended up with the highest number, they had a choice.

Newborns never had the chance. Too little time to put on pounds. Year after year, babies were carried in their mothers’ arms and set on the scale, light as feathers. Single-digit numbers glowing on the big board. The whole town would watch as another set of parents lost their child. Rules were rules.

After enough years of that, people grew cautious. Then wise. They stopped having children altogether. Birth announcements dried up. Schools closed. Playgrounds rusted. By then, the youngest person in town was twenty-eight.

Betty lived quite the life of leisure. People not wanting to let go of her youth made her a project, a cause of sorts. Twice a week, at a clinic on the edge of town, a doctor in a white coat injected her with some concoction no one could name. Kept the beloved's skin tight and cheeks firm. A time capsule, frozen in her late twenties forever more. She rotated personal trainers the way some people rotate socks, one for every day of the week, each swearing they have a unique method to keep her “balanced.”

Two personal chefs keep her fed: one leaning heavy on cream and butter, the other on grains and lean meat, in case the wind ever changed on what’s considered safe. Neighbors gave blood to her too, lined up at the church basement to make sure she has a steady supply. On her porch gifts, baskets of fruit, jars of preserves, fresh bread left in secret, tributes from townsfolk who’d rather buy her one more day than risk their own. Betty doesn’t work, doesn’t worry. She’s carried by the current of everyone else’s fear.

Yet, there she stands. Right here with the rest of us.

The bodies piled up on stage. A ten way tie at 39 and a three way thing matching the number 10. Finally with enough data, context clues started to form. It seemed as though the exercise junkies caught on first. The ones who logged every mile and every ounce into their phones like scripture. They celebrated leaning close, whispering to each other that the numbers looked like BMI.

For a moment you could see relief flicker on their faces, shoulders uncoiling as if they’d cracked the code before anyone else. But the relief didn’t hold. All that time perfecting their bodies had slimmed them down to virtually no body fat. If this was still a competition for highest and lowest, they were all the way down at the bottom.

It quickly became an every man for himself situation. They offered huge sums to anyone around with any food in their pockets. Maybe one gorge session could push them a digit or two up. Add some flesh to those love handles.

Toward the middle of the line a woman tugged up her shirt, staring down at the soft roll of flesh pooled over her waistband. She pinched it hard between her fingers, as if she could rip it straight off and leave it on the floor. Her husband leaned in, slid his hand over hers, and gave the roll a squeeze like he was testing bread dough. “It’s nothing,” he whispered, voice low, meant for her ears only.

The end of the line drew near. The numbers on the board still made little sense to anybody.

The volunteers huddled together. Not sure what the end game was either. Finally, after some arm waving and finger gesturing, one of them finally ducked behind the curtain again. A long moment passed, the crowd holding its breath. When he came back, he was pushing the old scale, the one with the brass beam and sliding weights, the one everyone had been raised on. Familiar and hated in equal measure. Honest in its way, merciless in another.

The scale took its place on the stage with a thud.

Once the line had moved through, the volunteers huddled close at the edge of the stage, shoulders touching, whispers sharp as knives, trying to establish some form of humane way to bring this whole thing to a close. By this point, in the old days, the weights flashed on the big board for all to see, numbers tall and plain, answered any remaining questions we may have. But not this year. This year, the crowd leaned forward, strained for answers.

At last, two of the volunteers broke away from the huddle. One to one side. The other off to the other. Each stopped at a body and laid a hand on a shoulder. No words, no announcement. Just a touch, and that was enough. The gym, and the chosen ones, collectively understood.

The two stood frozen for a beat, then turned back to their families. They knelt in close, speaking in low bursts, the kind of talk too private for anyone else to hear. Last loves and goodbyes.

All around them, the air changed. A hum filled the gym, soft at first, then rising as voices came back. The weight lifted. People talked again, looser, smiles creeping in, the future bright for another year.

When it was time, the volunteers closed in. They didn’t rush, didn’t drag, just guided the two toward the double doors like ushers at the end of a service. The gym fell hushed again, the chatter dying out one word at a time. Every head turned to watch.

The double doors loomed large. A tone sounded, long and sharp, high enough to sting the ears. People held onto whatever they could. The doors swung open. Light rays engulfed the space.

The two chosen ones didn’t take another step. They didn’t have to. Something unseen pulled them forward, slow at first, then steady, lifting them off the floor. Arms hung loose, feet dragging through the air like they were caught in a current of the ocean. Their faces blank, emptied of… everything.

They slid through the open doors and vanished into the blinding beam of light. The pull cut off, and the doors swung shut with a hollow clap that echoed through the rafters.

It was over.

A man in a blazer stepped on stage. Adjusted the mic stand. He cleared his throat, gave the crowd a salesman’s smile. “Thanks for coming out, folks. Don’t forget to leave a review on how your experience was.” His eyes swept the gym, wide and friendly, as if he hadn’t seen what everyone else had just seen. “Go Tigers.”

By the bleachers a kid dug through his backpack, showing off a new phone case while three others crowded close to see. A woman near the door laughed too loud, telling her neighbor she’d double-parked and hoped the cops weren’t out tonight. Someone asked what was on special at D and B’s. A man clapped another on the back and said he’d see him at church Sunday.