By Sam Nelson

Only the healthy are allowed in the Office of Well-Being’s Be Well Health Club. There’s a welcome mat out front. You take off your shoes and stand on it. It measures your vitals, storage fat, even your physical beauty—all set by Office standards. If the numbers are green, you go in. You do healthy person stuff, like run on treadmills, read books, and drink pink tea. The Club is where the Office of Well-Being keeps all the healthy things.

The rest of us go to the bar.

I don’t want to go to the bar. So I stand outside the Club and watch. The walls are clear glass, and I can see everyone in all their fitness. People doing exotic stretches. People petting trained dogs. People reading books. Real books. The Office of Well-Being says books are healthy for you, that’s why they’re restricted to the Club, to keep the healthy people healthy.

I’m not thin, but I’m not fat, either. I can see my feet; I can run a mile. I’m strong. But the mat registers me unfit. If I could get into Club just once, I could stay in there, I could stay fit.

I wait outside for Helena. She is beautiful and fit. She speaks four languages; she’s kind to animals. Each night she stops to chat with me before she goes in. I always hope the numbers go green for me, so I could follow her. I think she hopes it, too.

“Hey, Helena.”

“Hey, Lewis.”

“You going to make it tonight?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Try.”

I take my shoes off and stand on the mat. The screen flashes my numbers, those little biometric things that make me who I am. I want to hide them with my feet. Red numbers.

“I bet you get it next time,” she says. An optimist. She stands on the mat. Green numbers. Everyday she is healthier than the day before, and I wonder if she’ll ever get to that place of perfection where improvement becomes impossible.

Down the street I can hear music and shouting. It’s the bars. The people who gave up. They smoke and argue, rub each other’s bellies to celebrate the forfeiture of their own betterment. They don’t exercise because they don’t care. They don’t read because they don’t have books. Except Peter. He’s a drunk, but he’s also thin and literate. He says he used to go the Club but gave it up. Some say he makes his own books in private, but he denies it. The Office would take them away.

Peter told me what he remembers. That they practice old dance moves in little ballrooms upstairs. That they have potted trees and plants to keep the air fresh. That they don’t allow beer there.

I have to get fit. I run toward the river, past the nice homes. All the lights are on. People have private gyms, their own little clubs where they exercise. They power their homes this way. I keep running, under the old light rail into my part of town. No electric lights. No cars. People sit in the dark because they can’t make their own power. I arrive at the river.

Peter told me the river runs a different course than it used to. It’s moved many miles over many years until man fixed it in place. That’s why it floods when it rains, but only in our ward.

I run back to the health club. I’m sweating, sticky, and my hair is matted. I’m sure I look unfit, but I feel lighter.

I see Helena through the glass. She’s on the ski machine. She’s gliding in virtual place and reading a book in Swiss-French.

I take my shoes off and stand on the mat. Red Numbers.

I see a man talking to Helena. He wears a green uniform, carries a club in his belt.  He’s security, the guy who makes sure nobody “unfit” sneaks in. He rubs her back while she fake-skis.

I go to the bar. They clap me on the back, welcome me into the candlelight. Peter is drunk in the corner.

I get a shot of slime. It’s fermented, filtered river water. Poor man’s drink, the kind that doesn’t go down your throat but up your head and makes a steel fog in the brain that shakes you free. I swallow it all.

“What are you doing tonight?” Peter asks

“Trying to get fit.”

“Give it up,” he says.

“How do I trick the mat?” I ask.

“You don’t.”

~

Inside the Club I hear soft classical music. They must be dancing upstairs. Thin couples waltzing on parquet and breathing potted plant-air.

I make my move.

The mat doesn’t rip easy. My numbers might be red, but I know my strength. I pull hard at the edges. Sparks flicker from the severed wires. I tear out the hot mat and fold it against my chest. The security guard, the back-rubber, comes out with his club.

“You piece of shit, what do you think you’re doing?”

The punishment for this is heavy. I run. Past the beautiful lit houses. Past the light rail. Over my shoulder, I see the security guard chasing me. He’s graceful in pursuit, his club raised.

I start losing my breath. We get to my neighborhood and into the dark, but I can still hear his footsteps. I see the river, run toward it, but I swear it shifts, like it’s moving again, falling away from me. Then it bends, time and water rushing forward, and I turn with it. I look behind me. The security guard is gone. He couldn’t keep up.

I take the mat home. It’s dark, but I survey the empty floor for the right spot. I put the mat by the front door. Then I take my shoes off and stand on it. The numbers don’t go green, but they don’t go red, either. The screen stays blank.