The Trials of Dylan

E n v y

IT WAS ABOUT two years earlier that Dylan said, "I'M A FRIEND of Maxine's, Dr. Yossarian."

Dylan had plenty of reasons to be nervous. And it certainly didn't help matters that where he was didn't look anything like any doctor's office he'd ever been in before. There was no pretty receptionist in a starched white uniform waiting in the waiting room.

There was no waiting room— just a cramped and jumbled examination room and an odd-looking foreigner in a rumpled suit.

"Really. And how is Maxine getting along? Prettier than ever?"

"Yes, sir." Which was less than Gospel. Maxine was beyond pretty—she was beyond beautiful— she was drop-dead gorgeous and sexy beyond her years in a way that left all the other girls at the starting gate in Ridgefield High School. And as captain of the cheerleaders the young lady had her pick of any boy she wanted.

"You like the way she looks, don't you? The attention she gets— what she can get away with."

"And then some," Dylan nodded like a boggle headed Einstein. "I overheard her talking once and she said... she told me..."

"Yes?"

"You could get me steroids?"

"The best. You know all about hormones then— what they are— what they can do for you?"

"Sure," Dylan lied.

All he really knew was that all the professional athletes took them—football players, wrestlers, even swimmers—to build muscle and to grow tall. Everyone talked about how dangerous they were— and well they might be— but that didn't seem to stop anyone. And they were winners. And everyone adores a winner.

And Dylan needed very much to be adored.

Dr. Yossarian took a bottle of yellow pills from a chipped cabinet and set them down on the table. "These are on me. They'll last you a month. Sort of a trial offer. You take one of these babies each night after dinner. See if you like what you see. If you're not completely satisfied, then we just shake hands."

"I'll see changes?"

"Honey, you won't believe your eyes."