MUSCLE MAN

A disaffected literature professor interrogates the provenance of his alienation.

Now that Harold is done teaching for the day, he can’t wait to hit the gym “and think single-mindedly about his muscles.” Unfortunately, he can’t leave the Shepherd College campus until after his department’s monthly meeting, which isn’t for another 20 minutes. Food would give him “something to do in the present, then more energy to use later in the gym,” but he didn’t pack a lunch, the staff refrigerator is empty, and he can’t find the snack stand because the building he’s in was purposefully designed to disorient. (Per the architect, “real education” requires an “abnormal, dizzying” setting.) Harold doesn’t want to sit and look at his phone, as it probably just holds more work-related emails he’ll delete unread. Casey—the only colleague who doesn’t irritate or discomfit Harold, and who introduced him to weightlifting—is nowhere to be found. And Harold’s attempt at heroism backfires when the suspicious-looking knapsack he surreptitiously steals from a student turns out to contain nothing more sinister than a rolled-up “Faith Group for Marginalized Identities” poster. When the meeting finally commences, Harold zones out, instead ruminating on perceived slights, his failed career, and the purloined backpack. (Also: “Where [is] Casey?”) Harold knows he’ll feel better once he becomes “one with the pump.” But as he later discovers, focus proves rewarding in situations other than bodybuilding. Castro’s latest unfolds over the course of a single afternoon, gently satirizing American academia and modern masculinity via Harold’s scattered, deeply insecure inner monologue. Though the tale feels too long given the plot’s austerity and the narrative’s intentional but nevertheless exhausting verbosity, the nuanced character arcs satisfy and inject an unexpected dose of optimism.

Existential dark humor shot through with heart.