Even Charles Atlas Dies

How well I remember Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., the day he came down to the dock at Bluefields on the Atlantic coast of Nicaragua to see me off on the steamer to New York. He offered me his final words of advice and pressed on me his cashmere English overcoat--because it would be cold up there, he said. He walked with me down the gangplank and then clasped my hand in a long, firm handshake as I was about to step into the launch. As we motored out to meet the steamer on the high seas, I saw him for the last time, his figure slender and arched in his fatigues and campaign boots, waving goodbye with his cloth cap. I say for the last time because three days later, he was shot in a Sandinista assault on the Puerto Cabezas garrison, where he was the commander.

Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., was a great friend. He taught me English with his Cortina Method records, which he played for me every night on the windup Victrola there in the barracks of San Fernando. It was through him that I came to know American cigarettes. But above all else, I remember him for one thing: He enrolled me in the Charles Atlas correspondence course and sent me to New York to meet Charles Atlas in person.

I first met Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., in the town of San Fernando, in the northern mountains of Nueva Segovia, where I was the telegraph operator. He arrived at the head of the first column of U.S. Marines who were charged with forcing General Sandino and his (continued on page 146)Charles Atlas(continued from page 89) troops down from the heights of Chipote, where they had taken refuge. It was I who transmitted his messages to Sandino and received Sandino's replies in return. But I think our intimate relationship really began the day that he presented me with a list of people in San Fernando and I checked off each one I thought might be a collaborator with the insurgents or had relatives in the mountains with Sandino or in any other way seemed suspicious. The following day, he took every last one of them prisoner and marched them off, tied two by two, to the American barracks in Ocotal. That night, to show his gratitude, he gave me a whole pack of Camel cigarettes and a magazine with photos of nude women. In this magazine, I first saw the advertisement that changed my life and transformed me from a 97-pound weakling into a new man.

The 97-pound weakling Who transformed himself into the World's most Perfectly developed Man

Ever since I was a little kid, I suffered the fate of a weak and sickly child. I remember one time I was passing the plaza of San Fernando with my girlfriend Ethel after Mass--I was 15--when two big guys passed us and gave me a scornful look; then one of them spun around and kicked sand in my eyes. Ethel asked me, "Why did you let them get away with that?"

I feebly responded, "In the first place, couldn't you see that I had sand in my eyes? And in the second place, he was a big mother."

I asked Captain Hatfield's assistance in answering the advertisement, since I still knew very little English, and on my behalf he wrote to Charles Atlas, Ltd., requesting the illustrated brochure advertised in the magazine.

About a year later--San Fernando being in the middle of the mountains, where the worst fighting of the war was going on--I received the manila envelope containing several color folders and a letter signed by Charles Atlas himself. "The Complete Course of Dynamic Tension, the marvel of all physical-exercise programs. Just tell me where you want muscles of steel. Are you overweight and listless? Skinny and weak? Do you tire easily and lack energy? Are you left behind while others make off with the most beautiful girls, the best jobs, etc.? Give me only seven days and I'll prove to you that you, too, can be a real man, healthy and full of confidence in yourself and your own strength."

Mr. Atlas also announced in his letter that the course would cost $30, a sum that I not only didn't have but could amass only after years of scrimping and saving. Thus, once again, I sought the aid of Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., who in turn presented me with another list of my neighbors. I checked off almost every name, and soon the money was on its way to New York. In about another year, The Complete Course of Dynamic Tension arrived, with all 13 lessons and 90 exercises, and Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., began to give me personal instruction and advice.

"The exercises take only 15 minutes a day. The Dynamic Tension System is completely natural. It doesn't require any mechanical devices that might damage the heart or other vital organs. One needs no pills, special diets or equipment. Just a few minutes a day of your spare time are sufficient, and it will really be a pleasurable diversion."

But since I had more spare time than I knew what to do with, I dedicated myself with perseverance and enthusiasm to the exercises not just for 15 minutes but for three hours a day. At night, I studied English with Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C. At the end of the month, my progress was astonishing. My shoulders had widened, my waist had slimmed down and my thighs had firmed up. Four short years after that bully had kicked sand in my eyes, I was already a different man. One day, Ethel showed me a picture in a magazine of the god Atlas. "Look," she said, "he looks just like you." Then I knew that I was on the right track and that one day, I would achieve my dreams.

Four months later, I had mastered English well enough to write a letter to Mr. Atlas myself to say, "Thanks, everything's OK!" I was a new man, with biceps of steel, capable of the feat that I performed in Managua the day that Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., took me to the capital to demonstrate my strength. I pulled a freight car of The Great Pacific Railroad for more than 200 yards with a cargo of chorus girls clad only in tigerskin briefs and halter tops. There to witness the event were President Moncada himself, the American Ambassador, Mr. Hanna, and the commander of the U.S. Marines in Nicaragua, Colonel Friedmann, U.S.M.C.

This feat, which was reported in all the papers, assured that Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., would be successful in negotiating the request that I had presented to him before we left San Fernando: a trip to the United States to meet Charles Atlas in person. His superiors in Managua made the formal application to Washington, and although it took about a year, it was finally approved. In the newspapers of the time, specifically in La Noticia of September 18, I appeared with the cultural attaché of the American Embassy, a certain Mr. Fox. I believe that this was the first of many cultural-exchange programs between the United States and Nicaragua that would follow. Below the photo, it Said, About to Depart for tour of Physical Culture centers in the United States and to Meet with Renowned Figures from the World of Athletics.

Thus it was that after a tranquil voyage, with a short stay in the port of Veracruz, we arrived in New York on the 23rd of November. I must confess that when the ship was approaching the dock, I felt at a loss despite all that Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., had said to prepare me. From his lectures, books, photographs and maps, I had in my mind the image of New York--perfect, even down to small details, but completely static. It was the frantic sensation of movement, affecting animate and inanimate things alike, that whirled me out of my own reality into a never-ending phantasm, an impossible and lacerating world of invisible trains, a sky blackened with an infinity of skyscrapers, an atmosphere of coal smoke and sewage, distant and dolorous sirens in the dense fog and the interminable rumblings deep within the earth.

I was met by an official of the Department of State who whisked me through immigration and took me directly to my hotel--the Hotel Lexington, to be exact--an enormous brick building on 48th Street. The official informed me that my visit with Charles Atlas had been arranged for the following morning and that a driver would call for me at the hotel to take me to the offices of Charles Atlas, Ltd., where everything would be explained to me. Then, as he was to return to Washington that same evening, he bade me farewell.

It was quite cold in New York, and I retired early, filled with an indescribable emotion--my journey had ended and soon my wishes were to be fulfilled. I gazed out at the infinity of lights sparkling in the mist, the lighted windows of the skyscrapers. I said to myself, "Behind one of these windows is Charles Atlas. Perhaps he is reading a book or having dinner or chatting with someone or sleeping. Maybe, in fact, he is doing his nightly exercises, number 23 and number 24 of the manual--flexion of the wrist and neck. Perhaps he is even smiling--his temples gray but his face fresh and joyful. Or maybe he is answering the thousands of letters he receives a day and is filling the yellow envelopes with the three-color folders."

But suddenly I realized something: I couldn't imagine Charles Atlas with his clothes on. In my imagination, he was always in his swimming trunks, with his body in rigid tension. It was impossible to picture him in a three-piece suit, with a fedora on his head. I rummaged (continued on page 188)Charles Atlas(continued from page 146) through my bag to find the 8 x 10 glossy photo that he had signed and sent to me at the end of the course. There he was, hands behind his head, body slightly arched, pectoral muscles swelling effortlessly, legs together, one shoulder slightly higher than the other. Who could clothe such a body? I fell asleep with that thought drifting through my mind.

By five in the morning, I was already wide-awake. While I was doing exercises one and two (it was so moving to practice them for the first time in New York), I imagined that at that very moment, Charles Atlas was doing his exercises as well. After my workout, I slowly showered and dressed, trying to kill time; at seven, I went down to the lobby to await the driver. Although Charles Atlas advocated a nutritious breakfast, I was not accustomed to eating in the morning.

At nine o'clock sharp, the representative of Charles Atlas, Ltd., presented himself. Outside, awaiting us, was a black limousine with gold trim on the windows and gray-velvet curtains. The representative of Charles Atlas, Ltd., uttered not a single word during our drive, nor did the chauffeur so much as glance in my direction. During the half-hour drive, we passed an endless succession of identical brick buildings with walls of glass in an opaque design that suggested rain. When the car finally came to a halt in front of the long-awaited address, it was on a sad-looking street of old warehouses and wholesale storage lofts. Across the street from Charles Atlas, Ltd., I remember an umbrella factory and a little park of dusty, withered trees. Instead of glass in the windows of the building, there were boards nailed across the frames.

To reach the main entrance of Charles Atlas, Ltd., we climbed a stone staircase that ended on a tiny mezzanine where a life-sized statue of the god Atlas was sustaining the world on his shoulders. The inscription chiseled into the stone base read, Mens Sana in Corpore Sano. We passed through a squeaky revolving door of polished glass set in black-enamel frames. In the vestibule, the walls were covered with gigantic reproductions of all the photos of Charles Atlas that I had ever seen. What a pleasure to recognize one familiar pose after another. And there, right in the middle, the one I loved more than all the rest--Charles Atlas with a harness around his neck, pulling a string of ten automobiles while a shower of confetti fell all around him. Magnificent!

I was directed into the offices of William Rideout, Jr., general manager of Charles Atlas, Ltd. Shortly I found myself facing a middle-aged man with bony features and deep-set eyes in dark sockets. He extended me his pallid hand, covered with a web of blue veins, and took his seat behind a small, square, unadorned desk. He twisted to turn on the shaded lamp behind him despite the flood of light already entering through the window.

The offices were rather shabby, and on the desk, hundreds of envelopes--exactly like the one I had received--were piled up. The wall behind the desk was dominated by a huge photo (one I had never seen before) of Charles Atlas proudly displaying his pectoral muscles. Mr. Rideout, Jr., asked me to be seated and began to speak without looking at me. His eyes were fixed on a paperweight on his desk, and his hands were tightly folded in front of him. The stress that showed on his face indicated that it was a great effort for him to speak. I was listening so intently to his words, delivered in a slow monotone, that it wasn't until he paused for a moment to pull out his handkerchief and wipe the saliva from his lips that I noticed what my nervousness had earlier obscured: The strain of his clenched hands and the position of his head could be nothing else but exercise 18 of The Dynamic Tension System. I must admit that a flood of emotion nearly brought tears to my eyes.

"I most cordially welcome you," said Mr. Rideout, Jr., "and I hope that you will have a most enjoyable stay in New York. I am sorry that I am unable to express myself correctly in Spanish, as would have been my wish, but I speak only un poquito." (Those last words were measured out with a minimal gesture of the thumb and index finger of his right hand as he laughed for the first and only time--as if he had said something terribly funny.)

Mr. Rideout, Jr., then smiled at me with beatific condescension while he straightened the knot of his tie.

"I am the general manager of Charles Atlas, Ltd., and it is a great pleasure for my firm to receive you in your special status as an official guest of the Department of State of the United States of America. We will do everything possible to make your visit with us a most pleasant one."

Mr. Rideout, Jr., again applied his handkerchief to his lips before he continued with his speech, affording me the opportunity to notice his aged secretary turning down the Venetian blinds at the window that gave onto the street. The pure, clear tone of the sunlight changed to ocher; and for an instant, the appearance of the room seemed to shift, offering a completely new array of objects--as if in the photos displayed on the walls, Charles Atlas were changing poses.

"I, of course, appreciate that you have come such a great distance to meet Charles Atlas, though I must confess this is the first case of its type that has presented itself in the entire history of the firm," continued Mr. Rideout, Jr. "Like all commercial enterprises, we reserve the right to keep private certain facts that, if publicly disclosed, would damage our interests. Therefore, with this in mind, I must request your solemn oath of silence concerning what I am about to tell you."

Mr. Rideout, Jr., speaking dispassionately and without the slightest tension, reiterated the warning several times. I could only swallow hard and nod my head.

"Swear out loud," he demanded.

"Yes, I swear," I answered finally.

Although we were alone in the room with only the whistle of a radiator, Mr. Rideout, Jr., glanced around on all sides before he spoke.

"Charles Atlas doesn't exist," he whispered finally, leaning toward me over the desk. When he settled back down, he fixed his eyes upon me with a solemn look.

"I know that this comes as a great shock to you, but it's the truth. We invented this product years ago, and Charles Atlas is a company trademark, like any other--like the codfisher on the box of Scott's Emulsion or the clean-shaven face on the Gillette razor-blades package. It's what we sell; that's all."

During our long talks after the English classes back in San Fernando, Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., had warned me repeatedly about just this kind of situation: Never let them catch you with your guard down. Be like a boxer--don't let them surprise you. Demand your rights. Don't let them pull the wool over your eyes.

"Very well," I said, getting to my feet suddenly, "I'll have to inform Washington about this."

"What?" exclaimed Mr. Rideout, Jr., jumping to his feet as well.

"Yes, that's right. Inform Washington of this misfortune." (Washington, Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., had taught me, is a magical word. Use it if you're in a jam; and if that doesn't work, try the unfailing Department of State.)

"I beg you to believe me. I'm telling you the truth," Mr. Rideout, Jr., implored, but already his tone of conviction had wavered.

"I wish to send a telegram to the Department of State."

"I'm not lying to you," he continued as he backed away from me toward the narrow door, which he opened without turning and through which he suddenly disappeared, closing it behind him.

I was left standing alone in the now-darkening room. According to what Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., had told me, the trembling that I felt beneath my feet was caused by the subterranean trains.

It was late in the afternoon by the time Mr. Rideout, Jr., returned. Hammer away, keep hammering at them--I could hear Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., repeat it in my head.

"I will never believe that Charles Atlas doesn't exist," I started in immediately, without allowing him a moment to speak. He dropped into his chair like a beaten man.

"All right, all right," he repeated, waving a deprecatory hand in my direction. "The firm has consented to allow you to meet Mr. Atlas."

I smiled and thanked him with a deferential nod of the head. Be friendly and courteous when you know you have won, Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., had always told me.

"You must promise to follow strictly the conditions I exact. I have consulted with the State Department, and they have approved the documents you are about to sign. You must promise to leave the country after seeing Mr. Atlas, and to that effect I have booked you passage on the S.S. Vermont, which sails at midnight tonight. You must furthermore refrain from commenting in public or private about your visit and from referring to anyone at all about the circumstances of same or your personal impressions thereof. It is only under these terms that the company's board of directors has granted its authorization."

The old woman once again entered and handed a sheet of paper to Mr. Rideout, Jr. He placed it in front of me.

"Well, then, sign here," he said authoritatively.

Without replying, I signed on the dotted line, where his finger was tapping. When you've got what you want, sign anything except your own death sentence: Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C.

Mr. Rideout, Jr., took the document and, folding it with care, placed it in the middle drawer of the desk. Even before he had finished, I was seized from behind by the arms; turning my head, I found myself in the grip of two gigantic, muscle-bound characters dressed in black, with identical shaved heads and lugubrious scowls. I hadn't the slightest doubt that their bodies had been formed through the discipline of The Dynamic Tension System.

"They will accompany you. Follow your instructions to the letter." And Mr. Rideout, Jr., disappeared once again through the narrow doorway, without so much as a handshake or a goodbye.

The two men, without once loosening their grip, led me down a long hallway to an unlit stair well and directed me down into the darkness. Halted at the bottom, I could feel a muscular body brush past me in the dark to knock at a door that suddenly opened to reveal a small concrete dock wrapped in dense fog. I couldn't see much, but we must have been along the river front, because they quickly rushed me aboard a waiting tugboat. The tug, towing a garbage scow behind, immediately set off but at such an astonishingly slow pace that the fetid odor was blowing past us on the forward prow.

It was night by the time we disembarked from the tugboat into an alleyway heaped up with towering crates of empty bottles. We pushed our way through circles of black children playing marbles beneath the halos of yellow gas lamps and came out onto a park of dried-up weeds, slicked over by the packed, sooty ice of a recent snowfall. The hum of distant traffic and the wail of trains, miles away, drifted on the breeze through the smoke-filled night.

Ahead of us loomed a block of darkened buildings, crisscrossed by a skeletal maze of fire escapes. In the middle of the block was a strange black edifice that, as we approached, I realized was a church. Entering the courtyard, I could smell the stale, humid pungency of the moldy stone statuary of seraphim and saints entwined along the massive walls in bas-relief trellises of flowers and vines. One of my companions lighted a match to find the door knocker, and I could make out on a bronze plaque the name The Abyssinian Baptist Church. Even before the echo of the metallic knocker had faded, the door swung open on a monstrously tall albino woman in the stiffly starched white uniform of a nurse. She bowed, revealing a pink scalp beneath her thin white hair, and smiled invitingly, showing her perfect horse teeth. The two men released me finally and took up sentry posts on either side of the entrance.

"You have exactly one half hour," one of them told me.

As I was led across the central nave of the church and through a side door, I felt uncertain of my fate. Sad and exhausted, I regretted having insisted. But once again, the voice of Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., buoyed me up: Once under way, my dear boy, never turn back.

The nurse walked ahead of me down a hallway painted pure, absolute white. The ceiling, the walls, the doorways, even the floor tiles were white, and the fluorescent lamps radiated a cool, shadowless light.

With painfully measured steps, the old nurse approached a double door at the end of the corridor. One of the panels was open, but the view into the room was blocked by a white-linen screen. The woman indicated with a trembling gesture that I should enter, but I stood frozen in the white light, with the bitter taste of anxiety filling my throat. Wishing that I could abandon the entire venture, I hesitantly raised my hand to knock on the white panel, but the old woman, baring her horse teeth again, stopped me.

"Go in," she said. "Mr. Atlas is waiting for you."

Inside was the same whiteness, washed over by a diaphanous light as if with infinitely fine particles of white dust. All the objects in the room were also white: chairs, bedpans, a hospital cart with cotton balls, gauze, flasks, catheters and nickel-plated surgical instruments.

At the back of the room was a high, jointed bed with an intricate system of levers, pulleys and springs mounted on a platform. I approached slowly and respectfully, and when I stopped midway, nearly overcome with the fumes of disinfectant, and would have retreated to one of the nearby chairs, the nurse, who had already reached the bedside, motioned me forward with a gesture of invitation and yet another horse-toothed smile.

On the bed reposed the static apparition of a gigantic, muscular body, its head completely obscured in a pile of pillows. When the woman leaned over and whispered something, the body made a painful, lurching motion and sat up slightly.

"Welcome," said a voice that resonated as if through an ancient loud-speaker.

I couldn't swallow the lump in my throat, and at that moment I wished with all my heart that I had not insisted.

"Thank you, thank you very much for your visit," the voice spoke again. "I appreciate it a great deal, believe me." The voice resonated and gurgled as though drowning in a sea of saliva, and then it fell silent again, the huge body dropping back once more into the heap of pillows.

My grief was indescribable. I would have preferred a thousand times to have believed that Charles Atlas was a fantasy, that he had never existed, rather than confront the reality that this was Charles Atlas. He spoke to me from behind a mask of gauze, but I could see that beneath--where the jawbone should have been--there was a metallic apparatus screwed into the skull.

"Cancer of the mandible," he said, "extending now to all the vital organs. My health was like iron until my ninety-fifth year. Now that I'm past a hundred, this isn't so bad--cancer. I never smoked or drank, except maybe a sip of champagne at Christmas or New Year's. I never had a sickness more serious than the common cold. The doctor just recently told me that I could still have children if I wanted. When I won the title of America's Most Perfectly Developed Man ... in Madison Square Garden ... I remember ... "but his voice degenerated into a succession of pitiful whistles, and for a long time he remained silent.

"It's so many years now since I discovered The Dynamic Tension System and started the correspondence courses, thanks to the suggestion of the sculptress Miss Ethel Whitney, who used me as a model."

Charles Atlas lifted his enormous arms from under the sheets, flexing the biceps while he brought his clenched hands behind his head. The covers slipped off and I could see his torso--still the same as in the photos, except for the white fuzz on the chest. But the effort must have cost him dearly, because he let out a long, deep moan, and the nurse rushed to his side, covering him again with the sheets and tightening the bolts into his skull.

"When I left Italy with my mother," he began again, "I was only ten years old. I never could have imagined that one day I would make a fortune with my courses. I was born in Calabria. My name was Angelo Siciliano. My father had come to New York the year before, and we followed. One day, when I was at Coney Island with my new American girlfriend, a big bully kicked sand in my face, and I...."

"The same thing happened to me," I tried to add, but he went on speaking without taking any notice of me.

"I began to do my exercises, and my body began to develop magnificently. One day, my girlfriend pointed out a statue of the god Atlas on the top of a hotel and said to me, 'Look, that statue looks just like you.' "

"Listen," I tried to interrupt, "about that statue; I ..." but it was useless; the thick voice just rolled on.

"I looked at that statue and thought, Well, a name like mine isn't too popular over here. There's a lot of prejudice. Why don't I call myself Atlas? And then I changed my first name from Angelo to Charles. All the glory came afterward. I remember the day I hauled that railroad car filled with chorus girls for two hundred yards."

"Good heavens," I exclaimed, "just like me ..." but the voice, metallic and eternal, went on.

"Have you seen the statue of Alexander Hamilton in Washington? Well, that's me!" And again he lifted his arms in a gesture of hauling some great weight, such as a freight car full of chorus girls, but the pain struck him again, and he let out another long moan and collapsed on the bed without moving for some time.

In those seemingly endless moments before he began again, I could only think of how to get out of there.

"I remember Calabria," he said finally and shifted painfully from side to side in the bed sheets. The nurse tried to calm him and then went to the medical cart for a sedative.

"Calabria and Mother, with her face aglow from the flames of the oven, singing...." Then his voice crackled one octave higher in a language I couldn't understand, and the sound seemed to multiply in the empty room into a series of agonized echoes.

I had lost all track of what was happening when suddenly the incessant sound of a buzzer brought me back to myself beside the bed. It resounded through the corridors of the entire building and rebounded back to its point of origin in the room, where I saw the nurse pumping the bell cord above the bed and Charles Atlas sprawled on his back on the floor, naked and drenched in blood, the dislodged apparatus dangling from what had once been his jaw.

Immediately the room filled with footsteps, voices, shadows. I was suddenly lifted from the chair by the same powerful arms that had brought me to this place. As I was carried out through the whirl of images and the din of voices, I could hear the nurse wail, "It was too much for him. My God, he couldn't resist one last pose."

•

Now, even in my old age, writing these lines, I still find it hard to believe that Charles Atlas isn't alive. And I know that I could never disillusion the thousands of young men who are still writing to him every day to solicit information about his courses, attracted by his colossal figure, his smiling, confident face, holding in his hands a trophy or pulling a railroad car filled with chorus girls--100 jam-packed but happy young ladies in flowered bonnets waving from the windows and, among the astonished crowd witnessing the spectacle, a single hand doffing a straw hat above the multitude.

I left New York that very same night, filled with sadness and remorse, feeling guilty for having witnessed such a tragedy. By the time I returned to Nicaragua, the war was over and Captain Hatfield, U.S.M.C., was dead, and I dedicated myself to various pursuits. I was a circus performer for a while, then a weight lifter and, finally, a bodyguard. My body is not what it used to be, but thanks to The Dynamic Tension System, I could still have children. If I wanted to.

"Four short years after that bully had kicked sand in my eyes, I was already a different man."