Observations Worth Forgetting
Dave helps Tony Curtis with his burning trowsers in the film, Don't Make Waves
There are some new faces on the gym floor. Flyers have been posted on vehicles in the neighborhood announcing a six-week membership to The Weight Room for $49. It’s a deal, even if you don’t use it; you can honestly say you made a valid effort. From the looks of things -- soft and round -- this line of thinking works for lots of folks.
The recentmost toilers-in-iron have a few things in common, besides their noticeable out-of-shapeness. They’ve been in a gym before, but they forgot what to do with it. Suddenly the bars, bells and gadgets, swell body-shaping (tools) ideas on a flyer, are before them in stark and heavy reality, and they all look the same.
They walk about tentatively and anxiously. Displaying knitted brows and darting eyes, they touch the equipment with curiosity and suspicion, dogs sniffing a stranger’s hand. To bite or not to bite, you can almost hear them pant, growl and whimper.
This piece looks familiar, they say, their lips moving imperceptibly, as they give a sidelong glance at the instructions decaled on a vertical upright: Heavy Duty Squat Rack. Hmmm, that sounds like a dandy. I’ll start here. You glance in their direction and your eyes meet, and they look away, as if they were caught stealing, or cheating, or lying, scratching their bottoms or talking to themselves.
This is when I, too, avert my eyes, make a scary face, emit a guttural sound and grasp the nearest weighted device. Bombing, blasting, bursting.
I’m not the type to smile broadly and offer assistance. I’ve practiced that routine in the past and received a frosty reception, total rejection or abysmal defeat. I tried my best. I recall the gals looking at me like I was a creep (hey, babe, you train here often?) or the guys ignoring me like I was a jerk (hey, fathead, you’re doing that exercise wrong!). Kids, I could tell, wanted to be left alone (hey, runt, if you’re going to lift weights, do it in the corner).
No, thank you. No more Mister Nice Guy. I’m looking out for numero uno.
A bulky guy bumps into me, plodding wearily through the gym, back door to front counter, like he left his jackhammer in his truck to cool off. Surely this fellow is here to purchase a refreshing drink and be on his way, I say to myself. Good work is hard to find, as are good workers. He smells like a tool shed and I hope he leaves quickly by the front door.
I’m not intolerant or judgmental or a snob; it’s just that you’ve got to separate the gym from the detritus of the outside world. The guy’s shedding and polluting and slogging.
A short length of chain in hand, I’m modifying the extension of a cable on the pulley system to suit my needs. I like things just right -- smooth, well-fit, effective -- and take the extra step to achieve it. I look up, and, sprawled on the most sought-after bench press in all his unshaven, unwashed, shabby greasiness, is Buster Trashpockets. I’m wondering, is he on his way out, lost, drunk or a potential member in good standing evaluating the equipment?
I don’t think a grown man should have the crack of his butt showing three inches above the waist of his baggy pants. Call me old fashioned. In fact no one over two gets away with it in my book. And now we have this fiftyish dude immodestly straddling a weight tree as he selects his next pair of clanky clean plates.
Say it ain’t so. He’s working out. And he seems to leave smudges and liter and a stinky cloud wherever he goes.
This is a tough situation. You say something, and you’re the jerk. Say nothing, and Stinko walks. The 16-year-old babysitting the gym is, well, 16 years old. Huh and wha are his common responses to most circumstances. I’m on my own.
Stretched across five spaces in the peapod parking lot is a worn pickup truck hooked to a worn trailer loaded with worn tires and stuff. No space remains for arriving fitness feigns unless they walk, ride bikes or crawl. Grrr... I’m mad.
Of course, I bring his attention to the parking situation and he vehemently and selfishly defends his position. “Where else am I going to park?” I say something less than diplomatic, respect and responsibility my theme, and he grouses like a grouse. Others look on, Draper’s on a rampage.
Vented, I return to my workout. Maybe he’s gotten the message he doesn’t own the joint. Maybe he’ll develop a sense of respect and responsibility as he develops his muscle and strength. These go hand in hand. Maybe he’ll rake ‘n wash ‘n drip-dry before he soils the gym and repulses the trainees around him. Sensibility and cleanliness often accompany disciplined lifters. Maybe he’ll become a hairdresser, a professor or a politician... the mayor.
Oops! Another new guy, tattoos covering every inch of exposed skin. His head is shaved and he’s wearing a tanktop and knee-length shorts. He’s a kid becoming a man, and he’s loading a bar with plates.
Man-kids with tattoos do that a lot, I notice. Swagger in (I’m cool), and before warming up, pile on the plates to match the one-rep max on the best day of his life when he was 20 pounds heavier and had the football team to spot him. The bar comes down with a crunch and a groan, and he meekly restores his manhood, as the bar is pulled from his chest by the center, two fullbacks and a cheerleader. He floods the end of the gym with excuses that fall to the floor as quickly as his bench press. Ho, hum. Seen it all before.
I watch stealthily from my hunched position by peering through the jungle of gym equipment and his reflection in a mirror. I’m a secret agent man. Mad Dog grabs the weight and knocks out 12 perfect reps. My eyes glaze over and I feel like an arse ole, whatever that is. He walks my way. Oh, no... hope he’s not mad.
After a long swig from the water fountain, the black and blue, dash of red and green and flesh-colored dude says, “Hi, my name is Dean. I trained here when I was young, Mr. Draper. You look better than ever. You helped me with my bench press. How’s Laree?”
I knew there was something very special about the remarkable young gentleman the moment I saw him march onto the floor and confidently address the equipment... years of dedicated training the right way. “I see your workouts have paid off, Dean.”
“I joined the Marines back then and just returned from 15 months in Iraq. Not a whole lot of time to lift, Sir. Thought I’d get in some training before going back. The weights get heavy fast, Sir,” he said. I nodded.
Call me a dope.
Not to change the subject, but who’s that, another new face? She looks familiar. That’s the gal who won the Miss Santa Cruz and Iron Woman contest in 2005, I’m sure of it. Never forget that athletic muscularity and stunning shape, a rare combination. Same strong jawbone. Has a reputation for training like an animal. You can tell. Muscle density is a dead giveaway, and the totality of the muscular development. She knows her way around a gym.
Oh, she wants to talk to me. Cool, but I’m a very busy and serious man loading and unloading his Olympic bar, a pro at work. No time for small talk. She’s all smiles as she says, “Excuse me. May I ask a favor?” He he... here we go again. “Yes, I’m Dave Draper,” I say, dead sure.
“Hi, I’m Tilly and I’m looking for the Santa Cruz Smoke Club. It’s around here somewhere. Have you heard of it?” she asks, dead serious.
The SCSC provides prescription marijuana to the county’s suffering residents.
I stare at her, but I don’t see her. My shoulders slide down to my butt. I’m confused, dumbfounded, disappointed... odd looking.
“Yes, it’s in the next building over,” I point to a wall. “What about your workouts, Tilly? What’s that you say? You’ve never been in a gym before? You’re not into sports? You’re a paralegal? I see,” I say.
“You should try it, Til. It’s far out, man. Like, you’ll dig it. Heavy.”
I go to the gym to strengthen my body, mind and soul. Today I have completely unraveled, unwired and disconnected. No more wise, crystal-clear observations, Draper. Lighten up, loosen up, be cool, chill out.
The gym is many things, a good place to work out stuff.
Fly away till another day... Dave
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