Not Thinking About It

"You got your shorts tonight?" grins the girl at the counter.  There are three of them looking at me.

"Yes, I've got them tonight," I smile back, looking through my wallet for my card.  I hand it to her and she scans it.

"Hey, is today your birthday?"

"No.  Tomorrow.  Do I win anything?"

"Just us wishing you a happy birthday," says one of the others.

"Well that's more than enough," I say.  "That's plenty."

Working out at the YMCA is not like working out in a real gym full of miscreants and chemicals.  Except for the number of people mucking about and lying around in the middle of the floor with their trainers, it is easy working out here.  It is easy to tell yourself not to push it, not to go heavy, or to tell yourself you are strong as you watch some fellow on a balance ball doing shaky dumbbell shoulder presses.  The trainers all wear red polo shirts with "YMCA" stitched on and a smile of the saved, not quite happy, exactly, but somehow pleased.  The nice thing is that people stay out of my way.  I work out fast and fairly hard and am sweating and blowing most of the time.

"You mind if I work in?" I'll ask, or "How many sets do you have left?"

"Oh, sure, work in," they'll say, or "I've only got one more set."  Still, I worry.

One night a kid got wise with me.  He was bigger than I am in some ways, taller and longer, and he was fit, and he thought to give me an attitude.  He was a funny boys like all of them there, one of the privileged who went to fine private schools and practiced the art of getting his way as his father and his mother and his parents' friends had taught him, with superior breeding and a staunchly holy attitude.  His girlfriend was watching, a tall, imperially slender girl whose pedigree equalled his.

"Just go on and get your workout and I'll come get you when I'm finished," he said with a dismissive fling of the head.

"No," I said, "I'll just wait here and watch you.  How long do you think you'll be?"

"You've got about ten minutes," he said.

"How many sets you doing?"

He didn't like the way this was going.

"Two."

"Two?  Jesus Christ man, you're going to do two sets in ten minutes?  I'll work in.  I'll be finished before you are."

Then he made a mistake.

"Hey, back off. . . you're not my dad."

"That's right," I almost said, "I'm not fucking your girlfriend," but I remembered where I was and edited real quick.  "You're gonna find out how much I'm not your dad in about a second," I said closing the gap fast.  His eyes popped and his face started the involuntary dance of the scared.  "Do your fucking set."

He finished up and walked off without looking.  Funny, I thought.  He didn't know he could have hurt me pretty badly.  But he also didn't know I've had a lifetime of challenging people who could hurt me if they I hadn't made them doubt it.  Growing up among morons with retard strength and no moral fiber whatsoever taught me one thing or two.  Nobody wanted to fight them.

Home again, I went through the routine.  The cat needed love before food.  The dishes needed to be put away so I could get the dirty things off the counter.  I showered thinking I wasn't really hungry and could eat little tonight but also thinking about the two bottles of wine I had sitting in the rack.  Out of the shower, I stood before the steamy mirror.  Normally, I avoid looking now, but I cleared the moisture with the hair dryer and stared.  Jesus, looked what's happened to you, I thought.  The muscles were still somewhat slabbed, but I'd let layers of fat form around them.  Ten pounds, I said.  That's all.  Maybe.  I flexed and things took shape for a minute.  I could fake it, but I saw through the skin and down to the bone remembering every x-ray and scan.  Underneath, I didn't look so good.  I didn't want to think about my liver.  Quit drinking I thought again for the millionth time.  Then I smiled the crooked smile.  Who the hell cares? I laughed, remembering the last time I stood before anybody naked.  It doesn't matter.

I didn't want to think about it, but tomorrow, I knew I wouldn't be able to help it.  I've always hated my birthday.  They are never any fun.