Remission

"I want to make you proud, Pops."

Freudian Slips rarely covers sequels but this one fell into my lap. While working out in the free weight room of my gym, I was revisited by the vein-popping gladiator and Napoleon, the sadistic and masochistic father and son workout team. In the recesses of the gym, the freestanding gladiator dropped his dumbbells to let me know he had finished his set of curls. When the dumbbells bounced off the shock absorbing mats and rolled near my ankles, I figured as much. I moved over to the next workout bench to be out of harm’s way.

An older woman, who masked her baldness with a bright scarf, offered an inviting hello to Napoleon. Napoleon and this woman acted as if they had not seen each other in a long time. A brief conversation ensued. From my decampment, I noticed that the woman reduced her speaking voice. I could hear about half of the conversation. She ran through a gamut of emotions. She told him of her sudden illness, the domino search for a medical doctor who could find a correct diagnosis, her hysterical reaction to learning then dealing with her cancer, the chemotherapy, and now her strength to return to the gym.

“There is my son.” pointed Napoleon. “Over there in the blue shorts.”

The only two members working out in the room wore blue shorts, gladiator and me. The gladiator seemed peeved about something that could have been as simple as my wearing blue. He started to huff, puff, and mumble profanities under his breath. I started to shake my head across the grain like I couldn’t be related to these dysfunctional fools.

“Not not him.” answered Napoleon. “The other guy is my son.”

The conversation between Napoleon and the cancer victim ended with a heartfelt hug. Napoleon walked back into the free weight room. The woman started to walk around the track. I thought of the self-irony, to be included in a blog story I already started to write in my head about these recurring characters. The gladiator now completely ignored his father. Napoleon whispered something that turned the gladiator’s face beet red.

“She has cancer.” Napoleon admitted louder. “Be understanding.”

The gladiator had enough. He ate cancer chexx as a breakfast cereal. “She is weak.” he mocked. “You are here to get stronger. Get out of my f--king face, dad.”

“You don't understand. She has been though a rough ordeal, that’s all.”

“What I don't understand is what does her cancer have to do with you? Nothing.”

The dad cowered a tail between his legs. “I’ll catch up in the workout. Just tell me what I missed when I was talking to her.”

The gladiator said, “You are here to workout not listen to an old bitty’s sob story. We came here to pump iron.”

“Give me one more chance.”

“I am ashamed of you. I don’t want to even look at you. Scram. You’re on your own today, Pops. You make me sick. You can’t even do a complete workout without jerking off with the ladies.”

As I did some lat pull downs looking rather incredulous, Napoleon grabbed a set of 25-pound dumbbells off the rack. The gladiator snatched the dumbbells from his possession then got in his father’s face.

“Why don’t you go hold her hand and leave me out of it. You and the old lady can skip around the track like two little girls.”

When your life is full of mirrors, it is a reflection on you.