On A Roll Like That

As I gently rolled my gym bag on wheels up the pitched sidewalk to Bally’s gym, I heard grunting sounds. When I rounded the corner, I saw a young man manually pushing a mid-sized car without its engine on across the width of the gym parking lot. He struggled mightily but seemed determined.

I hollered, “I have jumper cables, buddy. We can turn over the engine that way.”

No response followed. The man continued to expel vast amounts of energy pushing bulk metal. He cried for water.

I thought better of what I asked the moment after the words escaped me. “Do you want me to help you push it?”

I heard another man’s stern voice coming from inside the car. Wearing the crimson garb of a gym employee, he shouted through the downed windows. “Don’t help him. He paid for this personal training session.”

I stood there dumbfounded like the middle-aged out-of-shape person. When I workout, I just don’t roll like that.

Laying Down the Law

Ever since my locker was broken into at the gym last year, I keep my valuables in the car and have been working out with my keys kept in my possession at all times. It seemed a foolproof way to stay safe and keep my new car from being stolen.

The keyring lump in my shorts has its disadvantages. I often have to reposition my car keys during stretching exercises on a floor mat and situps on a bench to avoid discomfort. No big deal. In the last few weeks, I have incurred some minor setbacks.

By definiton, technology is suppose to make it harder for criminals to operate. I have come to learn that protecting my gym locker from break-in by hoarding my keys can mean making my car accessible. While Seinfeld's George Castanza would marvel at some of the close parking spots I am stealing at the gym lately, the untold story is that I am triggering my deft transponder during exercise and thereby popping the car door locks and trunk.

While my locker full of 1980's garb has never been safer on a continuim, all of the thieves are canvassing the parking lot waiting for me just to roll on my stomach and lay down the law.

Fitness Cycles

At Bally’s gym, happenstance placed me on an exercise bike next to a serious minded middle-aged woman. I attempted in vain to keep up with her spinning legs but I quickly settled into a 6 mph trailer crawl. She had never broken stride by the time I baled on the ride ten minutes down the road.

A half an hour later, this ambitious woman appeared next to me in the free weight area, where she grabbed heavier dumbbells and out-muscled me on the arm curls. She later outstretched me on the floor mat. On an incline bench, she accomplished more sit-ups. She completed more repititions than I on the lat pull down bar. A picture of fitness, she only grimaced during exercises that made me profusely sweat. By the closing ceremonies, I was intramural athletic to her Olympian effort.

I mused over leaving the gym at the same time. The airport sound of my rolling gym bag on wheels made a mockery of my state of fitness compared to her shoulder straggling backpack. To my chagrin and pride, I detected no signs of actual fatigue from her gold medal performance.

I chatted, “It’s a good feeling to be finished with a workout.”

“Yes it is.” she replied.

Heading off to my car, we strangely parted company where the sidewalk met the parking lot. By the time my lard butt touched my car’s leather seat, this woman had simply disappeared. I never saw her pull out of the lot.

As more irony would have it, I passed her on the shoulder of a two-lane road. Leading with a Greg Lemond chin, she pedaled a shiny bicycle into the biting wind of a winter day. I floored it. Forget about the unfair advantage of a gasoline alley because I incautiously sped ahead of her for the first time in her workout. I leaned on my horn, beeping it in shallow victory.

Standing Tall

I stood in my family room complaining of the scaffolding needed to paint my vaulted twenty-five foot high walls. All of a sudden, Irving Magill’s face entered my memory banks. There he was and I knew damn well why. Irving tumbled forward to remind me that I had taken life for granted.

Like a Midwest sheriff from a yesteryear staled by blowing tumbleweeds, security guard Irving Magill wore a cowboy hat and a shiny badge of self-importance. He stood about 6’8” tall, a lanky appearance about as unattractive as they come. He walked with an unbecoming scissor gait like he had just been hit by gun shrapnel. Not unlike his unusual walk, his ways were also off kilter. Irving didn’t have a bad bone in his body but he annoyed people without even trying down to their bones.

A security guard at Bally’s gym, Irving took his job too seriously for common folk. He pretended to show valor where courage was never circumstantially questioned. When locker room crime slid on the fritz, Irving directed incoming traffic in the busy parking lot. He wielded a blow whistle, flashlight, and moved orange cone props around the parking lot like an obstacle course at a Nazi driving school. Bally clientele showed impatience with his high-strung antics. Many challenged his authority while insensitive patrons downright ridiculed him.

Irving had very little going for him in life other than the thankless underpaid job people gave him a hard time doing. His older more society-deemed successful brother worked as a decorated police officer. So I recognized Irving’s need to wear a badge but I don’t think many other people figured that one out. They viewed Irving like an overzealous school crossing guard working the wrong checkpoint. He told people they parked their cars cock-eyed within the white lines, yelled at adult pedestrians for running in the parking lot, or asked patrons too many awkward but well-meaning questions.

One night his big paw waved a halt sign my way in the parking lot. I obliged by stopping my vehicle dead in its tracks. I rolled down my window and awaited further instruction.

“Joe, did I tell ya I am getting my first house next month? I go to settlement in a few weeks.”

“Congratulations, Irving.” I complimented, “You must be darn proud.”

“I am blessed but it’s just a little trailer home. Not much to speak of but it is a place to hang my hat, call home. That is always a good thing.”

“Where is this place that you will be hanging your cowboy hat?”

“Thanks for asking.” He smiled in front of the idling cars lining up behind my vehicle. “They are hauling the trailer tomorrow to its final resting spot in the boondocks of Vineland. I gotta make some modifications to it before taking up residence. After that I’ll be able to stand without hitting me head in all but two of the rooms. That is always a good thing.”

Walls between people are artificial. Walls in need of painting are as high as you make them out to be.

Sneak Peak At Personal Training

At the turn of every year, millions of overweight Americans pledge a New Year's resolution to lose weight. Such a pledge had me back at the gym working extra hard. There is nothing like taking a personal training session with a hardcore certified fitness instructor. Julio’s chiseled physique resembled that of a professional body builder. His baritone voice possessed boot camp qualities. Although my mind drew different conclusions, I did whatever he said during the hour long session.

“Take this 15 lb. medicine ball and slowly move it laterally across your torso. Do it with your feet anchored to the floor.” He demonstrated flawless form then handed me the ball.

“Joe, I said slowly move the medicine ball not swing it.” His pencil thin mustache wrinkled when he spoke. “There how does that feel?”

“It hurts like bad medicine ball.”

He corrected me. "It is a good hurt, the right kind of hurt to get your body back into shape. I don’t want to see you sticking out your belly.” He pressed on my stomach with his open palm. “When you are talking to me, feel your core.”

He waiting for me to ask the question. “My core?”

“Drop the ball. Now suck in your stomach and hold it. Look at yourself in front of this mirror. Go on.”

I looked twenty pounds lighter in the full length mirror so long as I held my breath. While he continued to study me like a work in progress, I opted for oxygen the first time he looked away. With his eyes back on me, I sucked in my gut.

“That’s right. Now that is the upright midline position I want you to adopt.”

“Joe, how do you feel?”

“On the verge of fainting or getting a hernia, sir!”

“Try not to look like you are a red balloon ready to pop. You must hold that midline position while you walk, talk, and breathe. There will come a day that you thank me.”

I questioned, “There might come a day when I want to breathe. When will I be thanking you?”

“If you ever work in a high-rise building and it catches fire, it is the strength of your core that will help you safely escape.”

“I work in a rancher. My desk is thirty feet from the closest exit. I’ll get out the door with my belly shaking like scared Jell-O.”

Even a crack of humor escaped his constitution. “Here is a different scenario, same principle.” he plotted. “You have to be able to lift yourself up. You must be able to hoist your body weight. It is the only way you can play effectively with your kids.”

I thought about the activity level of each of my four kids. Humm, as long as there is enough space on the sofa, Playstation never asked for anything other than fit thumbs.

He harked apocalyptic scenarios. “If there is another war on our homeland, the donut eating soft underbelly of society will wish they developed their core abs.”

I played out the scenario in my head. If the United States Army drafts this flat-footed forty-five year old with a weak midsection, we are going to lose before I down my next donut.

As we moved from machine to machine, my instructor would not relent. “When you are reclined in a dental chair and the hygienist instructs you to rinse, do you want to continue to wait for the hydraulic chair to inch forward, or do you want to sit-up dignified under your own recognizance?”

As my body pressed on with the rigors of exercise, I laid out the pros and cons in my head. A washboard stomach getting me faster to a rinse cup twice a year is no reason to do grueling daily abdominal exercises like I am cross training for an Olympic decathlon.

“No woman wants a Pillsbury dough boy.” He drilled. “Now grab this pull-up bar. Women want six pack abs. The ladies want a rack of rock solid ribs.”

I thought to myself. Bread, beer, and ribs. He is making my stomach hungry.

“Your midsection is vital to how women view you as a sex object.”

I disagreed, “No it’s not.” I could feel the pinch of my wedding band on the pull bar. “My wedding ring is how women view me. I am married.”

Over the next hour, he hung me upside down like a bat. He reclined me on what could have passed for a gynecological table. He made me catch and throw a ball that was too heavy for league bowling. He made me swear that I would refrain from all-you-can eat buffets.

Following my personal training workout, I felt exhausted just walking to my car. I was afraid of becoming a paraplegic in an automobile accident. I held onto a lingering irrational fear that Japan might bomb Pearl Harbor again. I was afraid that Osama Bin Laden lurked behind the bushes. I wondered if terrorists had hijacked the planes in the sky. Of course, I blamed the unpleasant images on my abdominal area rotting to the core. My hand swept my aching stomach muscles that now consumed my undivided attention. With a thunderous exclamation point, I tripped on my untied shoelaces across the sidewalk. May this lesson reach the millions making New Year's Eve resolutions. When you put your best foot forward in exercise, make sure your shoes are tied.

The Biggest Dumbbell

To officially kick-off the NFL football season, allow me to digress to a situation dating back to last year. It is one that I should have passed on.

A ruggedly handsome muscular man noticed my Philadelphia Eagles jersey bleeding green from the moment I entered the Bally’s free weight room. His eyes bulged from the weights he pushed skyward but he quickly made conversation between honest sets. The smell of the Eagles current playoff run seemed like it lingered in the air.

“Are you a big Eagles fan?” he asked.

“One of the biggest fans around. When the Eagles made it to the Super Bowl, the Courier Post newspaper did a multi-page story on me. They hailed me as “Super Fan” in the article.”

“Then I am talking to the right person.” he promoted. “What do you think the Eagles chances are this weekend in the playoffs?”

If there was a pulpit, I would have stood on it for what I was about to say. “The team really responds to back-up quarterback Jeff Garcia taking over for Donovan McNabb. Garcia is an incredible field general and I welcome his leadership.”

“So you prefer Garcia over McNabb as our quarterback?”

I am mindful when speaking to strangers especially when it comes to their passion for football. So I opted to de-escalate the quarterback controversy.

I answered, “I am no frontrunner jumping on the bandwagon of Jeff Garcia’s recent success and there is no racial issue intended. I like McNabb, admire his immense talent, even wear his jersey on my back. However, I think McNabb has a kink in his armour that Garcia is exposing in his absence.”

“In your mind, what is the kink in McNabb’s armour?”

“I am going t be honest with you. Donovan McNabb seems to lack leadership. McNabb doesn’t rally his troops on the sideline. I bet McNabb doesn’t say anything to his teammates in the huddle. I bet McNabb doesn’t…”

“He does with me…” defended the man.

“What?” I scoffed.

Never before was the height difference between two men on the same issue at a greater divide. My neck cocked back to take in this man’s grandeur and his wingspan alone was enough to rival that of an eagle. My waiting for an explanation had me feeling microscopically insignificant, even as a media annoited "Super Fan."

He explained, “When I am on the sidelines or in the huddle with Donovan McNabb he shows leadership. He has absolute control of the team.”

I had done so much talking that I felt ashamed to ask my first question. “Who are you?”

“Adrien Clarke, offensive lineman, a member of the Eagles 2005 Super Bowl squad.”

Adrien Clarke worked out with nothing but dumbbells that day and I was the biggest dumbbell in the weight room. Adrien and I have since become friendly but not without a less than McNabbimous start. Look for #61 6’5” 330 lb. Adrien Clarke on the field for the New York Jets this season.

Survival of the Fittest

I turned forty years old before I fully understood my skin disease. Sustained exercise robs me of endurance and drops the oxygen level in my bloodstream. My muscles fatigue regardless of conditioning. My body fails to cool itself so I incessantly perspire like an expectant father of quadruplets fighting the inevitability of parenthood.

Mastocytosis brings added challenges to my love affair with sports, especially racquetball. Racquetball is a moveable game of chess played at a hundred miles an hour. It is an exhilarating game of reflexes, sprinting, and strategy. Although I play the game like a wet mop sweeping the hard court now, allow me to reminiscence when I was not only in better shape but when I lived in ignorance about my skin disease.

Playing against my skin disease and worthy opponents, I finished the 1999 Bally’s Racquetball League four points shy of going undefeated. Amassing 59 Wins and only 1 Loss, I coasted in the playoffs and won the gym championship in my bracket. Feeling my oats, I entered a sanctioned South Jersey Racquetball Association Tournament. Experienced racquetball players from across the state entered the event, a three-day tournament from Friday night until Sunday afternoon. It was survival of the fittest, a best of three game single elimination tournament.

Lose a match and you go home dragging your racquet between the legs. While I shift my balance well and possess lightning quick reflexes, that is not much of an arsenal in statewide racquetball tournament play. I have no kill shots in my repertoire. I do not hit winners. Consequently, my matches are marathon events measuring attrition. My racquetball game consists of hustle and instincts that calculate probability odds of my opponent's shot placement. My game plan attempts to guess right and outlast an opponent’s body or mind. Surrender has never been an option for me.

On Friday night, I won racquetball matches at 7pm, 8pm, and 10pm. Saturday was no less grueling but my winning ways continued. It wasn’t just tough on me. I took credit for making an opponent vomit. While my racquetball game made it to Sunday for the semi-finals, my body felt quite differently about the ordeal. By Sunday morning, my body felt like setting concrete. I had difficulty even rousing myself out of the bed slab just to make it to the gym.

I won the semi-finals on Sunday morning. In the finals, I faced the #1 seed in the tournament, a confident experienced player. He played the game with mach speed and power. I found few holes in his game and Las Vegas would have had him as the odds on favorite. I barely won the first game 15-12 but not before trading innumerable shots in a 40 minute game.

In the second game, I controlled the early action but my opponent went on a run to close to 10-9. I called timeout because I could no longer pump air into my lungs. My body overheated, evidenced by my plum color. My skin lesions erupted to a fiery hue. I felt on the verge of collapse. Gulping water and air, I lifted my head from the water fountain. Perspiration seeped from my headband. I knew if I lost this game, he would steamroll me in the deciding tiebreaker to win the tournament.

During the timeout, I changed my shirt for the third time. I caught my first glimpse of the trophies resting on the wooden bench awaiting a coronation. While there existed only a slight height difference between the first and second place trophies, the engraved markings made all the difference in my world. My mind locked onto the first place trophy and I took this visual back into the court like a hungry bulldog thrown a T-bone. It was now or never to take care of business.

On the next point following the timeout, I made a backhanded sprawling dive on a ball that perfectly died in the corner's wedge. What a difference an inch makes. The point shifted the momentum back my way. My opponent never mentally recovered and he started to make unforced errors. Like so many other opponents before him, I had broken his will to win. A decisive point later, I raised my hands in an underdog’s triumph. Afterwards, we shook hands to show sportsmanship. My opponent smiled agreeably through clenched teeth. He knew he just lost to a man who could barely breathe.

I have since come to learn the negative effects of exertion on my skin disease. I risk triggering anaphylaxis by putting excessive stress on my body. I had forced my body to operate on blind ambition while ignoring the warning signals. No amount of conditioning can offset my skin disease. This racquetball match marked the last time I played competitive sports. I miss it but I went out a winner.

Rounding into Shape

After three weeks of not being well enough to workout at the gym, I returned today in sluggish fashion. My supple stomach felt like this on the situp bench.

Baggage

After a rejuvenating workout at the gym, I wound up lockered next to a peculiar man. Dressed in mismatched clothes, the man looked like he did not belong at the gym…at least not for a workout. When he opened his gym bag, I saw a bevy of pornographic girlie magazines, spoiled food fitting of a squirrel, and a hand towel positioned to conceal a 35mm camera. Alarmingly, his actions superceded the contents of the stuffed ditty bag. As if I were an invisible bystander, the man repeatedly fondled silk boxers that peeked naughtily out of a zippered compartment. The man walked with his head down to make repeated marches to the sink for hand washing only to return to his magic gym bag to fondle the garment. I am not sure that he ever wanted to leave his gym bag side. Rather, I think compulsions made it the only option.

When he started mumbling to himself, I quickly dressed back to civilian clothes while his camera remained tucked away. I had seen enough. The man all to himself gave me more than enough evidence for me to form my own opinion. In my own crowded mind, I called him insane. Then I remembered my just finished workout ritual.

I lollygagged inside the snack bar for a few minutes so I could start my workout exactly at 10am sharp. Once comfortable to set myself into motion, my own compulsiveness required me to do the circuit machines in the predetermined order of a set routine. Superstitiously, I used the same weight I have been doing since I started losing weight a year ago. I exerted the same amount of energy by pushing the weights for the same amount of repetitions. I kept my heart elevated, pausing only for water breaks every fifteen minutes on the hour. I repeatedly cleaned off the machines with paper towels. More than once or twice, I fastidiously checked myself in the mirror. I ended my workout when the secondhand struck twelve exactly one hour later. Nine seconds over my mark, my lips almost moved to voice disapproval. I proceeded to the locker room, where I called another man insane.

Every Breath I Take

After a gym workout, I occasionally cool down in the swimming pool. I prefer to take advantage of this opportunity when there is nobody else using the pool. There is nothing more serene than lying submerged in still water by my lonesome. Many people do not like being alone in their skin. For better or worse, I have never been quite like other people.

Left alone in this world to my own devices, I will lay with my eyes closed floating on my back in water. I embrace the weightless buoyancy by paddling just enough to avoid sinking. The void of outside noises, voices, and distractions is soothing. With no waves or ripples and just my nose teetering above tepid water, my worries dissipate. I do not know if it is a logical extension of myself or a spiritual experience but something happens when I skim across the top of a swimming pool. If I listen closely, I can hear myself breathe. Most people take their breath for granted but noticing the very breath giving life is exactly the exclamation point. I draw deep breaths through my lungs and push air out through my mouth. It magnifies the sound of my breath in an echo chamber. A purposeful oxymoron, my breath makes me feel alive like no other feeling on this planet. Whenever I recreate this wonderful feeling, it is as if I am in a warm womb preparing for birth. Without fail, I ask God what I should be doing with my precious breaths in my life, however many may be left. To what end I do not know but the answer inadvertently always comes back to writing. To keep writing.

Iron Supplements

"I'm going to be murder at the gym when I get older, Dad."

In the sweaty recesses of my gym, I often overhear an extraordinary case of verbal abuse. The situation repeats itself as two workout partners double as sparring partners with the general public as their captive audience. A man, who could be mistaken for Napoleon’s identical twin, follows the boot camp instructions of a muscular gladiator who is missing a neck. Not exactly a public display of affection, the gladiator yells and screams at his workout partner. With an in-your-face attitude, he belittles his partner under the guise of motivational speaking. As if the public facility were his private gym, the gladiator’s tone is obnoxiously loud. Operating on a short fuse, the gladiator seems to sadistically benefit from slapping Napoleon across the face with insulting words.

The poor excuse of a gentleman angers me in the despicable manner that he treats this other human being. Sworn enemies are treated better upon surrender. If I tried to correct or question the pumped up gladiator, I suspect that they would assault me on a united front before returning to their own argument. In favor of my own safety, I just stay out of harm’s way.

The gladiator mocked his partner. “Look at the baby carrying his ditty bag into the locker room. Baby.”

“Leave me alone.” groveled Napoleon. “I just want to get changed then stretch out before we start our workout.”

“You’re wasting time changing your diaper. Bak. Bak. Don’t be afraid of hard work, old man. Bak. Bak”

Thirty minutes later, I witnessed tight-limbed Napoleon getting hurt while pumping iron in the free weight room. Clutching his bicep, the older man started whimpering. Crying was apparently not within the rules.

“You ought to be bleeping ashamed of yourself.” chastised the gladiator. You bleeping sissy. Sissy.”

“Give me a minute. I felt something pop. I hurt my arm.” moaned Napoleon with a pained expression. “I told you last week that rack is too much weight for me.”

“Cry baby. Cry baby.” dismissed the gladiator. “I survived a bleeping helicopter crash into the side of a mountain and you can’t bench press 225 pounds for 12 reps Band-aid free? What a loser you are! Loser.”

The gladiator sported a grating way to repeat his insult in the same sentence. The original disbelief to the listener’s ear became replaced by outrage after hearing the repetition. The gladiator followed his wounded partner out into the hall to continue the verbal abuse. By the decibel level of his hollering, nobody needed to be out in that hallway to know what was going on.

The tirade continued, “Look at your pathetic self. You are a pansy. A Nancy boy. You’re old and weak. Get back into the free weight room you bleeping quitter. Quitter.”

I had enough. “That’s it.” I dismissed. “I’m going upstairs to another workout room. This sideshow destroys my karma.”

A man working out his chiseled triceps replied, “What a pair, huh?”

“A pair you say?” I asked rhetorically. “I don’t know how or why in the world that old guy is friends with that vein popping maniac. They are water and oil.”

“They are father and son.”

“What did you say?”

“They are father and son. I know that for a fact.”

I had trouble pairing the words together. “Father and son?”

The father-son duo re-entered the room. Their arguing provided ironic background noise to the surprising revelation. The gladiator chastised his father over to semi-supine position on an incline bench. To think human beings look down on the animal kingdom for killing their young.

Don't Hold Your Breath

Although my body was not feeling up to the task, I convinced myself to do another set of ten. So with my back planted on a weight bench in my gym, I grunted disproportionately to the small dumbbell my arms lifted overhead. Suddenly from the far end of the gym, I glimpsed the blur of a Super-sized man approaching my reclined position. A pair of massive Popeye forearms snatched the 30 lb. dumbbell from my grasp in the middle of my exercise routine. Not comfortable with the brazen maneuver, I jerked upright to see if this were some kind of prank from somebody I knew. I did not know the guy before me, who owned only more muscles than tattoos. Without introduction, the man told me to lie back down so he could show me something. I strangely complied. I then watched his hands manipulate thirty pounds of weight easier than a sixth grader twirling a pencil in between fingers.

“You will get more range of motion in your extension if you cup your hands like this on the weight.”

After he finished modeling proper technique, he returned the dumbbell to me. Then he took the liberty of repositioning my hands into proper alignment.

“There. Feel the difference?” he asked.

“I’ll give it a try.” I offered.

“And don’t hold your breath this time.”

Taken back by his forwardness to weigh in on the moment, I completed two more sets before rendering technical judgment. I dropped the weights to the padded floor and sat upright again. The same man now tended to his own business moving Herculean 45 lb. plates on each side of a bench press barbell.

“Yeah, there was less torque on my arms. It felt more natural.” I agreed. “Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome.” He replied.

I have been known to ask one question too many too many times and this time was no different.

“Hey, who taught you how to do it that way?”

“Convicts. I did five the hard way at Rahway prison.”

I’m not holding my breath but I want this to be the last time an ex-convict tells me to lie down, cup my hands, and comply.

The No Joy No Luck Club

In retrospect, I have had the privilege of only peripherally knowing Theorell Z. Chapman. Since we attend the same gym, sheer proximity has been a causative factor in our interfacing. He once asked me to be a good sport and play him a game of racquetball or we might never have wound up on the same court. We shared the same Trotter workout equipment on occasion. I cycled next to him on a stationary bike when there was a machine available. We passed each other incidentally on the jogging track never more familiar than a stated first name and standard hello.

About the time I considered Theorell not a stranger and an acquaintance, he became stranger. He started to behave so differently it would have been easier to argue a body snatcher theory and that he became a different person all together. Fellow gym members spread rumors about his outrageous behavior that spared not bursts of aggression and touched on inappropriateness with females. I expressed a word of caution to his best friend in that he might seek professional help for Theorell. All in all, the word around the gym was fitting of a midwife; give Theorell a wide birth. After heeding the community warning, twenty four hours later I realized how difficult even good advise is to employ.

As I approached the club from the parking lot, I saw Theorell's looming face nearly pressed to the glass windows. Just my luck. As if I were his long lost best friend, Theorell nearly vaulted over the counter after he saw me enter the gym. He whisked by vending machines and two startled ladies on a tour of the establishment to approach me from behind. His frantic maneuvers bordered on an emergency needing my immediate attention.

“Just the guy I was looking for. Give me your home phone number?” he asked.

I turned to head him off at the pass. He was a steam engine cooling so it took longer than it should for us to stop in the vestibule.

“What for?” I asked.

“Joe, just give me your phone number!” His perseverance succeeded only in spraying me with a dose of spittle.

I took a step backwards, which I reasoned was etiquette in establishing a no-spittle zone but an act that he perceived as a breach in interest.

“If you don’t want to give me your home phone number, let me take your cell phone number.”

Theorell moved back in close to me and made no bones about invading my personal space. The amount of spittle spraying from his mouth convinced me of two things. My no spittle zone lacked a large enough perimeter and Theorell had forgotten how to talk.

“What do you need my phone number for?” I fretted. “You see me all the time at the gym.”

“Just in case.” he spat.

“In case of what?” I asked. He didn’t answer. In fact, Theorell was growing perturbed by my roadblocks. I invited, “I got a great idea. Why don’t you just talk to me now and we can call it a day?”

“A phone number is required for what I have planned for you.”

“And what exactly is your plan for me, Theo?”

“I started a secret racquetball club.” He whispered in hush tones. “I want to make you a high ranking official. I got vice-president position still open, if you want it.”

I have gotten my share of bad bounces in racquetball but this was the most perfect three-wall shot that came from nowhere to crack unplayable in the corner. Theorell held up his cell phone and advertised that he was primed to store my number in his directory. No luck and now no joy. I took a moment to gather my faculties, insight now sorely lacking in Theorell.

I volleyed back. “I am a reasonable man but how secret can your secret racquetball club be if the game is played on public courts?”

“Be that way!” Theorell dismissively threw up his hands while his voice vexed anger and rejection. “You don’t have to join our secret club. You think you’re too good for us.”

My stride quickened and the locker room was almost in sight. I was almost away from Theorell when I heard him launch another counter attack. “Okay, how about your blog address? Joe, give me one of those business cards that you give out to club members.”

I didn’t give him my business card. Theorell doesn’t need to read about himself here. Perhaps his secret society is doing just fine without me and maybe it is a well kept secret afterall….because nobody has seen Theorell in a long time.

The Weak Minded

In the bowels of the free weight room at my gym, I noticed a huge weight lifting belt supporting a European looking man. He seemed to be walking gingerly back and forth between vigorous sets. It wasn’t the free range of motion associated with heavy lifting. I struck up a casual conversation. It soon became apparent that English wasn’t his best language on the planet. Since he knew only broken English, I asked him straightforward questions.

“Why are you wearing that big belt?” As if he were deaf, I pointed down to his belt apparatus.

He replied, “Weak back.”

“I’m sorry. When did you hurt your back?” In believing that he was hurt, I pointed to his back.

Again he said, “Week back.”

Wanting to clarify that he had been injured a week ago, I asked, “All right, tell me when you hurt it?”

“Week back.” He grunted. “Weak back.”

In a last ditch effort to salvage sense, I tried a different approach. I queried, “How long do you have to wear it?”

“Two hours, it’s week today.”

I went back to doing my sit-ups. There was too much insult to injury with this guy. Call me weak-minded but his workout sounded too damned complicated. Let somebody more caring than me figure it out.

The Lifting at Bally's Gym

While lifting free weights at the gym, a crook lifted my valuables from my gym locker. I thought my veins swell and pop while weightlifting but it was nothing compared to the varicose variety when I discovered my ransacked locker. My body raged with endorphins but I had nobody’s neck to wrap a barbell around. The crook hit seven lockers in broad daylight at high noon then vanished without a face. He used bolt cutters to snip through our combination locks. He stole wallets, cell phones, pagers, and car keys. To add comedic value, he decided to steal everyone’s pants in the caper. Imagine seven guys in dress shirts and little else standing around the gym lobby waiting for the police. Some people waited hours for a family member to bring duplicate car keys.

The police officer arrived and escorted me to my locker to check out the scene of the crime. He took my name and phone number and jotted down what was stolen. I sensed that the police office was starting to wrap things up. I just so happened to be cooperating with the local police department and the Prosecutor’s office on a case at work so I started to throw names around. I got lively conversation from the patrolman but no further action.

“That does it from here.” The patrolman concluded after my name dropping stalled.

“A few of us have cell phones with global positioning. Can you call the phone carriers to see where exactly in the world these phones are at?”

“It can take a month to get a court order.”

“What is the sense in having GPS if you can’t use it when you need it?” The familiar phrase ‘Can you hear me now?’ echoed in my inner ear.

The officer made some polite closing statements then was gone faster than you can say Adam 1 Adam 12. I pulled the operations manager of the gym aside.

“For a member who loses his key or forgets their combination you use bolt cutters to get into their locker, right?”

“Yes.”

There were only two people who were in the locker room when I undressed. Where are your bolt cutters right now?”

“Relax. They remain under my desk.” He replied. “They haven’t left my side all day.”

“I had to ask you.” I admitted. “I wasn’t pointing the finger at your staff. The crook could have used your bolt cutters. I have been a member of this gym for twenty years. How about a peek into your computer to show me the male members who came into the gym today? The crook needed a gym membership to get in here. You can print them out and the names can be scrutinized by the detective when he gets on the case. I could almost eliminate half the names on the list because I have known these guys for years.”

“Joe, I did the Bally’s incident reporting. You filed a police report. I just want to turn it over to the authorities.”

I could not argue with his approach but including the word ‘just’ didn’t go over well with me. An hour after a second shift housekeeping staff reported to work, I asked him if he had heard what happened. He had not heard of the looting. In my mind, this oversight exposed the operations manager who wanted to ‘just’ let the authorities handle it and not use his own authority to make his gym safer. There was no inservicing staff coming on shift about the robbery and no increased patrols of the locker room by housekeeping staff. No additional signs were hung in the locker room. No announcement on the intercom and the first sureveillance camera by an entry door remained a ghostly technological advance. It was business and theft as usual. More could have been done to make members ‘just’ feel safe.

Another patrolman meandered into the gym to make a police report on victims # 6 and 7. I thought it was odd that the first patrolman left without asking the staff on duty any questions. When the second patrolman headed towards the exit doors without taking action, I questioned the protocol.

“Wouldn’t it be a good idea to ask the front desk staff what they remember? Here me out. I arrived at the gym at 12:15pm and the last victim arrived at 1:00pm. It is a slow day at the gym. There can’t be more than 10 members who came through the front door in that time frame. Can’t you pull the computer records and see what you got?”

The officer was polite and straightforward. “Sir, that’s not how it works. I come out and take the information for the police report. I go back to the office and finish the report later. Said report gets submitted for typing. It will eventually find its way over to a detective’s desk who will come out and conduct an investigation. This is not my investigation.”

“By that time in the distant future, the front desk staff will have forgotten the information that is in their short term memory now.”

“I’m sorry. It is not my investigation.” he reiterated.

Like the last puppy to hear a dog whistle, I finally got it. It is not an investigation yet. It is only a crime. Unless I had made a citizens arrest by capturing the crook myself with the wrap around barbell, this case was going stone cold. The fact gathering I had done to this point was for naught. The second officer left the scene with impeccable timing. I came to the gym to workout but became worked up after crime and this exercise of futility.

Borrowing a cell phone, I walked out to my parked car. I pressed my ear to the trunk and dialed my cell phone number to see if I could hear it ring. My phone ringer sounded to the tune of the X-Files theme. I was confident that my trunk had not been popped and my wallet, cell phone, and jewelry were safe. I returned to my air conditioned perch in the gym slightly relieved. I continued waiting for a family member to deliver a second set of keys to the gym.

About an hour later, the young girl working the front desk fumbled around with the legal tender in the cash register. She turned to us, the disgruntled group of victims for help.

“Do any of you guys have change for a twenty dollar bill?”

“What are you freaking kidding me?” I piped. “We aren’t just standing around here in our loins for nothing. Don’t you remember, we had everything stolen from us? If you think you got nothing in your drawers, ours have been totally cleaned out?”

The manager came out of his office hideaway to quell my outpouring of emotion. I am not a hot head but she sure pissed me off.

“I think you guys have waited long enough to earn a free soda. What can I get you fellas?” the manager offered.

I know the manager meant well but I found the free soda pop insulting and representative of the only observable action the gym was willing to take. I declined on the token carbonated freebie. So I wound up waiting a total of four hours with my face peeled to the front bay window worrying whether some hooded heroin addict was coming to steal my car.

Free weights have never cost me so much but the moral of the story is apparent. A crook with a gym membership does all of his lifting inside the locker room.

Bally's Gym, Never a Rainout

Two hard bodies wait for the rain to stop inside the free weight room.

Flat rooftops are flat-out architectural blunders. I am convinced that any flat roof will sprout leaks over the passage of time. Water is not meant to be stationary because it is a relentless pursuer of new frontiers. I have belonged to Bally's gym for twenty years. I am sad to report that my body and the local gym should be in better shape. Enough about me. The gym has leaked rain water for as long as I can remember. They have patched and caulked the roof without arid conditions resulting. They have tarred the roof without addressing the leak. Bally's ownership is the neighbor who rides out a hurricane while Noah builds an Ark next door. They keep promising their members relocation to dry digs but nothing has come out of it. Every gym television is tuned to the weather channel to see if umbrellas will be needed for the indoor workout. There is no childcare, no juice bar, and barely enough customer parking for deliveries. The gym remains a dark cavernous rainforest full of outdated equipment and shoddy repairs. I own a Gold lifetime membership with no membership fees. I wouldn't want to pay for such nonsense.

There has yet to be a rainout at Bally's gym but life jackets flinched today. With the remnants of a recent hurricane moving north, the rain inundated the inside of the gym like never before. It was a deluge. The gym screamed liability as a slip and fall case waiting to happen. I wasn't plotting a get rich scheme but a dry piece of carpet to do stretching exercises would have been nice. Navigation around the gym was hindered by an obstacle course of buckets but patrons have grown accustomed to the folly. Aerobic steppers were turned over and used to catch the rain at every juncture. The steppers looked like capsized tugboats ordered into a fast approaching storm. In fact, every piece of plastic in the facility was used to catch raindrops. I am talking about dozens of jugs, buckets, and trash cans. I literally walked around raindrops to get my exercise in.

Due to poor landscape grading, water also rushed through two side exit doors and onto the indoor track. Rain attacked on two fronts. The real track meet was pooling enough staff to swing string mops.

I heard one staffer worry out loud. "We got to keep the rain from getting in the swimming pool."

Now there is effective emergency management. Talk about entry level staff. A few minutes later, an announcement over the intercom warned that the track was closed. No kidding! The track was under about three inches of water. You couldn't run if you wanted to but you might soon canoe. I got my jollies out wondering how many calories could be burned canoeing around the 1/8 mile jogging track. A disgruntled patron summoned the lifeguard to take care of a renegade leak in a workout room, where the fluorescent lights flickered towards electrocution.

I ribbed the landlubber of a lifeguard on duty. "When you find the spill, just add chlorine and we can call it a baby pool."

The lifeguard laughed through gritty teeth. Meanwhile, the operations manager frantically diverted housekeeping staff from one area to the next as more leaks sprung. The fire alarm sounded yet nobody could figure out why. Nobody wanted to go stand outside in the rain during a fire drill when we braved nature's elements inside. The fire alarm raged on for the next couple of minutes. I saw one guy head to the indoor swimming pool because, as he put it, he was going to get wet anyway. No gym workout is complete without a test of the Emergency Broadcast System coming on the radio. This was lollapalooza land.

Like a Titantic passenger, I went upstairs to higher ground but the same result followed. A cascade of water rushed down over a pair of stationary bikes. This was water that could be heard breaking on the gym floor. I have seen less water spilling though gutters. I steered clear of the indoor falls but it rained on my parade while I was doing a set of incline sit-ups. A raindrop complete with scratchy insulation fibers landed in my eye. As I rubbed my eye back to visual acuity, I knew I had enough. The indignity officially ended my workout session and I meandered to the locker room. Grabbing my gear from my locker, I saw a friend walking from the shower room sopping wet with a towel draped around his waist.

I chided him, "Just getting back from the jogging track?" He laughed.

I stood in the pouring rain fumbling for my car keys underneath the lonely metal frame of a canopy, which a gust of wind blew off five years ago. A funny thought occurred to me. It might not be costing me money but I am still paying for this gym membership.

Bridge Over Troubled Waters

They say what you don't know can't hurt you but Alfie calls into question that theory. When I reviewed Alfie's file, I quickly determined that he was going to be the smartest guy on my caseload. He functioned between mild retardation and normal intelligence. He was definitely disabled but could function in society and made every conscious effort not to associate himself with a disabled population. He lived with his fiancee Bridgett and Alfie showed a comfort zone in allowing her to assume a caretaker role over him. How I was placed in the role as conscientious objector to Alfie's life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness is a fantastic tale.

Allow me to start with the seemingly innocuous event of losing my combination lock at Bally's gym. I decide to scour their Lost and Found, which is nothing more than a primitive cardboard box thrown in a rarely used walk-in storage closet. The receptionist wasn't at the front desk for me to ask permission to rummage. She was nowhere to be found or so I thought. Regular gym members often entered the closet without fear of reprisal. So I swung open the closet door and found the receptionist I was looking for. She was allowing herself to be groped underneath her uniform while she shared traces of saliva with another member. Membership apparently had its privileges. I do not know who was more surprised them or me interrupting their makeout session. They gave back each other's tongue, the man's hands finally appeared, and she wiped the smeared lipstick from her face. Nervous giggles abound. Like a chastity belt undone, I found my combination lock at the feet of their passion.

I telephone my client to go out to his home. Alfie tells me he needs his fiance home because she takes care of him. He doesn't even want to handle the phone call and gives the receiver to Bridgett. Bridgett introduces herself then explains that she schedules Alfie's appointments, reads his mail, does his banking, and genuinely looks after him. She has been working a lot so her next day off isn't for another week. We dartboard a day on the calendar and the appointment is set in stone.

A few days later, my eyes capture a curious picture in the Courier Post newspaper. A charming looking couple has won Boscov's Vacation Getaway Contest, an all expense trip to Aruba. I stared awkwardly at the photo and read the caption. After all, it was the first time I saw a picture of Alfie but the second time I eyeballed Bridgett. You guessed it! The photo comprised the receptionist from the gym and my client Alfie, who was NOT the man with octopussy hands canvassing the storage closet. What you do know can hurt you still. My coffee seemed to sour all at once. I put the newspaper down.

So I am looking forward to this home visit like a return of the chicken pox but the day comes despite my moral objection. Every dog has their day, right? I ring the doorbell and my client answers it. We shake hands. I can feel the coarseness of his hard working hands. Alfie and I scale a set of stairs to get to the upstairs apartment. He talks the whole way up. I am told that Bridgett is in the bathroom sprucing up. Alfie and I sit on a couch in an otherwise empty room. Alfie presents as friendly and upbeat, a personality trait a certain health inspector should embrace(see post called Going to the Well Once Too Often).

"Wait till you meet my Bridgett. I am going to marry that girl." Alfie complimented. He was spilling with emotion and I likened it to sap blindly running out of a Maple tree.

"Is the marriage before or after you two go to Aruba?"

"How did you know I won a trip to Aruba?"

"Oh, your social worker doesn't miss too much." I scoffed. "I saw your picture in the newspaper. Congratulations."

"Bridgett, come out here." Alfie said. "Joe is here. Bridge, Joe saw our picture in the paper. Isn't that cool? I only filled out one entree form?"

"Entry form." I corrected.

Bridgett shouted, "We are going to have such a kick ass time, aren't we Alfie?"

It seemed so ironic that she formulated this into a question while she was behind closed doors. Questioning included, Bridgett did a lot behind closed doors.

"You lucky dog." I overstated to the beat of a double entrende. Entree Alfie might have erred.

I heard footsteps and then a figure loomed. Alfie said invitingly. "Joe, this is my fiance, Brigett. Isn't she a looker?"

When Bridgett photo framed my face, she tried to hide her horror. She had entered the room with a steady gate but looked as if she hit the Manyunk wall with nausea. She longed to swallow an invisibility pill if ever there was one. She could do nothing to conceal the same color lipstick. Bridgett had unwittingly arranged a sit down meeting with the only person in the world who knew she was cheating on her fiance while a marriage and pre-paid honeymoon hung in the balance. Bridgett knew she inserted the 'getaway' in the Boscov's Vacation Getaway contest. The room teetered on its axis between winners and losers.

"Oh, we have met before." I shook Bridgett's hand nonetheless. Her hand was cold and clammy but I expected nothing less from a Bridge over troubled waters.

"Get out of town." Alfie asked. "Where do you know Bridge from?"

The ornery side of me wanted to blow a referee's whistle right about now and scream STORAGE CLOSET but I refrained. "Over at Bally's gym." I simply answered.

What a perfect segue this would be for a sadist. When Alfie turned away from the conversation, Brigett engaged in non-verbal communication by giving me the shush sign with a finger to her lips. She could have done better than to accentuate lipstick lips to perpetuate betrayal. Lipstick lips shot me an adrenaline rush of flashback. On the other hand, Bridge had little umbrella drinks, orange cream sickle sunsets, and a golden bronze tan on her mind. Life is a beach.

Do I spill the beans? Do I take away Alfie's love of his life with a five second eyewitness report? I didn't want that power to begin with nor did I know what to do with it now that I had it. I had misgivings about the whole charade. Since I wasn't really sure what to do, I issued her a pass. Bridgett thanked me when I left and we both knew she meant the Get Out Of Closet Free card. As I walked back to the car, I heard their conversation through the kitchen window screening.

I heard Alfies's booming voice. "Now that we are done with that, how about you and me go out for an ice cream cone?"

"Sounds good, Alfie." Bridgett replied as I disappeared into the night.

Social work is often a single person judgment call. Sometimes you never know whether you got it right until much later. Even with a multiple choice scenario, there sometimes are only wrong answers to choose from.