Category: Blogging

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Dear Over-Caffeinated

To say I’ve missed you would be a lie. I only ever notice you’re around when you make me feel, frankly, terrible. Jittery, obviously, nervous. I tend to spill things. Like the coffee cup you come in, yes?

It’s not as if I’ve avoided you acidulously. Just the way things have been. Fewer morning lattes, fewer shots of 5-Hour Energy Drink, fewer green tea pills. And not because I’m trying! Just the vagaries of life.

And yet, for all of that, I do wonder if I’m getting enough done these days. I “wake up,” (i.e. crawl out of bed. Hard to call the next several minutes actually “awake.”) Stumble around the house, end up on-line, browsing increasingly stupider websites. Maybe a load of laundry goes in the washing machine. Maybe a dish or two gets rinsed and shoved into the dishwasher. On Thursdays, trash day, a bin or two gets emptied. Maybe.

Remember when you and I would tackles everything though? Like that time we did three loads of laundry, ran 5 miles, emptied and filled the dishwasher, worked on my (our, over-caffeinated, our) novel for an hour, vacuumed, and beat Grand Theft Auto V ALL BEFORE NINE AM?

Yeah, I was sick as a dog the rest of the day, and just sort of sat in a chair and ate saltines while watching old episodes of Burn Notice on Netflix. But still. A sense of accomplishment as my skin slowly turned gray.

The thing is, over-caffeinated, you’re one of those friends I could maybe hang with when I was younger, once in a while, but as much fun as we had one or two times, I have to call-out the bad times too. The aforementioned jitters. The two-dozen trips to the bathroom. The heart palpitations—I mean, I’m in my forties now, not exactly cardiac-arrest territory, but not so alien as to be ignored, either.

Just “using” you to “get things done,” isn’t really an option anymore, or, if I think about it, necessary. The laundry gets done, eventually, and the dishes too. And if we’re being honest, getting everything done before nine AM just leaves the rest of the day for, well, browsing increasingly stupider websites.

I have to pace myself. That’s the lesson here, over-caffeinated. The day is 24 hours long, and even if there’s lots to do, there’s lots of time to do it in. And if it doesn’t get done? Maybe it’s not important.

Don’t get me wrong, pal. We’ll see each other again, on occasion. I’ve got a few projects due at the end of the month, so I’m sure I’ll be giving you a call. There’s that 200 mile relay race in July, of course, and we’ll always have the last few days of NaNoWriMo!

But not all the time. Not everyday. And I don’t really miss you. Miss “it,” I should say. I have to stop anthropomorphizing experiences. Have to stop taking them so personally.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a few more letters to write. Got a few tough things to say to Mr. One Pound Bag of M&Ms.

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Finding Myself in (Sports) Losses

I worked as a consultant for a $40 billion-a-year company, 12 years, and then they hired me full-time. Less than a year later, I was laid off, and then about 8 months after that, I was brought back as a consultant again. At a better pay rate than before. During that “sabbatical” I worked at a small start-up that made brain-training games. Part of my job was to read brain-blogs all day long, on all sorts of subjects, from biology to psychology to philosophy. By this deeply personal and circuitous route, I bring you to my discovery of “mindfulness,” which has been a pretty hot topic in brain science for a few years now.

The relevance of mindfulness to the above, of course, is being aware that end results are always only the very smallest part of a journey. It’s a more complicated way of suggesting one not sweat the small stuff. So the Mariners lost AGAIN last night. How can mindfulness help me deal with this sports anxiety?

I mean, thinking about it, new-age philosophy and sports fandom go together like peas and chocolate. Indeed, the only place they would ever meet is in the head of a self-indulgent, middle-aged, upper middle class, privileged white male living in Seattle in the new-millennia teens. Nevertheless, here I am.

The Mariners, after 14 games, are five and nine. They have to win four games in a row just to break even. They have to do better than they’ve done, so far, just to be considered mediocre. There’s an irony there. Hard work is supposed to be its own reward, but here’s what I’m finding in all of this: no it’s not.

If the journey is the thing, then the current record doesn’t matter. And we hear this in sports all the time. Athletes will tell you they don’t think about the last game, they only think about the next one. They don’t think about the play-offs, they just think about the next game. And when they’re playing, they only think about the game they’re in.

Turns out, good athletes are expert practitioners of mindfulness. And that’s the reward: not needing a reward. “It isn’t whether you win or lose; it’s how you play the game.” So, ignoring the winning and the losing of my home-town team, how am I playing this game?

All I can do is try to find something in this game I’m playing, this ridiculously close examination of my feelings vis-à-vis the losing record of one of the highest paid teams in baseball. My discovery: mindfulness. Being self-aware. Knowing that I’m darn lucky to even have access to the misery of watching my team lose. Being grateful for my existence.

And laughter— the look on the average fans face if/when I tried to explain all of the above. “Every loss is a gift,” I would say. “So is every beer,” they’d reply. Sounds like a win-win to me.

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The Other Sisyphus

The following conversation did not occur at a Starbucks near my house:

Hey.

Hey.

Been here long.

Forever. A couple of minutes maybe.

I just got here.

I know. I saw you walk through the door.

Yeah. I would have been here sooner, but I was running late.

Amazing.

Is that a scone?

No, it’s a plate.

Is that a scone on top of the plate?

Well, that depends. I’ve eaten some of it. Is it still what it was, or is it something else now?

That sounds like philosophy.

It is. It’s why we’re meeting here. To study philosophy.

Is it?

No. Unless you think that the only reason to exist at all is to study philosophy.

Is it?

Yes.

Oh.

I mean it’s not.

Oh.

I mean it’s not a scone. It’s a croissant.

It… it doesn’t look like a croissant.

It doesn’t look like a scone, either.

Well, I don’t know what I scone looks like.

Then why did you ask if it was a scone?

Because if it was a scone, then I would know what a scone would look like.

Well, I’m sorry about that. It’s not a scone. It’s a croissant.

I know what a croissant looks like.

Good for you.

And that does not look like a croissant.

Does it look like half a croissant?

No.

Are you sure? There are literally an infinite number of ways to cut a croissant in half. Are you sure you can hold in your mind an infinite number of images like that?

I don’t have to.

Why not.

Heuristics.

Ah… good one. I’d give you an A, if I was your teacher.

Well, you’re not.

I know. Except, I am, sort of.

No. You’re not.

Yes I am. I helped you there, helped you understand a subtle philosophical point.

Well…. I guess.

So I’m sort of your teacher.

Like that’s sort of a croissant.

Yes. I mean no. I mean, didn’t you just say you know what a croissant looks like?

Yes.

And this does not look like one?

Yes.

So why are you now saying it’s sort of a croissant?

Meta speech.

Come again.

I was talking about what we were talking about. That’s meta speech. It refers to but does not have to be consistent with what we were saying before.

And is that, what you just said, also meta speech?

Don’t be cute.

I’m not being cute.

You are. You’re trying to be. Look, just answer the question.

What question?

Is that a scone?

I’m going to stand up now. I’m going to ask you sit here. I’m going to go outside. I’m going to come back in. We’re going to start over.

Okay.

And that will give you your answer.

Okay.

Good.

Bye.

Hey.

Hey.

Been here long?

Forever. A couple of minutes maybe.

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There’s No Such Thing As Ghosts

There’s not much to say about what life was like when I was 12, or where we lived. Our house was next door to a non-denominational church, a half mile away from Wichita State University, just a few blocks away from a new fast food joint called Church’s Fried Chicken, and haunted by the ghost of a murdered wife. Now, that last part is a complete lie, but when I was 12 my life was pretty boring, so I might as well entertain you with something made-up.

Our house was built in 1901, and occupied by one Phineas Densmore and his wife, Felocity. A couple things to note: Phineas is one of those names one only sees nowadays in Steampunk novels, although Mr. Densmore himself (no relation to the Seattle city councilman of 1882) was about as sci-fi as the long-grass growing in the fields next to his new home. And yes, “Felocity” looks like a misspelling of “Felicity.” That’s because it is. On her birth certificate, anyway, and her death note, although most folks just called her “Fel.”

It’s seems that Phineas, a bank clerk, was having an affair, and was racked with guilt. And, like many men staggering under the weight of crushing anxiety, he projected his guilt onto others. He convinced himself that his wife, too, was having an affair. And so when his own lover took a risk and sent a letter to his home, addressed to “Msr. Densmore,” he took one look at the envelope and decided “Msr.” stood for “Mistress.” He dashed his poor wife’s head in with a rock. Then he ran for the local constable, letter in hand as proof of the justice of his dastardly deed.

When they opened the letter, they found that “Msr.” stood for “Monsieur,” as his lover felt that their affair was so “European” as deserved a more sophisticated form of address. Proof, yes, but proof of motive, and Phineas was hung by his neck. Until dead. Which is how the execution order was spelled out, in those days.

Fast forward several years to 1984, and watch the rest of Wichita creep up the hill, building more and more houses until the big yellow house is surrounded by others homes and, as I said, the university, the church, and the chicken shack. And finally, a family of four moves in. One of them me.

In those days I was obsessed with books about poltergeists (this part is true). In the summer I would ride my bike to one of three libraries within ten miles of our house, and head right to the 133.1 section. Grab as many book as I could. Load up my backpack and take them home, and read all day. And all night, until I was exhausted.

Now, my bed frame and my brother’s were old antiques, built by my mom’s grandfather. Our mattresses, however, were more recently acquired, used beds from an old nun-run hospital Perfectly sturdy, but too long for the old frames. My dad’s dad, a cabinet maker, was taking the summer to rebuild them.

So here’s the scene: me on my mattress on the floor. The window open to let in a modicum of breeze. A tall stack of books, sitting on the edge of an old easy chair, the chair itself on four splayed legs and a fat, crusty rusty spring. All is quiet, still, calm, dark. Until:

Creeeeak.

My eyes pop open. The room is bathed in yellowish gray, from a streetlight penetrating gauzy curtains.

Creeeeeeak. Thump.

I sit up. That overstuffed chair looks like it’s shaking just a bit. There’s a book on the floor in front of it.

Creeeeak. The chair leans forward a bit. Sshshsss as a book slides forward and THUMP! Lands on top of a book on the floor. I leap up like a shot and my legs start kicking. I’m wrapped up in bed sheets and cold sweat.

Creeeak sshh thump! Creeakshshsshthump! Shshssthump! Shshssthump! Thump! Thump! The books are flying off the chair. I’m out of breath. I’m thrashing my arms and legs. I’m finally free of the sheets, bouncing off the door frame, falling into the hallway, shooting forward and slamming into the door of my parent’s bedroom. I open it with slick hands, fall down, drag myself to the foot of their bed, and curl up, fist rammed into my mouth stop keep from screaming.

And that’s all I remember. Get this—when I woke up, I was back in my bed! And the books were stacked up on the chair again. Did I dream it all? Did my dad carry me back before he went to work? In later years, I would decide it must have been a breeze, and the weight of the books was just enough that they tipped the chair forward. I mean, after all, there’s no such thing as ghosts.

But eventually I turned thirteen, and stopped reading books about poltergeists. When I was 17, we moved out of the house. I don’t know who lives there now these 26 years later. I just hope they don’t have any affairs, murder anyone, or get that house really haunted for whomever lives there next.

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The Recipe Isn’t Difficult

Potatoes, eggs, mustard and mayo. People think the secret ingredient is the parsley, but it’s really the dill in the chopped pickles.

Nowadays 19 is fairly young but back in the early seventies, 19 was old enough to join the Navy, meet a nice fella, get married, get knocked up, start raising a few kids. And so on a nice summer day in Wichita, Kansas a bunch of years later, one boy on the front porch reading a book, the other in the back yard swashbuckling with ninjas, the husband catching up on some paperwork, why not break out those old 3X5 cards with your mother’s recipes on them, bright blue ink in a flowing cursive.

Boil potatoes just enough that they’re still firm. Use that creaky chopping machine on them, and on the boiled eggs too. Mustard and mayo, give it a stir, starts to make that sticky sound and the smell is family, nice weather, full bellies, quiet hearts. The pickles have to be chopped by hand. Toss them in, sprinkle in dried parsley, mostly just to give it color. Salt, but no pepper. Now put a few hot dogs in the new “micro-wave.” A lot faster than boiling them, and the cancer’s still five years away.

Call in the kids, tell the youngest to set the table, the oldest to make a pitcher of lemon kool-aid. The youngest fetches out those Looney Tunes collectible glasses, the ones from McDonald’s. He always chooses Daffy Duck for himself. He’ll grow up, join the Navy too, but he won’t meet a nice girl; Nothing bad will happen to him, but life will take a little longer to get started.

The potato salad goes in an enormous green plastic bowl. That bowl has seen some action. That bowl was purchased at a Tupperware party in Springfield, Massachusetts, made its way across the country to Bainbridge, Washington, then down to San Diego, California. Now it’s here, smack dab in the middle of the country, smack dab in the middle of the supper table, heaped to overflowing with potato salad.

The youngest has that permanent grin on him, eyes wide, trying to grab ketchup for his hot dog and a spoon for the potato salad and a glass of lemonade, all at the same time. He says, who’s birthday is it, because he associates potato salad with parties. The oldest smirks, cause he knows better, and because he’s a little smart aleck. He’s going through a phase; no ketchup or mustard for him. But plenty of lemonade, and heaps and heaps of potato salad. Growing boys.

The husband gets the lion’s share, though. He’s a good 210, working on 230, and his desk job doesn’t help any. In a few years the cancer will knock him down to 175. But they’ll catch it early, it’ll back off, and never return, not for thirty years. Potato salad will put the pounds backs on. Potato salad and nice weather and quiet hearts.

He says, oh, it’s probably somebody’s birthday somewhere. The youngest laughs at that. Everything delights him. The oldest smirks again. He’ll come into cynicism, the smart ones always do, its own kind of cancer. But he’ll get over it. How can anyone be a cynic, for very long, with potato salad likes this stored in the memory banks?

He’ll get a copy of the recipe, more than a bunch of years later. His own wife will make it for him. Will it be as good? Of course it will. The recipe isn’t difficult.

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Float (Photo of the Day)

Float

 

I’ve been having a lot of fun with “Writing 101” via The Daily Post and Blogging U. When I discovered they do weekly photography prompts as well, I got very excited! Last Friday’s prompt was “show us what afloat means to you.” I’ve been meaning to get down to the Ballard boat yard for a long time now, and this was the perfect excuse.

I could have stayed there for hours, but I was eager to get back and post something. As I was going through my photos, I realized that this one, with the clouds floating above the boats, really captured the idea of “floating” for me. I don’t know if that’s ironic or not. Taking pictures of clouds has been on my bucket list for a long time, with middling success. But I really like how this one turned out.

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Knit One, Purl Two

Fiction by Jason Edwards

She’s a spy and he doesn’t even know it. They sleep together and he tells her secrets, but her favorite part are these walks in this little park, tucked between his office building and hers and a few others. A secret park, something for top-floor executives to look at while they execute orders for, well, let’s face it, execution. The spy game is a dirty game, it’s all about money, and sex, and occasionally killing people.

She’s not afraid of any of that, and if her bosses told her to kill him she would, because it’s her job and she’s good at her job. But there’s nothing wrong with taking a few moments to walk through a park on a nice day with a nice guy and talk about nice things like a new pair of shoes she’s going to buy, about a sale they’re having, about the dress they’ll go with and the lipstick she’ll put on, just for him. He’s married, so they can’t go out, of course, he can’t take her someplace fancy, but then she doesn’t need fancy, she just needs those secrets. So she can do her job and get paid and buy shoes.

It’s way more complicated than that, of course, and she’s not some stereotypical floozy who gets hot and bothered over a pair of marked-down pumps. Except she is. Obviously, she’s not, she’s a spy, a good one, on the fast track to promotion and maybe even a shop command or, if the wind blows just right, a spot in the leadership, a policy maker. But speaking of wind, there’s a delicious breeze coming over that small green hill, there’s a shady spot underneath the tree as the path turns, making her shiver, there’s that old woman on a park bench, knitting something for her great-grand kids. Steel blue knitting needles, winking in the sunlight.

This small park nestled between tall buildings, this is the only time of day it gets any sunlight.

***

He’s a spy and she doesn’t even know it. Seducing her was easy, mostly because she was probably told to let him, and now he feeds her bad intel so his bosses can play games with her bosses. But this part he doesn’t like, listening to her drone on and on about shoes or lipstick or something, these stupid walks in this shitty little park where no one goes. He likes the sex even though she isn’t very good at it, but then neither is he. It’s just that, after sex, he sleeps better, and normally, he doesn’t sleep very well.

Mostly because he’s killed so many people. It really gets to him. Other guys, and gals, in his shop, they seem to deal with it so well. Get a job, get close, make the hit, move on. Sometimes they even sleep with the future-deceased, just to get their guard down. How can they do that. Do they imagine walking in the park with them, day after day, so mind-numbingly bored that it’s either kill or commit suicide?

This is why they took him off hits, put him on counter-counter, not exactly a chump’s game, but not nearly as exciting as executions. But oh well. It has its perks. She thinks he’s married, thinks she tricking him with the pillow talk, lets him do things to her that a lot of women wouldn’t. So he’s conflicted. Which is why, when they turn the corner, and there’s the old woman, but this time her knitting needles are blue, a small tear falls from his eye.

Blue is the signal for assassination. He’s just not sure if its sadness or relief that makes him cry.

***

She’s an old woman, but everyone thinks she’s a spy. Ha. She’s just an old woman, nestled in that sweet spot where she’s got enough income to stretch out her final years, but not enough to worry about politics. Men in suits and cold office buildings dictate world policy, a million peasants in some back water die, the minimum wage goes up and down, and she just wakes up and goes to the park and does some knitting, waiting for the mid-day sun. Feels good, deep in her bones.

She’s had a life. She’s gone from innocent to informed to impassioned to jaded to indifferent to philosophical to, well, there’s no word for the final stage. Zen, if you believe in that Buddhist crap. But she’s not going to slap on a pair of tight pants, squat down on a shiny purple mat and make her joints go pop for the entertainment of the universe. She’ll just wake up, have her tea, open her mail, and walk down to the park.

They think she’s a spy because she’s here almost every day. A bunch of office buildings filled to bursting with agents, special agents, double agents, assassins, operatives, provocateurs, and analysts. And so my bureau men. So many executives, so many suits. She’s seen more dead drops than Carter’s got pills. It was entertaining once, now it’s just background noise. She sits and knits. Her grandson, sweet kid, he sends her picture of her great-grand daughter, requests for more booties. He even sends her knitting needles.

But she can’t find the ones he sent her last week, so today, she’ll use an old blue pair. Use to be her favorites.

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Archaeologists Speculate that Beer Was Instrumental in the Formation of Civilizations

“Archaeologists speculate that beer was instrumental in the formation of civilizations.”

-Wikipedia entry for “Beer.”

Beer. When was it invented, why, how, who knows. Actually, I’m certain quite a few people know. Probably know the exact day, the very minute. Some monk sitting in a chilly monastery, hands cupped reverently, holding a beautiful brown heap of barley. Ah.

beer at toronado

This bar is a monastery, the glass in front me a chalice, an icon of worshipfulness. I have a slight buzz. It’s quiet in here, middle of the day. Dark. The smell of stale beer from the floor, a sweet smell, a little sour, as familiar as the sweat on the back of my neck, rapidly cooling. I walked here, for a beer, and I’ll walk back home again when I’m done. What’s a few miles. Monks balanced kegs on the backs of donkeys and walked further to get that golden stuff to their other brothers in other monkeries.

This table where I sit almost every Tuesday. That waitress. No, we call them servers now. Jeans and a t-shirt with the bar’s logo on it, hair in a pony tail, toothy grin. Probably in college. No, probably dropped out of college. No, probably never went. Why bother. A few roommates, a three-a-month novel habit, discounts on bar-burgers. It’s not a bad life. I’m not jealous. But as I hold that cold glass in my hands, consider the bubbles rising, consider the deep yellow, I think, I could do that. I could work in a bar.

Over there in a booth a guy and a girl are in deep conversation over a plate of French fries. He looks too old for her. A dozen scenarios run through my head. He’s her older brother, and they’re trying to figure out what to do about Grandma. He’s her lecturer at the university, they’ve been dating for two semesters, and they have to end it, his wife is getting suspicious. He’s her boyfriend’s best friend from college, and they’re planning an intervention. I take a sip of my beer.

Scratch that: gulp. More like a quaff. My glass is empty. Sunlight manages to negotiate a few clouds and the tinted windows, coats the foam left behind.

At the bar itself, fella in sweats, sweaty, running-shirt, sweaty, ball cap, sweaty. After he finishes his beer, when he gets up to hit the head, that bar stool is going to be sweaty, too. I know this from experience. I’ve run to bars before.

Never ran from one, though. This is no biker bar, there will be no fisticuffs here. It’s quiet, old Sub Pop concert posters on the walls. No pool tables, a menu full of foodie food. And pulls too hip for townies but not redneck enough for hipsters. My server comes over, points at my glass. I just smile. She smiles back and takes the glass away.

Behind the bar, the owner, big fella, pear shaped until you get to his head, that beard, those black-rimmed glasses. On a Tuesdays if the server’s not there, he serves me himself. When I’m done with one, he’ll say, how’d you like that IPA? And I’ll sort of nod and smile and say something like, I hope you’ve got more.

Another beer appears in front of me. I watch the server walk away. She stops at the booth with the couple. They look up at her, almost startled. I can’t hear what they say, but she takes away their half-eaten plate of French fries. Must be serious, if you can’t even finish your fries.

My phone makes a noise in my pocket. I fish it out. Text message from the wife. Grocery store on the way back home. Milk, bread, eggs, something. I quaff once more. Before I leave, I drop too many bills on the table. Maybe it’s a four-a-month novel habit. I don’t want to assume anything.

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There’s No I in Barbecue

It needs to get warm soon. I need to sit on my back porch, next to the grill. A beer in one hand and a book in the other. Or a baseball game on the radio. Birds twerping, the sound of the distance highway a dull buzz, like the quiet roar of the ocean. But mostly that barbecue, ribs and pork shoulder and burgers stuffed full of onions. Just thinking about it makes me hungry.

I’m sitting here at a kind of barbecue school. Mostly it’s a bunch of folks sitting around folding tables, watching a power point presentation on how to smoke meats. Across from me, turned to watch the slides, are two guys who couldn’t be more different. One of them I know. We’ll call him James—he went to MIT. He works for SpaceX. He’s got a wife who flips houses for a living. No kids. He’s maybe 32 years old.

Next to him, the other fella, I can only guess, but, early sixties? Gray pokes out from beneath his Mariners ball cap. His satin jacket is black, has a patch on the shoulder that reads “National Softball Championships, Las Vegas, 2014.” I got money that says he went there to watch his daughter play.

James is a friend of mine—we met in a coffee shop about 10 years ago. He was fresh out of school, working for Microsoft. It’s the same coffee shop where I met my future wife, and where he met his future wife. I guess that’s a Seattle thing, coffee shops and all.

The other guy, though, if I had to guess, gets into the Seattle city limits maybe twice a year. And even then it’s only the southern tip of Seattle. I’m not trying to stereotype, and I could be very wrong. But me, I’m from Wichita Kansas, originally, and you kind of get a knack for knowing your own. Graduate high school, maybe go to trade school, work in machine shop for twenty years, finally get promoted to management, kind of like retirement but the coffee’s not as good.

James, for what it’s worth, is taking notes. His got a yellow legal pad, and he’s writing down pretty much everything the guy giving the presentation says. Temperatures for different cuts of beef, how to caramelize with a hot skillet, tricks for making a marinade that isn’t too salty.

The other fella, the one in the soft ball jacket, just nods his head every few seconds, like he knows it all already. He probably does. I wonder why he’s here.

Me, I’m here to learn, sure, but also to eat. My wife signed us up for this class, because we’re going to eat what we cook. Of course, some recipes require more time than we’re going to be spending in the class, so there’s already meat on some of the grills. And the aromas in the smoke are making me drool.

I didn’t go to MIT, but I did go to college. I never worked in a machine shop, but I’ve gotten my hands dirty more than a few times. If James wanted to strike up a conversation about, I don’t know, quantum state bubbles drives to shave another three ounces off a booster rocket, I could listen. If this softball fella wanted to tell me about the time his daughter met fast-pitch ace Jenny Finch, I’d be interested.

But I think those conversations would have to happen on my back porch. With a beer in our hands, birds twerping overhead. On that grill, a couple of pounds of prime tip, smoking away, making us hungry, something we all have in common.

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A Different Kind of Work Out

Ten oh five on a Saturday morning, and it looks like Dave isn’t going to show up. I’m standing in a parking lot with three other guys. A Crossfit gym, a “box” somewhere in Seattle. At least it’s trying to be a nice day. The rain is down to just a few drops and the sun occasional peeks from behind bored gray clouds.

We’re all pacing, geared up and ready to get in there and wreck our bodies. Me, I ran here from my house, just a mile or so away. On one of my first days at the gym, Dave said “we don’t do the same workout twice. That’s the problem with runners—always doing the same thing, over and over again, their bodies adapt.” I wish. I’d love to adapt enough to survive the half marathon I signed up for next month.

One of the guys says, “Had to wake him, last week. I showed up at nine, had to bang on the door.”

I furrow my brow. “Wait, does Dave live here?”

The guy nods, and the other two guys look up, paying attention. “Yeah. He moved out of his old place a few months ago.”

I think about why I’m here. I’m getting old, getting fat, need a shock to my system. The good life has made me comfortable, I could say, if I was given to that sort of musing. Maybe I should live in a gym too. Nothing to do all day but pick up heavy weights, cleaning up after every class. Arms like a gorilla. Calves like tree trunks.

One guy checks his watch a few times. I’m tempted to go up to the door, cup my hands against the glare and peer in. What am I going to see? A guy in sleeping bag, laid out next to a pile of dumb bells, his dog curled up at his feet?

Another guy says, “I saw him after the last class, yesterday. He was heading to a bar with my roommate.”

We all chuckle. As if that explains everything. I can’t imagine what a 6 foot, 250 pound guy with 5% body fat has to drink to get too drunk to be up by ten in the morning. He’s not paying for drinks with the money I’ve given him—I used a Groupon.

Ten past ten. Our pacing has slowed a little bit. By now we would have been through our warm-ups. Dave would have given the Crossfit vets their Workout-of-the-Day, and they’d be doing some preliminary exercises. Us newbies would be picking up an empty barbell and putting it back down again. Concentrating on form. Dave would be adjusting his glasses, telling his dog she’s a good girl for staying out of the way. I’d be thinking about that stupid half marathon, and how losing ten pounds would sure help a lot.

A car drives by the parking lot entrance, and we all turn to look. And then I realize I’m sort of hoping he doesn’t show. I want to work out, I want to feel the burn, I want to be a little bit proud of myself. I also want to, well, not.

“God damn it,” the guy, the one who said he’d woken Dave up last week, mutters to humself. Then he smiles “Well, I guess I can always come back at noon.” He turns and wanders towards his car.

The other guy, the one with the roommate says, “Alright fellas.” He looks at his watch, smiles, shakes his head, and walks off too.

Me and the only other one remaining stand there for a few seconds. A moral victory. When Dave’s timing us on burpees and Russian kettle-bells, he never shouts. His voice is loud above the heavy metal blasting from the speakers, but he’s not screaming. You got this, he says. 15 more seconds, he says. You can do this, reach in. Last Thursday, when he did that, even though I was whipped, I managed a few more reps. Felt it all day Friday, but it felt good too.

I want to wait this out, but I don’t. I want to be here when he shows up, forgive him for being, despite a 400 pound bench press, only human. But I want to go home, have a Saturday, do nothing. My wife’s working, won’t be home until 5, so I mean: really do nothing.

I take a deep breath, look the other fella in the eye. “Monday, I guess.” He just smiles, nods, turns and walks to his car.

I decide to compromise. I ran here, so I’ll run back home too. I’m hoping Dave doesn’t have a hang over. But just in case, I’ll commiserate. I stop at the 7-11 on my  way, grab a bag of onion potato chips and two Cokes. I plop in front of the TV, and before too long I’m sugar-and-grease queasy. A different kind of work out

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