Bigfoot put out the spiffy, printed-in-the-gym-colors sign that said “Male (gasp!) working in women’s locker room”, and pulled the commercial barrier across the entry.
(Yes. The goddam gym has colors now and everything is printed, painted and caparisoned in them — black, shrieking yellow and tropical purple. It looks like a Howard Johnson’s on crack. I miss the days when they covered about half the benches with some leftover got-it-on-sale raspberry Naugahyde, left the rest dingy red, and painted the wall with an indifferent whitewash.)
I ducked in and followed him; I needed to get my bag and leave. Some days I wonder glumly when I will do this for the last time, depending on how much of the serious equipment they spirit away because the corporation they franchised with abhors anything “intimidating,” like the sight of a person actually lifting. It is a sad decline for a place that used to draw Godzilla clones from all over the metropolitan area.
“What are you measuring?” I asked Bigfoot, who was setting up a laser calibrator under the hand dryer.
“We’re putting in new sinks, with no-hands faucet and soap dispensers,” he said through the grizzled mat of his mountain-man beard. “Nothin’s too good for you guys. You know that.”
“In that case can I have my seated calf press back?” I said. The temperature plummeted to zero Kelvin in an instant. I tried batting my eyelashes. I never had the knack.
“I think I just got a demerit,” I told one of my homies on the way out, and explained.
That’s the problem: I got homeboys here. I will hang on till they come for the squat rack, at which time I will handcuff myself to it. Film at eleven.