The health club experience where you live is nothing like the cult of personality we call Southern California gym life. The atmosphere is one-of-a-kind, its people a subculture all their own. It has its own style of dress. That’s right – sweating and getting messy involves a particular dress. Proper grooming is also required. Health clubs aren’t about dropping pounds as much as they are about being seen. Friendships are made, relationships are formed, and fuck buddies are introduced at SoCal clubs like it was an ordinary nightclub. I have seen it and have been party to it. If health clubs were any closer to meat markets, the people scanning gym IDs at the door would hand out cleavers and hooks on your way in.

I decided I would spend the rest of the morning giving my midsection a workout and doing some cardio work. In past months I’d fallen badly off the wagon and had stopped working out altogether during the two months I spent in Europe. It showed too, as the area around my abs had grown flabby, and the cut look across my torso in which I took such pride was quickly disappearing. Damn drinking – I remembered a magazine ad that read “there’s no such thing as Scotch guy.” My body was proving otherwise.

For having the reputation as a hardworking up-and-at-em community, most of West L.A shuffles off to the local gym at around 11AM daily. I was reminded of this phenomenon as I drove past an L.A Fitness lot on Santa Monica Boulevard and an overfilled parking structure - with a “full lot” sign staked visibly at the entrance, to boot - at Gold’s Gym in Beverly Hills. By the time I pulled into the local Ballys health club, I was teetering dangerously close to running into the extended lunchtime crowd that comes in for midday workouts.

Just past the entrance to the lot an attendant waved his hands about to flag me down. A valet is an inevitability at Southern California gyms. There is an easy way to calculate the number of valets a gym carries on staff: The closer the gym is located to Beverly Hills, the greater the amount.

I rolled down my window. “Hello, we are parking cars today on Barrington,” the Valet says. Barrington was the street two blocks over.

“What’s the occasion?” I asked.

The valet shrugged. “Today must be a good day to work out, I guess,” he responded in a tone to suggest “I really don’t care either way but I have to make nice with the customer.”

I got out and flipped him the keys before reaching into the back seatfor my bag. I barely had the bag out before he shut the door and sped away. “Nice car,” I heard him spit out just as the door closed.

The inside was a carbon copy of what I’d seen outside, with every machine in use, every mat taken, every Swiss ball between somebody's legs. I surveyed the floor from the men’s locker room entrance and let out a sigh. If you carved through the place and removed the people who were here for the eye candy and not serious about giving their body a proper workout, half the crowd would disappear. It’s amazing how many people shell out fifty dollars a month for such a frivolous reason.

Inside the locker room I unzipped my bag, pulled out the towel and my iPod, and threw the bag inside an empty locker, slamming the door shut.

The guy next to me who had just finished his work out leaned back from his opened door.

“Hey, take it easy buddy. Save the gym rage for out there.”

“That’s if I can get on a machine,” I replied.

The guy grinned. “I love days like this when everything is in use. What I do, see, is find the hottest chick in the place using a Nautilus machine and ask her if she wants to trade sets. That way I’m exercising, she's exercising, and you're checking each other out so eventually you start talking. Makes for a great workout and who knows, maybe more.”

I laughed to myself. A meat market indeed. The sad thing? His method works. I have seen him and a dozen other men execute it to perfection. It’s hard to lay blame; every woman who comes through those glass entry doors knows exactly what to expect of the men here. And sticking it out is almost like condoning the behavior.

I wished the guy good luck with his strategy and went out to the exercise floor. What I really wanted was to sit on an exercise bike for about half an hour but they were all in use. A nonchalant walk behind the back row of bikes revealed every rider had at least twenty minutes to go, so getting in any quality time was ruled out. After warming up and following up with reverse crunches on the crowded practice mat it was high time to hit the cage for butterfly curls.
I approached the cage and saw a line. A fucking line! To do curls! This was even worse than the commute to the cemetery. I had enough. I cut my visit short and went home. There was even a line to wait in for the valet to bring the cars around.
___________________________________________________________________

As it had done the previous four days, my cell phone rang at just after two in the afternoon. Which one of them would it be this time, I wondered. A quick glance of the call ID revealed today's caller: Aaron.

“Are you the one they’ve sent for me today, Aaron?” I answered.

“Funny, to the last. I see you are in high spirits.”

“I’m in my prime,” I responded dryly.

“Great to hear it. I’m checking up on whether or not you are going to make Grace’s tonight. I’m sure Devin filled you in on the details yesterday, hmm?”

I hated being talked to like an infant, even more so by friends.

“I’ve given the matter due diligence,” I deadpanned, “and must respond in the negative. Sorry.”
I waited silently for Aaron to respond, to fire back with something angry, or spiteful.

“Sorry to hear that,” he said with a cool, disaffected tone. “Vanessa was looking forward to seeing you. You know with it being a month away from the wedding it will be hard to get an uninterrupted chunk of free time with the bride, especially when she is going out of her mind coordinating details, guest lists, party favors, and family coming from out of town.”

“The guilt trip isn’t going to work today, Aaron.”

“I just hope this isn’t how you’re going to be when the wedding day arrives. I need an outgoing upbeat friend as best man, not a shrinking violet. Which are you going to be?”

“Time will reveal all,” I cryptically answered, and hung up.

“Another call from your friends?” my mother asked as she entered the room carrying a platter with two glasses of ice tea. She offered me one and I waved her off.

“Yeah. I wish they would really leave me alone. I am getting sick of the daily check up call.”

“Careful,” she cautioned, “the day will come when the phone calls stop and you’ll wonder why no one calls you any longer.” She held up her glass in a ‘cheers’ fashion and took a sip. “You know,” she continued, “there is someone here who needs some checking up on, some attention.” She motioned to Sophia, laid out on her day bed at an angle, her head hanging off the edge. “She looks like she could use some quality time with her best friend. It’s no complaint of mine if you choose to blow off your friends, but don’t do the same to her. The girl doesn’t deserve it.”

I stood up and walked over to where Sophia was laying. She raised her head from the edge of her bed as I approached, her tail curling into its familiar curly-queue and bouncing.

“So, what do you think, girl? Want to spend some quality time – well, time, considering I have no life?”

She raised her head a little higher and I knelt down to meet her half way. I got a wet lick on the cheek in response. The comforting thing about owning a dog is they don’t throw curve balls your way. Nothing is a surprise. Feed your dog, walk your dog, and throw some attention its way and you will have one happy pet. There are no mood swings or temper tantrums with which to deal. In some ways I prefer my ugly dog to some people.

Outside she was eager to do some exploring and pulled at her leash more than she usually does. I could see the focus of her attention, the man on the other side of the street pulling weeds and dead flowers from his garden. He was wearing what I’d come to term “retiree lounge wear”: A pastel Bermuda-style shirt about one size too large, Dockers shorts with an abundance of room in the seat, and white cotton athletic socks pulled high enough to test the limits of its elastic band. Today he was wearing a fisherman’s hat complete with dangling lures, and it was enough to make him appear different to the dog, and thus a threat. As soon as we were clear of the yard she made a bolt for the street in his direction.

“Sophia, heel!” I commanded. She started yipping and getting worked up. The guy heard the dog’s noises and turned to see the cause of the commotion.

“Hi there,” he beckoned, “your dog is sure excited about something.”

Sophia continued her pulling until we were on his side of the street and on the sidewalk. She parked herself squarely in front of the man and began growling a low growl.

“Cut it out,” I told her, giving a yank on her collar to reinforce the command.

“Sorry, I think she feels the hat makes you a little too sinister,” I responded to the man.

He laughed and took off his gardening gloves. Sophia resumed growling and I pulled harder on the choke chain to rein her in.

“Sinister, huh? Can’t really blame the dog, just doing it’s job of protecting you.” Once he had the gloves off he changed topics. “You’re awfully young to be around here, are you visiting?”

“No, I am on a bit of an extended stay.” I freed a hand and held it out. “I’m the Becker's kid. I am staying with my mother for a while.” Who was I kidding, with the way my motivation had left me completely the thought of being there for the rest of my days crossed my mind regularly.

The man shook my hand firmly, tightly gripping my forefinger and pinky at the sides. “Yeah, right. Hey, I am deeply sorry about your father. It came as a shock to all of us. We might be a bunch of fat cats, but we are a tightly-knit community of fat cats.”

I silently waited for the he looked so young comment which I had heard from a lot of my mother’s friends who had stopped by the house recently.

“Your father and I played golf as part of a foursome. We were pretty good.” He laughed, dwelling on the thought for a moment. “Such a shame,” he added with a shake of his head, “the guy took good care of himself. He looked so young.”

I nodded.

“Anyway, I’m glad to meet you. I’m Paul, Paul-”

“I know who you are Mr. Sorvino,” I interrupted, “I really enjoyed your work in Goodfellas, and I was particularly impressed with the job you did as the smacked-up singer in The Cooler. Oh! And Nixon. Very cool Mr. Kissinger.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. That’s very kind of you. So are you helping out your mother?”

“Yes. Exactly.”

“Good. Good man. She’s proud of you,” he said, pointing at my chest.

“Hope so. The whole thing has been a life-altering ordeal, in ways I can’t even say. Actually, in ways I’m not going to waste your time boring you with.” I nodded my neck towards Sophia. “I’m going to keep her moving along so she doesn’t get any more ideas that my safety is in jeopardy.”

“Fine, fine. I need to get back to this mess I call a garden anyway.” He reached in back of him and brought up an unlit cigar to his mouth. He chewed on the end a bit before putting it in his mouth.

“You know those are much better if you light them,” I joked.

He shook his head. “Can’t do that anymore. Asthma. It’s too much of a risk. Hey, do you play golf? Your father has left us down a person and why not keep it in the family, you know?”

The truth was I was a terrible golfer, mostly because I never had any patience with the sport. It was just as George Carlin said, a waste of real estate and a numbing game of hitting a ball, walking after it, and hitting it again. With Scotland being the birthplace of golf, my father always shook his head in disbelief over my inability to play the game. I would be the laughing stock of any team put together for pleasure or competition.

But I didn’t reveal this to Paul Sorvino, the actor, standing in his pale khaki Dockers shorts and white athletic tube socks with an unlit cigar with one chewed end hanging from his mouth.

“Sure, why not?” I replied.

“Great! You’ll have to give us some time to put another round together. It is becoming harder and harder to get the group together, and now is the time of year people around here start traveling or taking visits to see their children and grandchildren. But I will bring it up the next time I talk to the guys. And you’ll really like them too, which I know might seem far-fetched given your age and our age, but once you get to know them I think you’ll find…”

Somewhere in the middle of Mr. Sorvino’s diatribe I lost focus and my mind wandered. Maybe I lost interest. Maybe I couldn’t shake the sound of Ray Liotta’s narration from “Goodfellas” running through my mind as Mr. Sorvino talked.

At some point during my mental drift he realized I wasn’t listening any longer. I must have had some glazed and dopey look on my face because he stopped mid-thought. “You alright?” he asked.

I blinked and refocused. “What? Oh, yeah, fine.”

“I thought I lost you there for a moment.”

“Honestly, I had Ray Liotta’s “Goodfellas” narration running through my mind as you were talking. I must have thought this was a real Hollywood moment.” I smiled. As far back as I can remember I always wanted to be a gangster.

“Heh,” he added with some uncertainty, a partial smile showing from the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t the kind a person cracks when they are laughing with you; it was more along the lines of is this guy okay or is he a crackpot? kind of smile.

He gave me a wave and turned his attention back to his yard as I left with Sophia, heading further up the street. When we reached the corner I turned and walked down another corridor of homes with the dog locked in step by my side. This neighborhood, besides being swanky, was quite nice because most of the homes were unique. Far too much of Los Angeles was silently being torn down and replaced with homogenized carbon copies of the same thing a street over. The city was losing a part of its history and a larger chunk of its identity. It seemed that only behind the walls of private communities, country clubs, and historic districts - where all the demolition being done in the name of progress could be stopped - the real history, identity, and diversity of housing was preserved. I stopped in front of one home, a colonial style charmer that was likely built in the 1940s. Homes like this were far too rare for Southern California and it was a shame, but in the country club homes like this were common place.

By the time I returned home with the dog it was almost four and the sun was just beginning its decent behind the Santa Monica foothills in the distance. We walked through the door just as my cell phone began ringing. Sophia barked.

“Yeah, I know, I wish they’d stop calling too. It’s overkill.” For a moment I hoped it was Deirdre, looking to reestablish the control and fear she she had exercised for so long. I was eager to rip into her again in the hope it would drive her away for once and for all, but when I looked at the call ID I frowned. It read ‘Devin.’

I hit the connect button: “Hey Devin.”

“So I heard you turned us down again when Aaron called. That’s fine, it was expected. You’ve forced us to go to plan B.”

“What’s plan B?” I asked.

He spoke sternly: “I’m sending Lupo, should be there in about half an hour. Don’t fight it, just get dressed and make sure security at the gate knows it’s cool. You brought this upon yourself.” He hung up.

Crap.