My Gym - Last Crack

It’s “my gym” because I’ve worked here for two and a half years and I’m still the only one who knows the difference between his ass and the hole in the middle of a 45 pound plate. And as cliché as it may be, It’s also been my little home away from home. Well, I guess it’s more of a smellier, dramatic version of a home away from home, but it’s been fun enough for me to hang around this long anyway.

Every day in my gym it’s the same thing. This place has a timeless quality, so I’m convinced if I move half way around the world for a decade and come home I’d walk through the same glass doors and hear the same thumping of feet and whirring of treadmill motors. The same air conditioner dumping piles of cool air onto the gym floor, the same bar bells clanking into their cradles and the same smell of rubber flooring hanging over the weight pit. I’ve spent hundreds of hours in this gym. Walking the floor during workouts, battling dust with the commercial vacuum cleaner, reclining in the leather office chair. The features of this place are seared onto my conscious.

Contemporary design elements are designed into the gyms décor to create a non-threatening environment. This fabrication attracts what the sales guys refer to as the “de-conditioned market”. Compiled into that tidy label are the house moms who’ve gained a little extra padding hustling junior to soccer practice, living on a diet delivered through a drive-through window. Ex-military men whose beer guts march onward, as their days of mandatory marching come to an end. And, every other average Joe or Josephine with diabetes, heel spurs, arthritis and fifty extra pounds whose fitness resolutions begin around December 31st and abruptly end around January 5th.

Neutral colored green and purple pastels cover the walls and ergonomic, friendly looking machines wrapped in powder coated silver stand in rows designed to direct human traffic through their routines. My gym is devoid of meat heads. No slamming around weights, obscene music or frat house conversation here. The dumbbells are all covered in rubber for safety. Big red buttons on the wall and white lanyards with little green buttons are strategically placed to alert 911. This gym’s members are cordial and clean up after themselves while bubble gum top forty hits crank out over the radio.

Leaning back against the reclining springs of the leather office chair I pick up the days papers and begin to read as I open a bottle of water. Sipping off of the top I lean back again and again. Rocking, relaxing and thinking on how to tackle the day.

One of our members, “Big John”, leans his head into my office, “Hey theer ol’ buddy. How’s the weather treating you mate? We got dumped on pretty good uh?” John’s a great big ol’ Aussie and carries his accent like a fifty pound trunk at the airport he’s afraid to set down. John has wild red, sun bleached hair all the time, like he’s just returned from spending years on safari in the Great Victoria Desert. He’s as stout as a compact car so my stereotyping drums up images of playing rugby with a bunch of other Brits, chugging one liter cans of Fosters and shooting wallabies pinned in the headlights of Land Rovers. “Not too terrible I reply, how’s your car holding up in this awful stuff?” Since I’ve worked here John has helped to raise my game in small talk, somewhat of a lost art in this day of twitter and skype. “Not too bad theer ol’ boy, just had to dig myself out of een eegloo this mornin’,” John chuckled as he replied.

I remember one time I told John I hadn’t been accepted for my big second round interview with Deloitte. He could tell I was going through a tough one. His advice was, “Those bloody human resources bastards are idiots. Worthless as teets on a bull thee are, you need to knock down their door or they’ll have their way with you ol’ boy.” Eloquently put. The following day I made a dozen calls and sent out emails to Deloitte and two weeks later I had my interview. Crikey good show.

John’s “Fosters Keg”, is what he refers to as his mid section, it hasn’t shrunk an inch since he joined the gym. I sometimes wonder to myself why you would join a gym not to change. My co-worker Brandon told me for some people, socializing and working out can be the highlight of their day. I was shocked at first but it’s true. As time goes on, I began to know these people and I do what I can to make their experience fun. But that doesn’t stop me from asking god to eventually let the highlight of my days be soaking up sun on a private beach in South America, not sweating on some cold piece of steel in the middle of a strip mall.

“Hey, hey, man, how ya doin?” It’s “tall Tom”. He caws as he struts in the entrance, ducking to miss the commercial sized door jam. Literally, the guys like 7 feet even, when he runs on the treadmill he has to constantly crouch down and hit the keypad to change speeds, which makes him look like one of those pecking bird desk ornaments, eternally caught between cawing and pecking. Tall Tom sells his insurance, and I guess he’s pretty good at it too because I became his client after only a year of meeting him. When my family gets rich after I kick the bucket I guess they have tall Tom to thank.

Jay’s the big man on campus around the gym, every time he walks though the doors he’s strutting like a rooster, making certain not to make eye contact with anyone while throwing sideways glances at the ladies. Jay’s a real estate developer with one hundred plus properties, some of which are in Barbados, so George, a struggling mortgage broker, is always right on Jay’s heels. They’re always batting it back and forth, reliving some old high school sports glories, arguing over ESPN highlights or whispering about some “young honey” that just joined up. My Gym is often the equivalent of one big office water cooler, working here has gotten me some sharp skills shooting the shit. Next comes Alex the bank manager, then Jacob the loan officer then Julie the real estate broker and then a half dozen more like them that’ve offered me positions once I graduate. Note to self: re-open a gym after you’ve made it just for the networking.

The usual flock of house wives rolls in. Most of them are well reserved, except for Jessica, a Brazilian lady who’s much more flirtatious than the rest. She floats from one man to the other in the gym like a butterfly choosing flowers. Most of the men humor her at first, but soon the novelty of it wears thin. Desperate housewives, one of most interesting elements in my gym. Note to self: Be wary of any potential girlfriends who like to spend too much time in the gym. Jessica pops her head into the office, “We all want to know if Bobby and Phil are offering free classes and where we can sign up. Aren’t you here late Mr. Brandt, were you waiting for me?” I laugh sarcastically, “Yeah I’m here just for you.” We small talk about working out and I listen to her same old story. She is eating bad again and put on weight. In two weeks she is going to a wedding or a reunion or a dinner with the in-laws, to be honest I don’t even keep track anymore. She needs to “look pretty quick.” I’m a gym rat, not a miracle worker, after these two years I could pass for a shrink.

I used to think we only collected membership fees at my gym, but we collect more. We collect dashed and new romances, born again track stars, quitters of vice and winners of competitions. We collect new mothers, the silently determined, the outwardly apathetic and the willingly malleable. We also collect ones like me. I’ve never been great at saying what my strengths and weaknesses are, so I’ll just tell you how I got here.


“Can you bring me some more ketchup please? Sir! Sir!”

“Sure thing Sir,” I whistle from between clenched teeth and a forced smile. I’m picturing top sizing the plastic ramekin of ketchup upside down on his head so it looks like one of those little hats on the tambourine playing monkey in that Stephen King movie. It’s near the end of my double shift. I’m starting to go snow blind from novelty stained glass lamps and bar lights reflecting off of shellacked wooden dining tables. Little kids run free from their parents around my feet. They’re flailing forks and knifes like mini-swashbucklers as I try to balance thirty pound trays of double-decker cheese fries and clam chowder. By the end of the night I’m picturing booting these little kids like field goals up into the novelty fish netting hanging from the ceiling.

Two weeks into my waiting career I set down my little lined pad near the order terminal and walk back into the kitchen during another night of poor tips and times. The manager’s looking at me with a serious expression, “Brandt can I talk to you for a minute?” I oblige and we retire to a spot by the dishwashing station out of the way from the constant stampede of busboys and waitresses, arms and tubs full of greasy, plain white dishes. “Brandt, there’s an African American couple who complained that you’re not serving them as well as their neighboring table with white guests. Now I’m not trying to imply anything but what’s going on here?” Anger and humor boiled from my depths.

“You’ve got to be freaking kidding me,” I retort letting out a chuckle of disbelief. “Those two are sitting next to each other in the booth and every time I walk up I’ve got to watch him with his hand up her skirt! You want me kneel down next to the table and take their order? I don’t care what race they are man but I’m not comfortable watching a skin flick while I’m trying to work!”

He looked shocked, “Alright Brandt, I believe you. I just wanted to make sure, you know what kind of area this is.”

“What kind of area this is?” I thought. “And I’m the racist?”

I made my way to the bar, leaning on the far side for a time out, to reflect on my situation. “I’m getting older,” I thought to myself, “maybe knowing when to fold and quitting aren’t the same thing.” I thought about the guys in the history books, the great business men. No one who always plays it safe every time makes it anywhere in this world, they suffer slowly with tied hands, drowning in monotony.

I walked back into the manager’s office and grabbed Steve, the owner. He was a younger, pretty hip guy who I got along with all right. I told him I put in my two weeks. Without batting an eye he thanked me for helping out while I could. The turnover in these places must be ridiculous, I didn’t wonder why.

Back out by the bar I noticed Erik the busboy spinning his bus tub in the air. Erik already had one foot in the slammer and he was only 17. “Man, so what if I have to sell a little weed here and there to get by?” Says Erik to his buddies as I enter the scene. “So Brandt, why are you quitting anyway?”

“Have I ever told you how they catch monkeys in the Congo?” I asked him.

“Nah man, you’re crazy, what the hell are you talking about?”

“Basically the moral of the story is you can never be afraid to let go of the peanuts.”


Two weeks later I worked my final double shift, turned over my multi colored shirts and flair and relaxed for a few minutes inside the car before I drove home. I opened up all the windows, reclined the seat back, enjoyed the summer night’s breeze and let Zeppelin pour through the radio. On my way home I decided to stop by the gym, a good session of cardio would help me get to sleep. The night air was too good to pass up so I settled on doing a few laps around the shopping mall before heading inside to work out but making my final turn into the gym parking lot I noticed a small, beat up Isuzu Rodeo slow down as it pulled away. The driver was checking me out in the rear view mirror.

“What the hell,” I thought, “Some weirdo other than me out here this late?”
I realized it was John, the owner. He’d signed up my membership, so I trotted up to his car.

“What’s up boyyyyyy. How you been?” John’s pushing 50 years old but he speaks like someone half his junior. He’s got spiked hair, is in excellent shape for even a 30 year old and has a casual way with people that most seem to enjoy. I told him about how I was looking for a job and how I’d worked at Gold’s Gym for a while before. John told he was just letting someone go from his staff and needed someone else to take over her duties. We agreed to meet the next week and discuss the position. I was excited, and at that moment I needed the job, bad.

My gym’s taught me a lot about people, and it’s taught me some too. I learned you can’t rely on the wind or the seasons to determine your fate, you have to create it, and sometimes letting go is just the beginning. Similar to the old cliché, a ship’s rudder can only work when it’s sailing, at the harbor a rudder only flaps aimlessly. Maybe they were right for coining that cliché, hopefully things will turn out alright for me living it.

Feature Final - Pass the Low Fat, Reduced Sodium, Lower Sugar Tostitos Please

You’re a government health regulator seated at a poker table surrounded by the CEOs of the largest American food companies. Scanning the table’s perimeter, you’re looking for weakness. Nabisco has his shades on so his eyes can tell no tales. Kraft and General Mills only return your gaze with the same blank stare. But wait. Out of the corner of your eye you see Pepsi’s palms are moist as he goes to call. Player after player folds and now the hand is back to you. You bluff with false confidence and raise, though weakly. Pepsi takes the bait, calls, and goes all in. The dealer calls for your hands. Your three tens lie on the velvet in triumph over Pepsi’s pair of aces. Taking your coat and standing up from the beaten table you break your gamblers resolve, when for a split second, you crack a smirk through your stone face. As you stride towards the cashier’s box with chips in tow, Pepsi realizes he’s seen the same smirk every weekend for the past twenty years, every time you’ve beaten Marlboro.

Even though the preceding situation sounds like something out of a Vegas flick, it is not un-similar to the disjointed tango between the government and Pepsi. Big tobacco’s peg has been knocked so low that they are now playing in the dirt. Pepsi and other food producers of questionable health benefit seem to have become next on the government’s chopping block.

Pepsi has become nervous enough to start making claims. They will remove every vending machine that serves high sugar drinks from k-12 schools before 2012. They will reduce the salt, sugar and fat content by 25% from their brands before 2020. They will begin to offer healthier options and they will stop targeting younger consumers in their advertising. Pepsi knows the popular modern trend is towards healthy nutritional choices and they are quietly distancing themselves from their rationalizing and deflecting public relations policies of the 90s. Bygone days when Pepsi’s marketing campaigns referred to their snacks as "fun for you."

Is Pepsi in an evangelical crusade against the added trans fats and sugars in their products? Nope. Pepsi is in the government’s and the angry public’s sights as America’s new poor health scapegoat, and Pepsi wants to become the next health campaign whipping boy like the Marlboro man wants to spend his afternoon accessorizing at Louis Vuitton.

The issue here is that Pepsi’s stuck between looming government and social pressures to provide healthier options and the reality that in many cases their best customers do not want those options. “Fatty Boom-Boom” is a term you might’ve heard thrown around a locker room or two to reference people who consume a 24 pack of Pepsi a week and require a forklift to use the restroom. Pepsi has a slightly more affectionate yet equally creepy term for the boom-booms who also happen to be their best customers: “frequent users”.

So what happens when you alienate the “frequent users” to aim campaigns into the hipper, more educated, organic soy milk sipping, free-trade denim wearing hipsters? You get flops like "Tropicana Juice". A financial disaster compared to the launch of "New Coke" which fell on deaf ears and uninterested palates during the mid eighties. Other Pepsi ventures into healthy snacking have met a similar fate leading to the harsh realization that many if not most of nutritionally educated consumers have already found niche brands, are loyal to them and are unlikely to side with a giant that they already deem to have misaligned incentives.

Regardless of the outcomes between Pepsi and the government your humble narrator thinks we all deserve to know what’s what about the food we eat. Eating a Twinkie with HIGH FIBER!! plastered on the box would be akin to purchasing a 500,000 mile car off a used car lot because the salesman scribbled NEW TIRES!!GREAT DEAL!! on the windshield. As consumers most of us want to believe we can accept the manufacturer’s label’s claims. After all, the government regulates these claims don’t they? Wouldn’t it be wrong for the people who provide our food to be anything but honest? Let’s take a minute to wake up.

The company that sells you your white eggs and enriched bread is no different than the used car salesman offloading his lemons. Food, like any other industry is driven by revenues. What the public wants is what food companies will provide. If eggs produced using green energy are hot this week, egg companies will consume ten percent of their energy with windmills, now they’re green eggs. If eggs produced with extra vitamins are hot this week, egg companies will throw a handful of vitamin D on the chicken feed, now they’re vitamin eggs. This is sales and marketing 101.

Pepsi is here to stay for the indefinite future. Governments may always be about one step behind when it comes to protecting the nutritional welfare of an educated society. So take it upon yourself to slowly begin the process of regulating your own nutritional intake. And remember that no one is ever finished learning all there is to know, it is a lifelong process.

SIDEBAR

So what are us normal people who love to eat to do? I mean, we do have to eat… don’t we!? I can’t solve all of your problems, but I can teach you 5 fairly easy rules that could help your health immensely:

1. Avoid Trans Fat and High Fructose Corn Syrup - These manmade food additives where developed as cheap alternatives to natural fat and sugar. In one study it was found that 7 grams of trans fat per day, the amount found in a medium French fry, increased your chance of cardiac failure after a year’s worth of consumption by 50%.

2. Go Organic with your Animals - Organic foods aren’t a cure all, but what organic does mean is that those foods have not been raised or produced with antibiotics, hormones or carnivorous feed stocks. Switching your poultry, dairy, beef and other animal products to organic wherever possible can have great benefits to your health.

3. Don’t Drink the Fire Water, or the Sugar Water for that Matter - It has been proven that many obese Americans lose substantial amounts of weight when they substitute their high calorie drinks for low calorie substitutes. Good fill-ins for soda would be tea sweetened with stevia or a mixture of 100% fruit juice, sparkling water and a few drops of mint or lemon oil.

4. Learn the Glycemic Index - Merely changing your carbohydrate intake from bad ones such as donuts, to good ones such as granola cereal can help you stay healthier. Some good examples of quality carbohydrates are oatmeal, beans, lentils, brown rice and other whole grains. If you don’t feel like eating these things raw(which I will not blame you for) simply search for the ingredient followed by “recipe” in your search engine. You should be able to find several thousand to choose from instantly.

5. Cheat - It’s ok to go overboard every once and a while. As you start your new endeavor to eat healthier, vow that for three meals a week you’ll eat whatever you want. As long as you aren’t gorging and staying within the guidelines at every meal, a few meals a week where you don’t hold back is ok and can actually be beneficial for your body. Wherever possible cheat with organic ingredients.

The Economist's March 27th article entitled "Pepsi gets a Makeover,"
(1,200 words)