News From An Acorn

Serafina by Sea

   She was among many,
   yet gloriously alone. Awash and adrift
   upon the mist, the wonder, the waves and the water;
   a mysterious homecoming of one without words.

  

 
 
 

Text and Photos by Kevin Lee
  

Workout Wonder

It's been almost a year since I joined this fitness center. You know the type. It's outfitted with a kazillian aerobic machines, treadmills, ellipticals, free weights, stretching areas, and of course the proverbial "nutrition center" that makes ridiculously healthy energy drinks that taste like sludge and sell for five bucks a pop. Yes, that type of gym.

But I continue to come here several times a week, scheduling  indoor workouts around alternate days of rowing with my team in the harbor. This place is not far from my house, the people here are nice and most people mind their own business. Even the trainers are top notch professionals, though I'm too cheap to pay for their hourly coaching. So while there is little to actually complain about, there's plenty to make me smile and laugh to myself sometimes while I'm bored out of my mind trying to keep up with any number of machines that are trying to kill me.

Take Larry for instance. Larry is one of these guys who doesn't just go to a place like this to exercise, he's Mr. Fitness to the core. The real deal. He's not young, or shy about wearing bright orange outfits. Larry has an infectious personality that seems to melt everyone around him. Woman, even the ones who are so intense about their workouts, that I imagine that they must eat nails for breakfast, stop and chat with Larry. Older guys, like me, risk falling off of our machines by lifting one hand to wave as Larry smiles and greets his way around. Even the free-weight bodybuilders gather around Larry after he finishes his trademark set of light weight, slow motion bench presses to chat about their workout routines. He lives and sleeps yoga, in between running marathons, lifting weights and doing pushups. I think that he may have a job somewhere too. Twenty minutes into his methodical workout he starts stretching into shapes that hurt me to watch. Pretty soon Larry will make his way into the soft-floored stretching room, put down a towel and fling his feet high in the air and stand on his head. That's it... he stands on his head. It's a weird thing to walk by a guy who says cheerily, "Good morning, my man," while he's standing on his head. No matter. The other day I did my little stint of stretches right beside Larry, then left for another machine. Ten minutes later I passed Larry again, who was still on his head, but doing scissor splits with this legs.

My next stop is on one of the recline bicycles for a twenty minute spin. I'm sitting here, peddling, panting, and appreciating that the location of these machines is like theatre, actually, which is good because otherwise it's boring as hell. There's a woman to my right in a race to either destroy the machine she's on or kill herself. Thus far it's a draw. She's peddling so damn fast that the machine starts making a "bang-bang-banging" sound that doesn't seem good. If it were a car I'd be calling Triple A. She groans too, in a way that makes me think she's going to keel over and croak. Whenever she's beside me, like today, my goal is to finish and move on before the paramedics arrive.

For contrast, to the right and one row ahead, is a man who, like most days, was on the same treadmill when I arrived and will most likely be on it when I leave. The machine is barely moving which is probably a good thing. I'm guessing that his doctor said he'd better lose at least fifty pounds if he wants to live until his next annual physical. He's walking...slowly, while reading the New York Times, front to back on an extra wide homemade clipboard that he apparently brings in from home for his morning read. I like it too because I can read the headlines and see the larger photos over his shoulder. I like to think he's getting his exercise and I get the Times for free!

My favorite characters to watch though are two young men in their early twenties who come in to workout together. They're here right now, and like most days, one is sporting a headband and the other a doo-rag. The headbands and doo-rags vary in color and style from one day to the next. So I'm theorizing that there's a master schedule somewhere that they both follow. I don't know. Their bodies are sculpted, dark and muscular, and they walk and banter about the place like they own it. They are also exceptionally polite and call me "sir" whenever we pass. This gym has a section with rows of bikes (where I am), then a line of treadmills with a long row of free weights in front of all this. There are mirrors everywhere that reflect everything, so that you can see people approaching the area even before they actually arrive. Whenever these two strapping lads arrive and start pumping weights in front of the rest of us, two things start to happen. After a few reps, when the boys begin to glisten, they methodically peal off layers of workout clothing until they're down to the "legal" limit. The women on the machines start watching the show by looking "away" in a mirror, which really just varies their angle of view. The ladies also seem to speed up their running, pedaling or whatever they're doing. The men, by contrast, having dealt with this cruel visual reality before, just look up, concentrate on watching CNN and hope that their own set will soon be over.  

Last month as chance would have it I was chatting briefly with Larry, when these same two young bucks sauntered through, glanced our way and nodded, which I took to mean, "hey, good morning." It was clear (of course) that they already knew Larry, and without stopping, talking or changing their stride, one of them raised an arm and fist-bumped Larry and then me. I thought, hey, we're cool...I'm fist bumping now! I actually remembered to do it and resisted my boyhood instincts that taught me whenever someone stuck their fist up you were either supposed to duck or start running. For a nanosecond I felt thirty years younger and figured that I should throw my chest out, adjust my stride and go over and start heaving barbells around. Yeah!

Well, twenty-five minutes on this bike is enough for me. I'm going to finish here and post before somebody notices me geeking out on my Blackberry. Just think. All this, even exercise in a one-hour visit to the gym.

Voice Mails, 3:00 AM

Jacob said, "Sometimes I call your voice mail after midnight and just listen.
I've done it so many times that I've almost memorized your little story, Kevin.
I'd say it's time to record another, but I like that one. I like knowing it's there....
I mean, the sound of your voice....so don't change it--yet, okay?"

Jacob is somewhere in his twenties now and lives down South.
Years ago he attended our local high school now and then.
His world swirled between his gay friends and his family.
His friends remained but his family wrote him off years ago.
So I keep the voice mail message just for him.

And Kelsie, who calls from the group home she's in
whenever she's earned enough phone credits for sticking with her program.
(It's perplexing and humorous knowing that the human service system has
found a way to work phone privileges into their treatment plan.)
Anyway, she calls and tells me how she misses
being in town, and dreams still about one day finding her
father and shooting him in his sleep.

Then there’s John. He takes the cake. (And anything else that isn't nailed down, too.)
John recorded his own little rap song that he's been begging to record on my
voice mail. He sang it on my voice mail once.
It's good, actually... if you take the f____ins' and the gangster
lingo out.

I tell him, "John, You're white bread.
You're whiter than I am come to think of it.
You live in a white town, on a white street.
Even you're ghetto wanna be clothes look like you bought them
in the L.L. Bean White Bread Catalog."

He laughs, smiles. swears like his father taught him, and says
"C'mon Kev. It'll be fun."
"Sure John," I tell him. "Right after I die"

"Greetings, this is Kevin Lee, and thanks for calling. Please leave
your message after the tone and I'll return your call just as soon as I
can. If your situation is urgent, please call my....."