Dead Fit - 24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

On Thursday morning, I woke up from a deep sleep to the sound of my cell phone ringing. Waking up on my regular schedule was never an easy process for me, usually taking at least five or ten minutes until I was fully functional. But waking up earlier than usual by the ringing of a phone was so much worse.

I looked at the phone's screen. It was someone from Sports Courts. I glanced at my alarm clock, hoping that I hadn’t overslept for work. It was only a quarter after six. This had better be important.

“Hello,” I answered, my voice groggy with sleep.

“Marshall, it’s Gary from the gym.”

“What's up, Gary?”

“I need you to be in by seven this morning. Kara called in sick and I want you to substitute for her spin class.”

Kara had filled in for me two days earlier, when I left work early to see Sandy. I guess this was my chance to return the favor.

“Sure, Gary, I’ll be there before seven.”

“Thanks, Marshall. I knew I could count on you,” Gary said, then added, “Oh, and don’t expect any overtime for this. You can just leave early.” One of these days I’d have to call the Department of Labor on him. I’m sure I could get some back pay for all of his shady employment practices.

I kept my shower short and skipped brushing my teeth altogether. Hopefully I could dig up a mint or some gum in my Civic. As promised, I was at the gym five minutes ‘til seven.

Spin was one of my least favorite group instruction classes to teach, partly because the runner in me enjoyed feeling my feet hit pavement – sitting on a stationary bike just didn’t cut it for me. The main reason for my disdain towards spin class, though, was having to be peppy and encouraging to a room of fifty strangers for a full hour. There was only so much cheerleading I was willing to do early in the morning, and unfortunately, teaching spin class required me to exceed that threshold.

Shortly after seven, members started showing up and reserving their stationary bikes for my class. By quarter after, the class was completely full. I was hiding at my desk, conserving my energy for the upcoming hour of torture. At times like these I needed Ana to get me energized, but she wasn’t due at work for another 45 minutes. Damn. I was on my own.

At 7:29, I dragged myself into the group instruction room. I put on my happy face and greeted my class with gusto. I made my way to the instructor’s bike, which was the only bike that faced in a different direction. All the other bikes were faced towards the mirror and the instructor’s bike. Apparently, the participants were supposed to get their inspiration by staring at their sweaty faces in the mirror and by watching me.

I introduced myself to the class as their substitute instructor in Kara’s absence. Some of the members whispered to each other, probably concerned that I wasn’t going to be as good as Kara. They were right. As my luck would have it, my swishy friend who worked at G1 Salon and Spa was in my class. He was Kimberly's stylist, the one that looked me up and down like a pork chop. We made eye contact for a brief second and he smiled at me. I looked at him, but pretended like I didn’t recognize him.

We started the class with some slower tunes to get everyone warmed up. By the middle of class, we were jamming to dance and hip-hop. I barked out as much encouragement and support as I could muster, feeling a little slimy my words were not as sincere as they should have been.

By the end of class, I felt like I was going to die. The physical strain of cycling for an hour was completely bearable, but not so much having to perform in front of fifty strangers. I was ready to retreat to a nice quiet place where I could be alone. But several of the participants deemed it necessary to stay and talk to me. Quite a few asked me when I was teaching my next class. Some of them even complimented me, which took me by surprise.

Before long, everyone else left the group instruction room except for my swishy friend. He came over to me and I did a mental roll of my eyes. At least he wasn’t looking me up and down like he did the other day.

“Hi, I think I saw you at G1 Salon the other day,” he said. He spoke with a lisp, the kind that made him sound like he was a tire that was losing air.

“Oh, sure, I was there with a friend of mine. She was checking out the place, trying to see if that’s the kind of work she’d like to do.”

“Yea, I heard all about her.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yea, she was the talk of the salon for the rest of the weekend. By the way, my name is Daniel, but my friends call me Danny.” He extended his hand and I shook it. He had a good firm handshake. No limp wrist, at least.

“Nice to meet you Danny. I’m Jaysen.”

“Maybe we can hang out some time on the weekend,” Danny said.

I must have given him a disinterested look, because he followed it with, “I’m not hitting on you; you’re totally not my type. I’m just looking for some new friends. I moved here about a month ago from South Dakota and don’t know too many people.” Danny looked around to make sure we were alone and said, “And let me tell you, Southern Californians aren't easy to get to know. But, you seem nice.”

Even though Derek wasn’t on my good list right now, some of the things he said to me during our recent dinner resonated with me. It was true; for years I avoided being friends with guys who were overly effeminate. It was my own insecurity – wanting to avoid stereotypically gay guys. I didn't want to be “guilty by association.” Here was my chance to mature a little, while making a new friend.

“Yea, actually that sounds cool. We can hang out sometime.”

“By the way, when you were in the salon the other day, I couldn’t help notice that if you did a few things differently, you’d totally look hot. Don’t get me wrong, you’re already a cutie. But with a different hair style and maybe some new threads, you’d have the boys or girls crawling all over you, whatever your flavor happens to be.”

Danny’s comment made me laugh. When he looked at me at the salon, I thought he was checking me out. Instead, he was probably thinking about what he would do to give me a makeover.

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I said.

We exchanged phone numbers and email addresses. Danny said he’d get a hold of me in the coming weeks to hang out. I was actually looking forward to it. Maybe I'd bring Ana, too. I could see those two being friends.

I went back to my desk and vegged for a while, pretending to complete paperwork. Motivating a bunch of strangers was taxing on my energy and I needed to recoup.

Gary came over to my desk midmorning. “Marshall, good work filling in for Kara. Some of the members said nice things about you. If you’re interested, I can put you in the instructor line up.”

In between the lines of Gary's compliment, I could read his underlying message. He was still unsure about my ability to be a successful personal trainer. But instead of being fired, I could take a job as a group fitness instructor.

“Gary, I know you still question if being a personal trainer is the right job for me. But really, I'm sure it's a better fit for me than being a class instructor. I work better with people one-on-one.”

Gary looked at me for a few seconds, then asked, “How’s it going with the client I met the other day, the one that wasn’t happy with you as a trainer?”

That was Gary’s twist on the situation, but I wasn’t in any position to correct the boss. “It’s going fine, Gary, he’s coming in tomorrow for his big weigh-in. I’m sure he’ll have reached his goal by then.”

“Alright, Marshall. We'll keep our eye on the results you're getting for your clients. But if it doesn't work out, we can use a good group instructor like you.” The thought of having to teach classes full of strangers, four or five times a day, made my stomach turn. I just hoped Trevor was going to be a success story after tomorrow and Gary would get off my case.

After lunch, I had fitness assessments with two different members. Both were interested in retaining me as their personal trainer. I did my usual battery of tests, wrote up fitness plans, and scheduled sessions with both of them.

I had nothing to do for the rest of the afternoon, but my shift didn't end for another two hours. So I pulled out an empty file and a tablet of lined paper, pretending to draft up an exercise plan for a non-existent client. It had now been two days since I saw Sandy and it was time for me to do something with the information she provided me on front-running.

I jotted down some key phrases from our conversation as best as I could remember them. Surprisingly, I was able to recall most of what Sandy had told me. Even if it still didn't make sense, at least I managed to accurately capture her thoughts.

Next, I used a second sheet and brainstormed some ideas of what, if anything, I could do with the information. It took a bit longer to get the first idea down on paper, but once I did, the flood gates opened all the way. Before I knew it, the sheet was full of ideas on how I could determine if Todd's alleged crime was front-running.

I looked through my laundry list. Most of them were silly and a few were downright crazy. I crossed out the ones I thought could put my safety in jeopardy, including the idea to break into Todd's office and access his computer. That would have been the easiest way to review the history of stock trades he made for his clients. And like Sandy suggested, if a percent of all client portfolios had identical trades on similar days, that would be evidence of front-running. While that idea was the strongest, I wasn't about ready to go to jail for breaking and entering. I could end up as someone's bitch in prison.

I also crossed out the far-fetched ideas, ones inspired by Hollywood. Those ideas would just complicate my hunt for answers instead of bringing clarity. That was the lesson Trevor taught me on Monday – to keep focused on the broader goal and not get caught up trying to do too much. The end result was most important.

In the end, after striking through most of my ideas, only one remained. The idea remaining was for me to contact the SEC to see if any complaints had been filed against Todd for poor investment performance. Sandy hypothesized that if an advisor was front-running with the help of a third-party, he was probably doing it with high-risk stocks. She thought the high-risk stocks probably lost money, but that most clients didn't notice because the overall portfolio was making money.

Given how long Todd had been in business, surely someone by now would have filed a complaint against him for losing money. If the number of complaints wasn't large enough, it may not have warranted a full-blown investigation by the SEC. They may have just swept the matter under the rug. But if I could confirm at least two complaints, it would give credence to my theory that Todd's alleged financial crime was front-running.

I looked at the time on my cell phone. It was 4:00 pm. My little brainstorm session managed to take up two hours. I took the two sheets of paper, folded them, and tucked them into my wallet. Per Gary’s directive, I left work so he could avoid paying me overtime.

I had plans to meet Brian over at his condo at seven, so I had three hours to kill. I should have gone home and started the leg work on reviewing complaints filed with the SEC against Todd. After all, they were a government agency and it would probably take a few days before I could get a response from them. But instead, I went home and tended to my parents' garden. They were going to be home in just a few days and I wanted their plants to look lively. I could always contact the SEC on Friday or first thing the following week.

While working in the front yard, I saw two kids from the neighborhood carrying baseball bats and gloves, presumably heading to the park. It reminded me that Brian played in a City softball recreation league and had a game scheduled for 5:30. I hadn’t planned to attend the game, since I figured I'd still be at work. But with the last-minute change in my work schedule, I could now watch him play.

I finished the yard work, ran inside to clean up and then drove to Brian’s game. When I arrived at Veterans Stadium, Brian’s game was already well underway. A few people were watching the game, mostly spouses and children. I parked myself next to a woman who was sitting alone, about half way up the bleachers. Normally, I would have preferred to sit alone. But Brian wasn't expecting me and rather than alarm him in the off-chance he should see me in the bleachers, I opted to blend in with the others.

It was the top of the third. Brian and his team, the Bluff Park Bulldogs, were up by two runs. Their opponents, the Plaza Panthers, were at bat.

I was half-focused on the game, more captivated by watching Brian’s interaction with his teammates. He was clearly the team's Captain, the one who called all of the shots. His teammates were unquestionably obedient, no doubt a reflection of the respect they had for his leadership. A few of the guys on his team were very good looking and I wondered if it was distracting trying to make a homerun when surrounded by handsome men.

The game was into the fourth inning and moving too slowly for me. I was glad softball had only seven innings. Having to sit through a full nine innings would have killed me. The game might have held my interest more, but Brian’s team was already winning and it didn’t seem like the Panthers were going to catch up. I was thankful when the woman next to me wanted to strike up a conversation.

“Does your wife or girlfriend play on this league,” the woman asked me.

“Oh no, I’m just here to see a friend play.”

“That’s nice,” the woman said. We watched a player strike out and then the woman continued, “My husband is the pitcher for the Panthers. Does your friend play for the Panthers, too?”

“Actually, he plays for the other team,” I said, laughing to myself at my double entendre. I could be such a punster when bored.

We watched another uneventful inning go by. Then something disturbing happened during the final two innings. The Bulldogs had a series of missteps in the sixth inning and the Panthers managed to even the score. During the seventh inning, the Panthers pulled ahead with three more runs. At the bottom of the seventh, it was the Bulldogs’ turn at bat. They hit two homeruns with their first two batters. Before long, the bases were loaded. The outcome of the game seemed to lean in favor of the Bulldogs, again.

Another streak of bad luck hit the team and two players struck out. The next batter up was visibly stressed about his team’s do-or-die situation. Brian walked over to his teammate and had what appeared to be a rather intense conversation. At that moment, Brian reminded me of one of those soccer moms or football dads who lived vicarious through their child, the ones that were overly competitive and took the fun out of the game.

When the pep talk ended, the player looked more stressed out than before. In less than a minute, the player struck out and the game was over.

While the Panthers celebrated their victory, Brian went over and berated his teammate. Given his teammate’s red face, Brian was really letting him have it. After a full minute of this, the umpire came over to intervene, probably to remind Brian of rules for good sportsmanship. No sooner did the umpire arrive then Brian turned his anger on him. Unlike the teammate, the umpire had no qualms about standing up to Brian. He yelled right back and eventually, Brian backed off, but not before he took a swing at the umpire. The umpire deftly took a step back and Brian’s fist went flying in the air. Brian’s stance wasn’t stable and he ended up falling to the ground.

Players on both teams erupted into laughter. Brian sprung up, dusted himself off and stormed off the field.

“That wasn’t very nice,” I said to myself.

The woman next to me heard me and said, “Oh, I think that’s typical for him. He can be a real hothead.”

“Really?”

“That’s not the friend you’re here to see, is it?”

“Oh, no,” I lied.

“Good. I’d hate to speak ill of other people in front of their friends. Anyway, my husband’s played against him a few times. Says he’s a nice guy when everything is going his way, but when things go sour, so does his attitude. I guess he’s really competitive, always out to win. Takes it out on his team when they lose.”

“Uh huh,” I said, watching players from the two teams lining up to shake each others' hands.

“You men are funny like that, always getting worked up over sports,” she said. She picked up her purse and turned to me, “It was nice to meet you. I’m sure I’ll see you at another game in the future.”

“Of course,” I replied.

This was the first time I had seen this side of Brian, a side I didn't like. He did tell me he was driven and his style was to stop at nothing to get what he wanted. But I didn’t think that included being disrespectful and downright violent.

I sat on the bleachers for a while, making sure I didn’t bump into Brian in the parking lot. Players on both teams stayed on the field talking to one another, reenacting Brian’s meltdown. I wondered if Brian knew his tantrum was the laugh of the night.

After the field cleared and I felt reasonably certain Brian was no longer in the parking lot, I left Veterans Stadium and headed over to Brian’s condo, stopping by Subway for some sandwiches and chips.

When I got to his place, he had already showered and was lounging in front of the television. His mood was mellow, especially in comparison to his previous hot flash I witnessed.

I parked myself next to Brian and gave him a smooch. “How was your softball game?”

“Not so good, we lost. Our first loss for the season.”

“What happened?”

“We screwed up.”

“We? As in the whole team,” I asked, wondering if he was taking responsibility, too.

“Most of us,” Brian said. “We were up by a few runs for more than half of the game. Then we just got sloppy and the other team caught up. When it was our final turn at bat, the bases were loaded and we were down by one run. Our star hitter was up. I thought we were home free. He always pulls through, but even he blew it. I've never seen him play that badly.”

“Well, I’m sure he didn’t do it intentionally, right?”

“Yea, but it shouldn’t have happened. I guess I’m just a poor sport when it comes to losing. Anyway, how was your day, baby?”

It was obvious Brian didn’t want to talk about it anymore. I wanted to push the issue a little further with him, but Ana’s story of her birthday package popped in my head. This wasn’t behavior that I was expecting from my boyfriend. But, like Ana said, I couldn’t keep comparing Brian against this perfect image I had created in my mind. Maybe he did get a little angry today on the softball field. But since I was almost his polar opposite, avoiding competitive situations at all costs, perhaps I couldn’t understand this side of him. And rather than find fault in it, I needed to accept it and move on.

While Brian and I wolfed down our sandwiches, I gave him a brief overview of my day, skipping the part where I left work early and watched his softball game. When we were done eating, Brian wasted no time grabbing my hand and dragging me into his bedroom. I was self conscious of my stinky onion-breath and hoped he would at least steer me towards his bathroom so I could get some mouthwash first. But no such luck – we went straight to his bed. It had been a few days since last we had a chance for a little playtime and apparently we both had some pent up testosterone.

At one point during our romping, Brian was a little more aggressive than he had been in the past. While we kissed, his hand went down the front of my shorts and he took hold of me. The feeling of someone else’s hand on me was electric. After a few minutes of this, I was ready to explode so I tried to pull his hand out from my shorts. He resisted and I let him continue until I couldn’t hold back any longer. The release was intense and I wanted to catch my breath for a second, but Brian quickly grabbed my hand and put them down his boxers, holding my hand around him while he thrust his hips. For a split second, it almost felt like I didn’t have a choice in the matter, that he wanted this and he was going to get it, regardless how I felt. But I forced that thought out of my head quickly. I was doing it again, just like Ana said, trying to find his faults.

When Brian was finished, he let go of my hand, rolled over on his back, and let out a sigh. He pulled my head towards his chest and stroked my hair while we lay on his bed. Brian was gentle again, soft and sweet. When I left him that night, he was drawing water for a long, warm bath. The image of Brian sitting in his bathtub, surrounded by bubbles and his rubber ducky popped in my head and made me laugh at myself. Here I was, worried that a man who takes baths would be overly aggressive.

Sure, our night was a little on the rough side for my tastes, but I attributed his unusual forcefulness as a continuation of Brian’s theme for the day. All of us wake up some mornings in a certain mood that prevails for the remainder of the day, giving it a theme of sorts. Apparently, Brian’s theme for the day was aggression. Not violence, but more like someone who wanted to push the limits.

As long as his aggression didn’t interfere with our relationship, I wasn’t worried. Besides, I reasoned, I was confident that I could catch a pattern of aggression before it spun out of control.

I mean, come on, it wasn’t like I was falling blindly in love.