CHANDLER & REPS

by Melodie Johnson Howe

My writer friend Gayle was trying to convince me to join a gym.

“We can work out and then discuss our writing in the cafe. You know, kill two birds with one stone.”

“But what if were the birds? I’m not a gym person. I don’t like being around all that flesh and sweat. A café? They have a café?”

She then told me how nice the gym is. It has yoga and Pilates classes. A swimming pool. Cardiovascular room. They’ll give you a free trial week to see if it’s right for you.”

FREE? I find myself sitting in front of a desk talking to Owen. Gayle is sitting next to me. Owen is probably in his late twenties and is very nice. I’m filling out forms about my physical health and any medicines I’m on. Then I sign away all my rights to sue if I drop dead.

Owen reading one of the forms says, “You’re a writer. What do you write?”

“We’re both writers. I write mysteries.”

“Thrillers. Espionage,” Gayle says.

“Gee, two writers. I love mysteries. Have you read Raymond Chandler?” He asks me.

“Yes I have.”

“I love him.”

“He’s why I write.”

“Really?” he is genuinely excited. He reads another form. “Is this your age?”

“Yes.”

His eyes widen and he blushes. Gayle gives me a shove. “She doesn’t look it, does she?”

“I … I … ” He doesn’t know what to say. We’ve embarrassed him. It’s great being an older woman.

A young man who reads Raymond Chandler and thinks I’m younger that I am. What could be better? After the first free week, I join.

Now I’m lifting itsy bitsy weights standing next to some man who is lifting thousand pound weights. He starts to snort and huff and puff. Sweat is pouring down his bulging muscles. They look as if they’re going to pop through his skin. I can’t take my eyes off of him. I’ve lost the count of my reps. 10? 15? 100? 4? I have to remind myself to count the lifting of my arms and the lowering of them as one rep. Though it seems to me it should be 2 reps. The man now looks like he’s going to explode. I wonder if I should stand back. He drops his million pound weights on the floor. They clang, bang, and bounce. I leap. Hands on his hips he struts around snorting and blowing air. He paws the floor with his hoof, I mean Nike. He’s turning into a bull right before me. Luckily, I’m not wearing red. What is this guy going to do with all those muscles? What am I going to do with my little, well, invisible muscles? I continue with my reps picking a high number at random since I haven’t a clue as to how many I’ve done.

I’m on a machine. Or the machine is on me. I’m not sure who is in charge. Next to me a toned young woman is on the same kind of machine doing leg lifts. She is blowing and snorting. Her face is straining with the many weights she is lifting up.

I look at the paper given to me by a trainer (one hour free) that tells me what number of weights I’m to key in and how many reps. The weight is 0. The reps are Best. Best? What does that mean? Best would be getting off the machine. I look at the weights. There is no zero. So I take the key out of the top one and lift my legs. I never knew that zero could be so heavy. I look over at the young woman. She is intensely staring at herself in the mirror as if she’s going to attack her own image. Maybe this kind of intensity gets you through the reps, I think. I glare at myself in the mirror. I blow out. I snort. I become intrigued by my own image. I look like I’m really doing it. The woman’s eyes dart toward me. She begins to pump her legs faster. Blowing and snorting louder. I blow and snort more, but I don’t pump legs faster because I can’t feel my legs. Maybe they’re in a Zen state. But shouldn’t all of me be in a Zen state? The woman gracefully slides off her machine and hurries to another.

I let my legs drop. I’m exhausted from snorting and blowing air. I eventually extricate myself from the machine. My legs are noodles. I try to walk with some dignity to the next machine, but I find myself making a U turn and heading for the doors and down the hall to the café. I collapse at a table wondering where my body went too. I drink water holding the paper cup with both hands. Owen stops buy.

“Hi, Melodie. Do you know who I don’t like?”

I arch my eyebrows. It’s all I can move.

“Robert B. Parker. I probably shouldn’t say that.”

I shake my head.

“But I never got Spenser.”

I finally find my voice. “You have every right not to like Parker.”

“It’s just that everybody seems to love him. I don’t get it. I wish Chandler wrote more.”

“Have you read Ross Macdonald?”

“No.”

“If you love Chandler I think you’ll like him.”

“I’ll look him up. And I’m going to order one of your books.” He walks off as Gayle bounces up to the table.

“Isn’t the gym great?”

Spent from talking, I arch my eyebrows again. They’re the only thing that doesn’t hurt.

“Let’s have lunch and we’ll talk about you novel. The opening is great.” I double arch my brows.” She peers at me. “Are you all right?”

If I could wriggle my ears at her I would because they don’t hurt either. I think that’s a good sign.

I go home. I’m too exhausted to write. I take a nap. I’m going to have to figure out how to have a toned body and write. Actually I’m going to have to figure out if I want a toned body.

The next morning, in my office, I heave my dead arms up and flap my hands onto the keyboard. I begin to slowly move my fingers. Soon I’m writing. The pain is gone. I’m in Diana Poole’s world.

Three hours later I’m slipping a Ross MacDonald paperback, The Chill, into my new gym bag, which Owen gave me when I signed on the dotted line. As I go off to work out, I attempt to wave good-bye to my husband but I can’t get my arm up high enough. I tell myself it’s like writing. You just keep doing it. It may not get easier but it does get better.