Breakfast with the Lifers Pt 1 - Writers Forum

rgh8373 · 07-11-2008, 03:01 PM

If asked, I doubt if I could pin it down to just one action or happenstance. Maybe it was the shades, maybe the good cooking, perhaps like so many odd coincidences in this world it was just a series of unrelated incidents that coalesced to create one huge, crazy, pre-midlife drama for me. Like so many other things in life what happened to me over the course of late spring 2007, probably was not the result of one event but a combination of many small things. Michaelson talking too much, my apartment being in a flash in the pan neighborhood where shops and people drift in an out of favor as quickly as teenage pop stars, not putting my foot down quickly enough. One thing is for certain, Hoffman opening the shades that first morning was the pivot point, and if not then it certainly acted as the catalyst that started the whole Rube Goldberg like mechanization that led to the restaurant.
I never meant to become a restaurateur I guess I just I never had the calling. I’ve thought about it, thought about it a lot, and it boils down to the fact that it is just too risky. No safety net, no assurances, the customer base is too fickle, the market is too precarious. This predicament didn't creep up on me cause I wasn’t careful, that isn’t the case. I rejected the idea of owning or operating or even working in a restaurant a long time ago. I’ve patronized too many establishments too often, and regarded them with a practiced eye toward failure potential, to make the mistake of investing in them myself. I always came to the same conclusion; too much risk. I don’t gamble. I go into all my ventures, few they may be, with a wealth of complete research and always a well thought out plan consisting of a feasibility phase, a production phase, closure, extraction and so on. Even small things, when I go to store to buy a bath mat I enter with a plan in mind. What color do I want? What else will I accept? How much will I spend? At what point do I leave? Which check counter out looks the most open when I enter? Is that counter vacant cause the cashier is fast, or are the other customers avoiding her cause she is slow? All these aspects of buying a bath mat go through my head, and that is just for a piece of fabric that gets thrown on the floor of a latrine. I have a hard time imagining how many tasks and actions I would have to consider for a restaurant. My mind would probably explode like a grape thrown into outer space if I was forced to think about it too long.. The fact that this restaurant fell into my lap makes this situation so much more frustrating than if I had entered into the venture with a plan.
I like plans. Plans are key to any good operation. The famous military quote; “All plans go out the window when the bullets start flying.” I don’t believe it. I think that there must be a plan that can adjust and adapt to bullets flying. Plus, military planner should have plans that do not fall apart when bullets start flying. Do they not expect bullets to fly in a military operation? I go through the contingencies of bullets flying when I buy that bath mat.
Like I said, Hoffman should have kept the blinds down. I don’t know what he was thinking. It was only what; his seventh day of staying with me? His girlfriend needed a break, whatever that means. What was I supposed to do, let him sleep in his car? I gave him my couch. I guess he was feeling out of place. That happens to me too sometimes. I go to someone’s house to visit them, and start missing my house and try to do things that remind me of being at home. Maybe Hoffman has a large open window at home. Maybe that was why he opened it. All I do know is that Hoffman lives on the third floor. I don’t. I live on the ground floor and when living on the ground floor, it is never a good idea to open a shade. It lets everyone see in.
“Johnson!” I was still asleep when Hoffman first called my name, but I was in that dream state where things going on outside the dream affect the dream. So all of a sudden the duck that I was fishing for in my dream started screaming my name with Hoffman’s voice.
“Johnson!” Hoffman’s voice was still loud from the living room.
“What? Man?” Now I was awake. The duck disappearing quickly in a wash of morning haze in my darkened room.
“Someone is knocking on the door.”
“So?”
“It’s Michelson.”
“Great. Let me sleep.”
“He has the clients with him.” I did not immediately realize the implications of that statement. I should have wondered how Hoffman could know this. I should have wondered why any of this mattered. I should have realized that this day, starting out so differently than usual could only forecast even stranger times. I should have just stayed in bed.
Before I continue, perhaps I should lay some foundation. Jumping right into a story about a talking duck, and recounting the nature of my dreams is bound to scare some readers off. It is necessary to wade slowly into this pool from the shallow end, and not jump right into the water using the high dive.
We all work as instructors for a civilian fitness group that meets in the park each morning before dawn. It was started by a retired Navy Seal, Jack. Jack is our boss. All of us, the five of us, Hoffman, me, Jack, Michelson, and Harris, we all work together for two weeks every month. Those are the boot camps. Two weeks of hard work for us, even harder work for the future clients. They have to pass the two-week initiation course to become regular clients. We call them Lifers at that point.
Lifers come every morning for as long as they want. Once they pass the boot camp, they enter the maintenance phase. We lead a Lifer workout every morning, and then one in the afternoon as well. I like to take the Lifers on runs. I like running. I don’t know if the Lifers like it, I don’t care. I want to run, they have to run with me. That’s the way it works. Hoffman, he likes to make the Lifers do push-ups. He will sit there in front of them and knock out two hundred or more push-ups without breaking a sweat, at least not so as the Lifers could notice. Usually on my runs I hear complaints about how hard his workouts are. He hears the same about mine every now and then.
Both Hoffman and I hear complaints about Michaelson’s workouts for completely different reasons. Michelson doesn’t like working out. He does like to yell so that’s what he does. He yells a lot. Lately I have been hearing that he is cursing a lot too. That’s a no-no with Jack, but Jack hasn’t heard those complaints yet, at least not that we’ve been told.
Jack is funny about complaints. He encourages the Lifer's to write in, but once they do, he uses their complaints against them. Lifers learn pretty quickly that complaints never help. Nevertheless, Michelson is not maintaining the standard so to speak. The hallmark of our program is that the instructors do whatever they ask of the clients. Doing it better is just our natural pride and ability. Michelson seems to be forgetting about that.

So, back to that morning. Hoffman had interrupted my dream by telling me that Michelson and the clients were outside my apartment.
“What do you mean he has the clients with him?” I yelled back.
“Yeah, man. They’re right out there.”
Wearily and with a grunt of stiffness that is common on my days off, I got out of bed to see what he was talking about. With boxers barely hanging by my hips, old boxers too, the kind that leave the barn door open too much, I saw that the living room shades were uncustomarily open, and the entire class of clients with Michelson looking at them sternly, were getting an eyeful of my waking form. This was a wholly unwelcome predicament.
Normally, when I instruct, I try to project an air of superiority. All of the instructors do it. It comes form having been in the SEALs were rank is everything, and those who have it, know it, and don’t have to use it, everyone else just defers to it.
There is no rank in the Lifers group. But there is an instructor who is in charge. A certain amount of aloofness is needed to retain that leadership position. We never associate with the clients before or after work. We never associate with them outside of the park. If we do see them somewhere, out on the town, we are supposed to be cordial, but “not do anything that might detract from our ability to lead.” Jack’s words not mine.
I guess it is superfluous to say that standing in front of the Lifers with my fly open, wiping sleep and confusion from my eyes, while Michelson pointed and laughed detracted somewhat from my ability to lead.
I wish that I could say that was the least of what I did. I wish I could say I handled the situation from there on with the necessary aplomb and tact that would have been needed to restore my standing. It would have been terrific if, without worrying about my privates, I had just sauntered up to the door without a hint of embarrassment, opened it and told the Lifers to “knock out some push-ups” while I talked to Michelson.
I didn’t do that.
I beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom leaving a loud curse reverberating through the living room in my wake.
Lifers are a different breed, different even than ex SEALs. They wake up just about everyday to get to the park at five in the morning. Think about that. Waking up at five sucks, but waking up to get somewhere by five, well that's just uncalled for. That's waking up in the fours. I have the advantage there. I live right next to the park. I wake up at five minutes till, and ride my bike to the area of the park were we work out. I know that some of these Lifer’s live far away. They commute to their workouts. That puts them into a certain category right away. What type of person commutes to workouts? Commuting to work is fine, in fact that just makes since. If you happen to workout on the way, great, good on you, keep it up. But commuting just for a workout, and at before five in the morning, I think that is ridiculous. The only reason I do it is because I get paid. Lifers; they pay over a hundred bucks a month for the pleasure of waking up early and my yelling at them.
I went to the workout one day in the middle of the worst rainstorm in fifty years. Fifty years and it has never rained as hard as it did that morning. Jack called and told me to tell the Lifers to go home. I doubted if I would see any, but went anyway figuring that I would charge Jack for a half hour or so. I took my car the hundred or so meters because of the rain. It was raining so hard biking was out of the question, and running, well I could have run, but it wouldn't have been pleasant. I remember I showed up and there they were. About two dozen of them, waiting to workout. I didn’t even get out of the car, just yelled at them to go home and get out of the rain. They did, everyone of them. They may be compulsive and slightly neurotic about working out, but they obey. They obey because we stay aloof. We ensure that we don't do anything to detract from our ability to lead. That aloofness, the one that I had been fostering and encouraging like a cowboy tending to his injured horse,…gone, shattered that Friday morning.
I may not have handled the initial stages of the predicament well, but I think I regained control quickly. I threw on some shorts and ran outside, brushing by Hoffman who was opening the door for Michelson. The Lifers, all ten of them were still milling about outside the window several peering in with impish grins like kids at a peep show.
“GET DOWN AND KNOCK OUT PUSH-UPS! NOW!” I yelled. All of them, amazed at the strength of the command, since I am commonly the soft-spoken instructor, dropped where they were on the sidewalk and started doing push-ups.
“Hoffman.” I looked back at Hoffman. “Will you take care of them for a second?”
“Sure.”
“Can I speak to you for a second Michelson?” I said trying to control the shaking anger that was building up inside. He followed me slowly back into the apartment
Michelson may have known he was in trouble, if there was any doubt; it was erased when I slammed the door.
“What the fuck Michelson!” He looked at me. Was he surprised?
“What man?”
“You don’t bring the clients to my house.”
“I had to.”
“What? Why?”
“We had an injury.”
“Who?”
“Sorrels.”
“What’s wrong with him?”
“He hurt his foot.”
I paused for second, stunned. This was not a good excuse.
“So why in the hell did you bring him here? Leave him on the street and have a lifer pick him up, or here's an idea," My voice started raising in an ever building crescendo of anger." Why not make the group carry him, it might give them a good fucking workout!”
“Yeah I guess that would have worked, but go take a look at his fucking ankle.” He pointed toward the door. He wasn't mad or put off by my yelling. In fact around one another cursing was second nature. He seemed quite happy to be there having the conversation. It only heightened my anger that he was not visibly upset. I gave up on him for the moment and went to look at the injured lifer instead.
“Mr. Sorrels!” I opened the door and looked out. Mr. Sorrels looked up from the sidewalk were he was doing pushups. “Come here!” He got up and limped toward me, the pain evident in his face.
“What’s up? What’s wrong Mr. Sorrels?”
“Nothing. I just hurt my ankle.”
“How?”
“I stepped into a hole.”
“Did you hear a crack?”
“Yeah, I think so.” He looked supremely disappointed in himself.
“Is it swollen?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, keep doing pushups. That should help.” He dropped down immediately as I stepped back into the apartment.
“I still don’t know why you brought him here, man. Why didn’t you just have the clients carry him back to the parking lot?”
“Dude, we were all the way down by the bayou.”
“So?”
“Do you know how far a run that would be?”
“Yeah, a couple hundred meters more than coming here?” I said my voice rising to end in a yell.
“Okay…okay…calm down. You don’t have to yell. I see your point I didn’t think of it that way.”
“Fuck man, the parking lot is right over there.” I pointed behind him.
“Yeah, I realize that now.” He turned around and started walking toward my kitchen. “I guess I didn’t think about that. Say you mind if I get some water.”
“What?” I said more stunned now.
"Some water." He said slowly. "I didn't bring any to the workout." He seemed to be especially callous today. He didn't seem to realize that Michelson was in his underwear outside my apartment yelling a one, two, three, four cadence to a bunch of crazed work out fanatics at a quarter till six in the morning in the little patch of lawn outside my apartment. I silently said a prayer of thanks that my apartment is a one-bedroom affair bordered by the park on two sides and not surrounded by sleeping neighbors.
“Instructor Johnson?” It was Mr. Sorrels, at the door that was now open, still doing pushups.
“What?”
“As long as we’re here can I get some ice? I’ve heard that it will help the recovery process if you ice it right away.”
“No…you can…”
“Sure I’ll get you some.” Michelson interrupted me. “Have a seat over there.”
I was too stunned to speak. A pause that Mr. Sorrel thought meant my acquiescence to his question. By the time I found my voice he was about to sit on my couch. “Don’t you dare sit on my couch Mr. Sorrels. You're soaked.” I yelled at him. I caught him halfway to sitting down, and he squirmed as I spoke, trying to obey, but not quite able to.
“You have to let him sit down, he has a broken ankle Johnson.”
Mr. Sorrels stood in the middle of my living room like a lost sheep trying to figure out which shepherd to obey. That's what's ridiculous about the Lifers. Mr. Sorrels is a high priced attorney. He has a wife, kids, a large house and a net worth a hundred times what mine will ever be. But there he was, in my living room, scared and confused like a small child listening to his parents argue.
Finally Michelson came around with a chair and put it in front of him. “Sit there.” He said.
I looked at the open doorway; a few Lifer faces stared in. I could hear Hoffman’s voice in the background.
“One…..two….three….”
And the Lifers reply as they yelled in unison, “Twenty-three!”
“One….two….three….”
“Twenty-four!”
Mr. Sorrels put the bag of ice Michelson had given him on his ankle. Michelson was making himself a cup of coffee from my coffee pot. I stood befuddled, and still a bit angry, and I noticed for the first time, still exposed from the waist up.
With a “What the fuck!” I went back to my bedroom to put on a shirt, but ostensibly to get out of the pandemonium that was rolling through my living room like waves of negative, confusion laced energy.