Gold's Gym DTLA, Vortex of Vanity

Those who haven't worked out at a gym don't understand. I'm not talking about you people who join, go for a week, and then forget about it. The $49.95 a month getting sucked out of your account isn't going return your beach bod, departed after several dozen Quarter Pounders and 100 gallons of Ben & Jerry's Chubby Hubby. For the record, I NEVER eat at Mc Murder. Self-righteous, party of one, your veggie burger is ready.

I've reached the point where I can run to the gym. All the way. Thus, I arrive sweaty, but just a little. My gym has towel service, but in this state, they insist. A scan of my little circular fob, about the size of a Suzan B. Anthony dollar prompts the turnstile to greet me by name, allowing me to pass.

As I stroll towards the dark, cool, nearly silent aerobics room with its wood floor and exercise mats, I survey the room to see who's playing this evening. To the left, we have the cardio cows. No, not a bovine piece of equipment, but sweaty creatures who endlessly inhabit the cardio equipment, watching Lifetime movies and Oprah. Yes, our treadmills have TV's. I don't use the cardio equipment as much anymore as I get mine done...gasp...outside.

One character, who I call Lazarus because he looks like a zombie, is always on the treadmill against the wall. Until a  month ago, he sneered at me, his taunting eyes saying something like "yeah fat boy, go ahead and try it, you'll just make an ass of yourself." OK, one night he caught me at Ralph's buying the ingredients for stawberry shortcake. The next day at the gym, I had to face him. And then I was sick of it. Using only my eyes, I challenged him to a treadmill race. And then I cranked up my machine and ran my ass off. And I smoked him. He never bothered me again.

If "Freddie" isn't there, I wonder what's wrong with him. I've never actually spoken to him, nor do I know what his name really is. He just looks at me, but pretends not to. Very L.A., I'll teach you if you don't know how. I call him Freddie because he resembles a guy of the same name I used to work with at Osteria del Circo in the Bellagio in Las Vegas, about 10 years ago. Freddie is a muscular Latino, probably mid-20's. He works almost exclusively upper body, pretty much only free weights, but does some cardio from time to time. Catching him looking is flattering as he's young and nice looking, but I don't get the slutty vibe. Freddie is there every night, usually for at least a couple hours, and is never in a  hurry. He's one of the few on that side of the gym (main floor where all the juice heads work out) who doesn't snicker at me for using feather weights. In all fairness, I have a torn rotator cuff in my right shoulder. Anyway, at the beginning of our non-verbal relationship, we landed on adjacent treadmills at the same time. We built up to the treadmill race, but...I smoked him too. And he was really surprised. Now, Freddie just works out peacefully with his huge DJ headphones, checks his body fat, and pretends not to look at me.

And then there's "Nathaniel." One of my characters in Live By the Sword is Nathan, a 5'6" gymnast with the bod to match. Nathaniel is a Latino version of my character. He can often be found exiting the sauna, wearing only a towel, admiring his marble bod in the mirror for long periods of time, tweaking his own pierced nipples. He smiles brazenly, I think he wants to be paid for it. Or he has a thing for chubby surfer types who are old enough to be his father. Even if I had a time machine, I'd never have a bod like that. He's probably hung like a peanut. He hangs with a juice head (means he takes steroids) twice his age. Hmmm.

The gym is the one place on earth you can gaze at yourself in the mirror for long periods of time. I like the mirrors in the aerobics room the best as it's dark in there and far more flattering. I think all the mirrors have a slight tint. Tinted mirrors make everyone look better.

I want to draw a map. It will be given to the guys who can't seem to find their way out of the sauna, showers, and locker room. The map will show them how to find the workout floor. I know Nathaniel doesn't need a map, he works out sometimes. Freddie doesn't hang out in the locker room. I think Nathaniel is probably a slut.

So, the gym is my "Cheers," except for we don't talk to each other, and of course there's no booze. Why do I go there night after night?" Well, not to get sex in the steam room. When I was a member of 24-Hour Fitness on Sunset, I walked in on an orgy in the locker room, the guy who was supposed to be working the front desk giving excellent service to several members at once. Me? All I ask is a towel, no crowds and for everything to be clean. It would be sensational if they were open later.

If you join a gym, I offer a tip. Don't ever pay an initiation fee. Refuse. Torture them enough and they'll get rid of it. It goes directly into the salesperson's pocket. Also, work out around me and Freddie. We won't throw attitude, judge you, or offer you washboard abs for god knows what in exchange.

And so ends another evening at Gold's. Tonight, I'll do back. Hammer Strength machines are calling me...