When Tobias slipped open his usual locker, he saw someone else's white sock inside, soaking wet. It smelled of sweat, or of living matter washed up by the ocean. Instead of picking it up and putting it on the floor, he moved down to the next locker, number fifty-eight. The Y didn't assign lockers, but Tobias thought of number fifty-six as his, territorially. It had been the year of his birth and was no trouble to remember, even when he was blasted after a workout. A month after he had started his program he had blanked on his locker number and had had to sit for ten minutes straight before he could think of it, his sweat cooling in layers on his skin and clothes. After that he went to a number planted in his unconscious: his birth year, his parents' street address.
He stripped off his street clothes in the usual order: shoes, socks, pants, shirt, watch, underwear. He stood naked, breathing steadily, feeling his heart accelerate, then reached down into his gym bag for the jock, sweat suit, socks, weight belt, shoes, and gloves. At the bottom of the bag was a copy of The Maltese Falcon for the bus ride home. He scowled the book and crammed the gym bag into the locker, his hands getting damp as he heard the clank of plates falling on each other.
Brian, a young laid-off cop, was doing bench presses on the Universal machine, grunting and arching his back. Tobias went over to spot for him. Brian's thick arms were trembling, and his forehead underneath his curly hair was plum-colored.
"Easy" Tobias said softly. "Easy up you got it there Brian come on be proud do it one more finish it all right come on all right." Brian yowled, brought the bar down with a chrome-on-chrome crash, and Tobias clasped his hand and pulled him up. They didn't say anything at first; then Brian said "Shit," and walked over to the water fountain. Tobias went to the opposite side of the room for warm-ups. After a minute, he stepped over to the bench where Brian had been and increased the weights.
Tobias had started to take an interest in his health after he had been laid off for the third time. He had taught history in a high school before enrollments declined and he was released. He found a job as a bartender at a chrome-and-molded-plastic restaurant in Ann Arbor where young singles met for quiche and salad. When the recession cut into disposable income, Tobias was pink-slipped. Using willpower against panic, he found a job as a night clerk at a Howard Johnson's. But then people seemed to stop traveling. So he collected unemployment insurance and sat in his girlfriend's apartment, eating Fritos and playing his guitar to Carlos Montoya records. The apartment had a southern exposure and a good view, and all through September Tobias sat in the sun, refusing to think. At five, Miriam would come home from the hospital where she worked. By October, she had lost her smile, and Tobias knew that he would lose his position as her lover within two weeks.