I joined a health club so I wouldn’t look stupid wearing a tank top. I’ve joined four health clubs for that reason. Maybe more. I’ve lost track. It was a Sisyphean goal, because I’m not sure there’s a man in history who hasn’t looked stupid in a tank top. You see them going into the clubs with their thuggish faces, titties peeking out from under mesh shirts, conical Cro-Magnon arms dangling out from oversized holes like fleshy rubber chickens. You see their bones sticking out of their chests as they call in vain for passes in pickup basketball. You see them with their not-quite-inny, not-quite-outy belly buttons peeping out from tops that say “Property of,” kicking up gravel on the Lincoln Park jogging trail en route to the club.
I may be in the minority here, but I never joined the health club to meet women. Maybe it’s because I look stupid in a tank top.
“Fuck it, man,” Ted says. “Fuck it. I ain’t never playin’ with that asshole again, you understand me?”
“I don’t want to hear about that shit,” Ted says. He gestures angrily with both hands, letting the towel drop to the floor. He’s acting like a wild beast scorned. “Why do fuckin’ tall guys always gotta flaunt it? What the hell is that? Like they deserve a medal, ’cause they had a fuckin’ tall dad. Congratulations. Put six inches on me, I’ll dust their asses too. High-fivin’ each other and everything. If that don’t show a lack of class, I don’t know what does.”
“Yeah, well you go ahead. You have a good time,” Ted says. He braces his red right hand with his left.
“They got it on at the bar”
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“Fine,” Ricky says. He takes his leather jacket from the locker, puts it on, and zips it up, leaving about three inches of space before the neck. He returns to the mirror. He runs both of his hands through his hair, shakes his head with two furious twists, and runs his hands through his hair again. “I’ll get a ride home with those girls,” he says.
