One, two, three, four, five…six….seven…..eight.  I stare up at a bench press bar loaded with 280 pounds of pig iron.  My pecs are heaving and my arms are in anguish with the lactic acid build-up of two suicidal sets.  I still have one more set left, but the way my arms are shaking another eight reps might rip them right out of their fucking sockets.  Six reps is more like it.  Sliding out from underneath the bar, I stand up and groan my way through a few windmills.

“That was monstrous,” my student personal trainer grins, slapping me on the back.  Keyshawn, I think his name is.  UCLA wouldn’t even let Governor Schwarzenegger near the free weights without a trainer.  What next to cut down on legal liability – preventive hernia trusses?  My trainer hovers with grating enthusiasm for keeping the Wooden Center gym safe from health insurance claims.  “Nick, my man.  We need to talk about your form.”

I raise an eyebrow.  Even that feels tiring.  “Oh yeah?”

“Don’t have your hands so far apart on the bar.  And keep your elbows in.  You were letting them fly out, like this.”  Keyshawn demonstrates like a flapping chicken.  “That really torques the shoulder joint.  You could mess yourself up big time.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

He nods as if he’s just dished some Serious Shit.  The fuckwit is 18, maybe 19 years old.  Giving advice straight out of the brochure available at the front desk.  He hasn’t realized that I vary my grip and positioning deliberately.

I slide back underneath the bar and suck in a breath.  I pump out the last set of six with sweaty effort, but more easily than I expect.  Amazing what sexual frustration and a funding shortfall can do for your workouts.

“Great job,” Keyshawn tells me when I bounce up.  “Are you doing low reps and heavy weight to pack on the muscle?”

“Nah.  I’m just a masochist.”  I enjoy his look of confusion, because I’m petty like that.  Then I torture myself with a few last windmills and glance over his shoulder.  “Look, I’m gassed for today.  Why don’t you go help those girls?”

Over by the rowing machines are a pair of black coeds.  One has cornrows, the other straight hair with vivid blue streaks.  They flash blinding dentition whenever they giggle – which is frequently, considering their meetmarket focus on Keyshawn.  They’re dressed for workout porn and sporting the Greek letters Delta Sigma Theta.  I’m guessing genetics and possibly cigarettes have more to do with their physiques than any lackadaisical turn on the exercise equipment.

Seeing us see them, the hotties giggle and look away.  I don’t know how a coal-dark African-American manages to blush, but Keyshawn does.  I almost have to shove him across the UCLA logo carpeting in their direction.  Go save them from a workout injury, dude.  Who knows how they’ll repay you?

The Wooden Center gym is like a social club for the Greek set.  I feel ancient among the sorority girls in full makeup and coiffure, the fraternity boys drenched in body spray.  They flaunt tight asses and six-pack abs in a setting with simple rules of attraction – what you see is what you get.  Nobody is expected to make conversation, which is probably the whole appeal.  From what I’ve seen, the Greek set prefers to socialize with guttural noises and shrieked laughter.

Glancing around at the career ruination lurking in every sports bra, every pair of hot shorts, I wish I could believe what you see is what you get.  Too fucking bad I never had that luxury.  Growing up in my family, the lesson was just the opposite.  We put on appearances for the outside world.   Nobody ever saw what they’d get, dealing with us.  I consider it good training for every relationship I’ve had, from college girlfriends to that old reptile Hercules.  Assume the worst and you’re probably right.

I’m toweling off in the men’s locker room when my cellphone rings.  I dry my hands and examine the caller ID.  It’s a local number that I don’t recognize.  A first name scrolls across the display and continues off it.  The name looks vaguely Iranian.

“Hello?” I answer warily.

“Nick.  Hi.  It’s me.”  Nooshin’s voice is a warm but nervous glow.  “I can’t really talk right now.  I’m here in LA at my parents’ place.”

Her proximity is a surprise, isn’t a surprise.  “Really?  I tried calling your cellphone, but, uh – you want to get together?”

“Yeah.  I’d like that.  Can you plan something for tomorrow?”

“How about another hike?  We could do the Arroyo Seco Trail.  Or hey, I know – Baldwin Hills.  The view from the trailtop, you have to see it to believe it.”  Then an even better idea occurs to me.  I lower my voice to a machinating rumble.  “Or I could just surprise you.”

“A surprise?”

I guess correctly that Nooshin likes to be on the receiving end of surprises.  She puts on an impressive display of pleading and bitching when I won’t divulge anything, but she likes the vague treatment.  There’s excitement in her voice.

Until I hear a noise in the background.  Somebody is calling her name down a well.  “Nooshin?  Are you in the basement?  What are you doing down there?”

“I have to go,” she whispers.  “Don’t call this number.  I’ll call you.”

Just as quickly as she’s there, she’s gone again.  I’m left naked in front of an open locker, listening to a dial tone.  Nooshin hung up like the phone was on fire.  Things are going wrong in her world.  A world that she tells me nothing about.