Marge is going through her stuff. — Raise the weights higher and get your butt lower! Swing and squat! And swing and squat!
They cut to Thorpe long enough for a petty pout of a reaction shot and a muffled off-camera plea, then to the anchor who waves him down with the back of his hand, — Please, allow Mr. Quist to finish.
— But sometimes our politicians and bureaucrats in Washington let the people down, Quist rooster-puffs himself up. — Lemme ask this question: How long was young Sean McCandless let down for? Lucy Brennan, albeit unwittingly, came to help those sick perverts, as everybody seems to do. But who was there for poor little Sean McCandless? Who came to help that kid?
I let my eyes swivel to Marge who is gasping as she lifts that kettlebell. — Goo-ood. .
Back onscreen: a lot of outraged, angst-ridden hand-wringing from Thorpe, who appeals, crybaby style, to the stern anchor, claiming he wasn’t given a fair hearing. The host then takes him to task, making him look even more of an asshole. Then they cut, thankfully, to the story of the conjoined twins. — Could be worse, Toby, dripping schadenfreude, nods at the screen.
A head shot of Annabel, some mousy aspirational chatter of her love for Stephen, then a close-up on intertwined fingers, as she’s revealed to be holding his hand. We pull out in long shot to see Amy looking in the opposite direction from Stephen, away from her sister. Rather than going tight on the lovebirds, the freak-show bastards keep her in shot. With her hook nose poking through her long hair, she resembles a scavenger bird perched on Annabel’s shoulder. My cell vibrates and it’s Valerie. — Hey, you, I shout with enthusiasm, to show that Toby creep that I’m not fazed. I turn to Marge. — Treadmill, twenty minutes, starting at jogging pace, 4 mph, and I’m moving toward the front door and some privacy.
— Hi, Lucy. I just saw the news. .
— Yes, but surely it’ll blow over. . I say, gesturing at a stalling, gasping Marge to climb the fuck on and get with it, as I step outside into the sun and look up at the azure sky.
— It’s got VH1 nervous. You need to not talk to the press or TV.
— Okay. .
— Sorry if I sound a little strung. A singer client’s been caught with blow in some Ocean Drive spot. The promoter who has her on at the Gleeson is some kind of born-again asshole who has a weird antidrugs stipulation in the contract and is threatening to pull tomorrow night’s gig. Must go. . oh, one other thing, the Total Gym people sent me a free home gym for you. They’ve enclosed a note, one of those “no obligation, but if you do like the product and feel inclined to endorse it, we would be grateful,” so that’s up to you. I’ll send it on.
— Wow! That’s rad!
— Yes, it’s all good. But don’t talk to the media, it’s all fuel to them, so just let it burn out.
— Cool, I say in cagey affirmation, thinking, just what I need in my life: a Chuck Norris-endorsed piece of crap fitness equipment, which will fall apart as soon as it’s taken half my life to assemble and eat up practically all the space in my shoebox apartment.
The line goes dead and I step back into the gym. I raise a lumbering Marge to 5 mph with a slight gradient, and the point of exhaustion. — Almost there! That’s what I need! The warrior Marge! And five. . and four. . and three. . and two. . and one. . and the machine goes into cool-down mode. — Good work, I exclaim, as she looks at me like the kid who has fallen on her ass and doesn’t know whether she’s going to laugh or cry. Fry that hoe’s cellulite. Smooth that bitch’s dimpled fat. — Breathe, Marge: in through the nose, out through the mouth.
Jezzo, they still need to be told to do this! What the fuck is that saying? But Marge finishes her session and staggers gratefully to the locker room for a shower. On the screens Thorpe and Quist have gone, replaced by the mother of the conjoined twins, talking about the girls, followed by a nauseating, breathless voice-over, — . . like any mother, Joyce fears for the future of her girls. But in the case of Amy and Annabel, their future, like their past and present, is inextricably bound up with each other.
I’m contemplating the grotesqueness of this setup when Sorenson appears, in new gaudy pink workout gear. It’s the sort of outfit either a retard or a ten-year-old would wear. — All righty! she sings. — I’m fired up and rarin to go!
— Good, I smile, teeth clenching, moving toward the machines, her following me.
How do I shave the beef off this irritating chubster? I get her on the treadmill, putting her through her paces. I’m upping the stakes, giving her more, nudging it to 5 mph, forcing her to pound that rubber track. Dance, fat little hamster, dance! — C’mon, Lena Sorenson, c’mon! I shout, as heads turn, my voice booming over Toby’s ambient drivel. I push the treadmill up to 6 mph, watching the blaze intensify on Sorenson’s face. — We are fired up and rarin to go!
Every time the chunky hoe catches her breath to do what she does best, even more than eat, namely talk, I push her further, or change the activity. She has to get the message: this is not a social club.
But Sorenson surprises me with her cojones. She’s taking everything I’m throwing at her. Even after the session, she’s still sticking around, breathlessly trying to engage with me when my mind is clearly elsewhere. — That. . is. . just. . soooo. . good. . I haven’t felt this good. . in ages. .
It gets so oppressive that I’m even delighted to meet Mom for lunch. Anything, if it means escaping my own personal Siamese twin. Annabel, I know your pain. Sorenson practically invites herself along, and then has the audacity to look at me like an abused stepchild when I tell her I have things to discuss with my mother. My God, I’m even concerned the needy bitch is going to stalk me all the way to the Ocean Drive joint where we’ve stupidly agreed to meet! I step outside the gym and make my way toward the Atlantic.
If numbers count in my game, then my mom, Jackie Pride (58, 5’8", 130 lbs), through being in real estate, is probably even more subject to their capriciousness. The market has tanked; she sold twelve condos in Miami two years ago, three last year, and so far none this year. Two years ago she ran around in a big Lincoln; its predecessor was the one she bought to replace the Caddy I inherited. It was the era when real-estate guys imitated lawyers and nobody laughed. Now that she’s driving a Toyota and staring hard into the demise of another long-term relationship, zero is a troubling statistic.
She’s already seated, laptop fired up Sorenson-style (ha!), and rattling into her cell phone. As I approach she looks up, — Hey, pickle, and she gives me an apologetic nod, her shaved-and-penciled brows arching as she snaps her Apple Mac shut. She’s wearing a white top, with a checked skirt and pair of shoes, both black and white. She wears glasses on the bridge of her strong Saxon nose (not like my little button Paddy thing, inherited from Dad), and a pair of shades pushed back on her head to keep her still-brown collar-length hair in place. Mom ends her call and scrunches into her plastic chair, which slides a few inches along the sidewalk. — Oh my God. . she groans. She looks good; the only really noticeable ravage of age is where the jowly flesh around her chin and neck has sagged to a crumpled bag. Mom keeps talking about getting “work done” but being “too busy even for Lasik.”
A young blond chick I recognize (I think one of Mona’s clients at Bodysculpt) swaggers by, wearing a yellow string bikini bottom and matching yellow T-shirt, with MS. ARROGANT emblazoned on it in big blue letters. SoBe remains a sun-drenched refuge for strutting grotesques and desperate narcissists. Mom’s phone goes again. — Lieb, she pleads. — I’ll take this, sweetie, then I’ll switch the goddamn thing off, I promise.