Sport & Health

Sport & Health

By FireWire

Story No. 1

“Anything in my box?” the man asks.

The front deskman hands him some yellow stickies.

The man thumbs through the stickies and frowns. “My classes are full and they’re adding more.”

“Yea. Not bad for a part‑timer,” the deskman says. “What do you do in real life?”

“Social work.”

“Oh.”

The man hands the stickies back.” Put these back in my box. I’ll read them next time I’m in. I’m beat. Had back‑to‑backs. Jimmy was a no‑show.”

The deskman holds up a sticky. “You might want to read this one before you leave . . . she sounded pretty good over the phone.”

The man reads the sticky and looks at the deskman. “I don’t know anybody named Cindy. What else did she say?”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it?”

The deskman’s eyes widen. “What else do you need to know?”

Holding the yellow sticky tightly, the man walks slowly out of the club and down the steps. At the bottom, he stops, takes a deep breath and exhales. He puts the sticky in his pocket. “Can’t do it. Not tonight. Too tired. Big day tomorrow.”

“This is Cindy,” the voice says.

“Hi Cindy. This is Gus. I got your message.”

“Oh good. Where are you? I’ll come get you.”

“I’m at the Sport & Health Club.”

“Do you want to meet me out front? I’ll be there in about 15 minutes.”

Cindy and Gus leave the club in Cindy’s car.

“You don’t sound like you’re from Tennessee” he says.

“I’m not. I’m from New York here on business. This is a rental.”

“What kind of business?”

“Pharmaceutical sales.”

He sizes her up. Attractive. Dresses nice. A bar. Maybe her hotel's bar.

“How about spaghetti,” she says. “I saw an Italian place on the way over with outdoor tables.”

“Perfect,” he answers.

“Do you get down this way often?” Gus asks.

“First time. How about you? Are you a professional trainer?”

“Hardly. I only teach aerobics three hours a week at the club to keep in shape.”

“Really? Three hours a week keeps you looking like that?”

“It’s not only the aerobics. Do you notice I’m eating fish instead of spaghetti,” he says.

“Yes.”

“The reason I’m eating fish instead of spaghetti is because I have a barbell and a bench in my room. Do you know weight lifting causes slight tears in muscles? Do you know fish is full of protein and protein repairs those tears and makes those muscles bigger? Do you know spaghetti is full of carbohydrates and carbohydrates give you energy? Energy is what you need for aerobics and aerobics don’t build muscles. So why should I be eating spaghetti?”

He stares at her.

“I see,” she says and finishes her dessert.

They sit in silence until she says, “That was a very impressive discourse. Tell me, if you aren’t a professional trainer, where did you gain such insight about fish and spaghetti?”

“I . . . Oh‑oh.” He puts out his hand. “Rain. You get the car; I’ll get the check.”

Gus makes it to the car just as the rain starts to fall.

“God, it’s raining hard,” Cindy says. It’s raining so hard I can’t see to drive. We’ll have to wait here until the rain lets up.”

“It’s amazing isn’t it,” he says. “There wasn’t a cloud in the sky when we got to the restaurant. By the way, how did you end up calling me at the club?”

“I watched your class earlier tonight and then got your name from the board with the pictures and names of the staff on it. I didn’t know anyone in town, so when I returned to the hotel, I called the club and left a message for Gus. Fortunately, there was only one Gus.”

“That was quick,” Cindy says.

Gus nods. “Summer storms are like that down here. They’re over as fast they start.”

After a pause, he asks, “Where are we going?”

She looks at her watch. “It’s getting late and I have a plane to catch in the morning. I’ll drop you by the club on my way back to the hotel.”

“No need to do that. I run to the club and back. It’s only a couple of miles one way. Why don’t we stop by your hotel for a drink first before we call it quits?”

“Not tonight.”

“Then why did you call me?”

She shrugs. “The hotel had free passes for its guests to the Sport & Health Club, so I thought, 'Why not?' When I saw the fun you and your class where having, I thought you and I might have a pleasant, social evening. Have dinner together . . . I was lonesome.”

There is a pause.

“Do you always do this?” he asks.

“No.”

Another pause.

“You know it’s not polite to eat and run,” he says.

She glances at him. “All right—but not at the hotel. It’ll have to be at your place.”

“Well. No problem. I guess.”

She flashes him a big smile. “You’re into exercise. Do you do those exercises a man does to make his main muscle stronger?”

“His main muscle?”

“You know—the old fella’.”

“Oh I see,” he grins. “The old fella’.”

“Yes. The old fella’.”

“You mean an exercise like strokin’ the puddin’?" he asks.

“Stroking the pudding! Now that’s one I haven’t heard before. I would have thought you would be into pulling the spaghetti.”

“I’m not into either one,” he says. “I only used the term strokin’ the puddin’ to go along with your “old fella’”. Anyway, the “old fella” isn’t a muscle. It’s an organ that follows the flow.”

“I know that. I’m talking about stronger as in stay up longer. The other day, while I was in a supermarket check‑out line, I was scanning a men’s health magazine and saw a blurb on an exercise which will make it stay up longer. Of course, there weren’t step‑by‑step illustrations like there were for the other exercises.”

“What a shame,” he says.

She fingers the top button of her blouse for a few seconds before reaching into her purse and pulling out a small, white, plastic container.

With emotionless eyes and an even voice, she says, “If we’re going to party, let’s make it last.”

She opens the container, taps out three tablets, and hands them to him.

“There’s bottled water in the glove compartment,” she says and starts the car. “Which way?”

They ride in silence until Cindy asks, “How much further?”

“We’re almost there.”

“We’re almost there,” Cindy says, “and you haven’t taken the tablets. They take an hour to peak after ingestion, so take them now. You want to have a good time, don’t you?”

“Married?” he asks.

“No.”

She glances at him and sees he isn’t looking at her. He’s staring at the tablets in his hand.

“No, I’m not married.”

He says nothing.

“I was married.”

Silence.

“I married right out of college.”

Silence.

“I married an All-American football player. Captain of our college team. Then he played for New York.

Silence.

“Unfortunately, my record wasn’t as good. Two miscarriages in two years. He said that next to football, having children to follow in his footsteps was the most important thing to him. Adoption was not an option. They had to be his children.

When he left, I went back to school, got a degree in pharmacy, passed the boards, hated being a pharmacist, went into pharmaceutical sales, and here I am.”

Gus unclenches the fist holding the tablets. “Quite a bio,” he says.

He sits silently for a moment.

“Cindy, do you know the pharmacology of these tablets?”

Surprise crosses her face. “Of course I know the pharmacology. I sell them to doctors.”

He says nothing.

“I didn’t buy them on the street if that’s what you mean. They aren’t like cocaine or speed. They are pharmaceutical samples.”

He says nothing.

“O . . . K . . . They are dextroamphetamine and amphetamine, a combination which stimulates the central nervous system. Doctors prescribe them for weight control, ADHD, and narcolepsy—nothing out of the ordinary—assuming you aren’t taking amphetamines on a regular basis, and I assume your aren’t. The dosage I gave you will give you a slight high. I just want to make sure you enjoy it—that’s all.

Silence.

Will you please take them?” she asks in a soft voice.

He puts the tablets in his shirt pocket and says, “Let’s discuss this. Do you mind pulling over for a minute? There’s a space in front of that sign up ahead.”

When they stop, she says, “I thought this street looked familiar.”

She points to the small, blue and white rectangular sign to the right of the car.

“That hospital is right around the corner. It was the reason for my trip. I was there this morning talking to their pharmacy director, Dr. Beaumont. One of their psychiatrists created an entirely new class of antidepressant. No side effects. No drug interactions. No withdrawal symptoms. No nothing. It does its job and leaves the body without a trace. It’s safer than baby aspirin.

Since we are strictly a marketing organization, we could offer the doctor a higher degree of proprietary protection than a company with marketing‑manufacturing integration. He could get whoever he trusts to manufacture it and we would sell it. But Dr. Beaumont said the hotshot doctor was a very private person—no interviews, no pictures. He said the doctor was putting the marketing rights for sale on a bid basis.”

“Does the hotshot doctor have a name? I grew up here; maybe I know him.”

“It’s Dr. Bidwell A. Lee, the Fifth.”

“Bidwell Lee the Fifth. And the ‘A’?”

She pauses. “It was something like Anthony or Augustus or maybe Alexander. It might have even been Almighty. I’m really not sure.”

He rubs his chin with his hand and says, “Lee is a common last name in Memphis—in fact, it just happens to be mine—but nobody, and I do mean nobody, around here would call their child Bidwell. Robert maybe, but not Bidwell.”

“I can understand why” she says. “Oh well, what can you do? I thought I would at least knock on the door. You know—the more doors you knock on, the more sales you make.”

“But the hotshot doctor wasn’t home?”

“Oh, he was home. He just wasn’t interested. We had heard he was a brilliant, eccentric‑recluse type who lived in his laboratory and couldn’t be bothered with anything but playing with his beakers and conducting experiments on mice. And that’s the way it played out. Unfortunately.”

“You appear slightly depressed—slightly anxious. Could that be the reason?”

“I guess so,” she says. “I really thought I had a chance.”

Looking down, she runs her right hand down the top of her forearm. Her hand stops and she slowly rubs the skin of forearm with her thumb.

In a soft voice, she says, “I try to do the best I can, but what’s the use. What’s the use? Nobody cares.”

He puts his hand gently on hers.

“I care.”

She doesn’t look up.

He puts his other hand around hers.

She turns towards him. He smiles.

Feigning surprise, she smiles and says, “Do you always do this?”

He chuckles. “No.”

After a few moments, he reaches into his shirt pocket, takes out the tablets and hands them back to her.

“Put these back in your sample bag. Let’s do this the old‑fashion way . . . person‑to‑person . . . face-to-face . . . you and me.”

After a few seconds, he says, “I guess the first step is to get acquainted which might be a little difficult considering you live in New York, I live in Memphis, it’s now 11 o’clock at night, and you have a plane to catch in the morning.”

He pauses.

“Do you want to give it a shot?”

She nods her head.

“Why don’t we think about it tonight,” he says. “I’ll call you tomorrow evening, and we’ll consider our options.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out the yellow sticky. “I have your number from the club.”

He opens the car door. “It’s a nice evening. I’ll walk home.”

As he moves to leave, she touches his arm. “Please don’t lose that number. You would never find me in New York. You don’t even know my last name.”

“Lorenez?”

“How did you know that?”

“You told me.”

“No I didn’t. I was waiting for you to ask.”

He shrugs. “The grapevine.”

She watches him carefully in the rearview mirror. He is almost out of sight before he turns and walks towards the sign.

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