A Lonely Resurrection

street for danger, failing to spot it right there in front of him.
    “Shimatterun da yo,”
he told me. Club’s closed.
    “I know,” I said in Japanese, my hands up, palms forward in a placating gesture. “I was hoping someone might be here. I was going to come by earlier but got held up. You think I could squeeze in a quick one? Just while you’re here, no longer than that.”
    He hesitated, then shrugged and turned to go back inside. I followed him in.
    “How much longer have you got to go?” I asked, dropping my gear bag and changing out of my unobtrusive khakis, blue oxford-cloth shirt, and navy blazer. I had already slipped on the gloves, as I always did before coming to the club, but the yakuza hadn’t noticed this detail. “So I can time my workout.”
    He walked over to the squat station. “Forty-five minutes, maybe an hour,” he said, getting into position under the weight.
    Squats. What he usually did when he was finished bench-pressing.
Shit.
    I slipped into shorts and a sweatshirt, then warmed up with some pushups and other calisthenics while he did his sets of squats. The warm-up might actually be useful, I realized, depending on the extent of his struggles. A small advantage, but I don’t give away anything for free.
    When he was through, I asked, “Already done benching?”
    “Yeah.”
    “How much you put up tonight?”
    He shrugged, but I detected a slight puffing of his chest that told me his vanity had been kindled.
    “Not so much. Hundred and forty kilos. Could have done more, but with that much weight, it’s better to have someone spot you.”
    Perfect.
“Hey, I’ll spot you.”
    “Nah, I’m already done.”
    “Come on, do another set. It inspires me. What are you putting up, twice your body weight?” My underestimate was deliberate.
    “More.”
    “Shit,
more
than twice your body weight? That’s what I’m talking about, I’m not even close to that. Do me a favor, do one more set, it’ll motivate me. I’ll spot you, fair enough?”
    He hesitated, then shrugged and started walking over to the bench-press station.
    The bar was already set up with the hundred and forty kilos he’d been using earlier. “Think you can handle a hundred and sixty?” I asked, my tone doubtful.
    He looked at me, and I could tell from his eyes that his ego had engaged. “I can handle it.”
    “Okay, this I’ve got to see,” I said, pulling two ten-kilo plates off the weight tree and sliding them onto the ends of the bar. I stood behind the bench and gripped the bar about shoulder-width with both hands. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
    He sat at the foot of the bench, his shoulders hunched forward, and rotated his neck from side to side. He swung his arms back and forth and grunted a series of short, forceful exhalations. Then he lay back and took hold of the bar.
    “Give me a lift on three,” he said.
    I nodded.
    There were several additional sharp exhalations. Then: “One. . . two. . . three!”
    I helped him get the bar in the air and steady it over his chest. He was staring at the bar as though enraged by it, his chin sunk into his neck in preparation for the effort.
    Then he let it drop, controlling its descent but allowing enough momentum to ensure a good bounce off his massive chest. Two thirds of the way up, the bar almost stopped, suspended between the drag of gravity and the power of his steroid-fueled muscles, but it continued its shaky ascent until his elbows were straightened. His arms were trembling from the effort. There was no way he had another one in him.
    “One more, one more,” I urged. “Come on, you can do it.”
    There was a pause, and I prepared to try some fresh exhortations. But he was only mentally preparing for the effort. He took three quick breaths, then dropped the bar to his chest. It rose a few centimeters from the impact, then a few more from the northward shove that followed, but a second later it stopped and began to move inexorably downward.
    “Tetsudatte kure,”
he grunted. Help. But calmly, expecting my immediate assistance.
    The bar continued downward and settled against his chest.
“Oi, tanomu,”
he said again, more sharply this time.
    I pushed downward instead.
    His eyes popped open, searching for mine.
    Between the weight of the bar and plates and the pressure I was delivering, he was now struggling with almost two hundred kilos.
    I focused on the bar and his torso, but in my peripheral vision I saw his eyes bulging in