Yesterday's News

Elie said, “Now, you lift, John. Take two seconds, two seconds. Good. Now lower. Take four. Remember, count of two when you lift, count of four when you lower.”
    “Right.”
    “Now again. Two up… four down. Try to hold it for one second at the top. That’s it.”
    This time I didn’t answer him.
    “Again. Two... one... four. You’re jerking the weight a little. Try to be smoother.”
    I tried.
    “Two. Better. One. Now four. Except for the pause at the top, the muscles respond better when you lift and lower in a continuous motion.”
    Six more repetitions.
    “Okay, stop. That was good, John, very good.” Kneading the knots just above my knees, I looked up at the mirrored wall reflecting Elie standing and me sitting, strapped into the leg machine.
    He said, “How do the quadriceps feel?”
    “Like I just had surgery on them.”
    Elie laughed the way they did before the time of troubles in his native Lebanon . “That’s normal. This Nautilus equipment, it tells you about muscles you haven’t used for a while.”
    Trim and tanned, he shifted a clipboard to his other hand, penciling an entry on the chart he’d begun for me. “John Francis Cuddy. You’re what, about six-three?”
    “Little under.”
    “One-ninety?”
    “Little over.”
    “Guy as big as you and your age, you’re in pretty good shape already. What kind of work do you do?”
    “Private investigator.”
    “Really?”
    “It’s not like they paint it on TV. For conditioning, I’ve mostly been running.”
    “What kind of distance?”
    “Maybe three to five miles, three times a week.”
    “That’s okay. Don’t have to do more unless you’re in training for something.” He secured the pencil under the clip. “Next machine is the leg curl.”
    I lay flat on my stomach, knees just off the edge of the long, horizontal slat. I gripped the handles under the slat for stability, hooking the backs of my ankles under the padded rollers.
    “You’re going to use the hamstrings here like they were biceps, to bring the roller up, touching it to your buttocks if you can. Try it.”
    I did. “Too much weight, Elie.”
    “I’ll drop it ten pounds.” He fiddled at the front of the machine. “Now try.”
    I was able to do eight repetitions, faltering halfway up on the ninth.
    “Good,” he said, writing it down. “We go for twelve reps at the given weight each time, but as long as you can do at least eight, don’t decrease the weight. Force your muscles to failure each time, each machine.” Elie put me through seven more machines, several of which had two functions. By the end, my tee shirt was drenched and draining into the elastic band of my gym shorts. He guided me to the front desk.
    “We keep the air-conditioning on low. Better to work up a good sweat than risk a bad chill.”
    “I can believe the sweat part.”
    He reached beneath the desk and took out a rate sheet. “You get used to it. The designer of the system, he made each machine different, to make each muscle perform the way he wants. You come in three, four times a week. Always give yourself at least forty-eight hours’ recovery time far the muscles between workouts. A lot of runners tell me they work out better if they run first, then do Nautilus.” He positioned the rate sheet so that I could see the different periods and payments covered.
    I said, “How about six months to start with?”
    “Fine, but a year saves you money. Also, we can maybe work out a family plan. You married?”
    I thought of Beth and almost said “widowed.” Instead, I completed the paperwork as a single and went into the locker room to shower and change.
    Elie’s facility is three blocks from the condo I was renting in Boston ’s Back Bay . Nancy Meagher was coming over for dinner that night. I had two hours until a 2:00 p.m. client appointment at the office, so I stopped at one of the high-quality, higher-priced yuppie emporiums on the way home.
    I picked up a pound and a half of filet mignon, a beefsteak tomato, and a fresh French baguette. At the cash register, the clerk rang it in and then whistled softly. “That’ll be $25.28.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Nope. It’s the filet. Really runs it up.”
    I handed him three tens. He said, “I’ll give you the receipt. So that your friends will believe you really paid that much for their dinner.”
    “Don’t bother. I was here and I don’t believe it.” Walking back to the condo, I felt loose and relaxed, as though I’d