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Mick Spassky and Charlie were at the table laughing and talking sports over beers and pizza when I came in. Apparently the Dodgers had won. Mick Spassky smiled and turned his beady fish-eyes toward the door. "You hear that, Elliott?" My headache started all over again at the smell of cigarettes and sweat and I found myself suddenly wanting to be senseless and completely numb to everything. "I-I'm a rich man! Yeaha ol' Charlie here doesn't know a thing or two about baseball and he thought he could get me out. No sirrr-HAHAHA-no sir, not my Dodgers." I sighed briefly and started toward the fridge. Sleep was a fairytale at this point.
Hours passed and I swear to God the bottles grew shorter. We were kids laughing at every stupid thing in the world. Charlie started talking about squats, saying things like "Fuck man-I'm amped. You guys wanna go to the gym with me and do some squats? We'll fuck it up, man, the three of us. We'll fuck it up." I could see a tiny glimmer in Mick Spassky's dead eyes and soon they were talking about all the different lifts and asking each other how-much-do-you bench and all the other typical meathead shit. I laughed.
Charlie was an avid exerciser and really into the body-building scene. He said he went to the gym five or six times a week just lifting weights, but it was hard to tell. He was a big guy, but probably not in the way he intended. Hard to say, though, because I don't know what he saw when he saw himself in the mirror.
"I'm a hard-gainer", he said, and then flexed his bicep at us. A cheesy smile spread across his face. And then he got up and launched into a flurry of poses he'd obviously been practicing. We laughed. He looked ridiculous. His belly flared out like he'd just eaten a bowling ball, but his face was stone. He kept his head high, and his eyes never met ours once; he just stared right on through.
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