“It refers to the fact that lots of servicemembers come back home feeling like a wreck, physically and mentally.”
Oh. Well, that I know something about.
Reading through the flyer, which shows a before-and-after picture of a really hot Latino guy all blowed up in a hospital bed, and the same guy, current date, ripped, deliciously stern, powerlifting chains draped around his neck, standing only in some clingy gym shorts that reveal his prosthetic and an outline of, dare I say, serpentine proportions. I mean… dayum. “On the other hand, if this is what the clients look like…”
Penny laughs. “Actually, that’s Nick Martinez, one of the owners. And he’s off-limits, so keep your eyes in your head.”
“Yeah, off-limits and way the hell out of my league.”
Penny looks at me funny and shakes her head. “So, you want to put in an application?”
I nod in the affirmative because twelve dollars an hour at a gym is better than what I’ve been getting lately. Who knew that there is so much shit you need to already have in order to get a decent job, like a car and a phone with actual minutes on it? All of which… requires a job to obtain. I try not to think about how I got here, because it’ll just piss me off and depress me, and I need to keep a positive attitude. Or so I’ve been told.
On the plus side, it’s within walking distance of where I’ve been living, which is perfect until I can get back on my feet. Unfortunately, they only pay once a month, and that is going to suuuuuck for the first several weeks.
“Elijah, don’t worry. You’ll fit right in. My buddy Roly co-owns the gym, and he’s hilarious. He’ll think you’re great, and I’ll make sure to put in a good word for you.” Her eyes are kind, and that makes me feel a little more confident about my chances. “It’s a real family place, and… not that it matters, but both Roly and Nick are gay. You’ll be in a safe place, I promise.”
I nod my head and borrow her phone to make the appointment for the interview.
Here goes nothing.
The gym is in a modern warehouse structure just off Seventh Street by I-35, and is largely open plan, with enormous skylights that brighten the space. There are designated areas for different classes of gym equipment, and while the overall effect is modern and clean, the motivational sayings on the wall and the areas of green turf flooring give the space personality and a welcome vibe. The entry area has a large, modern desk with a black-and-white mural wallpaper photograph, and, as my luck would have it, it’s the same before-and-after of the owner, and across the top is the tagline: Wrecked: The Body Shop for Combat Vets. The mural’s gotta be at least ten feet tall, and those scaled-up shorts are making my asshole clench.
Walking past the desk into the open space, I nearly choke on my own tongue. A man who could be a body double for Jean-Pierre Sehene, recently retired basketball hero-god, is helping out a sweating, heavily muscled, one-limbed dude pulling a monster truck tire on a chain. I’m not even able to process that because my head is on swivel, hard-core. The hot guy action in this gym is through the roof. I am literally surrounded by heaving, glistening muscles at every turn. A set of Nordic-looking twins are spotting each other on a weight bench, and… holy impure thoughts, I might actually need Jesus.
This is definitely the place where dangerous men come to play with heavy things. I swear, everyone is ripped, dripping in sweat and queued up to star in my filthy imagination. The only variation is in the number of limbs. Blood has left my brain entirely and is rapidly migrating south.
Okay, soldier. Focus. Everything is riding on this, so secure your hormones and act like you see this kind of action every day. Frankly, you’re bored as fuck right now.
The lie helps, and the growing situation in my jeans eases.
The man from the picture, Nick Martinez, is talking to yet another epitome of male beauty, a man who is a bit taller than him, wearing loose, flowing clothing in all black, looking ethereal with his pale skin and dark hair and diaphanous scarf. Shit, he’s more out of place than I am, and something about that settles my soul.
Turning to me, Nick mops sweat from his face. “Sorry, man. Class ran a little over; had to help someone with a stuck knee servo. Appreciate you showing up on time. Nick Martinez,” he says, as though we aren’t standing under a mural where his junk is totally at eye level.
Forget the mural, focus on the man.
Nick manages to be taller and more rough-gorgeous in person, with the barest hint of silver at his temple. His Wrecked T-shirt strains against strong, defined muscles. I’m not going to think about how his loose workout shorts are somehow no better than the shorts in the mural at hiding the anaconda outlined in them, but only because I’m here on an interview and can’t pop chub while I try to convince this guy to give me a job. I will absolutely be thinking about that when I hit the showers tonight.
From my first ogle, it’s clear that there are some guys in here who are just aiming to bulk up, but this Nick guy has a well-balanced look to him. He’s got broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and is clearly ready to run the world. The left leg prosthetic, which I also try hard not to stare at, is a cool titanium-and-carbon-fiber masterpiece. That’s to say nothing of the definition and vein porn… everywhere. Again, hot on a poster, but way, way hotter in person.
Unfortunately, he’s also scanning me up and down with a hint of a snarl on his gorgeous, full lips, and I’m pretty sure I’ve somehow offended his delicate sensibilities. I know I could use a haircut, but I thought I was looking pretty sharp today. I’m wearing a plain white T-shirt, and a blazer that I picked up from a resale shop, and my nicer pair of jeans—the pair that only has the one small rip near the pocket. Sure, my Chucks are a little worse for wear, but who notices shoes, really?
This guy, apparently, if the sucked-on-a-freshly-cut-lemon look on his face is any indication. Nothing like that knowing you’re not cut out for a job within thirty seconds of walking in the door. Hope dies in the pit of my stomach. I really thought this would be the way out. Forward. Whatever.
I almost ditch right then and there, but I know that Penny pulled some strings to get me in, so I let him lead me across the cavernous space back to the world’s tiniest employee lounge and kitchen. I’m sitting across the table from Nick and a shorter guy, Roly, who is really just a pocket-sized version of Nick. I focus my attention on him, since he’s the one who knows Penny.
We chat for a bit about my service (Army, four years), my specialty (infantry, PT), number of deployments (three), and favorite MREs (beef ravioli and chili mac). He leans forward with a sparkle in his eye. “Penny says you’ve got your eye on a business degree. Talk to me about what you want to do with it.”
Ha. A business degree sounds so stupid to me right now, but I match his body language, because the interview coach said it was a good way to show interest. “Honestly, at this point, I’d just like to be able to feed myself.”
Nick does not smile, and instead, I assume, sits there and wonders about optimizing his testosterone level. Roly, however, chuckles and responds, “That’s a reasonable goal. But talk to me about your moonshot. Talk to me about the dream situation.”
Hell, dream situations are all I’ve got. “Moonshot? I need to stay out of cube life if at all possible. Beyond that, I’m good at helping people to define their goals and then break those down into small, doable steps. So, yeah, not sure what it looks like yet, but I think it’d be fun to help others realize their dreams. Maybe a life coach or something.” I almost laugh at my own joke, and given the state of my life right now, that’s exactly what it is. A joke.