Ordinary People

The nervous little man with the curly hair leaned over to urge his young daughter toward the movie theater door. He looked familiar, like an uncle out of context or an old school chum from high school, aged almost beyond recognition. When I realized who it was, the smile on my face probably telegraphed a warning to him that I might say something to interrupt his clearly cherished daddy-daughter time. He smiled reluctantly, desperately, as if to plead, “Please, not now. We’re good, right?” And then Billy Crystal continued toward the theater doors on a night out in Westwood Village in California, ushering his little girl ahead of him.

 

Life in Brentwood was surreal at best. Movie star sightings were less frequent than one might expect, but they were invariably a jolting reminder that our culture rewards an elite few with riches and status the rest of us can hardly imagine. These ordinary people experience a lopsided familiarity with millions of television viewers who sometimes expect the relationship to be reciprocal.

It seemed wherever we went in our adopted neighborhood in 1986, the quest for stardom was tangible, either in conversation with new friends who landed a part in a daytime soap, or as evidenced by 8x10 glossies hanging just about everywhere. Even our apartment manager’s office was lined with photos of her handsome, bald, aspiring actor husband. Perhaps he thought that the world needed another Yul Brynner. Unfortunately for him, Telly Savalas and Patrick Stewart came along with the same idea. Who loves ya, baby?

An essence of star-seeking scrutiny hung in the air like a bad stench. Seated near a window at a restaurant in Santa Monica, I recall being repeatedly stared at by passersby on the sidewalk outside. Maybe I was “somebody.” It was unnerving, and as a Midwesterner unused to this Californian curiosity, I found it completely annoying.  I instantly

assumed there was dressing on my face, splashed by a frazzled Meredith Baxter-Birney, who cut in line ahead of me at the salad bar with barely an “Excuse Me” as she returned to scoop up a forgotten item for one of her twins.

The phenomenon struck closer to home as well, only a half block from our back door. We found we could walk to Baskin-Robbins if we ducked behind the parking structure that shielded us from Barrington Court. We passed this routinely on our evening walks past the house where O.J. Simpson later went on a murderous rampage. Just your usual neighborly goings-on, California style.

The consistently gorgeous weather sustained a constant craving for ice cream during the endless summer of 1986. A short line led almost to the door of the 31 Flavors. Near the tubs of ice cream stood a very tanned man with a little square head. I could almost imagine him saying, “…sometimes I just go berserk!” while his cup of rocky road was scooped from the freezer case. Tom Laughlin had put on some weight since his success in 1971 with Billy Jack.

The early days of the frozen yogurt craze attracted a more health conscious crowd.  We were no different, and the perpetually nice weather resulted in a more active lifestyle, but no less desire for sweet treats. We sat curbside in our car one evening enjoying a cup of TCBY’s finest when a guttural-voiced fellow sauntered by.

“Who does this guy think he is, Arnold Schwarzenegger?” I commented, barely looking up from my Dutch chocolate. It was. The Terminator passed by without incident, though if we had it to do over again, I would have shouted, “I’ll be back” as we drove away. I bet he never heard that. The thing is, we left and we never went back. Southern California was too much for our Midwestern sensibilities. Money makes you stupid. Fame drives you crazy. Los Angeles has lots of both.

Physical

I wasn’t always the impressive specimen I am today. It took work. During my senior year of high school at Maine South in Park Ridge our gym class had a six-week weight-training module that most of us hated. We wasted time around the free weights and Nautilus machines and dreamed of nice weather and flag football.

The final exam for our weightlifting segment was straightforward. Demonstrate improvement against a pre-test in your ability to lift various amounts at half a dozen stations. These were basic lifts like curls, bench press, military press and deadlift. I flunked.

I went home that day and bought a 220 pound weight set from a neighbor. I then set about building a weight bench out of plywood and two by fours. Thinking back on the weights I rested on that un-engineered little piece of furniture makes me shiver. I’m fortunate that by the time I outgrew it and bought a real bench I hadn’t crushed my trachea under a pile of splinters and steel. It was all very “Pumping Iron” stuff in the basement, listening to Jethro Tull and ELO while I worked out – alone.

Within six weeks I had shown remarkable improvement. The human body at age 17 is hungry for growth. Building muscle and strength is easy when you have a metabolism, motivating humiliation and all the time in the world. At school I caught my gym teacher during a free moment when he wasn’t yelling at someone.

“Mister Boyle, I’ve been working out at home and was wondering if I could take the weightlifting test over?”

“That’s over,” is all he said, and turned away.

It was a testament to his inadequacy as a teacher. A missed mentoring moment, a chance to make a real difference in a student’s future. All lost. I was demoralized, but in a strange way, it convinced me that redemption was to be my own, and to continue on a path to fitness was my only option. Boyle may have wandered off to molest a cheerleader or teach Driver’s Ed, I’ll never know. But I went home and worked out harder than ever.

College is a pivotal time when many kids get really excited about fitness, or completely fall away from it. I joined the Chicago Health Club, later to be acquired by Bally’s Fitness, and have worked out at health clubs ever since. Thus it came to pass that I was on an abdominal crunch machine at the Kennedy-Cumberland Bally’s one afternoon in the early 80s. Those were the days of legwarmers and headbands. Big hair and big arms. Olivia Newton John was “Getting Physical.” Jane Fonda, Body by Jake, Denise Austin, Chuck Norris and yes, Richard Simmons were all strutting their stuff and getting rich on the new fitness craze. Baby Boomers were aging and didn't like what they were seeing.

The equipment used to blast abs and thighs was all over the map. Total Gym, Nordic Track, Bowflex, Nautilus and of course Susanne Somers and her thigh master. Arnold Schwarzenegger hit it big in 1982 as Conan the Barbarian. Hulk Hogan was popular among WWF fans at the time. Major wrestling events were held at the nearby Rosemont Horizon stadium, a new venue for that spectacle.

But back to the club and my abs. I sat in a black vinyl chair that stabilized my back and restrained my ankles with black vinyl rollers. I was very comfy. A stack of black weights to my right was adjusted with an inserted shiny metal pin. I selected about five little steel plates that may have totaled 50 pounds. I grabbed the two black straps over my shoulders to further secure me in place, then bent forward to isolate my stomach muscles. This brought my shoulders down and my knees up, supposedly by virtue of my abdominals. Crunch and continue for three sets of 10 to 12 reps.

I soon noticed that on an identical machine two stations to my right another gym warrior was mid-set, in stride with my motion, but precisely opposing my cycle, so that when my head went forward, his went back. Of particular note, the entire stack of weights on his machine was moving up and down, slamming with a gladiator clang at the bottom of the stroke, then straining under the tension of the pulleys and cables as some unimaginably strong abdominals commanded them to do their bidding.

We proceeded like this for several sets. The upper part of the Nautilus device shielded my neighbor from my prying glance. That was where they displayed illustrated instructions that showed me exactly where my muscles were being developed, and the proper steps for achieving safe and effective results. A little further down the aisle, two big-haired Newton Johns were loitering and giggling quietly, watching the other guy get out of the machine just when I did.

Now, I am not a small person at six foot one. But as I unfolded myself into a standing position the giant at the other machine continued to rise until I stared at the shoulder of his bright yellow muscle shirt. His bandana-clad head was a full head higher than mine, and the rest of him occupied a proportional, outrageously muscled six foot seven inch frame. Hulk Hogan looked big on TV, but standing next to him was absolutely intimidating. He smiled at the girls, who followed him and tried to start a conversation while he lumbered like a brontosaurus into the free weight section. I headed the opposite direction to the juice bar for a protein shake and drank my feelings. As I raised the plastic cup to my mouth I surreptitiously glanced down at my bicep and flexed just a little bit, then drank some more.

The Fall of Roy G Biv

Spectral surfing dominated the skies over southern California long before the sport became popular along the shores and piers of the congested human community below. Cool ocean breezes carried moisture inland on mild November air, creating conditions ripe for brief afternoon precipitation over the hills of Los Angeles. The resulting sunshowers and the accompanying rainbows were spectacular in their arching radiance unless benders were prevented from doing their jobs. It was the benders that turned unremarkable horizontal rays of wet white light into splayed jewels of colored luminance.

Roy kicked off his skids as he monitored the sky, anticipating a hearty straight and narrow that he would mount in a leaping dash from the foothills near Santa Monica and ride for miles in a rush of color and spray. He existed for the pure art and joy of a splendid ride, and prided himself on the depth and breadth of colors he was able to extract, briefly tattooing the sky with his footwork. He would frequently hang five on his descent, goofy-foot on rare occasions, and on his best days bend double rainbows Earthward under his feet.

Catching a ray took timing and patience. Opportunities were scarce, and competition between surfers was growing as the number of benders grew relative to the number of available rays. Because of this rivalry, a ride’s exhilaration was always tempered by the possibility of conflict, or even sabotage.

On the afternoon of November 14^th the rain bent and bowed, shredding into seven brilliant bands under Roy’s white refractals. He dove earthward in the vicinity of the Los Angeles River and dipped below ground level hoping to exit unseen. Too late to react upon approach, he spotted a rival bender reflected in the shallow water of his intended culvert, standing on the bridge above. He struggled to reduce his speed and braced himself for impact, helpless.

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Consumed

Across the yellow-orange display within my head, rhythmic, shadowy shapes drifting across my inner panorama belonged to Evan. He was doing his morning yoga. Judging by the intensity of the sun blazing across the living room and onto my face, it was later in the morning than we had hoped to get started. But I sensed this only through closed eyelids. My throbbing headache was somewhat diminished since the night before, and Aunt Ellie’s couch and blankets enveloped me like a womb. Her condo’s air conditioning simulated the chill of a winter cabin, in contrast to the warmth of my body in its comforting nest. It had been a late night at Tradewinds. It seemed like days ago.

“I don’t get why you do that to yourself, dude,” said Evan, turning at the sound of my groaning.

I didn’t have a good answer. Evan didn’t drink. He claimed to be high on life and said it dulled his senses. I admired him for that.

“Have more fun when I’m buzzed,” I said, squinting briefly before covering my face with a pillow.

“You puked all night. Is that fun?” he prodded.

“Noooo,” I said, swinging my legs onto the floor, folding myself forward onto the pillow like a kid crying on a grade school desk. At least the room had stopped spinning.

“…need food,” I said, standing and staggering slightly on my way to the refrigerator.

“We’ll eat on the way,” said Evan, giving me that look that said, “Don’t screw up my day, man.”

It had been like this since high school. Evan, the energetic free spirit. The Zen master. Always on the go, driven, looking for adventure and testing his limits. He was athletic beyond anyone else at Murdock High, consistently disappointing coaches in their attempts to recruit him for team sports. I drew my strength from him, and I usually grounded him when he needed it most. We were stronger together in school and inseparable ever since.

*****

We hit the river much later in the day than Evan had hoped. Already in the water and sitting upright, straddling his paddleboard on the slightly brackish water, Evan repeatedly dunked his hands into the river, combing and drenching his long blonde hair with dripping fingers. The water offered refreshing relief from the searing Florida sun as he rinsed the sweat from his face with a final handful. I stood at the boat launch, nervously finishing a bagel and scanning the shore. Dense foliage surrounded us, cascading in a hundred shades of green across the river’s banks and onto the water, threatening to consume it. The Peace River has a reputation as a kayaker’s haven. Clear, calm, and deep, it flows for miles from its freshwater inland source to the salty Gulf of Mexico. A dark and green wildlife sanctuary, the river meanders like a living thing, silently, relentlessly through the surrounding junglescape, mingling fresh and salt waters before spilling its secrets into Alligator Bay. Entering the river on boards had been Evan’s idea, something he wanted to try. I reluctantly agreed, but would have preferred to take the boats as usual.

To read the rest of this story and more than fifty others, please consider buying "Natural Selections," at Amazon.com.