Breakfast With the Lifers

 Breakfast With the Lifers

By Dick Hannah

If asked, I doubt if I could pin it down to just one action or happenstance. Maybe it was the shades, maybe the good cooking, perhaps like so many odd coincidences in this world it was just a series of unrelated incidents that coalesced to create one huge, crazy, pre-midlife drama for me. Like so many other things in life what happened to me was probably not the result of one event, or even two, but a combination of many small things. It could have been Michaelson talking too much, my apartment being in a flash in the pan neighborhood where shops and people drift in an out of favor as quickly as teenage pop stars, or it could have been my not putting my a stop to things quickly enough, but one thing is for certain, Hoffman opening the shades that first morning was the pivot point, and if not it certainly acted as the catalyst that started the whole Rube Goldberg like mechanization that led to my restaurant.

I never wanted to become a restaurateur, I never had that calling. I’ve thought about it, thought about it a lot, and it boils down to the fact that it is just too risky. There is no safety net, no assurances, the customer base is too fickle, the market is too precarious, too many avenues where things could go sour. I like my life planned out and orderly. I rejected the idea of owning or operating or even working in a restaurant a long time ago. I’ve patronized too many establishments too often, and regarded them with a practiced eye toward failure potential, to make the mistake of investing in them myself. I don’t gamble. I go into all my ventures, few they may be, with a wealth of research and always a well thought out plan consisting of a feasibility phase, a production phase, closure, extraction and so on.

I like plans. Plans are key to any good operation. The famous military quote; “All plans go out the window when the bullets start flying” is nonsense. I don’t believe it. I think that there must be a plan that can adjust and adapt to bullets flying. Do military planners not expect bullets to fly in a military operation? Of course not, their plans are built with that option in them. I go through the contingencies of bullets flying when I buy that bath mat.

Even in the case of small things my methods rarely vary. When I go to store to buy a bath mat I enter with a plan in mind: what color do I want, what else will I accept, how much will I spend, at what point do I leave, which check counter out looks the fastest, is that counter vacant cause the cashier is fast, or are the other customers avoiding her cause she is slow? All these aspects of buying a bath mat go through my head, and that is just for a piece of fabric that gets thrown on the floor of a latrine. I have a hard time imagining how many tasks and actions I would have to consider for a restaurant. My mind would probably explode like a grape on a hot summer sidewalk if I was forced to think about it too long. The fact that this restaurant fell into my lap makes the situation so much more frustrating than if I had entered into the venture with a plan.

Like I said, Hoffman should have kept the blinds down. I don’t know what he was thinking. It was only what; his seventh day of staying with me? He told me that his girlfriend needed a break, whatever that means. What was I supposed to do, let him sleep in his car? Of course I loaned him my couch and a roof over his head for a few days. Looking back on that catalyst, that event that started the avalanche, his opening the shades, I guess he was feeling out of place. That happens to me too sometimes. I go to someone’s house to visit them, and start missing my house and try to do things that remind me of being at home. Maybe Hoffman has a large open window at home. Maybe that was why he opened it. All I do know is that Hoffman lives on the third floor. I don’t. I live on the ground floor and when living on the ground floor, it is never a good idea to open a shade. It lets everyone see in.

“Johnson!” I was still asleep when Hoffman first called my name, but I was in that dream state where things going on outside the dream affect the dream. So all of a sudden the duck that I was feeding in my dream started screaming my name with Hoffman’s voice.

“Johnson!” Hoffman’s voice cut through the dream, the duck, the pond, the nice dream vanished instantly and Hoffman’s echoing voice filled my room.

“What? Man?” said trying not to stir from my slumber so much that I couldn’t find the dream again if I was allowed to.

“Someone is knocking on the door.”

“So?” I said trying to silence him by squashing my pillow on my head.

“It’s Michaelson.”

“Great.” I said. “Let me sleep.”

“He has the clients with him.”

I did not immediately realize the implications of that statement. I should have wondered how Hoffman could know this. I should have wondered why any of this mattered. I should have realized that this day, starting out so differently than usual could only forecast even stranger times. I should have just stayed in bed.

Before I continue, perhaps I should lay some foundation. Jumping right into a story about a talking duck, and recounting the nature of my dreams is bound to scare some readers off. It is necessary to wade slowly into this pool from the shallow end, and not jump right into the water using the high dive.

We, Hoffman, Michaelson and I, work as instructors for a civilian fitness group that meets in the park each morning before dawn. It was started by a retired Navy Seal, Jack. Jack is our boss. We work each day individually with the clients, and we work together for two weeks every month during the boot camps. Two weeks of hard work for us, even harder work for the future clients. They have to pass the two-week initiation course to become regular clients. Once they pass the initiation, they become Lifers.

Once they pass the boot camp Lifers enter the maintenance phase. They can come every morning for as long as they want. We lead Lifer workouts every morning and afternoon. Our workouts are a little more intense than going to the gym, but less intense than joining the military. I like to take the Lifers on runs. I don’t know if the Lifers like it, I don’t care. I like to run, they have to run with me. That’s the way it works. Hoffman likes to make the Lifers do push-ups. He will knock out two hundred or more push-ups without breaking a sweat, at least not so as the Lifers could notice, and they whole time the Lifers try to keep up. Usually on my runs I hear complaints about how hard his workouts are. He hears the same about mine every now and then.

Both Hoffman and I hear complaints about Michaelson’s workouts for completely different reasons. Michaelson doesn’t like working out. He yells a lot.  He likes to yell so that’s what he does. Lately I have been hearing that he is cursing a lot too. That’s a no-no with Jack, but Jack hasn’t heard those complaints yet, at least not that we’ve been told.

Jack is funny about complaints. He encourages the Lifer's to write in, but once they do, he uses their complaints against them. Lifers learn pretty quickly that complaints never help. If a Lifer complains that there is too much running, it’s a pretty safe bet that there will be more running in the next few days.

The hallmark of our program is that the instructors do whatever they ask of the clients. Doing it better is just our natural pride and ability. Michaelson seems to be forgetting about that.

Hoffman had interrupted my dream by telling me that Michaelson and the clients were outside my apartment.

“What do you mean he has the clients with him?” I yelled back.

“Yeah, man. They’re right out there.”

Wearily and with a grunt of stiffness that is common on my days off, I got out of bed to see what he was talking about. With boxers barely hanging by my hips, old boxers too, the kind that leave the barn door open too much, I saw that the living room shades were uncustomarily open, the living room light was on, and the entire class of Lifers, like an audience at a vaudeville play, were getting an eyeful of my waking, tattered boxer short visage.

Normally, when I instruct, I try to project an air of superiority. All of the instructors do it. It comes form having been in the SEALs where rank is everything, and those who have it, know it, and don’t have to use it, everyone else just defers to it.

There is no rank in the Lifers group, but there is an instructor who is in charge. A certain amount of aloofness is needed to retain that leadership position. We never associate with the clients before or after work. We never associate with them outside of the park. If we do see them somewhere other than the park, we are supposed to be cordial, but “not do anything that might detract from our ability to lead.” Jack’s words not mine.

I guess it is superfluous to say that standing in front of the Lifers with my ripped and ratty boxer hanging from my waist, wiping sleep and confusion from my eyes, while Michaelson pointed and laughed detracted somewhat from my ability to lead.

I wish that I could say that was the least of what I did. I wish I could say I handled the situation from there on with the necessary aplomb and tact that would have been needed to restore my standing. It would have been terrific if, without worrying about my privates, I had just sauntered up to the door without a hint of embarrassment, opened it and told the Lifers to “knock out push-ups” while I talked to Michaelson.

I didn’t do that. Instead I beat a hasty retreat to the bedroom leaving a loud curse reverberating through the living room in my wake.

Lifers are a different breed, different even than ex SEALs. They wake up just about everyday to get to the park at five in the morning. Waking up at five is hard, but waking up to get somewhere by five, well that's just uncalled for. That's waking up in the fours. I have the advantage over the Lifers in many regards. I live right next to the park. I wake up at five minutes till, and ride my bike to the area of the park were we work out. I know that some of these Lifers live far away. They commute to their workouts. That puts them into a certain category right away. What type of person commutes to workouts? Commuting to work is fine, in fact that just makes since. If you happen to workout on the way, great, good on you, keep it up. But commuting just for a workout, and before five in the morning, I think that is ridiculous. The only reason I do it is because I get paid. Lifers; they pay over a hundred bucks a month for the pleasure of waking up early and my yelling at them.

I went to the workout one day in the middle of the worst rainstorm in fifty years. Fifty years and it has never rained as hard as it did that morning. Jack called and told me to tell the Lifers to go home. I doubted if I would see any, but went anyway figuring that I would charge Jack for a half hour or so. I took my car the hundred or so meters because of the rain. It was raining so hard biking was out of the question, and running, well I could have run, but it wouldn't have been pleasant. I remember I showed up and there they were, about two dozen of them, waiting to workout. I didn’t even get out of the car, just yelled at them to go home and get out of the rain; they did, every one of them. They may be compulsive and slightly neurotic about working out, but they obey. They obey because we stay aloof. We ensure that we don't do anything to detract from our ability to lead. That aloofness, the one that I had been fostering and encouraging like a cowboy tending to his injured horse; gone, shattered that Friday morning.

I may not have handled the initial stages of the predicament well, but I think I regained control quickly. I threw on some shorts and ran outside, brushing by Hoffman who was opening the door for Michaelson. The Lifers, all ten of them were still milling about outside the window several peering in with impish grins like kids at a peep show.

“GET DOWN AND KNOCK OUT PUSH-UPS! NOW!” I yelled. All of them, amazed at the strength of the command, since I am commonly the soft-spoken instructor, dropped where they were on the sidewalk and started doing push-ups.

“Hoffman.” I looked back at Hoffman. “Will you take care of them for a second?”

“Sure.” Hoffman said quickly stepping past Michaelson and myself to get outside.

“Can I speak to you for a second Michaelson?” I said trying to control the shaking anger that was building up inside. He followed me slowly back into the apartment

Michaelson may have known he was in trouble, if there was any doubt; it was erased when I slammed the door.

“What the fuck Michaelson!” Michaelson looked at me with a puzzled look on his face.

“What man?” He said lackadaisically.

“You don’t bring the clients to my house.”

“I had to.”

“Why?”

“We had an injury.” He said. This too was mentioned more than stated.

“Who?” I asked wishing he would get as worked up about this as I was.

“Sawyers.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He hurt his foot.”

I paused for second, stunned at him. He should have known this was not a good excuse to bring clients to my house.

“So why in the hell did you bring him here? Leave him on the street and have a lifer pick him up, or here's an idea," My voice started raising in an ever building crescendo of anger." Why not make the group carry him, it might give them a good fucking workout!”

Michaelson considered this for a moment then finally said, “Yeah I guess that would have worked, but go take a look at his fucking ankle.” He pointed toward the door.

He didn’t seem mad or put off by my yelling. Instead he seemed quite happy to be there having the conversation. It only heightened my anger that he was not visibly upset. I gave up on him for the moment and went to look at the injured lifer instead.

“Mr. Sawyers!” I yelled as I opened the door and looked out. Mr. Sawyers looked up from the sidewalk where he was doing pushups. “Come here!” I said quickly. He got up and limped toward me, the pain evident in his face.

“What’s up? What’s wrong Mr. Sawyers?”

“Nothing. I just hurt my ankle.”

“How?”

“I stepped into a hole.”

“Did you hear a crack?”

“Yeah, I think so.” He looked supremely disappointed in himself.

“Is it swollen?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, keep doing pushups. That should help.” He dropped down immediately as I stepped back into the apartment.

“I still don’t know why you brought him here, man. Why didn’t you just have the clients carry him back to the parking lot?”

“Dude, we were all the way down by the bayou.”

“So?”

“Do you know how far a run that would be?”

“Yeah, a couple hundred meters more than coming here?” I said my voice rising to end in a yell.

“Okay, okay, calm down. You don’t have to yell. I see your point I didn’t think of it that way.”

“Fuck man, the parking lot is right over there.” I pointed behind him.

“Yeah, I realize that now.” He turned around and started walking toward my kitchen. “I guess I didn’t think about that either. Say you mind if I get some water.”

“What?” I said more stunned now.

"Some water." He said slowly. "I didn't bring any to the workout." He seemed to be especially callous today. He didn't seem to realize that Michaelson was in his underwear outside my apartment yelling a one, two, three, four cadence to a bunch of crazed workout fanatics at a quarter till six in the morning in the little patch of lawn outside my apartment. I silently said a prayer of thanks that my apartment is a one-bedroom affair bordered by the park on two sides and not surrounded by sleeping neighbors.

“Instructor Johnson?” It was Mr. Sawyers, at the door that was now open, still doing pushups.

“What?”

“As long as we’re here can I get some ice? I’ve heard that it will help the recovery process if you ice it right away.”

“No you can…”

“Sure I’ll get you some.” Michaelson interrupted me. “Have a seat over there.”

I was too stunned to speak. A pause that Mr. Sawyers thought meant my acquiescence to his question. By the time I found my voice he was about to sit on my couch. “Don’t you dare sit on my couch Mr. Sawyers. You're soaked.” I yelled at him. I caught him halfway to sitting down, and he squirmed as I spoke, trying to obey, but not quite able to.

“You have to let him sit down, he has a broken ankle Johnson.” Michaelson said.

Mr. Sawyers stood in the middle of my living room like a lost sheep trying to figure out which shepherd to obey. That's what's ridiculous about the Lifers. Mr. Sawyers is a high priced attorney. He has a wife, kids, a large house and a net worth a hundred times what mine will ever be. But there he was, in my living room, scared and confused like a small child listening to his parents argue.

Finally Michaelson came around with a chair and put it in front of him. “Sit there.” He said.

I looked at the open doorway; a few Lifer faces stared in. I could hear Hoffman’s voice in the background.

“One…..two….three….”

And the Lifers reply as they yelled in unison, “Twenty-three!”

“One….two….three….”

“Twenty-four!”

Mr. Sawyers put the bag of ice Michaelson had given him on his ankle. Michaelson was making himself a cup of coffee from my coffee pot. I stood befuddled, feeling like I was in a dream state, still a bit angry, and I noticed for the first time, still exposed from the waist up.

With a “What the fuck!” I went back to my bedroom to put on a shirt, but ostensibly to get out of the pandemonium that was rolling through my living room like waves of negative, confusion laced energy.

I fell back into my bed and pulled the covers up quick. I try to calm my racing heart and slowed my breathing. I could still hear Hoffman and the lifers chanting outside and I embraced the muffled cadence and allowed my heart rate to slow down in time to it. I was chilled just a bit from the air outside, and from the air conditioning that I habitually set to a low level, and I could feel the blankets warming up my skin, it felt overwhelmingly comfortable. The cadence stopped and I listened as I heard Michaelson lead the Lifers away. I turned onto my right side, then a few minutes later back to my left. I checked the clock and saw that it was almost six in the morning. On a day where I had planned to sleep until nine I was up three hours earlier than I wanted with no hope of going back to sleep. I silently cursed Michaelson, and reminded myself that I wanted to talk to Jack about him.

Eventually I realized that I needed to get up to use the restroom. My bladder was the only thing that wasn’t as relaxed as the rest of my body. I hate when that happens. One aspect of my psyche which I have clearly identified over the years is that if one thing is out of whack than I consider the entire system out of whack. I like everything to be at the same status. Either all systems firing, or all systems down. I don’t like in-between states.

I got up much more slowly than before. I gave a good stretch with my arms over my head and felt the strain leaving. I grabbed a shirt from the floor and put it on. I had a tentative plan of watching a movie on the television before starting my day, which consisted of very nothing more exciting than that.

I passed through the hall still putting on my shirt. I could hear Hoffman talking on the phone? I thought absentmindedly that it seemed early for a conversation. I stepped into the bathroom, and followed the habit I have fostered as a single renter or not shutting the bathroom door. I didn’t think about Hoffman on the phone again until I was in the middle of relieving my bladder and I heard someone answer him. I stopped the stream and walked out into the living room where I saw Mr. Sawyers sitting in front of the TV, looking relaxed. He had scooted his chair up to the entertainment center and elevated his injured foot on it. A bag of ice was draped over the ankle like a miniature saddle bag. I stared at him incredulously.

“Michaelson took the others back. Want some coffee?” I heard Michaelson say. I looked toward the kitchen; Hoffman was bringing me a mug.

My mind reeled and raced. It flew in all directions at once. My body however obeyed and I moved slowly to the middle of the living room and sat down on the couch, still silent over the issue of the Lifer in my house. This may seem like a small thing, but life is built on small things. It’s hard enough to maintain an air of superiority around older adults who, in just about every case, make far more money and wield a significantly greater amount of influence than I, so it was difficult for me to accept Mr. Sawyers lounging in my den when he should have been in the park getting yelled at by Michaelson.

Mr. Sawyers is the prototypical Lifer; older, but in great shape for his age. He never misses a workout. Even when he is injured he shows up to do what exercises he can, and does whatever else is possible when he can’t

“Here you go.” Hoffman handed Mr. Sawyers a cup of coffee. I was about to argue, fume, yell, do something to let Hoffman know how unacceptable I found this situation, then he said, “You want some cream?”