(For anyone who missed the introduction of Old Man Gym, please see here.)
Seven o’clock is the worst time to try and talk to Vince. Seven is when the morning spin class lets out, and with that, about a dozen latex-clad and sweaty girls walk up the stairs and right passed Vince on their way to the locker room. And he talks to every single one of them.
“How’s that cold? Chicken soup and two aspirin.” Giggle, giggle.
“Look at these two, the queens of the gym.” Smile, wave.
And on it goes. I catch Vince, with his sly smile, steal a quick glance when they pass by us.
After the parade, I ask him how his Christmas was.
“Great. The kids were in and I gave them all money. My wife still wanted to go shopping. I asked her if she saw where I put the decimal point on those checks!”
“Hey Vince!” a young girl carrying a yoga mat says. He waves, then looks at her ass.
“Vince,” I finally say now that things have calmed down, “did all the kids go back home?”
“Yeah. My son went back to Texas and the other to DC. The one in DC, I don’t get this. They are always RE-DOING (he emphasis this) something on their house. New kitchen, new...something. Then, everyone in the neighborhood has to have the same thing. Never content with what he has that one. I try to tell him it is not a contest. He don’t listen. But they all had smiles on their faces when I handed them those checks.”
“I bet they did. Money always works,” I say.
“Yep. It’s a great year…I was never supposed to have survived the last one.”
Amen. Be content.