Irvine Welsh - The Sex Lives of Siamese Twins

I pull my iPhone out my bag. I have all of my clients’ records and programs on here. I key in another sixty-five cal for the small apple. I came of age as a number-cruncher the day I discovered Lifemap TM.

More than a website, a phone application, a calorie tracker, an exercise, weight, and BMI monitor, but all of those things, Lifemap is an indespensible tool. It’s better than a recorder of all the food you eat, of everything you pack into that hole, or every exercise you undertake from walking to the local strip mall to running a marathon. It’s a way of life, and it’s the device which will save America and the world. Lifemap was invented by a software design company and endorsed by former NBA star Russell Coombes (three-time World Champion rings, 1136 career games for Chicago, San Antonio, and Atlanta. Famous for his number of steals per game, 1.97. Retired at thirty-two. .)

. . shit.

The main reason my thirty-three years are significant is that here, in fashion-conscious Miami Beach, they set the parameters for my client base. Nobody with any sense wants a personal trainer older than them. Nobody wants one who looks like shit, and other things being equal (which they seldom are, but never mind), the older you get the more like shit you look. Of course there are exceptions; the celebrity or “personality” trainer springs to mind: trendbuckers like the J-Micks, Harpers, Warners, and Parishes of this world. But it usually means that I get fat, unsavable fortysomethings who aspire to look like me, while Mona gets slightly out-of-shape thirtysomethings who want to look like her, and a disturbing roster of Belsen model bitches, taking time off from sitting with their fingers down their throats, waiting for that Condé Nast hotline to ring. But that is about to change!

Not all of them are time-wasters, though. Ubercool gym bunny Annette Cushing strides in with a cheerful expression and a confident sweep for the juice bar. One of Mona’s clients, but she’s ignoring her, wrinkling her button nose and focusing her black saucer eyes on me . — Congratulations, Lucy! That was soooo brave. Whatever possessed you?

— Didn’t have time to think, I explain, as I see Mona’s mouth hang open; my deeds have obviously passed the self-absorbed bitch by, — just react as I was trained to do.

— That kick, the one the camera picked up. .

— What’s this? Mona asks. Lester points up to the TV; it’s back on the loop again. — OH MY GOD! Mona squeals in excitement, and scuttles under the mounted TV set to hear better.

— A simple kickboxing move, it’s like a foot jab. . I tell Annette, extending my leg to demonstrate.

— You didn’t say anything. . Mona bleats in half-assed accusation, then her chin drops as Annette asks me, — I was wondering if I could do some of that stuff with you?

— Sure, I point at our rack of personal cards. — Give me a call. It’ll have to be at the Miami Mixed Martial Arts, though. I glance at Mona: hoe had to eat that one up like it was a one-thou-cal slice of Key lime pie!

— Yes, I’m ready to get my hands dirty, Annette smiles, then walks off with an edgy Mona toward the pristine Pilates studio. That bitch paid eight grand (or rather some fucking sugar daddy of hers did) to get that crappy trainer accreditation and equipment.

We can hear the phone’s shrill bell ripping out from the small office. Lester springs off the stool and goes to answer it. His eyes, then his head, pop back around the door. — Call for you, Lucy. They all want you now, superstar. And as I advance toward him, he raises his hand for another high five. — A hero and a TV celebrity! Man, that is good for business!

— I know, right? I grin, slapping flesh and heading into the small, ugly room, lit only by one small window. Workstation desks are built in against the walls, on three sides. I pick up the phone, partially buried under some client worksheets on Lester’s desk. Another overhead TV silently shows my open-mouthed shock and the fat chick in pink’s chubby pointing finger. I pick up the phone. — Hello, Lucy Brennan speaking.

— Hi. . The voice is soft and hesitant. I feel I’ve heard it before. — I’m Lena, Lena Sorenson. I was the witness on the bridge last night. I shot it on my phone. Those guys. . running in the road. . and you disarmed the gunman? The police station?

It’s her! The fat chick! The one who made me a star! — Right. . okaaaay. . I look at the screen, but we’re gone, displaced by the picture of a young girl, around ten. According to the bar on the bottom of the screen, she’s gone missing. Then the conjoined Arkansas twins reappear.

— I got your number from the Internet, the fat chick gasps. — I Googled your name and the web page for the gym came up, with you listed as a personal trainer.

Right, you creepy, stalking loser. — Greaaat. . how are you?

— I’m good. . well, maybe not so good, she says in cagey, semiconfessional tones. — I’ve kinda put on a lot of weight recently, and I really want to get back in shape. Think you could maybe help me?

— That’s what I do. When can you come in for a consultation?

— I’m kinda in the neighborhood, well, North Miami Beach. Could I swing by sometime tomorrow morning?

— Sure. . and I’m looking up to a smaller screen, on the other wall of the office, where we’re back, on a different channel. This pink-clad turkey with a strap of reverberating flesh around her neck is gushingly describing me as a hero. — I’ll look forward to meeting you under calmer circumstances. How’s ten?

— Ten’s good. . she says without conviction.

— Okay. Tomorrow we’ll get started, I tell her. Ten o’clock sharp.

— Okay. . an insipid victim voice wavers back down the line.

I hang up and get my stuff together. I say goodbye to Lester at the juice bar. Then I get outside and walk down to the Miami Beach police station on Washington at 11th. I recognize a cop on the desk from last night, a short, fat, black guy, who just looks me over in vague disapproval, before asking me to sign a form, and eventually issuing me with my car keys. I follow his directions downstairs to the lot and find the Cadillac DeVille. I examine the indented collision area, feeling like I’m taking a much loved but dangerous rescue dog from the pound. I get in and start it up, and it turns over first time. I pull out of the dark basement lot, into the bright sunshine, turning onto my street and circling my block to make sure that no photographers are lurking. But the street is quiet, except for some palms swishing in the mild breeze, the light suddenly weak and fading as thunder clouds roll in from the ocean to block the sun. Have they lost interest so quickly? In the apartment, I’ve no time for any emails, as it’s the big one tonight. Michelle Parish is in town, talking about her new exercise and diet plan!

By the time I’ve gotten ready, wearing white linen slacks and a blue tank top and — sick of the trainer’s ponytail — opting for hair pinned back in a classic chignon, the clouds have passed and it’s a beautiful Miami Beach evening. It’s still hot and balmy as the sun goes down and insects whir dreamily, and I’m wading confidently through that sexy, tropical air back into my car, content the coast is clear. The Caddy’s old stereo is broken, but I have my CDs and put on some Cuban hip hop I bought for five bucks from a hustler on Washington. I never usually do that but this kid had the most amazingly cute eyes. Musically, a gamble, but in this case it’s paid off, heavy samba rhythms filling the air as a sneakily cool Spanish vocal kicks in. I wish I knew what the fuck they were singing about.

I take the MacArthur over the Biscayne Bay and down to Coral Gables, parking a block from the bookstore and walking there. I hate Miami proper, I’m a SoBe bum, but the Gables is one of the few mainland spots I can tolerate, and it’s largely due to this place. Books & Books is a classy store, with a great patio cafe, a corner of which is usually occupied by some cool musicians. I’ve even picked up a couple of guys and a chick here, on separate occasions.