I am a gym rat and have been since I was about 15. That was the year when, as a scrawny kid just starting to count his pubic hairs, I stumbled into the world of iron.
I was at my grandparents' house. Grandpa, at a ripe age of 77, was starting a slow decline. But, one summer afternoon, he pulled me over to his big over-stuffed chair and pulled an old photo album off the desk next to him. With a chuckle, he started flipping through the pages - - which showed old black and white photos of a young man in shorts showing off his muscled body.
"Guess who that is?" Grandpa asked me.
I shrugged.
Gramps slapped me on the head playfully. "That's me, Frankie. When I was only a few years older than you. Before I bought the gym."
The "gym" was called Tom's Iron Shop. Grandpa had owned it for decades, and it was THE musclehead hangout in San Pietro, the little town north of Los Angeles where Gramps and Gran lived.
"Wow," I answered. "That was a long time ago."
Gramps laughed again. "Sure was. But you know, I was the Mr. Atlas California for five years running. Back then. Them was the Depression years."
I nodded. Grandpa had always been a big guy. And in the photos, you could see where that started. Over and over again, he flexed his thick biceps and pumped the large ropey muscles around his shoulders. His thighs were thick, and his chest was sculpted.
"Jeez, Gramps," I said. "Could I look like that?"
Gramps chuckled and closed the album. "Well, boy, I suppose anything's possible. Let's go out to the garage and see what we got."
I helped Gramps off his chair. In the garage, he threw a sheet off a pile of junk in the corner to reveal a huge weightstack, some bars, and a bench. For the next week, he initiated me into the mysteries of iron. And, though Gramps died a couple of years later, I never looked back.
By the time I was 18, I was spending three or four hours a day in the gym. I graduated from high school with no intention of going to college. I just wanted to lift and keep on lifting. I took a job as a garage mechanic and kept lifting. Around this time, Arnold was becoming a huge popular phenomenon. We all wanted to be like Arnie.
And, so, we all started playing around with steroids. First, pills. A handful of Dianabol in the morning with some grapefruit. Then, injectibles. 300 or 440 mg of testosterone cypionate a week. And we ate a lot. And we kept on lifting.
By the time I was 22, I was competing. I won a few titles. But I had a problem. Most bodybuilders are shorter and squatter. I was 6'2" - - too tall for a pro bodybuilder. Still, I was looking good. 220 lbs, 17.5 inch biceps, 47 inch chest, 35 inch waist. Like I said, I lived at the gym.
With all those steroids, however, another problem developed. Testosterone helps to bulk you up, but it also detonates your libido like a thermonuclear device. Imagine: you have 4 or 5 times the amount of testosterone in your body than you did when you were 17. I was jerking off a lot. And, I was pretty much fucking anything in the gym that moved, had tits, and a pussy. This was not a pretty situation.
In June of my 25th year, I got a surprising call.
"Yo, Frank." my friend Tom shouted across the gym, waving the phone in his hand.
I settled the pile of weights back onto the machine. Giving a couple of high fives to my friends, I walked over to pick up the phone.
"Hello, Frank." A sweet, feminine voice sang into my ear over the clanging of barbells and grunts.
"Yeah. Hi."
"You don't recognize my voice?" I heard a cute little laugh.
I searched my mind. Back and forth. Shaking my head.
"Ohhhhhhhhhh," I practically shouted. "Grandma! How you doing?"
Gran laughed. "I guess you get lots of calls from your girlfriends down at the gym."
I laughed. "No. But it's really noisy down here and I we haven't talked since last Easter."
Gran laughed. She paused. "Have you got a minute or two?"
"Sure."
Gran sighed. "Well, you know Tom left me the gym. And it was going pretty well. But, last year, Jeff . . you remember Jeff?"
Sure, I remembered Jeff. I remembered that in addition to managing the gym for Gran he had also dealt coke out of the back office.
"Well, Jeff had some trouble with the law. He had to leave."
I nodded into the phone.
"So," Gran continued. "I've been trying to run things. But, to be honest, I was never much for business. And, well . . . Frank. We're in trouble up here."
"Okay, Gran," I said. "What kind of trouble?"
"Oh, Frankie." I could hear her tears in her voice. "If we don't get things back on track, I think they're going to take the gym." She held back a sob. "What would Tom think of me?"
I sighed. "It's okay, Gran. Don't worry. Tell me what you want me to do."
"I know you're busy down there," Gran continued. "But I was just wondering if you could take some time off to help me get things back to normal. Just a month or so."
I clamped the phone between my ear and my shoulder and looked out over the gym. Same old muscleheads doing the same old shit. I thought about the garage where I worked. Same old gearheads doing the same old shit. Then, I thought about Gramps. And about tiny little San Pietro.
"Sure, Gran," I said into the phone. "Give me a couple of days to pack up and take care of things. I'll be up by Saturday."
Relief flooded Gran's voice. "Oh, thank you, Frank! Tom is smiling in heaven. And, I'm smiling right here."
I laughed. "Hey, I'm smiling too."
We said goodbye to each other. I hit the showers, already planning how to pack, what to do with the apartment, and when to score some testosterone to tide me over in San Pietro.
By Friday morning, I was gunning my Mustang through the outskirts of San Pietro. I slowed down in front of Tom's Iron Shop on the main street. The place did look run down. Peeling paint. And old banner proclaiming, "Home of Mr. Atlas," hanging down from one corner of the facade. A couple of windows clouded with dirt and age. I pushed the accelerator down and drove to Gran's.
I pulled into Gran's driveway and saw the front door open. Gran stepped out onto the porch - - wearing sweats and a tank top - - and waved at me.
Let me tell you about my grandmother. Grandpa had been a wild man in his youth and into his middle age. But, while visiting the Mr. Atlas contest one year, he had stayed for the Miss Atlas contest. That's where he met grandma - - a farm girl from the Central Valley who placed third in the Miss Atlas. He was almost 25 years older than grandma when they met. They got married, had two kids, and ran the business together. Grandma kept competing - - through two pregnancies and after. In fact, the year grandpa died, nearing fifty, she had competed in the Mrs. Atlas contest and placed a respectable fifth.
She still worked out and, approaching sixty years-old, it showed. Her belly was taut, her arms were smooth and full, and her face, though crowned by a nimbus of silver hair and lined by age, was dominated by a pair of sparkling green eyes. I smiled.
"I'm soooooooo glad to see you, Frank," Grandma mumbled into my shoulder as we hugged. "Soooooo glad."
I patted here on the shoulder. "Me too, Gran. Me too."
She wiped her eyes. "If only Tom could be here to see it."
I smiled and she grabbed my hand and led me into the house. I stowed my stuff in the guest room and met grandma in the dining room of their tiny little two bedroom bungalow.
"Sit, sit," she said, waving her hand at the dining room table.
I sat down and she left for the kitchen, returning with a plate of eggs and bacon.
"Growing boys have to eat!" She said with a bright smile, her white teeth shining.
"Sure do, grandma," I said, digging into the plate.
"Good lord," grandma said, moving around behind me. "Why, I remember when you were just a skinny little teenager."
I laughed.
I was wearing a tank and jeans, and Gran ran her hands across my shoulders and squeezed my delts.
"You're still lifting," she laughed. "Lifting a lot."
I laughed.
