Chapter 7

Three days pass before your wife comes home with another story about Grudge, and by then you have almost convinced yourself that the enormous stranger has become nothing more than an amusing footnote in your marriage. You have mentioned him occasionally, usually in the form of some ridiculous joke about his personal-training business.

Neither of you has admitted how frequently he occupies your private thoughts. The unexpected excitement of that night together has lingered, however, and you have found yourself looking at your wife with renewed interest. She has seemed unusually cheerful, too, although you cannot say whether the change has anything to do with the obnoxious character at the gym.

Then, late one afternoon, the front door opens, and she comes striding into the house with the unmistakable expression of someone who has just won an argument. "Well, I finally put that asshole in his place," she announces, dropping her gym bag beside the stairs. You look up from the television, immediately interested.

You ask what happened, and she folds her arms across her chest with an expression of considerable satisfaction. "Grudge. That enormous, tattooed jackass. He decided he owned the entire weight room today, and I finally got sick of it." She explains that the gym was particularly crowded that afternoon.

Nearly every machine was occupied and several people waiting for equipment. Grudge, however, apparently considered the ordinary inconveniences of sharing a public facility beneath him. He had established himself in one corner of the weight room and was working through a circuit involving the seated chest press, the lat pulldown, and the leg extension.

Rather than finish his sets on one piece of equipment before moving to another, he alternated between all three, leaving personal belongings behind to discourage anyone else from using them. "And he was shirtless," she adds, shaking her head. "Just wandering around with his enormous belly hanging out, sweating all over everything like he owned the place."

You ask whether the gym allows people to work out without shirts. "Apparently nobody wants to tell him he can't. He's got tattoos everywhere, and I mean everywhere. His chest, his shoulders, his stomach, both arms. Some of them look like prison tattoos, and some look like they were done in somebody's garage."

"He's got this huge black skull across his chest, a bunch of lettering I couldn't read, and these awful-looking designs running down his ribs. And underneath all those muscles, he's got a big, hard-looking gut, like one of those heavyweight powerlifters who can lift a truck but hasn't seen his own feet in twenty years."

You cannot help smiling at the description. Your wife notices and points an accusing finger at you. "Don't laugh. You haven't seen this guy. He's enormous. And he was using his filthy shirt to reserve one of the machines while he went off to do something else." She explains that she had been waiting for the seated chest press for several minutes.

Grudge had completed a set, draped his black tank top across the seat, and wandered over to the lat pulldown machine. After watching him move between the three stations without allowing anyone else to use them, she decided that she had waited long enough. "So I picked up his shirt, put it on the little shelf beside the machine, adjusted the seat, and started my set."

You stare at her, astonished. She smiles triumphantly. "I know. Can you believe it?" You ask whether she realized whose shirt it was. "Of course I did! That's the whole point. He can't just claim three machines because he's bigger than everybody else." You tell her that she certainly has a point, although you cannot help wondering whether deliberately provoking Grudge belongings was the wisest way to make it.

"Well, apparently he didn't appreciate my interpretation of gym etiquette." She delivers this observation with such exaggerated dignity that you begin to laugh. Then her expression changes. "Because when he came back, he absolutely lost his mind." She describes hearing a deep, furious voice behind her just as she finished her first set.

Grudge had returned from the lat pulldown machine to discover a woman sitting where he had left his shirt, and the sight apparently offended him beyond reason. "Hey! What the fuck do you think you're doing?" Your wife imitates his gravelly voice with surprising enthusiasm, then continues the story.

She says she looked up at him, perfectly aware that he was trying to intimidate her, and explained that she was using the machine. "He said, 'No shit, sweetheart. I can fucking see that. Where's my shirt?'" She pointed toward the shelf. "And that's when he really went off."

You ask what he said. She draws herself up, preparing to deliver the worst of it. "He shouted, 'You dumb cunt! Can't you see somebody's using this fucking machine?'" For a moment, you simply stare at her. She nods emphatically. "Right in front of everybody. Loud enough for the entire weight room to hear." You ask whether anyone intervened.

"Not a soul. Everybody looked over, of course. Some people actually stopped exercising. But nobody said a word." She explains that Grudge stood directly in front of the machine, his enormous tattooed torso glistening with sweat, his thick arms hanging at his sides, and his face twisted into an expression of genuine fury.

He was close enough that she could smell the sweat on him, and his size made her feel suddenly very small in the padded seat. For an instant, she thought he might actually grab her by the arm and drag her off the machine. You feel a sudden tightening in your stomach. You ask whether he threatened her.

"Not exactly. He just stood there glaring at me like he wanted to rip my head off.".You tell her that she should have walked away. She gives you an incredulous look. "Why? Because some overgrown bully doesn't understand how a public gym works?" You point out that the man has already demonstrated a spectacular lack of restraint or critical thinking

"Well, I wasn't about to let him scare me off." She explains that she looked directly at Grudge and told him he couldn't reserve three machines simultaneously during a busy period. When he started to interrupt, she pointed toward the large sign posted on the wall beside the free weights.

"There's an actual rule about it," she says. "It says you're supposed to let other members work in between sets when the gym is crowded. So I pointed right at it and told him he could either follow the rules like everybody else or complain to management." You can scarcely believe what you are hearing.

Your wife, who ordinarily dislikes confrontation and has been known to apologize to grocery carts after accidentally bumping into them, has apparently decided to lecture a furious, heavily tattooed giant about the finer points of gym etiquette. You ask what Grudge did.

"He just stared at me." She pauses, remembering. "I mean, really stared. His face got all red, and I could see his jaw working. For a second, I thought he was going to explode." You ask whether she was frightened. She hesitates. "A little," she admits. "Okay, more than a little. He's a scary-looking bastard when he's angry." Then she smiles. "But I wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of rnning away."

She explains that she turned away from him, adjusted the weight, and began another set. Grudge remained standing nearby, breathing heavily through his nose while she concentrated on her repetitions. She could see him reflected in the mirror across the room, his thick arms folded over his tattooed chest, glaring at her as though he were considering whether the satisfaction of throwing her across the gym would outweigh the inconvenience of another arrest.

"Every time I finished a set, I thought he'd say something else," she admits. "But he didn't. He just stood there getting madder and madder." You ask whether she hurried to finish. "Absolutely not. I did every single repetition I planned to do." She says she even took her usual rest periods, refusing to let his presence rush her. When she finally completed her last set, she wiped down the machine, stood up, and politely informed him that it was all his.

"And do you know what he said?" You shake your head. "He snatched his shirt off the shelf, leaned down until his face was practically against mine, and growled, 'Keep fucking with me, sweetheart, and I'll teach you what happens when you piss off the wrong motherfucker. You won't be walking out of here with that smart mouth.'"

Your smile disappears. You ask whether he actually threatened her. "Those were his words. And then he looked me up and down, gave me this filthy little smirk, and added, 'You think you're cute now, bitch. Keep pushing me and see how fucking cute you feel afterward.'" She laughs, although there is a nervous edge to it that wasn't there before.

"I swear, I thought he was going to explode. But I just smiled, told him to have a nice workout, and walked away like he hadn't scared me half to death." You find yourself laughing along, although your amusement is accompanied by a growing uneasiness. The scene she describes is almost absurd, a small woman calmly exercising while a furious man fumes beside her.

Yet you cannot forget the rumors about Grudge's past, or the possibility that his temper might eventually prove more dangerous than amusing. You ask whether anyone from the gym's staff saw what happened. "One of the trainers was over by the front desk. He definitely heard the shouting. He looked over, then suddenly became very interested in his computer."

She rolls her eyes. "Apparently everybody's terrified of this guy." You tell her that perhaps they have good reason. She shrugs, still looking pleased with herself. "Well, somebody had to stand up to him." You consider that for a moment, then ask whether she wants you to go down to the gym and have a word with Grudge.

The suggestion produces an immediate and unexpected reaction. Your wife bursts out laughing. Not a polite little chuckle or an affectionate smile, but a genuine, helpless laugh that leaves her bending forward with one hand over her mouth. You stare at her. "Oh, honey," she manages, shaking her head. "Absolutely not."

You ask what is so funny. She tries to compose herself, but the effort only makes her laugh harder. "Because he'd kick your ass!" The words strike you with considerably more force than she seems to realize. You are not a particularly confrontational man, and you have never pretended to be some sort of professional fighter.

Nevertheless, there is something deeply uncomfortable about hearing your own wife dismiss the possibility of your standing up to another man on her behalf so casually. She notices your expression and immediately attempts to soften the remark. "Oh, don't look at me like that. I'm not insulting you. I'm just being realistic."

You tell her that she seems awfully certain. "Have you listened to anything I've told you about this guy? He's enormous! He's probably got fifty pounds on you, maybe more. And he looks like he's been fighting people since kindergarten." She comes closer and rests a hand against your chest. "You're a wonderful husband, but you're not going to march into that gym and intimidate Grudge. You'd just get yourself hurt."

You manage a small smile, although the remark has left you feeling strangely emascsulated. She kisses your cheek. "Besides, I handled him myself. I don't need you getting into a fight over a stupid exercise machine." You tell her that you were only offering to help. "I know, sweetheart. And I appreciate it."

She gives you another affectionate kiss, then retrieves her gym bag. "But trust me. The last thing you want is to get into it with that man." She starts toward the stairs, still smiling at the memory of her confrontation. You watch her go, troubled by the unexpected sting of her laughter.