Chapter 9

The following Monday, you announce over breakfast that you have decided to join the gym. Your wife looks up from her coffee, clearly surprised. For several seconds, she simply studies your face, as though searching for some indication that you are joking. You have mentioned getting back into shape before, of course, usually around New Year's or after discovering that another pair of trousers has become uncomfortably tight.

Such resolutions generally last until the first inconvenient morning, when the prospect of another hour in bed proves more appealing than exercise. Nevertheless, you have been thinking about it seriously for several days, and you explain that you are tired of feeling winded after climbing stairs. You could stand to lose a few pounds, improve your stamina, and perhaps recover some of the energy you remember having when you were younger.

Your wife listens with an increasingly suspicious smile. "Uh-huh," she says. "And this sudden interest in physical fitness wouldn't have anything to do with a certain enormous, tattooed gentleman, would it?" You give her an innocent look and ask what she means. "Oh, come on." She laughs and sets down her coffee. "Are you jealous of Grudge?"

You assure her that your decision has absolutely nothing to do with Grudge, although you cannot quite prevent yourself from smiling. She leans across the table, looking delighted by the opportunity to tease you.."Because if you're planning to march in there and show him who's boss, sweetheart, I really think we should discuss your life insurance first."

You tell her that she is never going to let you forget that unfortunate conversation. "Probably not." She grins. "But seriously, I think it's wonderful. We can work out together. Well, sort of together. I don't think you're quite ready for my routine." You suggest that you might begin with something less ambitious than her collection of weight machines and elaborate exercises.

A little cardiovascular training seems sensible, perhaps some time on the treadmill or StairMaster, followed by a modest introduction to resistance training. Your wife approves, although she insists that you allow her to show you how to use the equipment properly rather than attempting to impress anyone. "And no picking fights with the local wildlife," she adds.

You promise to behave yourself. She kisses you before leaving for work, and you watch her go with the uncomfortable awareness that her teasing has come remarkably close to the truth. You genuinely do want to improve your physical condition. There is no deception in that part of your explanation.

Yet you would be lying to yourself if you claimed that Grudge had nothing to do with your decision. You have spent nearly a week listening to stories about a man whose extraordinary size, crude behavior, and apparent disregard for ordinary social boundaries have begun to occupy far too much of your imagination. The opportunity to observe him firsthand is difficult to resist.

Later that evening, while you are getting ready for bed, your wife brings up Grudge again with the mischievous expression you have learned to recognize. She is sitting at her vanity, brushing her hair, when she catches your reflection in the mirror and begins smiling to herself. "You know, I've been thinking." This sounds dangerous.

"Now that you're a member of the gym, you could actually do a little investigating for me." You ask what sort of investigating she has in mind. "Well, you have access to the men's locker room now." She pauses, apparently enjoying your confusion. "And remember what the girls told me about Grudge? That he's supposedly hung like a horse?" You stare at her.

She bursts out laughing. "Oh, don't look so horrified! I'm just saying, you could find out whether the rumors are true." You ask whether she is seriously suggesting that you check out another man's dick in the locker room.."Not spy!" she protests, laughing harder. "Just keep your eyes open. I mean, the man's practically a walking urban legend at this point. Somebody ought to establish whether there's any truth to all these ridiculous stories."

You suggest that perhaps she should hire a private investigator. "Why would I do that when I've already got you?" She turns on her stool, grinning shamelessly. "Besides, you've seen how enormous he is everywhere else. Aren't you even a little curious?" You tell her that you have never felt a particularly urgent need to investigate another man's anatomy.

"Well, maybe you should broaden your horizons." She laughs at her own joke, then adds, "Just imagine coming home and telling me the girls were right. I'd never hear the end of it." You ask what she would do with such valuable information. "Absolutely nothing," she replies, although her smile suggests she finds the question entertaining.

"I'd just enjoy knowing whether the biggest asshole in the gym is also the biggest... well, you know." You shake your head, laughing despite yourself, and tell her that you have no intention of conducting reconnaissance in the men's showers. Whatever Grudge looks like beneath his clothes is his own business.

"Fine, fine." She raises her hands in surrender. "I was only teasing." She returns to brushing her hair, but after a moment she catches your reflection again. "Although if you happen to notice anything, I expect a full report." You throw a pillow at her. She catches it against her chest and dissolves into laughter, delighted by how thoroughly she has embarrassed you.

What she does not admit is that the rumor has genuinely intrigued her. She has wondered about it more than once since hearing it from her friends, particularly after seeing Grudge's extraordinary physical proportions firsthand. Suggesting that you investigate allows her to indulge that curiosity under the protection of pretending it is just a joke.

If you react with disgust, she can laugh it off. If you seem interested, she can tease you about that instead. Either way, she never has to acknowledge how often the subject has crossed her mind. You, meanwhile, find yourself unsettled by the ease with which your wife has introduced such an intimate comparison into an otherwise ordinary conversation.

Only a week ago, she was furious that Grudge had spoken to her so crudely. Now she is fantasizing about his supposedly huge anatomy and inviting you to participate in the speculation. You recognize that she is joking, but the question lingers long after the laughter fades. More than the rumor itself, you find yourself wondering why your wife seems so comfortable imagining you discovering the answer.

She switches off the vanity light and climbs into bed beside you, still smiling. "Goodnight, detective," she whispers. You tell her that her case is officially closed. "For now," she replies. She kisses your cheek and settles beneath the covers, leaving you to wonder whether the joke was quite as innocent as either of you is pretending.