It’s five minutes till the Y closes, and most of the wet-headed patrons have oozed out to their cars. Shelly is at the front desk, and I’m about to mop out the men’s locker room. But this guy comes in. He’s drunk as shit. He tells Shelly he just flipped over a Camry.
“The car?” she says.
“Fuck yeah, the car,” he says and gives a loud whoop. Then he goes into this whole long thing about an idea he has for a weightlifting competition where you flip over cars, starting with a Miata and going on up. I wheel my mop bucket over.
“What’s the last one, a limo?” I say.
“A fucking hearse, baby.” And he whoops again. This guy is sweating, I mean really sweating. Maybe he did flip over a car.
“Time to go.” Shelly points to the front doors.
“Can I get a water?” he says.
“Are you a member? Sir?”
I say that I’ll get him a water and go into my pocket and put some money into the vending machine. I hand him the bottle.
“It’s a good idea,” I say.
“What is?” He takes a long drink. Water goes down his chin and into his shirt.
“About flipping the cars.”
“Sure it is.” He turns and waddles, a little sideways, to the doors. They slide open, but just before he steps out, he sees the Jesus picture—all Y’s have them—and points at it.
“This guy’d win. Flip a chariot. Fucking cheater. Mr. Whole-World-In-His-Hands.”
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