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gymnast.”
    “That’s what’s up. I can tell you’re real limber.”
    “Not like I used to be.”
    “What do you do? If you don’t mind my asking,” Cisco said. He moved behind me, pulling my arms behind my neck.
    “I’m an interior designer,” I said.
    “Must be money in that because this joint is hooked up like a baller’s pad. This looks like one of them houses
on MTV Cribs.
You seen that show?” I could feel his warm breath on the back of my neck with each of his words. I wanted to tell him if he thought this was something, he should have seen my house in Atlanta. Now that was something special.
    “Yeah, I’ve seen it once or twice.”
    After a couple of sets of ab work, we moved to the weights. Within minutes sweat poured into my eyes as I lay on the bench. Cisco gave me a small white towel to dry my face.
    As we went from station to station, Cisco was so close to me I noticed the faint smell of his soap-scented deodorant. We finished the workout with Cisco throwing a twelve-pound medicine ball to me over a hundred times. After all that I was so tired I thought I was going to tumble down the stairs. I needed some water and food. I suddenly remembered my cold breakfast bagel and hoped it would be the answer to my hunger.
    “You all right with the water?” I asked.
    “I’m straight.”
    While I was removing the cap from the bottle and takingseveral swigs, Cisco hit me with a barrage of questions: “You live here by yourself?” “You got a female?” “You think Mike Vick going to jail?”
    “What do you think?” I asked, wondering which question he wanted me to answer first.
    “About what?”
    “Mike Vick. You think he’s going to jail?”
    “Shit, that would be some foul shit if he did. Kobe didn’t do any time. And we talkin’ ‘bout some dogs. This ain’t no white girl shit. Maybe if he had some white girls mud wrestling naked and him pissing on them he might have to give the man some time, but he ain’t done no shit like that as far as I know.” Cisco took a gulp of water from the clear gallon jug he was carrying with him.
    “So what days are we going to work out?” I asked.
    “It’s on you, playa. Tell me and I’m here.”
    “I like to start early in the morning. Is that a problem?”
    “Like I said, my dude, it’s on you. Say the time and I’m here.”
    “Is this all you do?”
    “What do you mean?” he asked, slightly defensively.
    “Is training your only job?”
    “For right now. I was hoping to get into somebody’s training camp before the season starts, but nobody has called yet.”
    “You play football?”
    “I played at Southern down in Baton Rouge. A couple years ago I got invited to the Saints camp, but I got cut right at the end. I thought at least I’d make the practice squad. I played in the Arena League but that shit is lame. You have to play two positions and they don’t pay shit. It’s like peewee football for grown-ass men.”
    “What position do you play?”
    “Safety. What is your favorite team?”
    “The Dolphins,” I said.
    “What do you think about what they did to Culpepper?”
    “I haven’t been following them lately. What happened?”
    “They waived that mofo’s big ass. Most likely he’s happy as shit now that he’s playing ball in a black town.”
    “Where is he playing now?”
    “Oakland.”
    “I have to check that out. So let’s work out Monday, Tuesday. Take Wednesday off and then pick it back up on Thursday and Friday. How does that sound?”
    “I’m down. You want to start at seven? That way you can be my first client and we can just knock that shit out.”
    “Cool. What’s your number?”
    “Give me your cell phone and I’ll punch it in.”
    I handed Cisco my phone and he entered his number, then threw the phone back to me. He grabbed his gym bag, gave me some ball-fisted dap, and was out the door.
    Interesting guy, I thought, taking note of his round ass poking out from the warm-ups.
    Yes, sir, that was