Nigel from Equinox calls me and asks me to come in at one.
“We’ll have you meet the general manager and then work behind the front desk for perhaps an hour or so.”
Alright. Fucking awesome. I check the bus schedule. I can either get to West Hollywood at 12:20 or 1:05.
Fuck you, Metro.
I opt for 12:20 and then spend the morning writing. As departure time approaches, I realize I have to shave because, well, my face looks like magnet shavings.
Shower. Shave. Lunch.
I need to catch the bus at 11:59. It’s 11:50. But is my hair okay? Is my nose shining like a serial rapist’s blade?
Shit, I have to lock the door.
I figure I’ll be OK because the buses are usually late, but I walk-run and then sprint in five second bursts just to give myself enough time. Remember, I’m in heavy jeans with a 20 lb backpack strapped to my back.
I wait for the light to change so I can cross the street when the FUCKING BUS GOES FLYING BY.
And then the light changes.
I feel like Sandra Bullock at the beginning of Speed, except no amount of chasing and comedic flailing is going to get the cold-hearted bastard steering that orange bullet to stop for me.
I kick the shit out of the fence outside a nice apartment complex once I cross the street and keep saying this to myself:
“Fuck. This is bad. Fuck. This is bad.”
Over and over and over. No shit it’s bad, Jeff. Are you a fucking retard?
God I hope there’s a bomb on that bus.
Time passes and so do a million cars. Each one feels like a middle finger. The nicer cars – BMWs, Range Rovers, Porsches – feel like middle fingers from people you care about and therefore sting and piss me off a little more.
So I wait. And stew. And wait. And stew some more.
The next bus comes at 12:45. Fifteen minutes to get to West Hollywood and climb my way up to Sunset Boulevard.
I call Nigel and tell him I missed my bus and will be a few minutes late and that I feel shitty about all of this. He says, “No worries” and I feel a little better because that’s what it says on the coasters at the Outback Steakhouse.
I make it to Equinox at 1:12. Sweaty, embarrassed, apologetic. Nigel says “No worries” again and then tells me to “lose the earring”. Sorry, Victor.
I have a seat at the juice bar while I wait to meet with the general manager and who do I see?
Dave Navarro. The guy who fucks Carmen Electra.
He’s in a black tank-top and wears aviators. He’s short and lean and looks exactly like he does on TV.
I meet with the GM, who suggests I get a bike. He likes that I was a laborer for a Tennis Court Construction company and brings up Purdue basketball when I mention I went to school at Western Kentucky University. Indiana’s only a state away, so cool, awesome.
He suggests I “might want to get a bike”.
It’s all over in a few minutes and then Nigel has me work an hour-long trial shift behind the front desk, which is none too bad easy enough to pick up. The system’s a lot more complicated than at the Gold’s back home, but fairly intuitive. I manage.
Neil Patrick Harris walks out. Dave Holmes, that MTV VJ guy, walks in.
The guy I’m working with tells me Jessica Alba and Jessica Biel come in a lot. He says 50 Cent comes in whenever he’s in LA. So do T.O., E from Entourage, Paris Hilton, and Jeremy Piven.
No. The Piv?
“He likes to get dressed alone in the spa. He’s afraid people are going to take pictures of him. We just think he has a small dick.”
I think about seeing the Jessicas come in. What a fucking perk, right?
I’ll find out on or close-to Friday if I get the job.
After I get off, I go to work out. My first time seeing the full club. And it’s nice. FREE towels – and not just sweat towels, but shower towels – everywhere. I thikn about stealing some but ultimately decide against. The locker room is large and elegant has lots of steam. It's like a movie locker room.
But the equipment is eh. Nigel said their stuff was top-of-the-line, but it’s really just a bunch of old Cybex shit. I mean I’m not fucking picky or anything – give me a barbell and some weights and I’ll be fine – but I expected something a little nicer.
Nothing like Terminator-arms jerking you off while you lift, though.
About halfway into my workout I see Pauly Shore of “You got GOT!” fame. He does stool-steps and grunts. He’s starting to look a little old around the eyes.
I see a lot of male models or guys who could be male models. Ditto on the ladies. I see a lot of collagen and tight faces and tight asses and impossibly flat stomachs.
And then I see my reflection in the mirror. Big, sweaty, hairy, and generally imperfect. And I’m kind of glad.
In the land of the flawless it’s the flawed who stand out.
June 1: Held it
June 2: Walgreen’s on the Miracle Mile
June 3: Best Buy Culver City
June 4: Gold's Gym Hollywood
June 5: Wood Ranch at the Grove
June 6: 8000 West Sunset Boulevard (Birthday shit)
June 7: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 8: 7-11 at the corner of San Vicente and Hauser
June 9: No urge
June 10: No place to go
June 11: Gold’s Gym Hollywood
June 12: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 13: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 14: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 15: No urge
June 16: Carl’s Jr. on Fairfax and Olympic
June 17: No urge
June 18: McDonald’s on Vine and Sunset
June 19: Chipotle at the Beverly Center
June 20: Mcdonald’s on Vine and Sunset