'And here comes the boss of this joint,' I thought, eyeing the man who was slowly approaching. He looked unexpectedly out of place. Like an intellectual. I'd even say like a professor. Though no, too young for that. But clearly an educated man—no sportswear could hide that.
He wasn't a massive bodybuilder either. A short man, probably around thirty-five, with a Spanish goatee and an "Adidas" tracksuit. Judging by the look of it, a genuine one, not a knockoff.
"Franz, we've got some cocky little shit who just crawled in here," growled the gold-toothed guy.
"I heard you, Boba, I'm not deaf," the boss smirked. "You guys go back to training, leave the kid alone."
The muscleheads grumbled something under their breath and returned to their equipment. The boss stopped in front of me and gave me a once-over with a rather unceremonious gaze.
"Good afternoon," I said and gave a polite nod.
"So, you want to work out here?" Franz snorted condescendingly.
"I do," I nodded. "Came to find out how much a membership costs."
"Hmm… a membership..." Franz drawled with a smirk. "Hear that, boys? He's using fancy words! Guess I should start charging you guys..."
The muscleheads laughed from their stations. It was polite, almost obsequious laughter. Yeah, this short guy was definitely their boss. If I could strike a deal, I'd have a gym to work out in.
"Glad I gave you a good idea," I smiled.
"You're bold, I'll give you that," Franz said. "I like that. You a student? Got any money?"
"Missed the entrance exams this year," I spread my hands. "No money right now. That's why I came to ask about the terms, to know how many boxcars I need to unload to lift weights here."
"So you want to earn your way in, huh?" Frants nodded. "Good ambition. But I've got just one question for you. Don't you want to earn some money for a haircut first?"
"Your Excellency, it so happens that all my friends are on the side of the musketeers, and my enemies, by some incredible coincidence, are with the cardinal's guards," I removed an imaginary hat and gave a mock courtly bow. "You see, I'm a rock musician. We have our own kind of face control. So, a trip to the barbershop isn't in my plans, at least not right now."
Frants' eyebrows shot up in surprise, then he slapped his thighs and burst out laughing.
"I like you, kid," he said. "You've got guts, came here on your own, no whining, no attitude. I've got an offer for you."
"I'm listening," I tilted my head.
"We don't sell memberships in this gym," he said. "It's a place for union members only, if you catch my drift. But you've made a good impression on me. We won't make you a union member right now, of course. But if you don't mind doing some cleaning, I'll let you in."
"That works," I nodded. "When should I come? And what exactly does the cleaning involve?"
"All workouts end by eight in the evening," Frants sat on a gymnastics horse by the wall bars. "Come by at that time to tidy up. You'll need to put the weights and dumbbells back in place and take out the trash. Mop the floor once a week. The windows are up to you. The toilets—clean them as needed. We don't have showers yet."
"And when can I work out?" I asked.
"You can work out during that time too," he shrugged. "Or at another time, if the boys don't mind. Hey, boys, what do you think? Will you help the musician bulk up? Won't give him any trouble?"
"Are you serious, Franz?" spoke up the bodybuilder who had been admiring his biceps. "Why would we bother him? That wouldn't even be sporty."
"Exactly, let him bulk up first!" laughed "Golden Tooth."
"Let him come anytime, really!" relented "Twenty on the Belt." "We'll have our own little hairy mascot."
How touching, such unanimous agreement... The boss of the gym gave the order, and they all instantly forgot that just a minute ago they were giving me shit. Now they were only filled with tender sympathy.
"So, are we settled?" I looked Franz directly in the eyes. He technically didn't need to offer me his hand. After all, he was hiring me as a cleaner, not a financial consultant.
He didn't offer it. He just nodded, but it was a friendly nod.
"We're settled," he said. "So come with your gear, you can start today."
I stepped out onto the street in a pretty good mood. My first instinct was to postpone the start of training until tomorrow, but I quickly squashed that thought. I returned home, quickly found my sportswear and sneakers in my impeccably organized wardrobe, and headed back to the gym.
In essence, there's no difference whether you work out in a modern, high-tech fitness center or in a basement gym like this. You can achieve results anywhere. Or not achieve them.
The main thing was not to strain this frail body of mine too much on the first day.
The basement gym thing was new to me; I hadn't been to one like it before. The only amenities in the place consisted of two things — a changing room and a toilet. The changing room was a tiny cubicle at the far end of the L-shaped layout. There were no stalls, just hooks on the walls and a long bench. The toilet was next to the changing room, with two toilets and a sink. The rest of the space was filled with bench presses, barbells, dumbbells, and other assorted iron or things that could be used as such. The sit-up bench looked like a board with a strap at one end, and the resistance was adjusted by the height at which you placed it on the Swedish wall. The pommel horse doubled as a hyperextension bench, also in combination with the Swedish wall.
I don't know if the bodybuilders planned it or not, but as soon as I arrived, the same guy who almost threw me out earlier took me under his wing. The one with the weight on his belt. He showed me where everything was, explained the exercises, and spotted me during the bench press. The rest of the guys just watched me like I was some exotic creature. They snickered and made sarcastic comments.
Predictable, of course. So I wasn't too bothered. I'm not some overly sensitive, chubby girl who's been told by all her friends that during workouts, no one cares enough to make fun of others. I've always known that's nonsense. Will they laugh at you when you first come to train? Oh, yes!
And if you're lucky, they won't post your amazing achievements on YouTube.
Although YouTube was still a long way off, I gathered plenty of chuckles directed at me on the first day.
But overall, I was satisfied with myself. Not hopeless, let's put it that way. Tomorrow, of course, this workout will remind me of itself, but I'm young. In a week, at most, I'll get used to it.
At eight in the evening, I returned to "Samson" and found the same faces, only now they weren't in shorts and tank tops but in tracksuits and leather jackets. Three more guys had joined the ones I'd already seen. And two girls in short skirts, fishnet stockings, and with big teased hair, drenched in silver hairspray. From their conversations, it seemed they were planning to hit up a bar and have some fun.
"When you're done, bring the key to apartment sixteen," Franz said to me as he left, and the whole gang rolled out of the gym, leaving me alone in a room that reeked of sweat and suffering.
I cleaned up quickly — re-racked the weights, sorted and returned the plates to their places, and organized the dumbbells by size. I found a worn-out broom in the toilet and swept the floor. I aired out the place. Took a look around.
Looks good.
I locked the door and returned the key to a sweet old man in apartment sixteen.
When I got home, the whole family was already gathered. The TV was murmuring in the living room, and another one in the kitchen. I trudged to my room and opened my notebook. I needed to add some new acquaintances to my list.
I opened the notebook.
"Boba. Vadim Ostryakov, about 35 years old, smokes a lot, golden tooth."
"Bender. Real name: Sergey, last name — who knows, official workplace — NZMA."
"Budulay. Not related to Gypsies, origin of the nickname — who knows. Real name — ? Workplace — ?"
"Franz or Frenchie — boss of the gym."
I closed the notebook and started thinking. In reality, I could continue this list even without shaking hands with my current self. Yes, from '91 to '99 I wasn't in Novokinevsk. But I was here during the rest of the time! I have a whole bunch of schoolmates here, with varying degrees of success. Besides, there are some fellow locals who achieved success in different fields by the 2000s. Local celebrities who are just starting their journey right about now. And if I don't sit on my hands and show some initiative, it's quite possible to make some useful connections. The key thing is to jog my memory and recall their names. And choose the ones who might be useful. But who exactly do I need?
Journalists?
Businessmen?
Future factory-newspaper-steamship owners, or talented and creative people?
"Vova!" came my mother's voice from the living room. "Come have some tea!"
Judging by the "routine" tone, this is a usual family tradition. And if I grumble that I'm busy, they won't understand. So, I closed the notebook, hid it in the desk, and headed to the kitchen.
"Come on, sit down, it's starting!" Dad patted the chair next to him. But his eyes were fixed on the TV screen.
Hmm, this is so unfamiliar. Family gatherings in front of the TV. I had almost forgotten this was a thing... Though I didn't have much time to reflect on the cultural differences, because the flickering screen quickly captured my attention too.
The intro was done in the style of "Plasticine Crow." A cartoonish blue river with a white ship bouncing on the waves. And two hands quickly molding letters between clouds and the sun. TV "Kineva."
Oh, wow, what a rarity! This was one of those pre-army memories that neither the army nor all the subsequent wars managed to erase from my mind. And now, watching those swirling curls on the screen depicting river waves, I distinctly remembered the first time I saw this same intro. In the summer of '91. A couple of months before being drafted. It was one of those rare days when I went to the dacha (summer home) with my parents. I didn't enjoy it, but I had to help with either building something or moving something. I don't remember exactly. But what's etched in my memory is how we hurried home to make it back by 9 PM. To the time when the first broadcast of the first private Novokinevsk TV company was scheduled. This very one.
On the screen appeared a cute blonde against a background of white blinds, with a cardboard sign that said "NEWS" pinned to them. Yes, yes, she was the one that time too! The face of the TV channel.
"Good evening, Novokinevsk! This is Anastasia Kholodnaya, and you're watching the evening news on TV "Kineva,"" she began. Her voice was ordinary, human; she slightly lisped and sometimes spoke nasally. Back then, for us, it was a novelty after the chiseled voices of Soviet announcers. We watched, mesmerized, with only one thought in our heads: "Can you really do that?"
Now... Now I was also watching Nastya, captivated. But for a different reason. Funny how things turn out. Just a minute ago, I was contemplating which acquaintances I should dust off and turn into "golden" ones, and here's Nastya.
When I returned to civilian life, TV "Kineva" was still around. And this very Nastya was one of the owners. In 2005, there was a conflict among the founders, and the lady was deftly pushed aside, with the verdict that she had "gotten too big for her britches," and that the TV channel would do just fine without her. But it didn't. Without the lisping news anchor and a couple of other key programs, TV "Kineva" slowly lost its popularity until it completely folded. She told me this herself. In 2010, we had a brief but intense romance.
And now she's just starting out. And there's every chance...
"Oh, Vova, look, look!" Mom nudged me in the shoulder, excited. "You're on TV, there!
"Oh, right!" I laughed. "Didn't even notice they were filming me…"
It was a report from "Rock Province." The cameraman caught me in the foyer, looking smart and inspired, saying something to a few gathered long-haired guys. I can't for the life of me remember what it was. Clearly after the main concert program had ended. Hmm... I understand why they left a full twenty seconds of footage with me in it. I'm pretty telegenic. And no signs of alcoholic degradation on my face. Probably because I barely drank that night.
"If I were inclined to mysticism, I'd definitely think this was a sign," I thought with a smirk. "I need to find Anastasia Kholodnaya's contacts and reconnect with her."
I took a homemade cookie from the basket and reached for the bowl of jam with a spoon. Strawberry. Either we have a summer house and make our own preserves, or we buy them from grandmas near the bus stops...
The news ended, and the claymation intro appeared on the screen again for a moment, only to be quickly replaced by the "20th Century" letters illuminated by spotlights. A movie. Hmm, I'm curious which one. I remember it was a kind of lottery. The TV program listings in the newspapers only mentioned "TV Kineva," with no further details. So, nobody knew what movie would be shown, but we all watched with bated breath. And we devoured whatever was on it—be it an action movie, a melodrama, or a procedural. For Soviet people, it was all new. And now, looking at the intro, I even felt that same excitement as I did the first time. Back then, in that very first broadcast, they showed "RoboCop." And now...
"Enemy Mine" the translator's nasally voice intoned. "Starring Dennis Quaid, Louis Gossett Jr., Brion James..."
Mom poured more tea for everyone and refilled the cookie bowl. Everyone was mesmerized by the screen. I glanced at Larisa, but she pretended not to notice me.
The movie was boring. An alien enemy was giving birth to its alien child, the characters were going through drama, and I was making superhuman efforts not to fall asleep. I just realized that since I woke up yesterday morning at Astaroth's house, I haven't slept at all. Rehearsal, "Rock Province," and a workout. My eyes were closing, and it felt like I needed to prop them open with matchsticks. And the movie didn't help.
Luckily, the family was engrossed in the cosmic drama unfolding on the screen and paid no attention to me.
The phone rang just as the human protagonist was cradling the bundle with the reptilian baby and delivering a heartfelt monologue in the dub translator's nasally voice.
"Of all times to call!" Dad grumbled. "Larka, it's probably for you, pick up!"
"Why me?" my sister snapped but reluctantly got up and went to the hallway. A minute later, she returned and nudged me in the shoulder.
"It's for Vovka," she said, sat back down, and grabbed the last cookie from the basket.
I shook my head to shake off the drowsiness and trudged over to the phone. I picked up the receiver lying next to the phone.
"I'm listening," I muttered.
"Hello, is this Vova?" a girl's hesitant voice came from the other end.
"Yes, Vladimir Viktorovich speaking," I chuckled.
"Vova, hi," the girl hesitated on the other end. "Sorry for calling so late. It's just really important... Don't you recognize me?"
"No," I admitted honestly, since it was a landline phone with no caller ID, and none of the girls I knew were in my "registry" yet.
"It's Lena," she said shyly. "I have... a problem... And I have no one else to call..."
'What Lena?' I almost asked but caught myself in time.