3. Learn to Fly, Foo Fighters
"Learn to Fly," Foo Fighters
Cruz
“I hate you so much, Cruz!” Kate howled as sweat trickled down her face.
“You know I love hearing you say it, Conejita, ” I retorted with a shit-eating grin. It was a cold February morning, so our group of 20 worked out on the concrete slab outside the state park’s warming hut instead of our regular field, covered in a thin layer of frost. “Anybody else hate me? Raise your hands.”
Their annoyed breaths created clouds of exertion as they tried to lift their arms—not easy when their elbows were locked behind their backs.
“Joke’s on you, haters. Raised hands make partner wall sits harder. Your anger fuels my success!” I released a throaty villain laugh.
“I should have smothered you with a pillow on the submarine,” Bobby Pike muttered … but that was bullshit. We’d been too exhausted to plot murder during our four years on the USS Kentucky ballistic submarine.
God, I didn’t miss those endless days underway. When I’d been on the sub—sleeping on the middle bunk stacked three high, showering in a stall six inches too short, working 18-hour days for months without sunlight—this had been my dream: working outside, making my own hours, playing amazing music, training kickass people. Making my own decisions without commanding officers bossing me around.
I tilted my face gratefully to the overcast sky … before returning to my regularly scheduled trash talk. “Pike has ushered us into the death threats portion of the class. Anybody else?”
“I’m gonna build a Time Machine,” Kevin Rodriguez growled, “travel back 27 years, find your dad as he’s ready to blow, and spit in his face.”
"Points for creativity!" I held up a high five, then pulled it out of reach.
“Tell Eric Senior his child support payments bounced … extending his streak to 100%, bravo!” Laughter forced two pairs to break their squats and grab their water bottles.
“Also there are ladies present so let’s keep explicit jokes to a minimum.” The women, many of whom had dirtier mouths than the sailors, cackled at my attempt to protect their modesty.
“Two pairs left,” I circled the final competitors like a nineties wrestling announcer. “Who’s gonna win the championship belt? Rodriguez and Pike?” A third of the students cheered as my hand hovered over their heads. “Or Kate and Grace?” The rest went wild. “Anybody ready to surrender?”
“No sir!” The guys yelled.
“Hell no,” Kate said. “Grace can carry me home piggyback.”
“What makes you think I’ll be able to stand?” Grace laughed. "Good thing I work at the hospital, I might need ice."
I laughed at her attempt to sound hardcore, imagining her complaining to an ER nurse about muscle pain. As a social worker with a heart of gold, she’d probably leave that conversation with an ice pack and a promise from the nurse to volunteer at the animal shelter or something noble.
“Alright, this is the breaking point: Your legs are shaking, your abs are hurting, your lungs are pumping, and you want to give up.” The truth shone on their faces, sweat trickling down their necks. “But this isn’t about losing weight or getting a six-pack. It’s about committing instead of quitting.”
“Or in Kate’s case,” Grace tattled, “to have her fiancé drooling when she walks down that aisle.”
“Not just him, I'm equal opportunity,” Kate scowled. “Everybody can ogle this ass, including my exes.”
“Operation: Bubble Butt in full effect. Working out might be about self-love … but if you prefer spite and jealousy as motivation, I’m here for it,” I said with a clapback on the last three words. The extra encouragement pushed her to drop the squat lower without warning Grace, throwing off their balance and allowing the bros to win. “Let’s finish strong with 30 burpees!”
The group groaned in unison, but as I dropped to the ground to lead the final exercise, they begrudgingly joined in. Halfway through, my phone alarm went off in my pocket, a reminder set by my sister Adriana to take a selfie after every class for my social media. Sweat dripped into my eyes as I finished the last burpees, turned off the alarm, and rallied the crew into what Adri had hashtagged #SweatySelfies.
I stretched my arm high—it was getting harder to get the whole crew in the photo as more students joined—and shot it to my sister, who texted back almost immediately.
Adriana
why can’t u take a decent selfie, old man?
get kate to take it, ur hopeless
and shave that awful beard
I tossed the unlocked phone to Kate, who snapped candids as I gave the final pep talk: “You may hate me today, but you’ll love me tomorrow. Actually, you’ll hate me more tomorrow, because delayed onset muscle soreness is a bitch.” The regulars sighed because I said this to wrap up every class. “But next week, next month, next year? Future you will be proud you were here today.”
I grabbed my foot to stretch my quad for the cooldown. “And hey, if you’re free tonight for Thirsty Thursday, I’m sitting in for a happy hour set with Your Local Phantom at Donnelly’s.”
Kate rolled her eyes and asked Grace, “Wanna go to the show tonight?”
“Can’t tonight, Alex has foster parent training so I’m on Ruby’s bedtime duty,” Grace answered. Her face lit up when she talked about mundane tasks for her foster daughter like daycare dropoff and ballet classes.
Most of the students dropped their resistance bands at my feet, either thanking or cursing me, sometimes both in the same breath, and I replied with big smiles and encouraging shoulder pats.
A small group lingered to shoot the shit as I loaded the bands into my backpack. Grace asked, “So how do you decide what music to pl—?”
Kate slapped a palm over her friend’s mouth. “What did I tell you was the first rule of coming to a Cruz Control boot camp class?”
Grace’s voice was muffled beneath Kate’s gloved hands. “Don’t ask about the music.”
“We’ve all made that rookie mistake,” Rodriguez reassured her. “My first class, I asked why he was playing ZZ Top. Got a whole backstory about how they got their first gigs by impersonating The Zombies.”
“They were so good people thought they were the real band,” I said.
“He once talked for twenty minutes about Led Zeppelin album titles."
"Most people think the fourth album is IV, but it's actually untitled," I said. Kate tapped the Led Zeppelin symbols she'd designed into the tattoo on my forearm.
“And last month Cruz went all in on Tina Turner,” Pike complained.
“That one’s your doing, Gacelita ,” I said, nudging Grace’s shoulder in appreciation. “You connected me to the women’s shelter for their self-defense classes. After thirty hours of training about domestic violence, I watched this documentary about how Tina left Ike with only thirty-seven cents and a gas card.”
“There he goes again,” Rodriguez whined. “And don’t even get him started on the Foo—”
Kate smacked his bicep with such force that I felt it in my arm.
Guess that was my cue to ramble.
“Aah, the Foo Fighters,” I said, leaning into a favorite rant. They groaned playfully but didn’t leave. “Not the most talented band of their genre—that’s Pearl Jam or Alice In Chains—nor do they have the best singer — hands down, that’s Chris Cornell from Soundgarden.” I pointed at Pike and said, “If you argue it’s Vedder, our friendship is over.”
He chuckled at our longstanding argument… someday he’d realize I was right.
“They’re my favorite because Dave Grohl recorded the first Foo Fighters album solo, playing every instrument himself,” I said, loving that as a guitarist, drummer, and singer, I was close to the same ability. “It’s like musical cross-training.”
“Still pissed you used my guitar to teach yourself and now you’re better than me,” Pike muttered, and I laughed in his face. Pike had loaned me his guitar on the sub. I played for hours, entertaining myself without wifi or sunlight. In exchange, he’d been my first unofficial personal training client.
“You gotta put in the work, bro. You know what I always say…”
“Say yes and figure it out,” he said with an eye roll.
“As long as the question isn’t ‘Don’t you want to re-enlist?’” I teased him. I’d separated from the Navy at my first chance two years ago. I figured I’d have to move back into my mom’s cramped two-bedroom with her and my younger sisters, until Rodriguez called because his building needed a superintendent, a job that came with an on-site apartment. Not sure what to do with my life, I decided to live in a swanky building I could never afford otherwise.
Now, working three jobs as a building superintendent, personal trainer, and musician just to break even, I wondered if I should have re-enlisted too. I’d hated the Navy, but at least Pike had a consistent salary and job security.
“Speaking of which, I’m heading back out to sea next week. Come to my going-away party tomorrow?” Pike asked. My spirits plummeted as I agreed to swing by. I wasn’t surprised—that’s military life—but it was still disappointing to say goodbye to somebody I’d known for most of my adult life. Although I didn’t have the spare cash for a big night out, he deserved a good sendoff.
I threw my tattered backpack over my shoulder and walked beside Kate to the parking lot. She handed back my phone and shoved her hands in her pockets, shivering as the sweat dried on her skin. She zipped up her parka and asked, “You think by this time next year, you’ll have a gym? Maybe somewhere near the Arts District to shorten my commute? My landlord has some vacancies …”
I pulled on a hoodie to hide my hesitation.
It’s not like I hadn’t thought about opening a gym. I could use equipment instead of carrying resistance bands everywhere and work when the weather was shitty, but a commercial space plus the initial expenses was more than I could afford. And I’d be locked into at least a five-year lease, probably ten. Would I still want this in ten years? What if I lost my housing or wanted to leave Saratoga?
A lease locked me in with no escape hatch. And the shitshow with my stepdad’s commercial lease made me justifiably gunshy.
“Maybe next year,” I said as we walked to the parking lot.
“Ask about it at the next incubator meeting,” she suggested, and I sighed. Kate co-chaired the Chamber of Commerce business incubator with her fiancé Paul, but most of members ran real businesses, with employees and inventory and shit. I was just a loudmouth with a great playlist telling people to squat. “Mal’s trying to convince Alex to take it over. His business partner is like, a real estate guru.”
Right, Mallory claimed that her brother’s business partner was the most brilliant person she’d ever met … but if he was anything like that arrogant prick, I didn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. Then again, I could probably throw Alex pretty far …
I left Kate at her car, walking home for my cooldown. I strolled up Broadway, passing early commuters at the coffee shop. At my building, I took the stairs down to my basement studio. Within ten minutes, I was showered, dressed in my work uniform—khakis and a royal blue polo with the Gramercy condominium logo—and clocking in for my shift by 8:58. Sipping a protein shake, I reviewed the corkboard in the superintendent’s office with my list of maintenance tasks to complete, starting with yet another call to the elevator repair company.
My inbox pinged with an email from my newest tenant in 501—though their paperwork didn’t give their name, listing the purchaser as ‘Obsidian Properties.’ When I’d dropped the key off at Clarke & Associates after closing, I checked for that hot redhead I’d seen on that porch with Mallory last month, but no such luck.
Guess a girl like that doesn’t hang out in a bungalow.
The new tenant had been a nonstop pain in my ass even before moving in, sending a dozen snippy, demanding emails asking me to sign for their deliveries—dozens of boxes from Arhaus and Serena & Lily, not to mention the Neiman Marcus shoeboxes that I’d stacked in their living room.
Thank you for the fruit bouquet. Please send me an invoice for the air mattress loan. - vsb
I guess that meant he moved in. I’d avoided the lobby to prevent getting roped into carrying his luggage or whatever tasks a douche like him would expect.
I shot off a cheerful reply: “No charge, happy to be of service!” with several smiling emojis, remembering my mama’s advice: ‘Kill them with kindness, Cruz … especially if they can get you fired.”