steelicarus
Stranger
Reged: Fri
Posts: 2
Loc: china - manchester
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gym gangsters - hangzhou, china
Fri May 19 2006 04:40 PM
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School of Hard Knocks
‘This one,’ he points to another ragged scar across his abs, ‘was because some guy threw a piece of cake at me in the street’. I try to nod understandingly, terrified of this giant Chinese dude covered in scars and muscles. ‘Also, he disrespected my grandmother.’ He smiles and I’m sure I see gold.
I’m in what could generously be called a gym hidden away on Wensan road. It’s actually nothing more than a garage with healthy amounts of tarp, but it’s clean, devoid of running machines, posers and only costs five RMB a go. Here, no one is going to open the door for you, teach yoga, enthuse about Pilates or stand about after three reps pattering water on their face scowling or smiling at potential [censored] buddies.
It’s full of gangsters. They come here to lift things, really heavy things. And I’m pretty sure if I bitched about there being no hot water in the outhouse-shower thing or enquired when the spinning class started they’d laugh gently then stand on my neck.
These were massive guys, the biggest Chinese dudes I’ve ever seen, hulking around the gym, spotting each other then playing cards between sets. But they were also pretty nice guys as hired muscle goes. Helpful but not patronizing. Asking me what I was eating, telling me how to improve my form, adding giant slabs of metal to each set with ‘no problem, no problem’. After, we’re all sitting on overturned stools in the driveway, pools of sweat collecting around each of us, eating what seems like a ton of watermelon. Sweet, red glittering pieces that I’m having trouble lifting. After the taxi-drivers’ top three questions (where are you... what do you… how much is…) I ask about them and their scars. One guy is missing half the fingers on his right hand.
‘I was fighting this guy, he pulled out a machete and was going to cut my head so I put my hand up to protect me’. My fingers instinctively close around each other as I listen. ‘He went to prison but got out,’ tripod fingers going for another piece of watermelon, ‘he’s a very good business man, I bought a car from him’.
A month later and much sturdier I walk to the gym but it’s gone. There are ghosts of the weights on the floor. A lot of the tarp has been taken away. No one knows where they went or what happened. I move apartments and join a ‘respectable’ gym; luxurious considering it has lockers and hot water. But it’s not the same, there’s no vitality or urgency. Those guys worked out for their livelihoods and the safe protection of their remaining fingers. They didn’t pose or show off or act like dicks simply because they didn’t need to. Here, girls coyly ask you to spot them lifting 20 pounds then pout when I laugh at them.
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