Illustration by Bob AulHey, you done with that bench, guy? I gotta work my deltoids. Keep pulling 'em. Bet you didn't think I was 40, right? But I am. The big four-oh. How old did you think I am? I get that all the time. I moved here from Florida three months ago. Love it. The weather, the girls. I'm in real estate. My company transferred me to Irvine. Turn the TV up, will ya?! Can't hear. Ear infection. Doctor says I might lose my hearing. Too many fucking concerts, huh? You seen some of these women out here? Wow, right? Can't figure 'em out. I've dated 31 women since I got here—31 women. All they want is cash. Every one. First thing they ask: “How much do you make?” They want someone who makes a mil. Fuck. I pulled in 250K last year. Can't compete. They want the guys with money who treat 'em like shit. Those kinda guys. Makes no sense. I ask 'em, “Who would you rather have: the rich guy with the big house and all that or a guy like me, treats you right? Gets you stuff? Guy like me, who doesn't have as much but spends it on you. Treats you right.” I bought my wife—I'm getting divorced—a 450 SEL and a big fat rock. Treated her right. She's in Florida still. We were married a year. Until she lost it. Last year, her best friend's husband came into where they worked—the office, right?—where they were sitting next to each other, took out a gun and blew his wife's head off. Right next to my wife. Like her brain flew onto her shirt and shit. Real fucked-up. Then he pulled it on himself. Right there on the desk. Fuck me, right? My wife? She's a mess now. Lives with her mother now. Fucking all messed up. She wouldn't speak for like six weeks. We never fucked again. I tried and tried. Hey, you wanna spot me on the incline bar, guy?

—as told to Ken Widmann

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