The temp' was up at 90-plus, but Christ, the humidity was the killer. Collar and tie weather it wasn't. Shit, you carry about a 55-inch chest in this — I was bench-pressing 500lbs and upping the reps daily — comfortable you ain't. My suit was linen. Navy blue, bought from Hugo Boss back in New York. Not by me, uh-uh. This was a thrift store job. Time I can buy Hugo Boss off the rack I ain't coming back home to Vegas for work. 'Can I help you, sir?' Blonde with diddy eyes and the whitest top row of teeth I'd ever seen. Bottom row lagging behind, must've been waiting for the top's payment plan to finish. 'Francis Jarman,' I told her, 'I'm here for the instructor's job.' 'Excuse me?' She looked vacant. Like the chick on the Minute Maid ads, minus the smile. 'The, eh, fitness instructor ... for the gym.' She still didn't get it, pointed me sit with a long red fingernail. When she picked up the phone I heard her get my name wrong, called me 'Farnham'. I shook my head but I only got a look, one that said, 'Purleeze, like I give a shit'.
