Kovacs looms ominously in the doorway, surveying sprawl of weights and machines before him. Clad in a camouflage wife beater, billowing yellow genie pants, navy blue fanny pack, and a white baseball cap mounted front to back, Kocacs moves forward into the gym. He looks bigger then life, muscle bulging out of the wife-beater like an upstate convict. He's been working out. But where? He's been gone for so long.
"Howdy Greg,", one of semi-muscular wanna-be's begins. Greg glares at him from behind his sturdy glasses, and keeps moving. The crowd slowly breaks up, each one turning their respective attention back to the machine or barbell they were occupied with before this all started, and the symphony of gym sounds commences once again.
Greg makes a b-line to the flat bench. He throws a couple of 45's on each side of the bar, then slides underneath. He dismounts the Olympic bar and pumps out 15 smooth, even reps, then throws the bar back up on it's supports.
It seems everyone is watching from the corner of their eye.
"He threw that around like it was 10 lbs", remarks a random gym rat.
"That ain't shit," replies a highly defined black man, "wait 'til that muthafucka gets goin'. Shit, man."
Greg throws on two more 45's and bangs out 15 more reps. Two more 45's and 12 more easy reps.
