Training Drake by Gordon Glasgow
I’m just this thing that’s eventually going to die, but I can’t help but feel so incredibly connected. It’s a strange impression, spiritually coupled while caught in objectivity. I suppose that’s the greatest meaning of agnosticism I can offer. We’re the weak ones, the timid, un-brave, the cowardly — ‘things exist, but I shall not commit.’
And every day just keeps getting better.
There was nowhere to go anymore, so I had been enjoying a staycation, streaming workouts online mostly, doing privates with clients who were stationed around the world. Occasionally I would do personals in the gym downstairs, but I hadn’t felt the need to really branch out for new clients, making enough money on the internet alone. And for some odd reason I’d felt less lonely since everything had been shut down. Funny how loneliness has nothing to do with actually being around people.
What I liked most during that period was when the peculiar would occur and something unexpected happened, such as a client dropping in for an impromptu. I was surprised but not completely shocked when Drake called out of the blue one day, asking for a one on one.
‘Sounds unreal my man! Should I set up a Zoom link?’
‘Na! I’m coming through!’ Drake said.
The faint noise of a synthesized ocean breeze played in the background of our call. I didn’t answer and just listened to the quiet for a second or two.
‘I’ve been riding these ups and downs, you know, easing through, working, I’m honestly ready to go beast mode in there,’ Drake continued.
‘What are you in town for?’ I asked.
‘Oh, you know, man!’
‘How long are you around?’ I posed, somewhat friendly, but also curious if I should alter my schedule at all. You always have to play this weird game of casual professionalism with these guys. Too business, too organized, they run away. But if I appear unstructured they’ll also run. The superstar wants a friend who will take care of them; administratively, emotionally, in all spheres pretty much.
‘You know how it is dude!’ Drake answered, not directly answering my questions. ‘I’m just so psyched over here man, so psyched. So many things happening at once, world changing left, right, up, down. I’m feeling it though, that’s for sure. I’m playing the game, and a force is looking after me that I’m totally with.’
I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I wasn’t going to argue. Drake hung up the phone abruptly and I realized I forgot to ask exactly what time he was going to arrive, or if he knew he could only meet me downstairs at the gym in my building. It was always that way with him, the vagueness, the abstract responses to questions I never asked.
That night, I watched two episodes from season five of Degrassi, hypnotized by the wheels under my client’s wheelchair. Before sleep, I stared at a diamond ring Drake gave me several years ago as a gift. I always look at the gifts my clients have given me to remind myself of their specific energy, paraphernalia that creates avenues to distinct memories of time’s past.
Drake’s diamond sat on a shelf next to a pearl necklace from Shawn Mendes, a golden microphone from Lauryn Hill, a studded cross from Taboo (creepy one from Black Eyed Peas), and a never-used 750 dollar gift card to Barney’s New York, business now defunct, a present from Anderson Cooper during Christmas 2009, a very 2009 kind of gift. During that time, Cooper was one of my only clients that didn’t rap or sing.
Of course, my experience with clients hasn’t always been positive. Several years ago, Bruce Springsteen punched me in the face and threw a 12-pound weight at me for making him do two too many renegade rows toward the end of a workout. He tipped me extra that year.
I’ve always really enjoyed training singers. It isn’t just the particular artistic soul of the singer that attracts me, but the way in which their art, their voices, their cadence and presence are directly connected to the work I put in with them. Verbal expression is connected to the spirit, the spirit unleashed by a healthy body, the soul properly nourished when it gets a chance to breathe.
Even fat singers have personal trainers. The big difference between me and those trainers is that I monitor the client’s diet, the most important thing of all. Artists, pop-stars, TV personalities, whatever, they can be little pigs unless someone keeps an eye on them.
This is something I’ve always wondered about, the hedonistic quality of an artist. In the past, I’ve thought that perhaps the artist veers so close to self-destruction because of a proximity toward God, the one who creates, the one who adds meaning to the banalities of everyday life. It’s powerful. The artist proceeds to punish themself for playing God, gorging food, drinking themself to a stupor, overdosing on drugs. The open window to the soul that took so long to cultivate must be clouded and shut by all the malevolent pleasures society has on offer. My job is to teach the artist to not self-destruct, to actually enjoy and accept who they are, to embrace the bizarre nature of their work. I instead advise them to punish themselves through physical exertion at the gym, through moving meditation, mindfulness. The importance of destroying the ego while letting their voice continue to breathe.
One could say the personal trainer holds the key to unlocking the artist’s potential, and I wouldn’t disagree.
Drake preferred to work out barefoot, something that’s been in vogue for far too long. He had these horrific, putrid smelling feet, with an aroma that tended to permeate whatever gym we were in. Luck was on my side that day. Drake decided to leave his socks on, ‘because of the Pandemic.’
‘As you wish, Aubrey,’ I responded, relieved.
Drake had a new haircut, a vertical line of bangs covering the top-third of his forehead. ‘The Look of Love,’ by Dusty Springfield, played from the speakers on the top of the windowless, 700 square foot gym that sits in the basement of my building. Although I adore Dusty, I knew I’d soon have to turn her off. Drake usually liked to listen to show-tunes while working out, something about him that initially surprised me. Chicago, Sunday in the Park With George, Phantom of the Opera, all the classics. I think his favorites were Gypsy, Into the Woods and Carousel. I didn’t mind, it was a break from the 90s hip-hop or early 2000s EDM that a lot of other clients would prefer. DJing to the client’s taste is essential in my line of work.
‘You mind switching this sound over, homie?’ Drake asked, nodding toward the speakers.
‘No problem,’ I smiled, putting on Sherry from the Jersey Boys Original Broadway Cast Recording.
‘Woooo weeee,’ Drake lit up, starting a little dance, getting low on the floor to begin his stretches.
‘So how have you been spending your time?’ I casually asked Drake while holding his leg up in the air, pressing the foot down.
‘Oh you know, man, creatin’, creatin’, creatin’, creatin’,’ he said. ‘I’m taking it all easy. Life is good. There’s no beef with the other guys, made peace with myself and others. I’m becoming a man who just like to drink espresso and wine, you know?’
We began loosening up his hips, something I always have to be careful of with Drake. Two years ago, when I was in LA doing some sessions before the Grammies, Drake shat himself at 6AM in the gym of the Beverly Hilton hotel while in a figure-four stretch after a particularly intense HIIT workout. It was really gross. His two security guards noticed but acted like they didn’t. I unfortunately couldn’t ignore it and just kind of laughed it off. The weirdest part was that Drake continued, until the very end of the workout, until he gave me a hug goodbye and left to go to his hotel room, to act like the shit didn’t take place. He stretched the other leg in a figure-four with underwear full of excrement, then proceeded to plank for a minute or two, the scent beginning to compound. When I tried to slow things down early, or asked if Drake needed anything before continuing, he just kept saying something along the lines of, ‘what? I’m all good man, let’s finish this shit up!’ Pun not intended, of course.
I’ve been careful ever since to not stretch his hips too far, more for him than for me. Drake can’t shit himself again in my presence. It’s not worth making him feel embarrassed, having to strain too hard to keep up whatever facade, the facade of someone too cool to defecate unexpectedly. It’s best to indulge in someone’s perception of themselves.
Santa Fe, from the hit musical Rent, began playing from Drake’s favorite workout playlist. He started snapping his fingers and dancing over toward the treadmill, where I instructed him to run two miles before beginning a light 35-minute bodyweight session.
‘You’re gonna have to work out hard and consistently if you plan on sipping wine all day,’ I said to Drake.
‘Oh, you know it.’
‘Yea, sure,’ I muttered underneath my breath.
Growing up lower-middle class in NYC, on the peripheries of wealth, I’ve always kind of felt like a parasitic whore, heavily reliant on the affluent around me, always playing the half-friend half-colleague relationship with the people who could offer a ticket out of what felt like destitution. I undoubtedly picked up a bit of resentment for the prosperous, always feeling as though I needed to please them, inherently aware that I was below them on the totem pole.
America is the country for limitless growth, fortuitous circumstance, prosperous opportunity. When I began to make good money myself, it took a while to get over the self-loathing that ensued. And even though a lot of my clients also come from nothing, I still resent them for having more than I do.
If my parents were around to look at me today, they would have seen a man with money, still subservient to those more powerful around him.
I guess Drake must answer to someone too.
I had snapped twice at Drake during the workout that day. It was unlike me, and both situations were somewhat uncalled for. The first was when Drake was supposed to be doing a reverse lunge/pike pushup superset. He kept going on to me about some story of how the God of love put a spell on his latest E.P., before beginning an incoherent tangent about slavery and the Holocaust, about being black and Jewish, and while I empathized, and tried to follow his discursive thought patterns, I couldn’t help but continue to get frustrated that his form was garbage and he kept forgetting the 12 pushups to do in between sets. Roxie from the Chicago original Broadway cast recording, another one of Drake’s favorite songs, was playing loudly on the speakers and he’d already made me turn the music up twice.
‘And the thing is, when I look back on the hurdles, the oppressi-’
‘DRAKE! THE GODDAMN PUSHUPS, DUDE.’
He gave me a look someone would give to an intrusive houseguest.
‘Alright man, you got it,’ said Drake, passively.
The second time I snapped at him was at the very end of the workout, during a jump-squat mountain-climber superset. He had quit his rambling since the first time I had become dominant and lost my temper, returning his focus to the workout, but what really got me going again was that he had made me play If I Were A Rich Man from Fiddler on the Roof, sung by Harvey Fierstein on a 2010 Broadway cast recording, three times on repeat, because, ‘this shit is bumping and I just can’t get enough.’
‘If I were a rich man I’d turn this fucking song off!’ I yelled to the ceiling during Drake’s transition from squat to mountain climber, standing over him with my arms crossed.
In a half-plank, Drake looked at me nervously, as if I’d just shown him my penis. It might have been better if I had.
I waited in the lobby of my building after the workout while Drake took a shower in my apartment, he said he needed to rinse off before meeting some homies. Saying no was out of the question, especially having lost my temper twice. The energy during the last five minutes of the workout was strange, to say the least.
Around 40 minutes passed and Drake still hadn’t come downstairs.
‘Are you waiting on anything in particular?’ My doorman asked me.
‘Drake is taking a shower in my apartment, I thought I’d give him some space.’
‘Oh, OK.’
Another 20 minutes passed, and I thought about how weird it was that I never paid attention to the passing of time throughout the day, how I only ever noticed the particular circumstances that would force me to pay attention, the moments that called attention to the subjectivity of a minute, a second. And what would one do without those negative intervals, what with the context it gives to the rest of our lives.
I decided to head upstairs to see what was going on, opening the door slowly while knocking, a useless gesture, only to find Drake on the floor of my bedroom with his head in his hands.
‘I’m sorry to interrupt,’ I said quietly, meagerly.
‘No, no, it’s all good man. Come in.’
Drake waved me toward him.
‘There something you want to talk about? I know it’s a hard time for everyone lately.’
Drake wiped a few tears off his face and gathered himself. He rolled his shoulders back and sighed.
‘I’m just having a crisis of guilt,’ Drake said.
I didn’t answer, hoping he’d continue without me having to press.
‘It’s just that, with all these motherfuckers dying, day in, day out, and I’m like flying to New York to buy my mom a cake from her favorite bakery.’
‘Is that why you came to New York?’ I asked.
‘Ye.’ Drake nodded slowly with shame.
‘Well hey man, that’s a lot better of a reason to be traveling than a lot of people. You want to bring joy to your mother, do you know how special a quality that is.’
‘She ain’t even gonna fuckin’ eat the cake!’ Drake screamed. ‘And I’m out here, flying round the world, probably super-spreading with my crew like a goddamn motherfucker. All to get my moms a goddamn motherfuckin’ cake. Like, damn Drake, are you serious!’
‘Do you feel like there are times when your mother doesn’t appreciate what you do for her?’
He nodded slowly, this time with less shame, more regret for missed opportunity.
I began patting Drake’s back, he gave me a hug.
‘It’s just that, I’ve been fortunate as fuck out here, and I know, lord lord, I know, one day soon enough, I’m going to get my due. This is all gonn’ come crashing down, and it’s cuz of little things like this. Traveling during a pandemic for a piece of shit cake.’
Drake began crying hysterically, burying his head in my shoulders, I could feel his tears streaming down my back as I continued holding him in my arms.
‘Lord’s gonna give me my fucking due!’ Drake bawled.
‘Look,’ I finally said to him, putting both of my arms on his broad shoulders, pushing him back a little and staring into his eyes. ‘It’s impossible to know how God works, whether or not he’ll punish you for traveling during a pandemic to buy your mother a cake from her favorite bakery.’
‘But she ain’t even gonna eat it!’ Drake shrieked, this time surely causing a scene that my elderly neighbors could hear.
What happened next is a bit of a blur, but I’ll recount it to the best of my ability.
I slapped Drake across the face as hard as I could and he hit the floor like a rock. I felt a ringing in my ear as if I’d been slapped myself, I didn’t know what I’d just done. A minute or two went by without him getting up. Talk about the subjectivity of a second.
I finally began to shake him a little, kind of pressing my forefingers into his shoulder.
‘Drake? Are you OK? Can you hear me?’
He started to shuffle his body slightly. I ran to the bathroom to get some cold water to put on his face.
‘Drake?’ I asked once more, applying some ice to his forehead.
Without saying anything, he picked himself up at a leisurely pace and sat onto the edge of my bed, staring at the floor the whole time. He looked like a kid who’d just gotten all of his presents taken away.
It was still unclear how Drake was about to react to the slap, so I decided I had to act first. I sat next to him on the bed and grasped both his shoulders for a second time, lightly but firm.
‘Drake!’ I wailed, my gaze firmly set into his eyes, one of them beginning to bruise. ‘We don’t know who’s out there, turning judgment, making the decisions on what’s to come of us, punishing us for spreading a deadly virus to go and buy a cake for our mother. I make mistakes every day, I’m a persistent sinner, and I don’t even believe in God. I don’t even know who I’m sinning toward. We have nothing but this very moment, Drake. Nothing but our decisions. And despite our mistakes, despite our intentions, we’re all doing our very best to survive. We’re an imperfect species in a complex world…’ And in the midst of my platitudes I burst out in tears, the first cry I’d had in several many years, burying my head in Drake’s shoulder, he, in turn, burying his head in mine. We hugged for a while more, working out our own petty crises, finding nothing but solace in each other’s presence.
We hiccuped and cried together, intensely, for at least another hour or so, embracing, rubbing each other’s backs. And although it was around 90 minutes, it felt like a millisecond.
On the way out of the building, Drake tipped the doorman 200 dollars and then winked and waved his finger at him as if to say, ‘I got you.’ The doorman took the money and put it in his back pocket, before nodding, unmoved. We began walking a few blocks to calm down. Drake didn’t say much, other than how ‘real’ today had felt.
‘Yeah,’ I agreed. It had been real.
Two nuns from the monastery on 74th street walked by us and stopped.
‘My God, we love your music,’ said the heavier one, enthusiastically.
Drake thanked them and said that they made his day. Is that all it takes? I thought.
We walked a few more blocks without saying much other than some practical feedback about the workout, our online plans for the next few weeks, what muscles he was specifically trying to target.
Two humongous Asian men appeared out of nowhere. Drake’s posse had arrived. I nodded to them, Drake and I hugged, we said our goodbyes.
‘That shit was fire,’ Drake whispered into my ear. What I remember most from our goodbye was the smell of Drake’s breath, the distinct scent of marshmallows.
Two weeks later, I dreamt a dream I’ll never forget. Drake was sitting on a white cloud in the middle of a purple haze, reading Robert Caro’s The Power Broker, Robert Moses and the Fall of New York. The slow clap of One Dance from his 2016 hit album Views emerged from nowhere. Drake throws Robert Caro to the floor, before beginning to dance an impressive Charleston shuffle. I began with him, our movements perfectly synchronized. The two nuns from our walk appeared, shuffling along with us. I turned around to find Drake, dressed as a nun, shuffling faster than before, with a large bright smile on his face. Convent Drake, the two nuns, and I locked arms in a chorus line before beginning a long, joyous cry together, continuously weeping and boogying on our comfortably soft cloud in the middle of this purple purgatory, looking up then down before forward once more.