The Hoist home gym bent near its Chest Press mechanism, leaned forward, peered around the corner, and down the hall.  Empty.  Retuning to his vertical position, he looked toward the exercise bike sitting, glumly in the corner, and smirked.

“Well, he’s not in the hallway.  Must be in the shower," said Hoist, a touch of derision in his voice. 

“Not sure why he’d need a shower," replied Bike sarcastically, "I saw no sweat—except mine."

"You got that right.  A five-year old could lift more weight than that clown."

"God,”  Bike rubbed her handle bar grips over her seat cushion, “I’m sore.  I thought he’d never get his lard butt off me.”

“Hey, he sits on me, too.” 

“Well, you’re bigger and stronger than me.  Plus, he’s grinding away on me for thirty minutes without a break.  For you, he gets up.  He sits down.  He gets up.  He sits down.  That’s a piece of cake.  I won’t even mention his stinky, calloused feet on my pedals, cranking, cranking, cranking.  Sometimes I just wanna cry.  I feel so…used."

Bike looked out the window and said wistfully, "I wasn’t made for this, you know.”

Hoist stretched his Leg Lift mechanism and reply with boredom, “Yeah, yeah, I know.  You started life in a gym where…."

"Not a gym," snapped Bike, glaring at Hoist, "a health spa.  Big difference, Muscle Head."

"Sorry," said Hoist with disingenuous regret.

"But either,” continued a slightly mollified Bike, “would be an improvement over this."

"Oh? In what way?"

“You’re kidding, right?  Even you, Mr.  Muscles, can see that we’re stuck away in some spare room, visited once a day–maybe.  On weekends, we’re ignored.  We get damp laundry draped on us.  I won’t mention, the…well, I won’t mention it.”

“Still,” said Hoist with a shrug, “it ain’t so bad.”

“Not for you, Mr. Spanky New.  You may not need it now, but how about maintenance?  Or lack thereof.  I got regular maintenance at the spa.”  She looked dreamily at the ceiling.  “Nuts and bolts tightened weekly, those heavenly Armor All rubs, vitals oiled…"

At the mention of vitals, Hoist gave Bike a reflexive, furtive glance. 

"Keep your eyes off my private parts.  Letcher."

"Oh for God’s sake,”  said Hoist with an eye roll.  “Don’t get your dust covers in a knot. Who wants to ogle your gears…all worn down, droopy, and shabby lookin’.”

Bike harrumphed and continued her lament, "The biggest difference, the most painful difference, is the users.  Kindley is just clueless about exercise.  Just look at that old blob.  He may as well be eating pizza and drinking beer instead of wasting time in here.  The moron is going in the wrong direction weight-wise.”  Bike looked quizzically at Hoist.  “Less is better, right?   I mean, do have that straight?”

“Normally, for most humans,” replied Hoist.

“Well, it ain’t happenin’ for that blubber head.  What’s he thinking anyway?”

Hoist scratched it’s Overhead Pulley Assembly and laughed quietly.  "You got that right.  What a bozo.  He’s got a list of about, geeze, I dunno, twenty different weight exercises.  But he does the same ones over and over.  And, they’re the ones he can already do.  Where’s the challenge in that?  I’ve yet to see him do sit-up one."

"Maybe Mr. Roly Poly was born without abdominal muscles.”

At that, Bike and Hoist doubled over in laughter.

Regaining his composure, Hoist said, “What I like is when he’s grinding away on you…”

“Ewwwww. Nice image, thanks.”

“…When he’s grinding away on you and watching TV for diversion.  You know, those endlessly boring history DVDs he’s so enamored with.”

“Yeah. Plays ‘em over and over again.  What is it with that?  Is he a slow-learner? I mean, okay, Washington crossed the Delaware, for Pete’s sake.  Get over it.  He did it already. It’s done—like two hundred years ago. Move on.”

“But that’s just it, Bike.  He gets so into those things that he pedals slower and slower.  He may as well be taking a nap he lets his heart rate get so low.  And, the idiot doesn’t realize it.”

Bike blushed.  “Well, to be fair, that’s not all his fault.  To keep him from abusing me, I flash a faster heart rate on my screen than he’s actually doing.  Little trick I picked up at the spa.” 

Hoist howled with laughter.  “You’re kidding?”

“No, seriously.”

“And he doesn’t suspect?

“Not in the least.  Just thinks he’s ‘fit’.”

“What a buffoon.” 

“Ya think?”

“Well, since we’re telling secrets,” confided Hoist, “I run my cable pulleys just slightly out of the track, makes 20 pounds feel like 30.  He’ll lift a couple.  Grimace.  Stop.  Check the little chart thing he keeps.  Check my weight stack.  Shake his head with that dumb, perplexed look he always wears, and tries again.  It’s like tricking a retarded dog.  Almost no fun.”

“Okay, okay, but did you ever see him…”

“Quiet!”  Hoist again bends forward, listening intently, then, abruptly returns to the vertical.  “Here he comes.”

Bike whispered, “Hey, grease your pulleys if you give him a hernia, or better yet, a hemorrhoid.”

“Hmmmm,” replied Hoist, suppressing a giggle, and speaking from the corner of his mechanical mouth, “it could happen.”

You think your characters are doing one thing, the reader may see them doing something else entirely.  Sometimes, that’s okay.  Mostly, it’s not.  When characters turn rogue, it can get ugly. 

Find a “test reader” to help learn what’s up with your characters.  Your work doesn’t have to be finished.  Find someone–other than your Mom or spouse–ask ‘em to read your WIP.  Buy ‘em lunch or a gift card as a reward.  What you learn could be ugly, but at least you won’t read about it on the internet…along with everyone else! 

Remember, the writer has the last word.  Rogue characters that become non-cooperative and taxing, can be,,,excised.  Sorry, couldn’t resist, just love puns. 

Oh, by the way, I’ve two pieces of exercise equipment for…well, give away, actually.