What Doesn't Kill Us

by Scott Carney

Of the four rooms on the second floor there is only one piece of furniture: a bed with a broken spring in the middle. At its foot is the sum total of Wim’s personal wardrobe: a white plastic trash bag full of dirty clothes, a hopelessly wrinkled white sports coat, an orange swimsuit, and a few towels. The pile sits discarded on a stained brown carpet. I stare at the collection for a minute. Part of me despairs what a week in such Spartan quarters will feel like, while the other part marvels at the disjunction between the worldwide fame and riches, associated with the training empire, and the way Hof chooses to live. Wim is many things, but he is clearly not motivated by material trappings. Enahm calls up from downstairs. “I think my dad usually sleeps on the couch,” he says. “You can probably take his bed.”