Friday, October 16
The man in the gym keeps staring. He’s in my direct line of sight as I do my lunges, but I look straight ahead. I’m a regular at Steeplegate Fitness—hell, I should have my name on the wall—and I don’t get approached often. But I won’t say it’s never happened.
Real gym rats keep to themselves, and you can always tell them apart from the trolls. Rats have their routine, their headphones, their focus. They’ll leave you alone, because they want to be left alone. Trolls, meanwhile, always have bad form and are prone to spending most of their time doing bicep curls and checking themselves in the mirror, secretly hoping you’re paying attention to them. They’ll slowly begin encroaching into your space, eventually finding some reason to say something to you. Usually something like “Are you a fitness coach? I could use some advice.” Or “I haven’t seen you here before. Is this your regular gym?” Once, someone walked up and asked me about my scars, which I don’t always bother to conceal at the gym. I’m neither proud of nor ashamed of my scars; they are just a part of me.
My answer to the trolls is always the same. I remove one earbud, ask them to repeat the question just to make sure they haven’t said something worth hearing, then tell them I would like to concentrate on my workout. If they press on, I tell them to fuck off.
This man sharks in a bit closer, eyeing the abductor machine next to me. He’s stocky but not quite muscular, and his pajama-like sweats and T-shirt don’t suggest the image of someone who frequents gyms often. Both of his ears are pierced and full of colored gems, which adds contrast to his smooth white face. He gives me a smile and a nod, which I ignore, and climbs into the machine. The abductor machine consists of two cushions that rest against your knees, and you can choose whether to open your legs out against resistance, or close them together against resistance. Either way, you’re opening and closing your legs a lot, and I can feel him grunting next to me, knowing he set the weight too high but is unwilling to stop and lower it. Perhaps his groin will tear.
I could move to another area of the gym, but I was here first. It’s not my nature to yield ground.
I thumb the volume higher on my music.
Then he says something. Goddamn it.
I hear his voice but not the words. I ignore him, and as I’m in mid-lunge, he gets out of the machine and stands directly in front of me. My head is level with his waist, so I straighten. Sweat trickles down my forearms toward my hands, each of which is holding a fifteen-pound weight. He gestures for me to remove my earbuds.
For a moment, I fantasize about beating him senseless. He’s got six inches and sixty pounds on me, but unless he has trained in MMA or boxing as much as I have, I could probably take him. I want him to give me a reason to sweep his legs out from under him.
I lower one weight to the floor and remove an earbud.
“What?” I say.
“You’re Alice, right?”
I stare at him, unable to answer, because it all suddenly makes sense. It’s my paranoid fantasy becoming reality: that some of the people you meet in the world already know you. Know every last detail about your life. Have been following you.
This must be Mister Tender from the dating site.
I drop the other weight and shift into a striking position. He holds up his hands.
“Hey, take it easy. We have a mutual friend. Jimmy. You remember Jimmy, right?”
I put my fists up.
Jimmy.
Yes, I remember Jimmy.