Weird things happen in the weight room. Here's a true story of such weird things.
Yesterday, a muscle-dude was staring at me through beady eyeballs as I did lat pull downs. I could feel the testosterone shoot from his eyes. This was going somewhere. He had something on his mind and would not forget it. He was full-tilt muscle-dude, not the kind of dude who abides, but the kind who use their muscle boobs for attention and carry around a plastic milk-jug full of water.
I counted in my head with each pull down while he snuck up behind me. Next thing I know his hands were all over my back, feeling my muscles, then pinpointing a spot, and his fingers dug in. "Work these," he said. "Work from here. Keep the bend in your elbow constant and (while rubbing my back muscles) work from here"
"Take your stinkin paws off of me you damn dirty ape!" I wanted to say, but instead took the weight room groping, finished my set, shook my head with a half affirmation and walked away.
Then, I'm off to the treadmill, and next to me is a kind, Danny Devito looking fellow, ("Cuckoos' Nest" era) with the same charming smile. He glanced at me more than once. My presence was noted. Words hung on his lips. He was not going to let my time go unabated.
I bet a nickel
"Where is radio shack?" he turned to ask me.
In the 80s, I thought of saying, but instead gave him general directions, that it was not far from Burger King, and that it was a fine, fine store. But he wasn't finished.
"Do you eat the ends of bread. you know, The ends of them, do you eat them?" This was his real question. He didn't care about Radio Shack. It was the ends of bread that bothered him.
"No, I said, I never eat them. I just pass them by, grab the next piece, and then throw the bag out with two ends inside."
"I don't eat them either," Danny Devito said, clearly excited to find a brethren. "But, do you think its a sin not to eat them? he asked.
"No, I think you are okay. It's their fault for even putting them in there."
I had absolved him of his sins, time to move on, but first I needed to disinfect the treadmill. I grabbed one of the bottles of disinfectant that were conveniently placed all over the carpet so we could disinfect each machine. Problem was, the rags on the bottles were oil-shop black, and everytime we touched them to clean a machine, we were adding to new super virus. Soon, it would mutate into a new-age black plaque, and patient zero will either be a muscle-dude who gropes your back, a Danny Devito dude who does not eat the ends of the bread, or the fellow who has been sitting on the chest press machine for 25 minutes while he stares at his cell phone.