Walter and I Work Out

(In honor of James Thurber, creator of Walter Mitty.)

I exercise a few times a week at the Joe Farmer Rec Center in Allen. It’s adequate–a full-court gym, two racquetball courts, small meeting rooms/kid’s spaces. My workout area has various machines, weights and cardio stuff. Weirdly, they’re all in pairs. I use a stationary bike, the one on the left by the window. All the machines are in pairs, like modern castoffs from Noah’s Ark. It’s plenty for my needs and not usually crowded. Plus, I can stare out the window at the ducks and daydream.

Yesterday started as every other day there. The old guy with the soft Texas drawl checked me in upstairs. Outside the workout room, a young woman, face glued to her phone as usual, waved as I walked by. Good peripheral vision, I thought, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her eyes.

The room was populated with the typical cast of characters. Two younger dudes (topped with big Bose antlers) grunting through the circuit of machines, sculpting their two pack while they tried to work off the six-packs. A very buff young woman, an absolute Amazon who could take the two dudes and me if she wanted, but she greets me with a smile. There’s an older woman faithfully working her PT with young Jenny’s encouraging words. An even older man huffed oxygen through a tube but pumped more iron than I could. Missing yesterday was the middle-aged Asian man who clomps through the stairmaster and the college-aged stud who runs like he’s training for a marathon.

In the middle of my stretch, a new guy strolled in. Dressed like an escaped mannequin from Dick’s Sporting Goods all the way down to his shiny Nikes, he seemed too eager, too clean to do the dirty work of serious sweat. He wore that Hallmark hero facial scruff.

Atop my stationary bike, I fired up Spygame. Redford, even the older version, rocks. Pitt too. I noticed Too Cool Guy, he wasn’t working out. Nada. Bupkis. He was leaning against the mirror, phone in one hand and, with his free hand, lint-picking his new Under Armour blue tee. Sporting grey Champion shorts. C’mon, dude, decide on a brand!

In a voice too loud, he blathered with Carlo, first about last night’s dinner and then some upcoming Boom-Ya, whatever that is. His Airpods saved me from Carlo’s voice. Forget him, I thought. I zoned in, focused on Brad Pitt’s undercover recruitment, pedaling like Armstrong on a double dose of EPO. I was feeling the burn and the sweat stains were spreading tentacles. I fantasized I could take Ol’ Lance.

I forgot the pretender. Until I hear his voice over the rotating corner fan. He’s still talking. I begin to plot.

I’m tracking him through his reflection. The young buck is standing on the treadmill, right next to a real runner. Then Joe Wannabe steps off, wanders past the rehabbing woman. He’s yakking, yakking, yakking, like someone is pulling an invisible string from his back. He parks on the bench press, lifting not a single weight. A few minutes there, and he leans on the lat pulldown while the Bose-topped two-packers look on impotently. When I glance over, his voice drops and switches from pitch-perfect English to some dialect I have never heard.

A few minutes later, back to English, he stands and says he wants to speak to TJ. “Now!” he screams. Everyone shoots him a quick look and then breaks eye contact. Not me. I give him the old stink eye. (It’s a move my dad perfected when someone cut him off in traffic. He would race to catch up to the scofflaw, slow down, and glare. When the hooligan had enough, my dad would pronounce that justice had been served and speed past.)

But Mr. Cellphone just stares back. Not angry or cocky, just returning the stink. I refocus on Pitt and Redford. I keep wondering, who walks into Joe Farmer and makes a long phone call?

Immediately, I have two thoughts–cartel or FBI. Either he’s surveilling someone local or laundering drug money, likely through the old dude upstairs. I survey the faces. Nothing. If someone is dirty, I don’t know who it is. But where is the missing Asian stair stomper today? Coincidence? I think not. (Clearly, I have been watching too much Blacklist lately.)

Everyone else in the room is ignoring Chatty Cathy. Not this guy. I’m twenty minutes in to my ride and still have thirty to go. My mojo is broken. There must be a confrontation. I motion him over with two fingers, like the FBI honchos did in White Collar. I figure if he’s a Fed, he’ll get it.

He wanders to my side. I’m still pumping the legs, sweat streaming. He’s still neat and GQ.

“What’s up, bossman?” he asks. The GQ smirk is gone. I see the worry.

As he looms over me, I realize, he’s much taller than I thought. And pretty fit too. But right is right. As loud as his phone voice, I state, “If you’re gonna workout, then,” I pause for emphasis, “just do it.” The irony of the last three words is lost on him. But Amazon smiles, so does oxygen guy.

“Take your call to the breakroom, pal,” I add definitively, pointing him toward the door. “Or just leave.”

Head down, he acquiesces. “Sorry, bossman.” He hightails out the door. The room applauds. It’s simple. I’m a man of action, not just words.

In the real world, I pedaled on and on, as Mr. Annoying talked without interruption. Whoever Carlo was, they weren’t done with their conversation. Ever.

With twenty minutes still to go, I considered the young woman at the desk. It’s true, I’ve never seen her eyes. Maybe she’s a cyborg. Is she even from this planet?