17⎜The Gym

           “Four-ninety-nine,” I heaved, pushing my body up with only the use of my arms, “five hundred.” I sighed, getting out of the position most commonly associated with either having sex or doing pushups (I had been doing the latter for the past thirty minutes), and found myself rolling onto my back. The familiar scent of sweat mixed with metal and cleaning solution wafted into my nostrils, and I smiled a bit.

           It was just past six in the morning, and being the completely obsessive individual that I happened to be at times, I had spent the past hour in the gym, like I did most days. The nice thing about going to the gym at five in the morning was that there was practically no one there, and anyone who was there was actually serious about working out. I had become accustomed to the other handful of people that joined me at the absurd hour to improve their personal fitness.

           There was the girl who always wore hot pink and cheetah print, and though she was short and appeared pretty unassuming, she was definitely one of the most dedicated workoutaholics that I had ever encountered. She liked weights, and usually spent at least half the time working on her biceps. In comparison to me, her arms looked like twigs, but in relation to just about anyone else on the planet, she had pretty great muscles.

           Aside from Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl, there was also Robby The Runner. I had met Robby a few times in the locker room, and we introduced ourselves briefly. He was a pretty nice dude, but neither of us had any interest in talking to one another at five in morning, so didn’t. Robby’s forte in the gym was the treadmill. He would literally spend two hours a day (or more) just running. Personally, if I had been into running then I probably would’ve just utilized the campus as a place to express my leg muscles, but to each his own. Robby was pretty chill, and liked to run.

           Then there was Bob The Bodybuilder (I was pretty sure that his actual name wasn’t even close to Bob, but it was an alliteration, so it was okay). As implied by his name bestowed by my brain before any logical hour, he was a bodybuilder. Like, this dude had muscles that made mine look paper thin—which they most certainly weren’t. The guy was jacked, and made my workout routine seem like it was fit for a kindergartener. He was pretty intense, so we had yet to have a heart-to-heart or even speak to each other. To be perfectly honest, he pretty much scared the shit out of me.

           Swimmer Sandy was another regular, but she usually came before even me—like, at four-ish, which I thought was crazy, even if I was the one only going an hour later than that. The gym was in the same building as Stanford’s pools, so Sandy (just like Bob, I was pretty sure that her name wasn’t Sandy) usually went swimming for a while, and then at about six or so would come into the workout room with wet hair and sweats on, just using a treadmill for a while, right alongside Robby. 

           Though he didn’t come every day, Phil was an inconsistent regular. With his oxymoronic status, he came every few days, and didn’t disturb the usual peace of the gym. Phil was a big guy, but unlike Bob, he wasn’t all muscle. The guy was trying to lose weight, and from what I could tell, he was doing an okay job. He usually just came in at five and left at six, staying only a mere hour, but we all accepted him, nonetheless.

           The seventh member (me included) of our Unofficial Workout Before Dawn Club (UWBDC) was Nelson. I wasn’t really sure if Nelson was his first name or his last name, but I never bothered to ask, because I didn’t really care. Nelson was like Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl and me—he did a variety of things, instead of just sticking to one. He was pretty ripped, a little thinner than me, and I could always hear these heavy rock beats blasting from his headphones as he went through his daily routine. I had learned that he was a senior, and used to play soccer back in the day. Like the majority of people who had the lack of sense to come to the gym before the sun rose, Nelson was a pretty cool dude.

           So, there were the seven of us—well, more like six and a half due to Phil’s schedule, but whatever. Anyways, that was the core. Someone could go to the gym on one day, and be almost guaranteed to see the same people the day after that. No one really talked, except if there was a question regarding the best method to go about doing something. Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl had once asked me what a reasonable number for her to bench was, and I gave her my expert opinion. She didn’t listen to me, tacking on another twenty pounds, but I wasn’t really offended. It was her choice, after all.

           Occasionally, Outsiders would infiltrate our tightknit group of non-talkers. Most of the time the Outsiders would be athletes who needed to get in an extra workout, couldn’t sleep, or had another commitment, so were forced to shift their gym time. If the Outsiders were athletes, then the UWBDC didn’t tend to have a problem, because athletes knew what was up, and knew that interfering with another’s workout schedule was practically a felony. Then there were the Non-Athlete-Outsiders (NAOs).

           The NAOs tended to be the worst type of intruders. They were inconsiderate about everyone around them, and weren’t aware of the routine that we, the UWBDC, had set at the beginning of the school year.

           Sometimes, the NAOs were just girls who thought they looked cool coming to the gym, or wanted to “pick up guys.” Since there were only between four and five guys, their selection happened to be rather limited, and the whole prospect of “picking up guys at the gym at five-thirty in the morning” always seemed to crumble. Another issue if the NAOs were girls was that they didn’t know how to use the equipment. To me, it made absolutely no sense to go to the gym without a personal trainer if you had no clue as to what you were doing. They would come with friends every so often, laughing and giggling about how they didn’t know what the elliptical was, or how they couldn’t do five measly pushups. As unfortunate as it may have been, the girl variety of NAOs wasn’t the worst of the species.

           Once in a while, a random group guys would come in, testosterone pumping and acting all macho, blatantly disregarding the UWBDC. They were the most intolerable type of NAOs. Sometimes they would talk to members of the UWBDC, and other times, they wouldn’t. Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl had gotten hit on a few times by these gangs of guys, but what they didn’t know was that behind all the hot pink and cheetah print, this chick could probably do more crunches than them in her sleep. They were just annoying, really.

           As fate should have it, today just happened to be a day when NAOs decided to invade the grounds of the UWBDC. Thankfully, it was just two friends, both pretty tall. They were just laughing and talking and joking around, as was typical for college guys like them. I had my earphones in, and was currently blasting some Gym Class Heroes, because I could be alternative like that when I wanted to be. The two dudes were so loud, though, that not even the addition of Ryan Tedder’s voice could completely cancel them out.

           A sudden kick at my sprawled foot caused me to jolt up from my prone position, expecting to see someone from the UWBDC. Instead, though, I saw a smug NAO who I happened to know well. He wasn’t sweating in the least, and judging by his plaid sweats and sweatshirt, something told me that he didn’t exactly come here to sweat. Standing next to him was another individual in my personal index of People I Will Actually Talk to on Campus. He, too, was dressed in pajamas, so I wasn’t really sure what the two were doing here.

           “I found him,” the dark-haired one said, pointing at me as I extracted the white mechanisms in my ears.

           “No shit, really, Scott?” the other one scoffed.

           “You’re really mean in the morning,” Scott commented. “Did you know that, Walker?”

           “I’m not a mornin’ person,” Houston grumbled, yawning for the added effect.

           “Well, it looks like Eric, here, certainly is!” Scott laughed. I just blinked blankly at the two friends, not saying a word. The whole aspect of waking up before eight I could handle, though communicating was a whole different matter.

           “Mornin’, Wilson,” Houston greeted with a groggy smile and nod of his head.

           “Sup?” Scott asked, possessing more energy than the southerner, though maybe it was just Scott’s overall demeanor and not his actual energy level. Scott always seemed slightly more animated than the rest of us. Not quite Noa energetic, but still energetic in his own way.

           “Nothing,” I replied slowly, “just working-out.”

           “You do this every mornin’?” Houston questioned, his eyes scanning the almost-empty-except-for-the-UWBDC gym.

           “Yep,” I nodded, forcing myself to stand up so that I was closer to their heights. They were still both taller than me, but at least now it was less likely that Scott would kick the bottom of my foot again.

           “Commitment,” Houston grinned. Shit. I knew exactly what was coming next. “That’s the type of quality our fraternity needs, Eric.” There it was. The pitch. Every time I ran into Houston, he would try different approaches of pitching the fraternity to me. The last time he had gone on and on about how clothes mattered to the guys in the frat, and how I would “blend right in” with the rest of them. About a week ago, he gave me this long speech about tradition and how important it was. I was about to say something, but Houston decided to keep talking, instead. “You’ve met Scott, so I’m sure you know how lackin’ in the department of commitment we are.”

           “It’s true,” Scott agreed, “I suck at commitment and drain it out of the frat house. Just ask any of my past girlfriends. They’ll tell ya!”

           “Did you two seriously come all the way here just to tell me that Scott has commitment issues—something I already figured out weeks ago?” I sighed, grabbing one of my water bottles, and chugging down what was left inside of it.

           “No,” Houston shook his head, his tone now serious and less car salesman-y.

           “We actually came here to workout with you!” Scott said, earning a glare from Houston and a laugh from me.

           “Uh, ‘scuse me,” said a voice I didn’t recognize with an accent that I did know. All three of us snapped our heads over to the voice, and I was surprised that Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl had interrupted her sequence to come over to us.

           “Hey, beautiful,” Scott said, sending her a cheesy wink.

           She just rolled her eyes at Scott’s advance, and then looked straight at me, because, ya know, we were both part of the UWBDC and all. We shared a deep connection that would totally last for years to come. “Eric, are these idiots with yous?” she asked as I tried to place where her accent was from. It wasn’t Jersey. It wasn’t Boston. Brooklyn, maybe? Definitely New York.

           Instead of answering her question, I asked one of my own. “You know my name?” I said, genuinely surprised. To me, she was just Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl…With No Name. It didn’t really seem right to even fathom that she had a name, or consider that she actually knew mine.

           “Ya,” she said, “I’m Gillian.” Then it hit me.

           “Staten Island!” I exclaimed, knowing exactly where I had heard her enunciation before. I was from the suburbs, so compared to this girl, I was practically from an entirely different continent. Somehow, though, we both hailed from the same state.

           “Huh. I was gonna guess New Jersey,” Scott mumbled.

           “I’m from the suburbs—not upstate,” I told Hot Pink Cheetah Print Girl—err, well, Gillian.

           “Nice,” she assessed. “So, are they with yous, Eric?”

           “Yeah,” I rubbed the back of my neck, feeling like I was the father claiming two kids who had just completely destroyed the interior of a store. Gillian just shook her head, sending me a distinct look that I couldn’t quite comprehend, and then walked away to go do more sit-ups, or continue whatever part of her workout at which she had paused.

           “She was hot,” Scott whisper-yelled.

           “She also had bigger biceps than you,” I pointed out.

           Houston let out a howl of laughter at that, slapping Scott on the back. “He’s right, Scotty-boy. Definitely right!” Houston said, shaking his head.

           “Uh, can you two let me finish my workout—unless of course there’s actually any point to continuing this conversation,” I requested, trying my hardest to sound as polite as possible.

           “Believe me, Eric, there is no way in hell that I would’ve gotten up before nine if it wasn’t important,” Scott said earnestly. “I’m not kidding. When I was picking my classes this year, that was the main requirement: they had to start after nine.”

           “Look, Eric, if you don’t wanna talk in here, I completely understand, but is there some place else we could go?” Houston questioned, suddenly stirring some sort of revelation within me.

           Everyone who had an accent could get away with things. Take Gillian for example, she seemed pretty pissed that two NAOs (even though Houston was, actually, an athlete) had come and made a particularly obnoxious amount of commotion, but because of her accent, she just sounded like she was talking fast. Now, Houston was tired and not thrilled to be up at this hour, but because of his damn accent, he didn’t sound that way. Why I couldn’t I have an accent? Why was I condemned to the sheltered speech patterns of suburbia? Accents were so chill…or maybe that was just my I-woke-up-before-five-and-need-at-least-two-more-hours-before-I-can-think-straight brain talking. Whichever.

           “Yeah, sure,” I sighed, grabbing my one empty and one full water bottle, in addition to everything else one needed to workout, and leading them past the UWBDC. Houston and Scott were arguing about something as they followed me into the men’s locker room, and I didn’t really have the concentration to focus on what they were quarrelling about. I walked over to where my duffle bag was resting on the bench, and then sat beside it, waiting for the two to finish up.

           “Sorry about that,” Houston said, facing me once he and Scott had somewhat resolved whatever issue they were reviewing.

           “Yeah, Houston’s sorry,” Scott said, slumping down next to me.

           “Anyways, we know that we’ve asked you in the past but—” Houston began, but I decided to do a very un-Eric thing and cut him off.

           “I don’t know,” I interjected. “I’m sorry, Houston, I really am, but I just don’t know whether or not I want to join your frat.” I then thought about what I had said, and then quickly added, “Or any frat, for that matter,” because I had a hunch that Houston would jump to the immediate conclusion that I had verbally italicized “your” in my prior sentence, being that the issue was his particular fraternity. It wasn’t. If any, I would join his, I just wasn’t sure if that was what I wanted to do right now.

           “We understand that, Eric—” Houston attempted to say something yet again, though this time Scott was the one to interrupt.

           “Actually, I don’t,” Scott said. “The frat is great, and you should join. End of discussion.”

           “Eric, we were wonderin’ if you would maybe meet with the president of our fraternity. We think it’d be good for you, and then maybe you’ll get swayed more in either direction,” Houston proposed. “All we want is an answer. Hopefully that answer is yes, you’ll join, but anythin’ is better than maybe.”

           “So, you want me to meet with your president?” I determined, using my impeccable deductive reasoning skills.

           “We actually want you to join, but hey, if meeting with Grant convinces you, then fine,” Scott slightly amended my conclusion. I figured that Grant must’ve been the frat president, and by the next words spoken by Scott, I was right: “Oh, and Grant is the frat president. Total tool bag. But sometimes he can be okay and shit.”

           “Grant is great,” Houston assured me with a shake of his head directed at Scott.

           “He’s actually the biggest douche I’ve ever met with more money than a guy like him should have, but if Houston says he’s great, then I guess he’s great,” Scott said bitterly. Something told me that Scott wasn’t exactly Grant’s biggest fan. “Like, don’t get me wrong, bro, the frat is totally epic and you should join, but just be aware that you’re gonna have to deal with Grant for a year until he graduates.”

           “Grant is fine!” Houston cried.

           “If by fine you mean a total asshole, then yeah, he’s fine,” Scott scoffed with a roll of his eyes.

           “You’re just mad ‘cause of that one time he stole your girl,” Houston proclaimed.

           “Well maybe I am!” Scott’s voice rose louder than necessary. Thankfully, we were now in the locker room, so there was no chance that the UWBDC would be shunning me. “Grant is a freakin’ ass crack, and you know it!”

           “Sorry, but are you two talking about Grant Sterling?” someone suddenly asked. We all turned, and there stood Nelson, a sweat towel hanging over his neck as he swung his backpack over a shoulder. Wow. This was certainly the most interaction I had ever encountered with the UWBDC. If I really wanted to be social, then I would totally keep in mind to bring Scott and Houston with me every morning. They were like people magnets or something.

           “Yeah,” Scott answered. “Why? You know the bastard?”

           “I roomed with him freshman year,” Nelson said with a smirk. “Isn’t he, like, some frat’s president now, or something?”

           “Our frat, actually,” Houston said.

           “Oh? You two are members. Cool. Well, I’m definitely glad that I didn’t add in an adjective to describe it now,” Nelson laughed. He then turned to me, commenting with a quick, “Never pegged you as a frat guy, Eric.”

           “That’s because I’m not,” I said, standing up from the bench because it just felt like the correct thing to do in the moment.

           “Yet,” Scott added. “You’re not one yet.”

           “Just some life advice, dude,” Nelson directed at me, inching his way over to the door, “don’t join something Grant Sterling is involved in. You’re going to want to bang your head against a pile of cinderblocks if you do.”

           “Thanks, Nelson,” I said.

           “No prob, bro,” he said, saluting me with the use of two fingers before disappearing and leaving me in the determined presence of Scott and Houston. As the door shut, I could only dread what was coming next.

           “I promise,” Houston said with a large intake of air, “Grant isn’t actually that bad.”

           “So, did you seriously wake up before nine just to ask me if I’d meet with Grant Whoever?” I questioned.

           “It was actually kind of a dare,” Scott said.

           “But we’re here, so will you meet with him?” Houston practically pleaded.

           I looked between Scott and Houston, and just sighed. Seriously, I was too nice of a person. With a final exhale of air, I just caved in, knowing it was the right thing to do—even if they had interposed on my sacred time at the gym with the UWBDC. “Yeah, sure…”