WHAT DOES IT ALL MEAN?

I left Starbucks over an hour ago because I happened to glance up and see Emily walking by. She was dressed for the gym, so naturally I remembered something or other that I had to do for work at the gym. I quickly packed up my stuff and ran out, hardly holding myself back.

When I got to the gym, I found nothing to do. There was no paperwork on my desk. I made all of my sales calls earlier. I didn’t want to just hang around the front desk, like—khm—someone without a life. So, I took a shower. Sure, why not? I had showered not an hour before, when I left the gym, and that was fun too.

But there’s only so much personal hygiene a man can do; and besides, standing in a shower in the men’s locker room wasn’t going to do shit for me in terms of asking Emily out. So I toweled off, got dressed, and went out on the gym floor, where I had absolutely no reason to be.

She was on an elliptical machine. As she worked out I didn’t approach her. I didn’t even wave a hello from a distance. But, as she finished and she stretched (seemingly in a spot that she knew I’d easily run into her) we had an anomalous conversation.

“I’m glad to make it to the gym tonight. I’ve been feeling tired all day.” She leaned over to stretch her hamstring. A small lock of hair fell across her face.

“Oh? Are you feeling better now?” It took everything in me to resist reaching over to brush back her hair. I could have held back an ocean with the restaint I exercised.

“Yes! And now I’m awake and all energetic and have nothing to do.” She looked away, but only slightly. Out of the corner of her eye I knew that she could still see me. She wanted to observe my reaction. She had set her trap, and now she was in waiting, casually stretching her hamstrings.

But I was terrified. That simple statement came at me with blunt frontal force, and though however harmless it may seem to you reading this right now, for me, right then, it paled any true danger or peril I have ever faced. The sound of her voice swirled around me like the swoosh-swoosh of a bird of prey, waiting for me to make what could only be a fatal move. I proceeded cautiously, anxious that I would be snatched up for the kill.

“Well,” I started, then paused. “Well, you know, it’s Saturday. I’m sure you’ve got something to do or someone to see.”

Dumb ass. But maybe she’ll divulge information about people she may be seeing or, if not, I could pursue it further.

“Actually, no.” She looked up and thought for a moment. “All of my friends are out of town, and one is sick. So I’ve got all this energy and no one to hang out with.”

She could not have more slowly and painfully teased out my guts. I agonized in her gentle application of torment. An occasional glimpse down her shirt at her breasts, when she’d lean towards me to stretch her legs, only heightened my desire to put myself out of my misery. I went for it.

“Well, I’m going to get something to eat soon, and you’re welcome to join me.”

Whew! There! Done! The hardest part was over. She obviously wanted to do something together, and I proffered a suggestion, however trite, and now I had only to hear her gracious acceptance.

“Well…”

Oh shit—did she just do the well-dot-dot-dot thing, and then didn’t say anything more? I paniced, saying, "So, what do you think?"

She looked at the padded floor of the gym for a while, like it was a Rembrandt or something.

Oh my god... Are you going to tell me? How much suspense do you think I can handle before I collapse here, woman?

She looked up a moment later, and said, “Well…it’s tempting, but no.”

AHH, shit!

Had the world stop spinning at that moment, and all the earth fell to chaos, had the oceans lifted into the sky, the ground crumbled into oblivion, and the atmosphere dispersed into the vacuum of cold space, I alone would have noticed none of it. In that total lack of centrifugal force of an entire planet, I was somehow crushed under the gravity of a single, simple word: No.

A “No” is simply what it is, unfortunately: a rejection of something hoped for. Its sting is excruciating, its venom instantaneous. However politely she tried to tell me, using other words to soften my fall, it did not work. She offered me a safety net made of fishing hooks in which I was torn apart.

This was not what I expected. My mind wandered over the recent steps that had brought me to this unexpected end. Emily started saying something, something or other about abba-blabla-blabla-bla and needing to take a shower. Something about her friends. Something about maybe getting up the energy to do something later.

Her voice was like a wind as I stood on an open plain, encompassing and invigorating, but fleeting. I drifted away from her to usher other people out of the gym. It was closing. Emily wandered off to the locker room to change. The night was over.

And yet, before she left the gym, I noticed her hanging around the front desk, alone, seemingly not wanting to leave. At least 5 minutes passed. She had not moved from the area. I was puzzled. Curiosity got the better of me, but a lesson was learned. With our state of affairs clarified, I had no trouble walking to the front desk to stand corrected. She smiled and we exchanged one word: Goodnight.

I honestly don’t know what it all meant: to seem interested, to leave an opening to be asked out so large a barge could have sailed through it, to say no, to change the subject, and then to wait around as if a moment more might prove all the previous to be a big misunderstanding. Was she just being amicable in the end, to ensure that no hard feelings would fester? Or, was she interested but thought that I try to date every woman at the gym? Was the client-trainer relationship a stumbling block for her? Did I smell really bad? I just took two showers. Or, have I just lost my mind and fabricated an episode of delirium?

Come to think of it, though, she did ask in the end if I’d be around the gym tomorrow. I answered that I would be around only in the morning, and she seemed slightly disappointed.


(Months later, after we finally got together, I asked her about this day. She told me that she really did want to get something to eat with me, but she felt really gross from just working out. That hadn't occured to me. Keep in mind that we had only ever seen each other at the gym. We knew how the other sweat, and that was about it.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

WHAT’S THAT GLANCE ABOUT?


This morning, I had a tough but great workout with my client Nelson. He’s a skinny little Bulgarian guy in his late 20's who wants to gain muscle mass. All 5 foot 5 inches of him weighs in at a diminutive 115 pounds. Not exactly formidable in scale. I could pick him up over my head. But he’s intelligent and he actually has great potential if only he were consistent with his workouts.

On another note, each time we train together I wonder about his sexual orientation. He tells me about past girlfriends, and seems to always have another dirty straight joke, but from the corner of my eye, sometimes I find him staring at me in that peculiar way.



(No, that is not a picture of Nelson. Nor is his real name Nelson. And while I'm at it, he's not even Bulgarian. And I have never picked him up over my head, but he does weight just 115 pounds, so it's a little tempting.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

SO, DO I WRITE TOO MUCH?

Is it because I have so little else to do that I write so much? Or is it because I’m still "searching for the purpose of this journal"? Will I stop writing when my life is fuller, when I have a real job, when I have someone to spend my personal time with?

Shit, am I a loser?

Don't losers sit at 24-hour coffee shops like Starbucks because they have nothing better to do?

Starbucks. The Great Alexander of our time. It has conquered a continent of the neurotically fickle. And I am sitting in one, writing this shit. It’s the frappacinos. I love these damn strawberries and crème frappacinos. This is my third one today….



Downs - Copyright © 2005

FEELING A LITTLE SINISTER

Ah, what a beautiful, slow morning. The sun is bright and warm. Distinctive hints of the end of summer are hidden in the air: a slightly cooler breeze, a soft, earthy smell, longer shadows at midday. I am sitting on a bench in the little park at the corner of Spring and Mulberry streets, and I’m watching kids play on a plaything almost big enough to house them. There is water spraying from a fountain nearby. There are supervising parents and nannies all around. The first leaves are starting to loosen their grip on the branches and some have fallen onto the cobblestones and small puddles of water. This seems to be the closest to experiencing the innocence of children playing in a wooded stream while living in a city of urban filth, cold walls, and honking taxi drivers. What more could one ask for?

How about a raunchy looking French girl in a mini-shirt pushing a baby stroller towards my bench?

Just now the French girl moves from her bench on the other side of the park and sits down at the other end of mine. I know that she is French because she makes it known to me by speaking French a little too loud to the two children she is watching, and because she is not pretty. She reminds me of a hasty impressionist painting of a peasant girl worn by years of fieldwork in the countryside. She is young, no more than 25. But her eyes are tightly sewn at their outer edges into crow’s feet. Her skin is youthful, and sun damaged. Her nose, hastily constructed. She is waiting for me to take notice of her, formally. She is instructing the two children, obviously not hers for she would want to play with them, not me, to stay close to her but not too close.

I find myself feeling a little sinister.

I think she shall be my sacrificial lamb. I will ask this French peasant girl out. I am not romantically interested in her. I am merely practicing for the real thing. I am building up strength and courage to ask someone else, someone not so French and not so peasant-like.

One of the two little girls runs by me.

“She’s very cute!” I use the most sincere voice I could.

“She’s too much to handle.” This French girl’s English isn’t bad. It actually sounds nice, in that sexy, foreign, French way. “But they aren’t mine. I’m a nanny.”

“Well, it looks like enjoyable work. Playing with kids, going to the park, taking walks. That’s a good living.” She explains that she’s in New York on vacation.

“You’re working while on vacation?”

“Yes, because it is a long vacation. I leave back to Paris next week.”

Perfect. No chance of running into her again.

“So, we should go out! I’ll treat you and your friends to a farewell night out!”

“Oh…”

“It’ll be fun! Where do you like to go? What do you like to do?”

“Ah, well…”

“What’s your number? Well, then, here’s mine. Saturday good?”

“You know, I’ll have to think about it. Thank you.”

Think about it? Didn’t she just walk her ass, pushing that baby stroller, across the entire park just to sit next to me? Wasn’t she just talking her French all loud and shit, saying “Oh petite Marie, wah-wah-waah-wah”? Didn’t she just do that? And now she has to think about it?

Bitch.


(There is a favorite quote of mine: “A man on a date always wonders if he'll get lucky. The woman already knows.” Yet, there is even a harsh sting from a rejection hoped for.)



Downs - Copyright © 2005

THREE FRIENDLY SMILES

I spent a long time talking to Lauren C today, a New York Italian real estate agent in her late twenties. She has typical features for a New York Italian girl—dark hair and eyes, a beautiful face, a thick waist and round lips, a shy but friendly personality, and breasts like a bonanza. She speaks with the cool rasp of a smoker. She is sweet and we get along like a field trip. When she smiles, she is inviting. And her smile adds extra meaning to anything she says. “I’d like to run a marathon,” she might say, her voice steaming like vapor. And her lingering after-smile adds, “And my panties are sweaty wet right now.” She could never say a word and still tell a secret.

We will never be friends.

Later, I talked to Stephanie L. She seemed rather interested in me, though I’m sure it was just my imagination. She is a teacher—9th grade, English. She is a very sweet Michigan girl. Light skin and blond hair. I don’t know how they come out there in Michigan, but this one’s not so innocent. I will see her again on Friday for a workout at the gym, because that’s my job—to sell personal training sessions by first giving a free one. She expressed extreme delight in the idea, smiling nicely in acceptance. But her smile was, well, sinister, like a spider surveying a heavy web of flies. She’s the girl next door with the deadbolt thrown open but has a bear trap hidden just inside the entry.

We, too, will never be friends.

But there was one other smile that was very different from these. Emily's smile captivated me. I found it hard to concentrate when she smiled, because it was simply a beautiful smile. No hidden messages, no complications. In her smile, I could see stars, it seemed. Again, probably just my imagination, but I can't be sure. She was a little reluctant about committing to training. We sat opposite each other in the manager’s office, a glass table between us, discussing the matter. I tried to discern her level of seriousness towards buying training session, and I tried to make the sale, but she kept doing that smiling thing with the stars. Usually at this point, I get a little pushy to make the sale. I'd toss in an couple of extra session and start the bidding at a higher price, or maybe I'd try to squeeze a few more sessions out of her wallet, but she just kept doing that smiling thing. So fine, forget it. Want to think about it? Sure...I didn’t care about no sale. Who care's about the sale? Here, tell me what it is that you want.

And she just kept doing that smiling thing.

I think Emily and I will become great friends.



Downs - Copyright © 2005

SPONTANEOUS TIMING

I meet Elisheva just outside a storefront in SoHo. I took notice of her walking down the sidewalk because she was not especially attractive. Her features were sharp, really sharp. Her bones could hurt you. Long curly dark hair framed her distinctive, sharp face, like a knife in a fluffy wool cap. The look in her eyes was distant, removed. She could have been a serial killer, but that day, a week ago, she walked quite contently eating something sweet out of a plastic store bag. She was just passing by.

“Got enough in there to share?” I asked. What was I thinking? I never do things like that. Am I feeling a little sinister? And just as I came to this realization, she made one efficient turn toward me and stopped just inches from my body. She opened her bag.

“Take anything you’d like,” she said with a smile.

I was not expecting.

As it turns out, Eli is a freelance writer. She writes about anything she wants. She was working on a subject that recently interested me: spontaneous swarming and its sudden disintegration back into autonomous behavior. She explained that it all came down to the timing of discrete actions among indivduals that triggered swarming behavior, and that other individual behaviors triggered the return to autonomous states. (I was rather impressed at how much she knew about the topic. Then again, she was researching it.)

That night, we spent hours sitting at her place. Literally, all we did was sit. I spread myself comfortably on her sofa. She organized and worked and wrote at a table across the room. And we sat, like furniture.

I watched with intrigue because Elisheva was a peculiar individual. She seemed to have a sense of time and of what it is, I thought to myself, but either she had no respect for it or she had no respect for the fact that others do. I say this because she was often caught up in what she was doing in the moment. Focused and thoughtful. Always silent. Time did not command her, and if it tried, she just ignored it. Occasionally, she’d look up from her work and smiled for a moment about something personal—memories, perhaps, or a hope. I could never tell.

Suddenly, she called a friend. It was 1:30 on a Saturday morning, still early, and she talked for 5 minutes. “I’ll be right over,” she said enthusiastically. Expecting to see her move to prepare herself to leave, I did the opposite and settled in for a nap. I was intent on sleeping. But she didn’t get up from her chair. Instead, she turned her attention back to her notes. She wrote something down. Hours passed. I’m awoken but the sudden sound of her voice on the phone, nearly shouting in excitement. She was calling to confirm that she was leaving her place right then, as if it had been only a few minutes since she last called. While on the phone, she wrote something else down. She turned a page, sat back and began to read. Without a word, she closed her cell phone. No one called back. I drifted off to sleep again.

“Okay, I’m ready to work out. Take me to the gym.” Her voice pulled me out of a dream like a deep sea fishing hook. I was disoriented.

“It’s 3:30 in the morning,” I said. “The gym is closed.” But I realized that she would know that.

“I need to lose 15 pounds in 1 week,” she said while gathering her gym clothes.

“Oh? Starting right now?”

“So, we need to get to the gym.”

“But you don't need a gym. You don’t even need food or rest. Just work on her article—don’t sleep, don’t eat—and you’ll lose 15 pounds in 1 week.” I closed my eyes to fall to sleep.

She finished gathering her workout clothes into a handbag. “Great. Let’s go then.” She playfully kicked my foot and jerked her head toward the door.

We walked over to the gym, which, of course, was closed. She waited patiently, searching for something in her bag to chew on, while I unlocked the doors. She followed me in, offering a stick of gum.

At 6:30 Eli finished working out and was showered. She walked into my office and called her friends from my phone. “I’m ready to hit every bar in town!” she told her friends. “We’ll be right over!” She hung up and smiled proudly.

“Eli," I said, "it’s 6:30 in the morning. I need to open the gym in nearly an hour. And didn’t your friends want to go out, er, last night?”

“It’ll be an after-hours thing. You have time to make it to midtown and back. I’m bringing wine, and I need to pick up a melon. Walk me to the store.” She put an apple on the corner of my desk.



Downs - Copyright © 2005