I’ve worked out at the same ghetto gym for the past two years. It’s a piece of crap, but it’s cheap, like myself, so I continue renewing my membership. But due to it’s crappiness/ghettoness everyday is filled with head scratching moments and I am continually telling my friends about my odd and many times awkward experiences there (I even wrote about one here). Just last week it was 90 degrees outside, which means it was 120 degrees inside the non-air conditioned gym. After bench pressing 315lbs a man decided to take off his shirt and sweat pants and do his set of pull ups/the rest of his workout in only red jockey boxer briefs. While stretching my toes, I watched both amazed and confused as this giant black and/or dark Dominican man let his sweaty ass perspire all over the flat bench. Though it was extreme, it nothing out of the ordinary. My experience today towers far above the boxer wearing body builder.
There is a gay, retarded, Spanish man that works out at my gym. Yes, I needed to use all three descriptors for you you get a proper mental picture of him. He is skinny, and judging by the somewhat prominent gray in his hair, probably in his late thirties. His workout clothing consist of a yellow t shirt with a pink duck in diaper and a wide array of pajama pants. Again, please remember this gym is packed with ex cons, bikers, gang members, extreme hipsters and a midget who claims he was once the WBA feather weight champion, and this retarded homosexual is wearing a shirt with a diapered duck and yellow felt pajama pants with singing cupcakes (He also has a pair of mango colored silk pajama pants pokadotted with rainbow frogs and a forest green flannel pair with the words “pizza pizza” sewn onto the butt). While there, and he’s there everyday, he does several sets of starring at you in the eyes and smiling, and then increases the intensity of his workout by sitting on various benches until he has a full boner hard enough to support a six pound medicine ball. Well today was no different, well, until I went to put back a pair of weights I was finished using.
As I walked over to rack the weights he must have felt I came too close to his sky blue flip phone and decided to push me into the wall. Of course I wasn’t going do or say anything, but I was so dismayed that he pushed me that I was suddenly almost scared of this pajama pants bully. I didn’t really move much, as the push was similar in force to a small kitten licking my arm, and after racking the weights I turned and said, “hey, I’m really sorry. I want you to know I saw your phone there, but I understand you wanting to make sure I didn’t step on it.” He just starred at me blankly before spitting at my shoes and cursing me in Spanish (I’m pretty fluent in Spanish and after calling me a “puta” all he really did was try to order a fish sandwich with extra ketchup). I thought nothing of this and went back to my workout. This man has a physical handicap and I could care less what he called me if it brought him a sense of happiness and/or calm. Unfortunately after he finished his fourth set of sitting on benches with a boner, he began using the set of weights I had been using (note my strength, as a skinny mentally disabled man lifts the same weights as myself). Well after my little hiatus at the water fountain I calmly and reassuringly walked over to him and said, “hey listen, if it’s alright with you, can we share these weights? You know, you do a set and then I do a set?” Without hesitation, he immediately rubbed the sweat from his armpit and slapped himself in the face, as if to say, “Puta are you really asking me this right now?” He then picked up the weights and walked to the point furthest away from me, but made sure to come to a complete stop every couple of feet turning around to see if I was following him. Really? Not only did he take my weights, but he’s now looking at me like I’m out to get him. I again tried to make him feel calm and safe by not going anywhere near him, nor looking anywhere in his direction. But when I heard him barking like a small dog, I looked up to see him by a group of older men pointing at me. He saw me, made eye contact with me, formed a gun with his hand, waived it around and pointed it at me until I put my hands up acknowledging his weapon, then holstered it in his cupcake pants and walked into the bathroom. After the door closed the men burst into laughs while shooting each other with their own hand guns.
I wanted to know what he said, so I walked up to the only one of the men who speaks partial English and asked him what he was barking about. He replied with, “he said he was coming over here to warm us because you were trying to steal peoples weights and hide them behind the radio. He said you stole all of the five pound weights last night while the guards were sleeping and were trying to start your own gym. [he laughs some more] But he then told us not to worry because you were scared of him and if needed, he would protect us with his gun if I tried stealing any of our weights.” A little defensive I replied with, “he said I was scared of him?” The man laughed audibly as he spoke, “yeah he said he pushed you earlier and you said sorry little a little queer and ran away. Then when he walked away with his weights he kept stopping and looking at you to see if you wanted to fight, but you kept looking down at the ground like a sissy.” What the hell, I try to be extra considerate to the feelings and emotions of a mental challenged man lover and he calls me a sissy and tells the gym elders that he’s going to shoot me with his finger gun if I try stealing anymore weights… and to think he has a giant boner while all of this is going on. When he exited the bathroom with both hands on his hips like a cowboy ready for a gun fight I knew I’d either have to leave now and never come back or fight him right there in front of there squat press. This gym was far too cheap for me to leave, so I walked up to him and in Spanish, asked if him if he had a problem. He hissed like a snake before replying with the number to the local Papa John’s. I knew this was the number to Papa John’s because one of the three old Spanish men yelped in the background, “he just gave him the number to Papa John’s!” They began slapping themselves they were laughing so hard. I looked boner boy in the eye and told him the only order I’d be placing is for him, if he doesn’t leave me alone. He blinked slowly and then asked me to repeat what I’d like to order. Again I said, “I’ll place and order for you if you don’t let me be. Maybe I’ll even order a side of pain. You hear that, a side of pain.” Without pause he kissed me on the mouth and said, “you’re order has been placed.” Two of three men had now begun running for the door to get more people to come and watch as the third one fumbled to turn his camera phone on. I just stood there confused, with a feeling only comparable to that of an altar boy moments after a priest came all over his boyish breasts. He had now stacked his hands on top of one another and placed them under his chin as he smiled. This was not what I expected, but he was back to his normal routine of smiling and starring… maybe a kiss was all he needed? After a moment he seemed to become totally oblivious to my presence and directed his stares and smiles to the old man with his camera phone. He chased him around, demanding he take picture of his new pants. With the two of them occupying each other attention, I walked over to the weights he had taken from me earlier, picked them up, walked across the gym and hid them with the rest of my weights behind the radio.
Starting My Own Gym,
Daniel Dickey
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