Compelled By Melete II
Untitled Character Study
My schedule, being as busy as a modern life is in daylight hours, leaves only the night for haphazardly timed visits to the local Y. The treadmills there face windows looking out over what at night is a mostly vacant parking lot, not much to see. But the glare of strip lighting also turns them into semi-opaque mirrors, useful for stealing quick glances at the twenty-nothing gym princesses who, by their general demeanor, apparently own the place. All things considered, I'm not entirely bored.
Directly behind the treadmills is a row of cross trainers, the most desirable of all gym apparati and nearly unobtainable during the peak hours between 5 and 7. During that time there is so much heaving, churning activity in that area that the sweaty narcisists who ride them meld together to become a faceless and unknowable mass. Later at night though, when things are winding down, they remain largely unoccupied and so individual users stand out.
This guy would have stood out even among the aprés-work crowd. He rode the machine almost directly behind me, slowly pedalling backwards, unconsciously cracking his knuckles, his visage an expressionless serial killer stare to nowhere. I'd seen him around at night a few times before, and he always struck me as a natural outsider, a genuine weirdo. But with all of that the thing that was really striking was his hair. Too black. Too long in all the wrong places, and carefully combed to enhance those ungraceful lengths to boot. It was like he'd just stepped out of somebody's 1974 high school year book, the kid most likely to kill his whole family. The first time I noticed him I thought "rug", but another time in the showers it was apparent that if it were a wig, he'd Krazy glued it to his scalp. With this guy, who knew?
Driving home one dreary night, I passed him waiting alone at a bus stop, in the rain, and I thought, "That's just so him."
My schedule, being as busy as a modern life is in daylight hours, leaves only the night for haphazardly timed visits to the local Y. The treadmills there face windows looking out over what at night is a mostly vacant parking lot, not much to see. But the glare of strip lighting also turns them into semi-opaque mirrors, useful for stealing quick glances at the twenty-nothing gym princesses who, by their general demeanor, apparently own the place. All things considered, I'm not entirely bored.
Directly behind the treadmills is a row of cross trainers, the most desirable of all gym apparati and nearly unobtainable during the peak hours between 5 and 7. During that time there is so much heaving, churning activity in that area that the sweaty narcisists who ride them meld together to become a faceless and unknowable mass. Later at night though, when things are winding down, they remain largely unoccupied and so individual users stand out.
This guy would have stood out even among the aprés-work crowd. He rode the machine almost directly behind me, slowly pedalling backwards, unconsciously cracking his knuckles, his visage an expressionless serial killer stare to nowhere. I'd seen him around at night a few times before, and he always struck me as a natural outsider, a genuine weirdo. But with all of that the thing that was really striking was his hair. Too black. Too long in all the wrong places, and carefully combed to enhance those ungraceful lengths to boot. It was like he'd just stepped out of somebody's 1974 high school year book, the kid most likely to kill his whole family. The first time I noticed him I thought "rug", but another time in the showers it was apparent that if it were a wig, he'd Krazy glued it to his scalp. With this guy, who knew?
Driving home one dreary night, I passed him waiting alone at a bus stop, in the rain, and I thought, "That's just so him."
posted by Marty at 12:15 AM
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