The Guy at the Gym

So I went to the gym with Rita last night. It was really crowded, and most of the free weights stations were being used, so I circled back to the cardio equipment and settled onto the Precor machine next to Rita for a quick warmup. After several minutes, I noticed that the free weight crowd was thinning out, so I hurried over and grabbed an open bench. I was in the mood for Chinese music, probably because we just caught up with our friend Ariel from our days teaching English in Taiwan, so I dialed in a peppy Kelly Chen song on my iPod and started on a set of bench presses.

When I finished, I noticed a guy gesturing like he wanted to work in with me. I took out my earbuds and said, "Sure." He asked if he could take forty pounds off of the bar, because he was just starting back up after a month off. I said that was fine and helped him adjust the weight. I then spotted him for his set.

We continued to chat. He apparently learned from another guy at the gym that pushing the weight up slowly will give you the best results. I commented that I also had heard that, and then strained to do my next set more slowly than the last one. At one point during our third set he asked what my name was. I learned his name -- we'll call him Robert. He was a real nice guy -- Latino, a bit shorter than me, and I guessed about the same age as me or maybe a little younger.

As we finished our last set, I started looking around to see what I wanted to do next. Usually, I do back and biceps on the same day as chest. (I have no idea why -- it goes way back to when my buddy Ray and I used to work out at Bally's in Buena Park during the summers when we were home from college. I'll have to ask him.) I was about to thank Robert for spotting me and head off to do some back exercises, when he piped up:

"So what else are you working on today?"

Meaning, of course, what other muscle groups. Which, to me, seemed to imply, "hey, let's do something else...TOGETHER." This took me by surprise and, for some reason, freaked me out. I had this weird fear of commitment thing right then. But I just met you! I thought this was just a one-exercise thing! My mind quickly went to work and cobbled together some semblance of an excuse:

"Uh, actually, I just have about, um, ten minutes left here. Yeah, I only had like thirty minutes to work out today...you know, got here late 'cause of work and...well, you know." (What the hell are you doing?!)

"Oh. What time did you get here?" Robert asked, innocently.

"Uh, about ten, fifteen minutes ago, you know, like around 10:15," the idiot stammered. "Yeah, um, I'm probably going to go finish up with like ten minutes of cardio, and then I...I gotta go. But hey, it was great meeting you, and maybe I'll see you around again, here, you know, and we can...work out again together, or something."

"Yeah, okay. See ya!" Robert replied and turned to start on another exercise.

As I walked back to the Precor machine next to Rita, where she was finishing up her cardio, all I could think was IDIOT! IDIOT! IDIOT! What the hell is wrong with me? Am I socially retarded or what? I totally could have used a workout partner. In my own experience and as I've heard countless times from others, it's ALWAYS better to work out with a partner. And here was a nice guy who also obviously needed a partner. And he knew how to strike up a conversation. Not like the IDIOT.

I stewed over my idiocy in the dry sauna. What happened out there? Why was I choosing isolation over interaction? I started thinking of all the potentially friendly conversations I've avoided lately. Chitchat with the checkout guy at Ralphs. A tasteful joke and a laugh with the two young female clerks at our local public library. Innocuous morning banter with the smiling parking attendant in our garage at work. Nope. I'd have none of it. It was a sad realization, and it made me mad.

I have completely forgotten how to interact with people.

That's an overstatement. What I mean is that I have forgotten how to interact normally with friendly strangers. I blame it on my iPod. I used to be able to strike up conversations with people I didn't know. Now, I seem to have lost that art. I'm out of practice. I've become the person that I used to look down upon with disdain -- the guy with his earbuds securely in place, immersed in his own selection of sounds and thoughts and ignoring the world around him. What a putz.

But wait! It can't be the iPod's fault! It just can't! I mean, that thing has absolutely revolutionized my workouts! Since I got it I've been lifting heavier weights and running harder, pushing my body to the next level. Trying to keep pace with Janet and BT and Erasure and the Chemical Brothers is tricking my body into shaping itself up.

But at what price?

I continued to stew. There was one other guy in the sauna, a bald-headed white guy in maybe his mid- to late-thirties whom I had seen around before. I suddenly hated the hot, stifling silence. I wanted to say something. Something genuine. You know, not just, "Wow, is it hot in here or what?" But I couldn't form any words. (I really wanted to ask him, "Hey, do people ever just start talking to you here, at the gym? What if you don't want to talk, I mean, what do you say to them?" Then it occurred to me, whatever he replied, I wouldn't know if that's what he would actually say, or if he was actually saying it to me because he didn't want to talk to me. That thought made me smile. I hope he didn't notice.)

The bald-headed guy left the sauna after a few minutes. Another chance at social interaction, lost. So I made up my mind. Usually, I push myself to stay in the sauna fifteen minutes for maximum detoxification, but this time I got out early. I showered quickly, got dressed, and hurried back out to the main gym area. I was going to find Robert and make up for my earlier stupidity. The place had cleared out considerably, as it was now well after 11. I didn't see him at first, so I discreetly ambled over to a drinking fountain nearer to the free weights area. Then I saw him. He was in the middle of a curl set when I approached him and called out his name.

"Hey, Robert. So, how often do you come here?"

He finished his set and mopped his brow. "Oh, you know, I try to come every day and just work out different body parts. You know, I did chest today, so tomorrow I'll probably work on legs or something. How about you?"

"Oh, I usually try to come like three times a week," I answered. "So," I asked, "do you usually come around this time?"

"Yeah, after I get off work, so like around 10 o'clock."

"Cool. Hey, so, you know, maybe I'll try to come find you when I come here, and we can work out together. 'Cause, you know, it's always better to work out with a partner," I offered.

"Yeah, sure!" Robert seemed excited. "I'm going to try to set up a routine where I hit all the different muscle groups, so like maybe do this on Monday" -- he pointed to his right bicep and traced a line up to his shoulder -- "and then this on Tuesday, and..." Robert continued like this all the way through the week. I was half listening, but mostly I was feeling better about myself. I am not a social retard. I still know how to make friends and talk to people. Yeah!

"Cool," I said, after Robert had gotten through Friday, which may have been wrists and calves. I'm only half joking. "Sounds like a plan. I guess I'll see you next time we're both here."

"Hey, why don't you give me your cell number?"

"Uh..."

I felt that same Fear of Commitment again.

The exact same thing. AGAIN!

Wait, what am I committing to here? Dude, I just met you! But this time, I caught myself. In a split second, I did the necessary mental gymnastics. Stalker? No, doesn't seem like one. Just a friendly guy at the gym. Latino. What's that mean? Nothing. I have Latino friends. Gangbanger? NO! There's absolutely NO evidence of that. I've obviously been watching too many bad movies. He's a nice guy! Give him a fake number? NO! Why would I do that? I'm not a hottie trying to blow off a guy at a club. What if this doesn't work out? Do we have to stop coming to this gym? Rita will be mad!

I ended up giving him my number.

Maybe I overcompensated. Was this TOO MUCH all at once? Well, whatever. I was glad to shake things up a bit. It's time to get back into society and start connecting with people again. I'll continue to use my iPod at the gym, but not all the time.

We'll see how this works out. I'll keep you posted.

TPIR Episode - Act I, Scene 1 (Intro)

[The following is the first part of a fictitious episode of "The Price is Right." As you can tell, I'm not a screenwriter, so bear with me.]

ACT I

SCENE 1 - "Come On Down!"

[Fade in. A shiny gold border frames the television screen. White and yellow light bulbs line the border and blink randomly. The somewhat recognizable intro theme music begins, the camera pans slowly across the screaming audience, and the announcer, Rod Roddy, begins his voiceover.]

RODDY: "He-e-e-e-ere it comes! Television's most exciting hour of fantastic prizes! The fabulous sixty-minute Price is Right!"

[Cut to a wide shot of the first contestant and start zooming in slowly.]

RODDY: "Bertha McFeely, come on down!"

[Camera zooms in on a moderately overweight, middle-aged Caucasian woman wearing an oversized green sweatshirt that reads, "Barker's Beauties - Topeka Branch." She stands up, screams incoherently, waves her large arms in the air and bear hugs her husband on her right and then a surprised complete stranger on the left. She squeezes her portly frame between her husband and the row of seats in front of her, awkwardly makes her way down her row past seven other wildly cheering and back-patting audience members, and rumbles down the aisle to the first spot in Contestants' Row. Winded, Bertha spends her two seconds of solo airtime with her hands on her knees, panting heavily.]

RODDY: "Ashish Patel, come on down!"

[Camera pans up and to the right, to the farthest rear corner of the audience, where thirty hyperactive college students rise as one and go completely bonkers. Each is wearing a T-shirt or sweatshirt with the same logo consisting of three Greek letters. One young man, a tall, lanky Indian fellow, makes his way to the closest aisle and races down to take his place next to Bertha. They hug while simultaneously jumping up and down, a rare skill that the producers screened for before the show began.]

RODDY: "Michael Washington, come on down!"

[In the middle of the audience on the left side, eight uniformed members of the United States Navy stand up and start cheering. A tall, muscular, clean-shaven black man leaves his shipmates and joins the others as the third contestant in Contestants' Row. Michael high-fives Ashish and grins broadly at the camera.]

RODDY: "And Estelle Pinkerton, come on down!"

[Camera zooms in on the second row, where an elderly Caucasian couple sits quietly. The frail woman looks to her left at her husband, and then to her right, where the jolly Hispanic woman sitting next to her sees Estelle's nametag and realizes that she has been called and needs to get on stage. The Hispanic woman jumps up and screams joyously, tugging at Estelle to get up. Realizing that her name has been called, Estelle smiles, clutches her woolen shawl a little tighter over her shoulders, and moves slowly toward the aisle. Despite the fact that she's only twenty feet from Contestants' Row, it's a good fifteen to twenty seconds before Rod can finish his introduction.]

RODDY: "You are the first four contestants on the Price Is Right!" [Zoom out and show the TPIR logo. The INSTANTLY recognizable theme music starts. You know, "dat dat da-daaah, dat dat da-daaah," etc.] "And now, here's the host of the Price Is Right... BOB BARKER!"

Come On Down (To Fairfax and Beverly)

There was a great article in the New York Times the other day about my favorite game show, "The Price Is Right" (or "TPIR" for short). Like millions of others, I've been watching the show since I was a small child. The set is like a playground for adults, full of life-sized games with flashy, multi-colored pieces and backgrounds. I love the frantic, pachinko-like action in "Plinko!"; the gaudy, oversized fuzzy dice used in the "Dice Game"; the bizarre game that I can't remember the name of right now where your pricing guesses can't be too far off or the mountain climber will tumble over the edge of the cliff. (Also, the background yodeling music for that one is way cool.)

When I was in elementary school, I used to watch TPIR with my stepdad's mother, whom we affectionately called Gram or Grammy. Gram would come out to California from New Hampshire during the summer to catch rays by the pool and get her daily fix of soap operas and game shows. Our favorites were TPIR, "The Young and the Restless" (because it came on right after TPIR and we were too lazy to change the channel), and "Sale of the Century" (another ridiculous but brilliant game show).

Children's television experts say that young kids are comforted by the predictability of their favorite programs. I get that. For example, I saw my first episode of "Dora the Explorer" the other day while waiting to help finalize an adoption at the Children's Court in Monterey Park. From what I can tell, the formula is that Dora goes on an adventure/mission (in this case, helping a lost baby dinosaur find her mom - awwwwww!), she accomplishes it, and then Dora and her friends sing this inane song that goes "We did it, we did it, we did it!" I can see how that would be comforting to a kid, knowing that Dora was going to do what she set out to do, and that the payoff - the stupid song and a lot of jumping and dancing - was coming at the end. My client's three kids knew the song and sang along happily. Even the dad sang along. (I resisted the temptation, even though I also practically knew the song after about three bars.)

That's kind of what game shows, and especially TPIR, were like for me. During summer vacation, I looked forward to 10 a.m. on weekdays, and it was comforting to know that I was in for a predictably good time. I knew that the announcer, Johnny Olson (or later, Rod Roddy), would pick four people from the audience to "come on down," and that Bob would emerge from behind one of the doors onstage to a standing ovation. Sometimes he'd pay some lame compliment to the fawning audience, who would eat it up completely and go even crazier. Sometimes, though, he'd forgo the banter and immediately ask for the "first item up for bids." After hearing the ten-second commercial for the item (including the brand name, of course), the four contestants would bid on the ladies' watch, or barbecue grill, or television set, or whatever. Someone inevitably would screw their neighbor by bidding one dollar more than the previous bid, or would bid $1 if they thought everyone else was on crack ($850 for tennis rackets? WTF?). Eventually, someone would win and join Bob on stage to play one of the games.

I knew this would happen three times, and I'd get to watch three games, before the "Showcase Showdown." This is where the three contestants come back onstage to spin the Big Wheel to see who gets to be in the Showcase at the end of the show. Then three more games, another Showcase Showdown, and then the Showcase. That's it. Formulaic. Comforting. Predictable.

Even things Bob or Johnny or Rod would say during the show were predictable. Any casual TPIR fan can tell you that Bob signs off every show with the signature line "Help control the pet population - have your pets spayed or neutered." The more devout watcher can rattle off the address where you can get Tickets, which Johnny or Rod would mention about halfway through the show: CBS Television City, 7800 Beverly Boulevard, Los Angeles, CA 90036. Growing up, the address didn't mean anything to me - no one from Orange County knows where the hell anything is in L.A.

But it's a block and a half from where we live now. The late-night lining up for tickets on Fairfax that's mentioned in the article? We see it all the time, usually on our way home from the gym. When we first moved to the neighborhood and saw it happening, I knew exactly what it was. Sometimes, in the morning, I see small clumps of similarly dressed people walking west on Beverly toward Fairfax. Sunburned folks with fanny packs and matching red T-shirts that say "Tulsa, OK Loves Bob!" Frat boys from USC with their Greek sweatshirts. Old people. Young people.

A block and a half away.

If I get tickets, will you come with me? You can crash on the futon. But we will need a gimmick...