Perhaps calling it GhettoGym is a self-fulfilling prophecy. This morning, as I drank my coffee while checking my e-mail, I wondered if I should blog about last night’s viewing of U.S. Marshals or go to the gym and see if anything wacky happens there.
Screw U.S. Marshals. Get a load of what just happened to me.
After nearing cardiac arrest on the StairClimber and dismayed to find not one of the good treadmills or elipticals available, I found a lone stationary bike in the packed gym, keyed in Level 12 and cracked open my Elle. Lost in article about the history of the little black dress, I was yanked into GhettoGym reality by panicky screaming about 4 feet to my left.
“Get the fuck away from me! Get away! Oh my god, someone call for help!”
100 people looked up from their newspapers and iPods, although my proximity was in to top 5%, and assessed the level of emergency. A small, wiry, middle-aged white woman was screaming hysterically at a 20-something, baggy jeans-clad black man.
“Get away! Don’t you hear me! Ahhhhhhhh!”
Baggy jeans was really just standing there, getting pissed off and saying, “What’s your problem, lady? You need to chill.”
“Move! Get out of here! Ahhhhh! Help! Help!”
“Does anybody see this bitch yelling at me for no reason?” Baggy jeans loudly asked the gym. No one reacted. Everyone stared.
“Ahhhh! Get away from me!” It’s at this point, that she began kicking him and yelling racial slurs.
Literally, everyone was stunned into silence.
“Get this bitch off me!” Baggy jeans yelled. “I’m being assaulted!”
“I’m going to have you arrested! Security! Security!” And with that, middle-aged went running off to the front desk. Baggy jeans turned to the gym. “Did any of y’all see that bitch assault me?”
Nothing. 100 pairs of eyes stared back at him.
Louder and more pissed off. “Did any of y’all see that bitch assault me!!!???!!!”
(now let me just say, in my defense, I saw her kick him. But the kick didn’t really connect with his body and I wanted none of this mess, which at this point, I still didn’t understand.)
To her immense credit, a ballsy woman on another stationary bike piped up. “Yeah. I saw her kick you.”
Baggy jeans turned to her. “What did you say?”
“I said I saw her kick you.”
“You are a witness! Come with me!”
And off they went. The bikers to my right and left both looked at me.
“I have no idea?”
“Did he do anything?”
“I don’t think so.”
“She must be nuts.”
“Well, he should’ve walked away.”
“Yeah. Good rule of thumb. Crazy person? Walk away.”
We resumed our peddling, but not knowing what happened was driving me nuts. It was all I could do not to go to the front desk and involve myself. But instead, I finished my cardio and went up to the weight room, because I’m, you know, so committed to fitness.
Lo and behold, who was sitting across from me in the thigh toning area? Ballsy witness!
“Excuse me? I’m dying to ask. I saw the altercation downstairs. What happened?”
“Apparently, he made eye contact with her and it freaked her out. Turns out, she is a rape survivor and was having some kind of flash back. She completely lost control.”
“What? Did he do anything, though.”
“Well, when she started to freak out, he should’ve split.”
“But he’s obviously sensitive to racism and wasn’t going to back down.”
I love you, ballsy witness.
“So did she leave?”
“I don’t know. I left them both up by the front desk. But she was still hysterical. She was banging on the windows over-looking the pool. Poor thing.”
“Oh my god! That’s insane. Well, good for you for stepping in.”
“Have a great work-out.”
“Yeah, you too.”
Just to punctuate how huge and distracting this altercation was, 2 people approached me afterward and rightly assuming me to be the nosey and indiscreet gossip that I am, inquired as to the details. All too happy to inform them, I wrapped up my workout and headed out of GhettoGym.
Thank god I have a blog in which I feel compelled to write everyday and a membership to the filthiest, most ghetto gym in all of San Francisco. Otherwise, I’d never work out, where I am guaranteed at least one daily incident of pure and wonderful insanity. And to think. You almost had to read my thoughts of the Tommy Lee Jones/Wesley Snipes car wreck, U.S. Marshals. God, I love GhettoGym…