Don't Accost Me in a Restroom!

Whosoever accosts a stranger in a Gold's Gym restroom/locker room deserves unequivocally callous scorn. Last night, I was said stranger. The no-neck, tatted-up, partially cross-eyed accoster was a redheaded stepchild if I've ever seen one.

It was 11:15 p.m. I was blowing my nose after running about four miles. Sweat saturated my shirt. MP3 player blared Phil Collins' "Something Happened On the Way to Heaven."

In walks the goon with the cartoonish mass, acting as if the room were too small for his gigantic muscles. (C'mon, you have to save that swagger for O Street!) He wore sweatpants and a blue wifebeater. His left arm was one continuous tat, with the U.S. flag emblazoning his shoulder. "You're looking at a patriot. Get my patriotism in ink. I was a special-needs student throughout school. Do you do tramp stamps? I want a rainbow." A pro-wrestling reject, I thought. His underdeveloped mustache looked as if he'd smeared Dorothy Lynch under his nose. His eyes had this slow-on-the-uptake glaze about them. Dopey-looking—that's the choice descriptive.

I'd shaved off my mini-afro earlier in the day and was/am rocking a cut that a friend calls the Jack Shephard, and the lastingly wretched sunburn on my forehead had warped my face into a grimace. I didn't exactly look like the kindest, most approachable fellow in the gym.

Meathead was unfazed. He asked, "Have a nice workout?"

I said something like, "I work hard and have overactive sweat glands. It's the perfect storm."

Curtains. Or not.

(The following one-sided conversation occurred with about ten feet between us. He was still in my personal space, and I was out of my comfort zone. He was a body language abecedarian, okay, know-nothing. He sure as heck couldn't read mine. I often glanced away. I twirled my earbuds. I discreetly tapped on my left wrist where a watch might be. No difference.)

He launched into a gassy monologue that was as self-serving as it was unintelligible. Besides "Cool, man," "I see," "Good luck with that," "Oh," and "That sucks," I couldn't get a word in edgewise. He inconsiderately prattled for about three minutes—it seemed like three years—about tearing a rotator cuff and a bicep, some bone protruding somewhere, and bodybuilding competitions. (Bodybuilding? He had breasts! C cups. He needed a "mansiere.") This wasn't/isn't his fatal flaw. The motormouth could not enunciate. No enunciation, period. He'd spit out a paragraph like it was one word. I could maybe understand every sixth word. (Insert your own "Hooked on Phonics" joke.) "Body" was the only word you'd find in a dictionary.

It was highly perturbing. I wanted to bail but didn't want to be overtly rude. Why couldn't I be more of a fire-eater? "Enough out of you! No one cares how many steroids you injected today? You're not Lyle Alzado." I couldn't do it.

He said he has three jobs, I think, one as a bouncer. Of course. A person with piss-poor to no people skills should work with people, and unthinking, sodden, dissatisfied ones at that. Makes sense.

My breaking point came, and I walked past him. He was still crowing illiterately about powerlifting, bronzing, and pose-offs. I waited for him to take a breath and said, "Dude, I'm not gay."

Interaction? Flatline.