Caricatures from the Gym

My wife and I have been going to the neighborhood gym for over three years now. In that time, I have mostly kept to myself while observing and occasionally chatting with other regulars. The impressions below are somewhat caricature-like, based mostly on seeing people I haven’t actually gotten to know. I’m probably as much a caricature to them as they are to me. To protect the innocent, all names are made up:

There’s Kevin, who is almost eighty and comes to the gym every day. He walks laps in the pool, and afterwards he does his own personal method of tapping on his face in the hot tub. He is content to keep to himself, but when you talk to him his face brightens with a smile that is both warm and subtly mischievous. He likes old Westerns.

There’s Sam, the chattiest person in the gym. One wonders if he is there to work out or to socialize. Despite his ease chatting up anyone who happens to be around, his topics are rather pedestrian, such as the physical difficulties of getting old and the ghastly high price of beer at the neighborhood bar. He also spouts supposed wisdom about how the steam room helps his heart. He is a social boon in the locker room, as most guys respond in kind to his loud voice and boisterous chit chat.

There’s Tom, who looks like he’s about seventy and has such an easy-going and familiar manner that for months I thought he was the gym’s oldest employee. His voice frequently erupts in the workout room as he greets other patrons, slapping them on the back like old friends. He exudes positivity, as if from the endorphins of working out. He could be the gym’s mascot.

There’s Harry, who comes every day and never makes eye contact with anyone. I have rarely ever heard him talk. One day I saw him wearing a t-shirt that alluded to being hard of hearing. He is about the most removed person I have ever seen and seems like a ghost dwelling on another plane. Yet he is Mr. Consistency at the gym and uses the treadmill and the elliptical. Once he told me he liked my shirt. I was astounded, as if the neighborhood squirrel had spoken.

There’s Diana, who keeps to herself and wears big headphones at all times, whether on the treadmill or in the hot tub. At one point, she brought her son to the gym, but usually she’s alone, an impervious expression on her face.

There’s Charlie, who has a ritual of repeatedly snorting loudly at the sink in the locker room, as if doing his own personal sinus-clearing program. Sometimes he chats on his phone about his real estate properties. There’s an uncomfortable way about him, as if the locker room is his personal territory and none of the rest of us matter.

There’s Elizabeth, who frequents the hot tub and who, if engaged with, will immediately start complaining, such as about swim lessons or aqua class interrupting her swim. She has the air of someone who thinks she has seen it all, yet her tiny world seems as stuffy as the old copies of magazines she proudly says she still reads.

There’s Geoffrey, who swims with a swimming cap, has a pot belly and says he does fifty push ups a day. He alternates between congenial cheerfulness and bemoaning his fate as a struggling bar owner who “can’t retire” because he has no money.

There’s Dennis, who frequently “works out” on the elliptical so slowly it’s hard to tell he’s even exercising. He will do twenty or thirty minutes and not break a sweat. If there was an award for making movement look sedentary, he would win it.

There’s Hank, who runs on the treadmill like a fiend. He seems to have only one speed: as fast as possible. He runs with a long, wide gait while breathing loudly. He seems desperately committed to getting somewhere, and I hope he does before he burns out.