Gym Thirteen

There was a dreadful atmosphere in the air. As on every Thursday morning, George had stepped out of his car and started walking toward his destination.

"Gym Thirteen," read the neon sign. George immediately realised the gym was packed from the noise coming through the white plaster walls: the grotesque music mixed with the creaking of outdated equipment. Nothing suggested a welcoming environment inside. On the contrary, everything screamed frustration and discontent from its inhabitants.

George had had a rough week. He pulled the glass-and-brass door toward him and stepped into that hell filled with air freshener.

"Good morning," the custodian's greeting almost startled him. He had no idea who this person might be; usually, there was no one there. Still, he replied, "Good morning."

"Do you already have our membership card?" Of course, he did, what kind of question was that? The guy must have been new.

"Yes, I come here every Thursday."

"My apologies, sir, I’m new here. I was just hired. Could you show me your card?" The lack of trust in his tone, even though it was part of his job, deeply annoyed George. Nevertheless, he couldn’t do anything but nervously grab his wallet to fish out the card and hand it to the skeptic.

George paused for a moment. He stood there staring at the wallet, completely empty as if he had just bought it from the junk dealer on the corner.

An enormous stroke of bad luck, one might say from the outside. Someone had robbed George of his wallet’s contents without him having the slightest clue. The thing is, his path had been as linear as possible, moving from point "A" to point "B"—like a straight line between two points on a circle. He had left his apartment, where he lived alone, grabbed his gym bag, his jacket containing his wallet and keys, and headed to the car. Inside the car, there was obviously no one, and he hadn't made any movements that might suggest something had fallen out during the ride. Upon arriving, he had stepped out of the car, and the rest you already know.

A thousand possible scenarios about how this could have happened swirled in his mind. Perhaps it had been an earlier theft that he hadn’t noticed. Had he done anything unusual the day before? No, of course not—he had been at the office. But perhaps at the office...

A colleague, that’s it. Someone at work might have played a prank on him and emptied his wallet without leaving anything inside. That would make sense. And maybe someone forgot to return the stolen contents at the end of the shift. Sure, that made a lot of sense.

"I'm sorry, I think I've been robbed. Can I maybe provide my name and surname?"

"Of course." The employee put on his glasses and hunched over the terminal, revealing a noticeable kyphosis halfway down his back.

"Your name, please?"

"George Dreyfus."

"Dreyfus with a y?"

"Yes."

"Dreyfus, Dreyfus… I see Drewit, Dreyer. Drewry. Dreyfus isn’t here, sir."

This was too much.

"Excuse me, how is that possible? I've been coming here for two years to train. How can you not find me? Ask the floor manager."

"All right. Wait here for a moment." A wave of sweat odour blasted through as the employee opened the sliding door behind the desk, granting workers more direct access to the weight room.

As soon as the employee left, everything clicked for George. That’s what it was! His membership had expired two days ago because today was March 2nd. His routine had mistakenly suggested it was February 30th. Every year, he signed the wrong documents. He’d have some corrective letters to send at work the next day. But at least this explained why he wasn’t in the database.

A burly, bald man crouched to pass through the sliding door. The man was a literal mountain. He leaned on the desk and fiddled with the computer to check the time. George recognized him as Trevor, his personal trainer. He smiled at him the way one does at old friends.

"Trevor, someone emptied my wallet, and I forgot to renew my membership. Can I train today and pay for the month next time?"

Trevor looked at the small man in front of him with a compassionate expression. It took him a moment to speak. George could see something was troubling him.

"No, George. You can’t."

How was this possible? Was it a nightmare? What could he have possibly done to deserve such a refusal?

"What do you mean, Trevor? What did I do wrong?"

"You didn’t do anything wrong, George. Nothing. You’re a good person."

He stopped. This was all so surreal.

"What do you mean? What are you trying to tell me?"

"I mean, George… you’re no longer welcome at this gym. In fact, you’re being asked to leave. You didn’t do anything wrong. Really."

"I don’t understand, Trevor. Really."

"You don’t have to understand, George. You’ve been coming here every Thursday morning for two years. Now it’s time for you to change. I’ve seen how you’ve been, George. You weren’t happy. You didn’t even know why you were coming here. Your life is a constant pendulum between work and the gym. My colleagues and I, watching you from the outside, were worried you might kill yourself one of these days. No, I won’t be an accomplice to your suicidal tendencies, sorry. Find some other stupid hobby that makes you forget how pointless and empty your life is. Here, I don’t want any trouble."

George didn’t know whether to be offended or to trust him, like a son receiving advice from his father.

"You know what, George? This place needs to disappear for you. You won’t miss it. It’s terrible. And I care about you. That’s why I’m doing this, no other reason. And if you do miss it, even better! You never know a good thing until it’s gone. Then, and only then, when you’ve recognized the value of what you’re doing without mechanically following the routine like every other day of your life, will you be allowed back."

This speech filled George with great unease. First of all, how did Trevor know him so well? It was a mystery to him. The only times they had really talked were when discussing exercises. Trevor must have been observing him closely for the past two years to arrive at that particular opinion of him—a judgment George didn’t find unfounded, on the contrary. The only thing was, he didn’t know such a thing could be done in a gym.

"So, I’m banned?"

"Yes, George. You’re banned. But call me if you want to grab a beer in a month and a half, okay? I’ve got a lot going on right now."

And with that, Trevor squeezed through the sliding door and disappeared into the hallway of the weight room. The receptionist stared at him for a moment while George returned to studying his empty wallet. There was a brief moment of awkwardness.

"So… you heard what the boss said." The guy was in a real hurry to get him out, that big jerk.

"Of course, of course," George said, going along with it. He glanced around one last time for what he had lost, then slung his gym bag over his shoulder and stepped out into the morning’s crisp air.

The neon sign and grotesque music danced together, flashing lights accompanying the rhythm. There was something hypnotic about it for George, who paused to watch. In front of him was his car, which he began to approach slowly.

With his hand rummaging in his pocket for his keys, he came across a tiny turtle. Bending down, he picked it up. The turtle began to crawl on his hand. George laughed.

He opened the car door and placed the turtle on the passenger seat. Its shell was rough and dark green with light accents. He had never been happier. He started the car, his heart filled with joy.

A strange thought crossed his mind. Everything that had happened to him that morning had swept him into a single moment of enlightenment.

Arriving at his house, he stopped. Deep down, he decided to take one last look at it. It would be the last photograph of his old life.