The Gym

It’s been an exceptionally long day. I look forward to nothing more than taking off my shoes and socks, giving my lionhead rabbit a vigorous petting and lying down on my semi-comfortable upholstered yellow couch with a double layer of throw pillows behind my head.

I imagine feeling my rabbit’s fur under my thumb as a I stroke his forehead; from the rougher, bristly hairs above his nose up through the softer ones mid-forehead, and finally the dense, pillowy mat that sits on his crown—the start and finish of his mane.

I relish in this simultaneous memory and expectation of what’s to come as I leave the subway station and turn right on the sidewalk that will take me to where St. Clair West Street meets Bathurst Street. Another right turn on Bathurst Street and I’ll be home in less than 10 minutes.

It’s a dreary day. The weather embodies the fatigue in my soul from another eight hours spent in the beautiful glass-walled office with the people I can’t help but feel like I’m better than.

I approach Bathurst Street while the traffic light is red. I pause my homeward trundle at the intersection and let my eyes wander into the windows of corner café across the street. I wonder, do I deserve a hot chocolate? More importantly, can I stomach one? Even more importantly, do I want one? I may be under the influence of the melancholy sky.

Light turns green—the walk sign flashes underneath. I cross the street, drawing near the café. But as I come closer, my attention drifts away. I don’t look anywhere in particular, but I feel a question down St. Clair West Street that needs an answer.

As if in a daze, I let my body turn left. I intend to cross the intersection again, to the south side of St. Clair West Street. I know where I’m going, but I pretend I don’t.

My senses heighten as I cross: lights are brighter, cars honk louder and the road feels painfully hard beneath my feet. Everything is in stark contrast to the natural gloom of the moment. Fluorescence and shine and grime piercing through a blue-grey veil. I feel like I’m being watched.

I turn right and head down St. Clair West Street.

West on St. Clair West. It’s only natural. It’s a very short walk to where I don’t believe I’m going but, in hardly any time at all, I’m almost there. To my left I pass the Shoppers Drug Mart, then the produce market, then a vintage clothing store, another produce market, a fancy combo fitness centre and smoothie shop, and finally The Gym. The one I’ve been afraid to look into the windows of for months.

Whenever I had to pass by it, I would cross to the other side of the street. No matter which side I was on—safely distanced with two lanes of cars between us or right up close and personal—I wouldn’t dare look into the multi-minute stretch of windows that allow passersby to peer at the entire main floor.

It has a foreboding energy. I rationalize with myself that I will never see anything out of the ordinary if I do make myself look, but I just can’t. I wondered several months earlier if I was being watched, waited for and stared at. I said to myself, it couldn’t be. I’m not worth the effort.

It turns out I am.

I’m reminded once, not long enough ago for me to feel brave now, when I thought I had seen an apparition in all black sitting on a concrete slab in a parking lot. Just off the edge of the sidewalk that had been safe.

It never looked my way—pointedly so. It used the eyes on the back of its head to watch.

It watched me as I stopped in my tracks, mere feet away. It watched nonchalantly as backtracked to hide behind a standing Tim Hortons sign. It watched curiously as I peeked from behind the sign to see if it was still there. It watched with loathing as I walked back towards the nearest traffic light and crossed to the other side—the one I had been avoiding.

As I was about to pass in front of The Gym, I made to glance at the spot where it was sitting, but it caught me by surprise, cutting across the street just ahead of me. Almost as if I imagined it had noticed me at all.

I was not just being watched. I was being memorized. My schedule has been recorded, I know. I wasn’t sure myself of when I’d be passing by, neither the day nor the time, until a few hours beforehand. But I know my schedule now. The Gym has made sure of it.

I’m not supposed to walk past it today. I try to remember which day of the week it is. That’s what matters most. But it’s too late, I’m already walking alongside the windows.

To my horror, I immediately turn my head to look in. I see ellipticals lined up along the wall to the left, I see a row of treadmills facing the window—an unfortunate decision that makes people on both sides feel like they are in a zoo.

I scan, quickly. Left to right. What I’m looking for would be at the far right, standing behind the front desk.

He's not there. I let go of the breath I’d been holding in. I am relieved and vindicated. I wouldn’t have looked if that would put me in danger.

I turn my head forward again as I walk past the entrance. I remember that it’s Thursday and that I knew this all along.

He’s not working on Thursday. He might be anywhere else on this street as he surely loves to leave his mark on the neighborhood. A digital footprint and an emotional one, but both are pretense. No one knows this for certain but me.

Maybe one day, the owner of a café he patronizes on this street will wonder. And then hesitate. And wonder again, until they tire of the cycle and decide they have better things to do than play games where they don’t know the rules.

His history is intertwined with St. Clair West Street. He has dedicated his life to a two-block radius. He will never leave as long as his spirit has a need to haunt.

But I live here now, and I deserve to feel welcome in the neighborhood I’ve grown to love. He will not change that for me. One day, I’ll walk by The Gym and forget not to look in.