Confronting The Biggest Prick At The Gym

And a classic psychological study from 1972

At my gym, there’s this guy I couldn’t stand. Latino guy (about 83.1% of the men in my gym are Latino). Tower of muscle. Neck like a tree trunk. Face like a brick wall that someone scowled into existence. I mean that literally. His facial expression is a permanent scowl.

He walks around the gym like he’s this year’s adult homecoming king. And the thing is, the Latino men in the gym treat him like he is. They fist bump him like a visiting deity. They take out their headphones when he walks by. Some give up their machines without saying a word. He just walks up, kettlebells in each hand, and people part like gym-going Moseses.

Hear me out. He slowly walks from one activity to another on the other side of the gym carrying a kettlebell in each hand. If someone is in the way, I have yet to see him alter his trajectory. It’s as if the other gym members are insignificant meteoroids waiting for him to alter the gravitational field.

I decided he was a dick.

And it wasn’t anything he said. It was vibes. Intuition. Gut instinct.

I knew that our paths would cross. And they did.