Nice Duck, Man

Back when I was in high school my family got a group membership to the local YMCA. We all kidded ourselves into thinking we would go on these family exercise excursions, but in reality none of us ever went more than 4 or 5 times and the only real benefit we got out of it was the keychains.

However, occasionally I would let myself fall into the mindset that all I needed to do to get ripped was show up at the gym and find some way to break a sweat. If you’re losing water you’re gaining abs right? Well no, wrong actually, but I went anyway. At first I would start out doing some cardio, then head downstairs and do some lifting. After that I might work a couple games of raquetball in, and then finish up with a nice steam.

As time went by I slowly started skipping the cardio. Anything endorsed by Richard Simmons can’t actually be good for you. Eventually the lifting went away too, as I found it somewhat embarrassing having to continuously ask other people to take the 35 pound weights off the bar since I couldn’t even lift those. Finally the raquetball stopped as well. If you’ve never played raquetball I can give you a quick idea of what it is. You go into an enclosed room desperately trying to swat at a ball which is ultimately just going to hit you in the nuts. I don’t even remember walking out of the court once without an ice pack duck-taped to my shorts.

The steam, however, I kept. It wasn’t too hard to go into a room and sit, and I seemed to break just as much of a sweat doing that. The only problem with the steam room was the large amount of naked contained within. Nobody ever wore anything other than a smile in there, and they all seemed way too happy about it. Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy a nice breeze as much as the next guy, but not when the next guy is sitting three feet away from me spread eagle talking about how he spends his time at the gym just “hanging with the guys.” Never again will I use the term “hanging with the guys” to refer to anything.

I always would sit a little away from the rest of the group, and I always wore a white towel. After my mom would wash all the towels she would stack the white ones up separately so that I could just grab one each morning when I packed my gym bag. At the gym I would go into the locker room, find an empty stall, change into the towel while constantly looking for someone to peek over the stall, then quickly stash my bag and head into the steam room so as to not have to stay in the locker room any longer than necessary. The only thing worse than being in a steamed-up room with a bunch of naked old men is being in a perfectly clear, well-lit room with a bunch of naked old men.

So one day I followed my routine and headed into the steam room. I found a seat over in the corner opposite a large black man. He was naked, of course, and probably weighed anywhere between 300-350 pounds. I gave him the standard I’m-acknowledging-you-but-I-don’t-feel-like-chatting head nod and he returned it, and I sat back, shut my eyes, and relaxed. A few seconds later through the heat and steam I hear a very James Earl Jones-esque voice say

Large Black Man: Nice duck, man.

For just a second I froze. I wasn’t sure if he was speaking with some sort of metaphor, possibly some street lingo I had not yet heard of. Either way I knew it was unnatural for him to be complimenting my “duck.” I sat up a little and pretended that I hadn’t really heard him.

Me: I’m sorry?

Large Black Man: (pointing to my towel) I said nice duck man. You know, on the towel.

I pulled up the corner of the towel and finally realized what he meant. There, embroidered in the corner of the towel, was a smiling, yellow duck. The towel was my little sister’s bath towel and my mom hadn’t seen the logo when folding it in with the rest of the plain white towels. I sat for a second, trying to decide how to play it. Ultimately I just stood up, holding the corner of the towel out of sight, went straight to my locker, changed, and went home. Smooth I know.

I never did have the courage to go back into the steam room at the YMCA. I knew the odds of running into that man again were slim, but all I could think about was how he told everyone that came in that he had seen my duck. And we all know what that meant to them.

Josh