by Joy Fielding
Her friend is on the second of the five treadmills. She is skipping and watching Judge Judy on her tiny TV. Judge Judy looks angry.
I stand by the door for several minutes, trying to decide what to do. I want to return to my condo, but that would be silly. Fate has succeeded in bringing me here to the second floor, to the gym. Fate wants me to exercise. It wants me to take back control of my life.
Get on the fucking treadmill, Fate is telling me.
I climb on the treadmill next to Judge Judy. “You’re an idiot,” she is shouting at some hapless young man cowering before her. “Who do you think you’re talking to?”
I turn on my treadmill, feel it sputter to life beneath my feet, my body lurching forward as I try to adjust my pace. I move, slowly at first, then faster, picking up speed, eventually settling on three miles an hour. The girl on the treadmill beside me is going considerably faster and has started doing some frightening combination of skips and jumps, all without breaking a sweat. “Isn’t that kind of dangerous?”
She doesn’t break stride. “Nah. You get used to it.”
“Looks pretty scary.”
“Trust me. It’s not as scary as it looks.”
Do I tell her I trust no one? “Looks pretty scary,” I repeat instead.
“Not nearly as scary as Judge Judy.” She nods toward the television screen. “Now, that’s one scary lady.”
I watch Judge Judy shift her attention from the young man in front of her to his accuser. “And you, young lady,” Judge Judy is saying, her voice as lacerating as a whip, “what were you thinking, showing up at his apartment in the middle of the night?”
“I wanted to see him,” the girl whines.
“But he already told you he didn’t want to see you.”
“I know, but …”
“No buts,” Judge Judy shouts.
Who are these people? I wonder, temporarily losing myself in their squabble. What are they doing on national television, airing their silly problems for everyone to witness? What happened to the desire for privacy, the very idea of it? Surely it is one thing to try to see ourselves as others see us and something else entirely to see ourselves only as others see us. What have we become that we achieve validation and credibility only through the eyes of others?
I turn away from the TV, shift my focus to the mirrored wall in front of me. I’m a hypocrite, I recognize. My whole career is predicated on the lack of privacy I was just condemning. What am I but a scavenger, constantly sifting through the detritus of other people’s lives, digging through their garbage, spying through their windows, on the lookout for their darkest secrets?
I call it “collecting facts.”
“I don’t think I’ve seen you before,” the girl on the treadmill is saying. She is turned toward me, her well-defined arms gripping the side bar of the machine as she lopes along sideways, a few delicate beads of perspiration sliding gracefully down her chest before disappearing into her cleavage. “I’m Kelly. Suite 1712.”
“Nice to meet you, Kelly.”
She points with her chin to the girl on the elliptical machine. “That’s Sabrina. She’s in 1019. You are …?”
“Oh, sorry. Bailey. Bailey Carpenter.”
Kelly waits a beat for me to reveal my suite number, as if my name is incomplete without it, then continues on when I don’t. “Don’t you just love living here? Isn’t it the best? We love living here.”
“I love living here,” I echo.
“So, what do you do?” she asks.
The unexpected question causes my knees to buckle, and I almost trip over my feet.
“Careful,” Kelly warns.
I lower my speed and manage to steady myself. “I’m kind of unemployed at the moment,” I tell her, a half-truth at best, something I’ve become very good at.
“Been there, done that.” She smiles reassuringly. “Trust me. Something will turn up.”
I admire her certainty. I still don’t trust her.
“I’m a bartender,” she tells me. “Sabrina, too. We work at Blast-Off, over on South Miami Avenue. You know it?”
Who in Miami doesn’t know Blast-Off? It’s a cavernous, industrial-looking dance club that boasts music so loud you feel as if your head is literally going to explode. I went there once with Travis and my brother. They claimed they wanted to see some famous DJ who was on the schedule for that night, but it turned out that the only person they were really interested in was their dealer, and when I found this out, I headed straight for the exit. Travis and I didn’t speak for two days. It was another two weeks before my ears stopped ringing. “It’s kind of noisy there.”
“You get used to it,” Kelly says. Clearly she is a woman who gets used to things. I wonder how she would adjust to being raped. “And the money’s terrific.”
“Maybe I should consider it,” I say, more to be polite than because the idea appeals to me. Even the thought of working in a club like Blast-Off sends fresh waves of anxiety shooting through my body.
Kelly’s eyes widen in obvious surprise. I check my reflection and immediately understand why. I am skeletal beneath my shapeless clothing, my arms protruding like bones from the short sleeves of my T-shirt.
Would you buy a drink from this woman? I wonder.
“I’ve lost a bit of weight,” I start to say. But Kelly has already turned away from me and is now facing in the opposite direction, continuing to lope, oblivious to everything but her own exertions.
I watch her from behind, noting her long, toned legs inside her tight, black, knee-length leotards, my eyes tracing the faint outline of her thong, her high round backside, her slender waist and wide shoulders. She is unaware of my gaze. Or maybe she knows I’m looking but doesn’t care. She’s used to being watched. Something else she’s used to.
The door to the exercise room opens, and a man walks in. He is in his mid-thirties, reasonably tall and slim, clean-shaven, with brown hair and dark eyes. He is wearing black nylon shorts and a matching T-shirt. His arms are strong but not overly muscular. All in all, not bad looking, although perhaps not quite as handsome as he thinks. I recognize him as someone who hit on me several times when I first moved into the building, although I can’t remember his name. “Ladies,” he says, looking from Kelly to Sabrina and then back to Kelly. He seems not to have noticed me at all, for which I’m grateful. “How’s everybody doing this afternoon?”
Sabrina smiles but says nothing.
Kelly doesn’t break stride. “Doing great.”
The man watches her for several seconds. “I’m David Trotter. Suite 1402.”
Kelly offers neither her name nor her suite number in return, a sure sign she’s not interested in continuing the conversation.
David doesn’t take the hint. “That’s quite the routine you’ve got going there. You a dancer?”
“No.”
“Exercise instructor?”
“Just like to work out.”
“Yeah? Me, too.” As if to prove his point, David moves toward the selection of free weights on the floor at the far end of the room. He picks up two thirty-pound weights and begins hoisting them up and down over his head. Immediately, his face turns beet red, and beads of sweat break out across his forehead. He stops after six repetitions, trying to catch his breath as he watches Kelly. “So, what do you do? Wait—don’t tell me. You’re a model.”
Kelly all but groans. “Bartender.”
“No kidding. Where?”
“Blast-Off.”
“Hey. One of my favorite clubs. You gonna be there tonight?”
An almost imperceptible nod.
“Maybe I’ll drop by.” David resumes hoisting the barbells above his head. “You haven’t told me your name.”
Kelly turns off her machine and jumps off. “Sabrina, you almost done?”
Sabrina pulls the wires out of her ears. “Two more minutes.”
Kelly grabs the bottle of Lysol from the shelf, spraying it into a paper towel that she uses to wipe down
the treadmill.
“So, she’s Sabrina,” David says, refusing to give up. “And you’re …?”
“Kelly,” she tells him, managing to keep her voice pleasant. Our eyes connect in the mirror. Help me, her eyes plead.
“You think you’d let me buy you a drink, if I were to show up tonight?”
“Sorry, but we’re not allowed to drink on the job.”
“How about after?”
“I work till four A.M.”
Can the man really be so obtuse? Can he not see how uncomfortable he is making Kelly, how eager she is to get away from the leer in his eyes?
“You ever get a night off?” he persists.
“Not very often. Let’s get a move on, Sabrina.” Kelly moves toward the door.
“How about we work out together tomorrow? If I know what time you’re going to be here, I could rearrange my schedule so that …”
“I think you should leave her alone now,” I hear myself say.
“I’m sorry,” David says. “What did you say?”
“I said you should leave her alone. She’s clearly not interested.…”
“And this is clearly none of your business.”
“Look,” Kelly interrupts. “The truth of the matter is that I have a boyfriend.…”
I almost smile. Experience has taught me that when people say “the truth of the matter,” it usually means they’re about to lie.
“You have a boyfriend?” David asks. “Why didn’t you say so?” He actually manages to look offended. “Of course, we wouldn’t have to tell him.” He runs his tongue lewdly across his upper lip.
“Why don’t you just give it up?” I say, feeling the obscene wetness of his tongue against my skin.
“What the hell is your problem?” David snaps, waving one of the weights in front of him. But it is too heavy and his arm quickly collapses with the effort.
“We’re out of here,” Kelly says as Sabrina steps off the elliptical machine. “Nice meeting you, Bailey.” She mouths a silent “thank you” as she ushers her friend from the room.
No! I think. Don’t go. You can’t leave me alone with this man.
David abandons his weights as soon as the women leave. He walks toward me.
My heartbeat quickens. My palms become cold and clammy. I have to get off this machine, but he is standing behind me, blocking my exit.
“What’s with you?” he asks. “You jealous? Feeling neglected?”
My eyes look toward the surveillance camera in the upper right corner of the room, praying that someone is watching.
“Wait a minute,” he says, staring at my reflection in the mirror. “I know you, don’t I?”
I shake my head.
“Yeah, I do.” He moves to my side, as if to get a better look at my profile.
My eyes scan the front of my treadmill for the off button. I have to get away from here. Maybe I can just jump off. I’m not going that fast. I decide to slow the machine down but press the wrong arrow and increase the speed instead. Three miles an hour quickly becomes 3.2, then 3.5.
“Didn’t we go out a few years back?”
“No.”
3.7 … 3.8 … 3.9 …
David sneers audibly but doesn’t move.
I have to get away from this man. I have to get out of here.
4.0 … 4.1 … 4.2 …
“This building is full of women who think they’re too damn good for the likes of us poor mortals.”
4.5 … 4.6 … 4.8 … I’m running now. Maybe if I run as fast as I can … 5.1 … 5.5 … 5.7 … I hear my breath escaping in a succession of short, painful bursts. My throat is drying up. My lungs are filling with air, like balloons. Surely any more air and they will burst into thousands of pieces, splattering against the mirror, like blood.
“And I gotta admit, a lot of them are pretty spectacular,” David continues, his attention temporarily diverted by his own reflection. “Prettiest girls in the world live in Miami. And they know it. I mean, I’ve been all over: New York, Las Vegas, even L.A. They got nothing on Miami. I’m talking even Brazil. Even the hookers here are better-looking.”
6.0 … 6.2 … 6.5 …
“And they know it, man. They know they’re gorgeous, and they know they have you over a barrel. You know what I mean? They know they have their pick of the litter. So, it’s not enough anymore to have a Mercedes or a Jag. You gotta drive a Lamborghini or a Ferrari. You gotta wear Brioni suits, like fucking James Bond. You gotta have big muscles and a bigger …”
6.8 … 7.1 … 7.3 …
Somebody, help me. Please, help me.
“Hey, you’re going awfully fast there.”
7.5 … 7.8 … 7.9 …
“Maybe you should slow it down.”
I look in the mirror, watch myself watching myself.
“I think your shoelace is coming undone.”
I glance down, see that the laces of my right sneaker have indeed come loose and have started flopping noisily against the moving sidewalk of the treadmill. If I’m not careful, I’ll trip over them. But I can’t stop now. I have to run faster. I have to get away.
8.1 … 8.2 …
Now both shoelaces have come loose. They are snapping against my ankles, coiling over each other, like worms. I look over at David’s feet, unmoving in his black sneakers with the white Nike swoosh.…
“No!” I cry out. “No!”
8.3 … 8.4 …
“What the hell are you doing?”
I can’t escape. I’m running as fast as I can, but still, I can’t get away. He doesn’t even have to move to catch me. I feel my legs growing weak, giving way. I can’t keep going. My eyes implore the woman watching me from the mirror. Help me! She stares back blankly and does nothing.
8.5 … 8.6 …
My legs shoot out from underneath me, and I scuttle backward through the air, screaming as my jaw slams against the sidebar, and I fly off the back of the treadmill into the water cooler behind me. Hand sanitizer and Lysol crash down around me from the shelf over my head. Paper towels flutter into the air, like kites without wind, as I crumple to the floor. The water cooler teeters on its side for several seconds, then miraculously rights itself before falling over.
“What the fuck …?” David is shouting. “Are you all right? What the hell were you doing?” His hands reach out. He touches my arm.
“No,” I scream. “Don’t touch me.”
“I’m only trying to …”
“Don’t touch me!”
“What’s the matter with you?”
“Get away from me.”
“I’m just trying to help you, you crazy bitch.”
“No! No! Get off me. Don’t touch me.”
I’m slapping him now, scratching and biting at his hand.
“What the …”
“Help me! Somebody, help me!”
And suddenly the door to the exercise room flies open and the room is full of men. Finn and Stanley and Wes and the janitor, an elderly man whose name I don’t remember.
David is already on his feet. “I swear. I didn’t do a damn thing to her.”
“What’s going on?” Finn demands, kneeling beside me, although my posture warns him to keep his hands to himself.
“She’s crazy,” David says softly, although still loud enough for me to hear. “She suddenly starts going like a hundred miles an hour on the damn treadmill, and I try to warn her she’s going too fast. She looks like she’s going to have a heart attack. But she just keeps ramping up the speed and before you know it, she’s flying off the back of the stupid thing and knocking everything over, shit’s flying all over the place—you almost lost that water cooler—and I go to help her, and what does she do? She starts screaming to stay away from her, like I’m attacking her or something. And I swear I never touched the crazy bitch. You can check the surveillance tapes, if you don’t believe me.”
I catch Stanley nod. They saw some of what went on from the lobby, I hear him confide to David. That was th
e reason they got here so fast.
“Are you all right, Miss Carpenter?” Finn asks.
“Is there anything we can do?” Stanley says.
“Is anything broken?” Wes adds.
I shake my head, my eyes riveted on David’s black sneakers with the white Nike swoosh.
“Do you think you can stand up?” Finn asks, securing my laces with a double knot and helping me to my feet.
Is it possible that David is the man who raped me?
“Is it all right if I go now?” David says, more statement than question.
“You’re sure you didn’t say anything to upset her?” Stanley asks as he walks him to the door. “Anything at all?”
“Are you kidding? No. If anything, it was the other way around. She was ragging on me.”
“Miss Carpenter,” Finn is saying as David exits the premises. “Are you all right? Are you bleeding? You’re sure nothing’s broken?”
I check my forearm. It is scratched, but not bloody. I’ve wrenched my back, twisted my ankle. My head is throbbing. My jaw aches. But, as Kelly might say, I’m used to such things.
“You want us to call an ambulance?” Wes is asking from somewhere above my head.
“No. I’m all right.” I struggle to my feet. It hurts to put weight on my ankle, but it isn’t broken, and I know there’s nothing a doctor can do.
“What happened here, Miss Carpenter?” Finn asks. “I’m gonna have to file a report.”
Could David be the man who raped me? I wonder again, reminding myself that owning the same kind of running shoes as my attacker doesn’t mean very much. I need to think things through before I start making crazy accusations. I need to shower and get into bed. I need to get away from all these men and back to my apartment as fast as possible. “I was going too fast. I tripped over my shoelaces. It was my fault,” I say. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to sue anyone.”
“It’s you we’re worried about. Is there someone we can call? Your brother, maybe.…”
“No. Yes,” I say, all in the same breath. Although I desperately want to get back to my apartment, I also know, just as desperately, that I don’t want to be alone. I need someone to be with me, someone to take care of me and protect me, if only from my own crazy thoughts. “Please,” I hear myself tell Finn, “call my sister. Call Claire.”