I found out what happened to Nelson today. He was my gym buddy, but not in a way you would think one would be.

“His family has moved him to another rehab center near Valdosta,” his trainer at our gym told me as I checked in with him about Nelson. “If he can’t find therapists to cure him in a city like Atlanta, how can he find cure in a small town in south Georgia?” I wanted to ask, instead, I smiled and walked away.

Nelson never told me he was leaving. Maybe he didn’t have to. 

The first time I met him was 3 years ago, when people started flooding back to gyms, with more vigor than the pre-Covid days. I had just come back from the sauna area, and was making my way to my favorite treadmill. I stopped over at the water station, filled my bottle and turned around.

I locked eyes with him and immediately looked away for a second. I looked back at him and smiled briefly to see him staring at me kindly. Years of conditioning had told me that I was to not look at people in wheelchairs differently and that they were one of us. They don’t need our pity; they just want the same opportunity.

So, instead of carrying my gaze on him to process his condition, I stared at the ground as I walked past him.

From the corner of the eye, I saw his head tilt upwards towards me and I could sense he was still looking at me. I stopped and bent over to be at his eye level. He paused his pull ups and took off his fingerless gloves quickly and extended his hand out, “Hi, I’m Nelson.”

“Nelson, you’re such an inspiration, if you don’t mind me saying that.” I smiled shaking his hand and asked, “How old are you?”

He chuckled before saying, “I’m 26. What’s your name?” I told him my name and continued looking at him amusingly. “How old are you?” He asked.

“Can you guess?”

“30?!”

“Bless your heart, I’m 45!”

“You’re doing good!!”

We both laughed as his hand continued to grip mine. His palms felt flaky and were disfigured. His upper body was a rock with strong shoulders that could carry mountains. A body built by will alone.

His legs were pencil thin and his feet were covered in long socks and special shoes.

“I don’t feel that way, but thanks! Actually, your workout routine makes me blush. I think I need to do better!!” We laughed again and I walked away telling him that I would see him around.

At 45, I’m the kind of Indian American woman who watches more exercise toning videos than actually puts them into practice. I love seeing the rigor of the gym, and the view of those weights lined up in order of measurable progress.

That day, Nelson disrupted that order for me. He was progress, just not the kind I could count in reps.

As I would trudge into the gym right after dinner most week nights, I would usually see Nelson in his wheelchair always wrestling with the lat pulldowns, his arms drawing and releasing the handles with great grit and diligence. Do such people miss the loud fast music and the personal trainers if they were to disappear tomorrow, I wondered.

One day, as I was walking on the treadmill, I noticed a young woman filming herself squatting in front of the mirror, adjusting the frame every few seconds. She was the same woman who had asked me once if ChatGPT could write captions for her videos.

I had told her that I wasn’t sure. She replied, “It’s easier. Thinking takes too long.”

As I was thinking about my interaction with the girl, I caught Nelson looking at me from his machine. He rolled his eyes and we chuckled.

Later at the resting tables while we drank diet Coke, he lamented about the girl, “I guess some people can scroll their way to strength.”

I must have been staring at him with my eyes wide open and laughing, because he said, “Wait, I’m only physically challenged. My brain’s just fine. I guess I’m allowed to be sarcastic, don’t I?”

I said, “By all means!” and we both chuckled and shook our heads.

I asked how long he’d been coming here. He said, “Since I stopped waiting for my legs to change their mind.”

I smiled with embarrassment. He caught it and added, “It’s all right. They’re stubborn, not unkind. They just remind me that agency’s not in the body.”

I had never used the word agency up until that point in that capacity. Agency, I repeated it to myself.

That word stuck with me from then on.

Whenever I would spot Nelson he would be working on his schedule in the most unhurried manner. He would take time to wipe off the machine, move from one routine to another, with his equally patient trainer.

There were a lot of regulars at the gym. An older Russian woman in faded leggings and cat hair on her hoodie. Someone had told me her son had died, and she now took care of her mother. Her eyes were those typical eastern European ones; they had that strange mix of endurance and absence.

After our Zumba class, she would tell me about her life while we walked to our cars. “I had to quit my job because the nurse comes and charges $57 for giving an injection for mom. So, I learnt how to do it myself and what I make doesn’t make sense for my husband and I, so I might as well take care of my mom.”

After workouts, some nights while we waited for the gym staff to close, Nelson and I would talk about life. He would tell me about how much he enjoyed his motorcycle rides before his accident. He had recently sold his Royal Enfield bike to a Vespa dealer in Marietta; he told me once. “I couldn’t keep looking at it, you know, but even now when I close my eyes, I can hear its hum in the wind.”

A few months ago, after Christmas, on a whim that felt both foolish and necessary, I bought a used Royal Enfield. It was a beautiful beast, matte black and heavy.

When I told Nelson about my crazy buy, he threw his head back and laughed. “Indian aunty on a bike. Didn’t see that coming!”

“I want to ride for you,” I said, half joking. It was still sitting in my garage at that point and I had no idea how to ride it yet.

He shook his head. “Ride for you. I’ll take the credit later.” He raised his fingerless gloves to point at me and poked at his heart a few times with the index finger.

The last time I met him 2 weeks ago was on a Friday and he fist-bumped me like he always did. But instead of pulling away, he held his closed hand out and slowly turned it over. He opened his fingers to reveal a turquoise stone resting in the middle of his palm.

“For you,” he said softly looking at it and me.

I took it while saying “Aww.” I rolled my eyes and while putting it in my pocket, and asked him, “Are you flirting with me, Nelson?”

Suddenly I felt an urge to keep things light. I immediately turned on my heels and headed for the doors without waiting for his reply.

“Yes, I’m flirting!” I heard him yell over the gym music. I laughed while refusing to look back.

The gym feels like it has gotten quieter. I see the influencer leave her phone on the bench sometimes. The Russian woman continues to tell me about her sick mother and her cat’s jealous attitude towards the old woman.

YouTube on my phone keeps pausing to remind me to buy that quick root touch up hair spray. I continue to skip ads while watching documentaries like that of the women riders who did a road trip of the Himalayan mountains.

Some days, when I exit the gym, I sit on the bike and start the engine. Instead of going home, I ride until the wind burns my eyes and I can’t tell whether I’m crying or just remembering how to feel alive.

At a red light, when I stop, I think of Nelson. Somewhere at another gym in south Georgia, he must be gripping cables and pulling his weight and then some.

He never let go of that small, human insistence to choose. “You work with what you got.” He would say.

I didn’t understand it then.

Now, every time the road opens in front of me, and the wind finds its way under my helmet, I do.

– 0 –

On Life, Love And Desires In Fiction