DAVID

I sit on the bench in the men's changing room and dress.

(Dressing takes patience).

My toes curl under when I shove them in my shoes. (This is new). I adjust the tongue so I can slip the shoe on without my toes bending under.  I can get my feet through my pant legs but then it's difficult to stand, pull my pants up, and zip them closed. Once standing, I lean my forehead against a locker so I won't topple over.

As I dress, this guy walks over. I've seen this guy before. This guy has the body I always wanted to have. The same shape and size as mine, but his body is ideal, tough and muscular, like Brando in "Streetcar".

"I'm sorry, I don't want to bother you" he says.  "I hope you don't mind, but may I ask... what happened? Was it an accident? You look too young to have anything wrong with you."

I'm flattered (stupidly). The guy seems sincere.

"Accident. No. It wasn't an accident."

"I'm interested because my dad has terrible arthritis. Debilitating."

"No, it's not arthritis. My problems are neurological."

The guy is focused on me, unblinking. I stifle a blush.

"Is it MS? ...  or ALS? That would be highly unusual because ALS is so rare."

"Yep. ALS. That's it."

He accepts this without reaction. I go back to dressing.

I feel defeated. He got it out of me, now go away. But the dude stays with me. He gapes at me like I might dissapear in the wet steam rolling out from the sauna. He's here to learn; wisdom needs to be mined.

"May I ask, were you on a lot of medications before your first symptoms?" He ticks off a list of

obscure drugs. It's impressive. 

"Nope, I wasn't on any medications."

"Oh. That's unusual. I work up at Columbia Hospital. People have no concept of the toxins perpetrated by the medical world. Doctors are blind to the effects of toxins from drugs. They over-prescribe and make patients worse."

The guy is looming over me shirtless and forlorn. He's hot. I feel weird.

"Yeah you're right. Apparently all people with ALS have compromised immune systems, some say due to toxins. I've tried to reduce environmental toxins. I eat organic. Take a lot of anti-oxidants.

I drink clean water, I guess."

"But even swimming in the pool, the chlorine!"

"I know. It's something I've thought about, the chlorine, but swimming is helpful. A little exercise can really help your body heal."

The shirtless guy knows more about the dangers of toxins than I do. Maybe he's writing a paper. Maybe he's trying to avoid debilitating arthritis. I feel like I'm coming short on answers. The guy is in perfect shape and I'm ancient and sexless in comparison. I'm compelled to tell him I wasn't always like this. I wasn't always so fragile and stooped.

"I mean, NOW I've come to understand that too much exercise is a bad thing.  Just two years ago, I would bike to Central Park, play tennis for two hours, bike home, grab dinner, and then go for a run along the river. This is all new."

The shirtless guy nods, unblinking. He hasn't moved.

"Oxydative stress. It can be lethal. Every time I work out, I ALWAYS take anti-oxidants."

I go on. I have too. He's staring at me. I need to offer something.

"But I think for me, it wasn't medicine or over-exercise that caused my ALS to start, the on - off switch. I think it was stress. I do. I think I just wasn't paying attention.

"Did you work on Wall Street?"

"No, I was an actor. I did voice overs for a living. You get caught up.  Stuck."

"People base their whole lives on their careers and money. New Yorkers are the worst. They over party and over work themselves to death. They have no idea."

"I had no idea."

"Some people get it sooner than others."

"I didn't get it"

 "I'm David, by the way."

"Charlie."

He holds out his hand. Strong grip. He's wearing a choker. I wonder about him.  He looks worried.

"You know Charlie, even if you told people what you've learned they wouldn't pay attention. People think it could never happen to them, illness only happens to the other guy."

"That's what I thought."

We talk for a half hour, exploring the danger of toxins, the price of stress.

"Well, I'm sure I'll see you down here again. It was cool talking to you Charlie."

"You too David."

And David walks into the steam.

I go back to my shoes, mashing the tongue of my shoe back, guiding my foot into the yawning shoe with both hands. (Why did I tell him my diagnosis? Now I feel worse.  Caught. Cheap. I'm not up on my disease, on my life philosophy. My guru wisdom pales to what is expected.

(I'll have moments when I clearly see what's important,

and in a rush I'll think, thank G-d! I get it!

and then just as quickly, regret follows relief. Too late.

And then I think about the things I did right.

I count them).

I realize I've been gone for hours.

My mother waits at the entrance to the gym.  She's taken the elevator down from the ninth floor to the third and is patiently waiting by the glass entrance. 

(I'm ten years old and I've stayed too long at the neighbor's).

"Dinner is ready, honey!" she says. "It's nine o'clock!"

But she's wrong. "No Mother, it's ten o'clock. I've been gone over three hours."

"Well, we've got to get home. It's time for dinner."

I tell her to go ahead. I'll meet her at home. The walk home, down two long hallways and an elevator ride, will take least twenty minutes to a half hour (for me).

On the walk home I think about David.