A guy in a turbin walks into a gym...

"Hey man, can you spot me?"

I heard the thickly accented voice amongst the gullonks, metallic squinks, and general conversational douche-baggery of the local Gold's Gym. I turned to see a tall, bearded fellow that I had seen a few times before, but with whom I had never interacted. He wore warm up pants and a white V-neck T-shirt, and atop his head, he sported a black turbin. Yeah, that's right. A turbin.

"Yeah, sure."

I followed his tip-toed stride over to where he was all set up to bench press 135 pounds. His moustache curled at the ends, almost like a French guy from some French-looking movie, perhaps partially concealing the dank stenches of the sweat-laden gym equipment. His beard was short, but also curled outward at the ends.

"I haven't been to the gym in over a month."

His excuse all laid out, he lifted the bar and gave a few quick reps before slowing down considerably. I had to help him with the last few before he arrived at the desired number of ten.

"I'll do one more set."

Uh, okay. So I went to the drinking fountain, blindly confident that he wouldn't detonate the bomb strapped under his shirt the second I turned my back. What do you think I am, racist? When he was finally ready, I lifted the bar for him as many times as he lifted it himself, before he finally realized that the time he'd gone without attending the gym would keep him from doing his usual amount of lifting.

"Okay, that will be all. Thanks man."

"No problem."

I walked back to resume whatever I had been doing. I wonder if anyone ever thinks he's really a suicide bomber, I thought. Who knows, maybe he is. Maybe he's just biding his time, making pals at local gyms, gaining people's confidence.

One thing I did know for sure, he was going to be sore in the morning.