Gym Nasium:

Let me say it backwards first: At a gym I once frequented attended a disturbed man.

Now, forwards: A disturbed man attended a gym I once frequented.

He wasn't quite middle-aged but no longer in his thirties. His hair was always mussed and feathery, hanging down over the rim of his seemingly flat head. He spoke a little too loud for comfort. He was always alone.

He pondered every action. In his socks, he would place his sneakers on the floor and study them, then switch them, study them, and switch them again, as though unable to discern which shoe went on which foot.

Once, standing on the scale, he began shouting and cursing, then hit the scale's neck with his foot and nearly toppled it over. He returned to his locker a maelstrom of energy, telling all of us in acidic garbled words not to use that scale because it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

The gym shared a wall with a bar with a grill. At some point the owners came up with the bright idea of putting a hole in the wall so we could order food. Everyone ate beside the racquetball courts. It was murder: The thick greasy odor of French fries and cheeseburgers filling your gut while you sweated out all those poisons on the StairMaster.

More than once I saw this man eat a meal. Or rather, preparing to eat a meal. With the hot food steaming up into his face, he would murmur to himself and rub his hands as though washing, his body agitating up and down with child-like delight. Someone had placed the meal before him and said he had to wait to eat. Except he was alone. No one made him wait. He made himself wait. And he wasn't praying, unless licking your lips with your eyes bulging at the feast before you counts as praying.

Advocates say the mentally ill are forced to live on our streets. They're not looking hard enough. The mentally ill are in our gyms too.