Chapter 41
Eleni put her face in her hands and sputtered: “I … I … I took a protein drink from the studio fridge once, and I didn’t pay for it.” Her lavender fashion mullet bobbed up and down with her sobs.
The two Studio Managers sitting on either side put a hand on her back, the only comfort or reaction permitted during the Circle Game, which also had a “No Tissue” rule because handing someone a box of Kleenex could be disruptive to the sharing process.
Willa knew that rule from the few times she’d attended meetings with Emotions Anonymous in a far-away suburb where no one knew her. EA borrowed the 12 Steps and 12 Transitions from Alcoholics Anonymous, as well as the “Serenity Prayer” (which Willa always mumbled her way through; she wasn’t so good at serenity). At one of the meetings, the leader had gifted her a copy of “Today,” EA’s book of daily reflections and meditations, but she’d opened it so infrequently that the binding was stiff and unbroken.
Tonight, in the Circle Game, Willa refrained from sharing some of the stories she’d told in EA and, before that, in the psychiatric facility, sticking to standard fare about her demanding dad. But some of her fellow Studio Managers were feeling much less inhibited after several rounds of shots and an opening statement from Dee — about her addicted mother, her absentee father, her eating disorder — that set the tone.
The idea with the Circle Game was to go around the room and share three deep, honest things about yourself. Whatever was said in the Circle was sacred.
Most of the Studio Managers talked about their terrible families, or their hate for their bodies, or their secret addictions to eating paper or engaging in unsafe sex with older strangers they met on trains. But with three stories expected from each Studio Manager, there clearly was some grasping at straws going on, starting with Eleni’s admission of stealing an $8 protein shake.
Coraline, a Studio Manager from DC, was the last to talk. After telling the group about how she was stood up at prom and once dated a sex offender (“I found his name on the registry — and I stayed with him for another month.”), Coraline decided to share her own studio-related shame.
“My roommate in Adams Morgan kicked me out because I couldn’t afford to pay rent,” she said, and then her face crumpled. “So for three nights I slept on the reception bench at FitFams.”
More pats on the back, some sniffles of solidarity in the Circle.
“I know,” Dee said.
Everyone looked up from their hands and their laps and each other and turned their red-rimmed eyes to Dee.
How kind, Willa thought, that Dee was trying to relate to them, and being so understanding about the shoplifting and the overnight squatting.
“Thank you,” Coraline shnuffed.
“No, I mean, I know that you slept in the studio,” Dee said. Then, turning to Eleni, she said: “And I know you stole that drink.”
Confusion spread across the drunk faces in the Circle.
Then she started pointing from Studio Manager to Studio Manager. “I know you brought a guy back to the studio and had sex with him on one of the machines, and you didn’t clean it with a sanitizing wipe afterward. I know you stole three T-shirts that you later wore to coach. I know you are always late. I know you steal sips from a flask between classes. And I know you don’t empty the garbage cans properly.”
The Studio Managers were stunned. Eleni mouthed: “How?”
Tara, who was sitting next to Dee, answered the question: “Cameras.”
“Wait, what?” Coraline gasped.
“We have cameras in every studio,” Dee said. “Safety, security, blah, blah, blah.”
This from a company that didn’t bother to put defibrillators in their studios, or even ensure Studio Managers and Coaches had adequate first aid and CPR training?
“I mean, c’mon. This is my business. My livelihood. My life,” Dee said. “Clearly I can’t just leave it unsupervised. So I have an app on my phone and my laptop that allow me to tap into any studio at any time.”
Willa pictured Billy Baldwin in that dumb movie, “Sliver,” sitting in front of dozens of television screens in a surveillance room, a voyeur spying on the tenants in his high-rise.
“I have video of other things too,” Dee said. “Like you, Willa.”
Willa’s chest tightened as she searched her memory for any infractions.
“I have video of you during the class I taught that first week in your studio,” Dee said.
“Oh, OK,” Willa said, relieved.
“I plan to use it in future trainings, to show Studio Managers and Coaches how to best engage in Push-Pull,” Dee said.
“Huh?” Willa said.
Dee turned to speak to the entire Circle.
“See, I ‘Pushed’ Willa away by giving her a shitty evaluation, then I ignored her so she’d be off balance, and then I unexpectedly ‘Pulled’ her toward me by treating her as someone special in my class,” Dee explained. “It made her all the more eager to please me and want to be close to me. That was obvious last night. She spent the whole time trying to get my attention, and I wouldn’t give it to her. I wouldn’t push or pull and that made her want it — something, anything from me — even more. So when I did start speaking to her in the bathroom, she practically cried with relief and happiness. She felt special. But because she knew my affections could shift with the breeze, she knew not to get comfortable. That means she remains susceptible to the push-pull dynamic.”
Willa felt sick, and not just from the booze in her gut.
“This is the kind of thing that separates FitFams leaders from coaches and managers at other studios,” Dee said, standing up from the Circle. She tapped her temple. “We think. We strategize. We withhold so that the attention becomes more tantalizing. We play favorites. We manipulate and control behavior, thought, information, and emotions. And that, even more than the workout, is why we win.”
Her smug smile did not alleviate Willa’s nausea.
“Enjoy your team dinner and the remarks from Rev. Johnny Brighton about how fitness can bring you closer to your higher power,” Dee said. “If you’re lucky, he’ll stick around for the Happy Hours afterward. The guy’s a real trip.”