greeting mr. gladwell

new york city, summer 2014, equinox columbus circle

I worked the early shifts. The pre-dawn hours when fitness junkies descended upon the front desk in Spandex and Nike-clad droves, mumbling un-caffeinated hellos as they pulled out identification. They’d leave smelling of eucalyptus aftershave to catch downtown trains to Morgan Stanley or DeLoitte only to be replaced by Upper West Side mommies rolling into Pilates class, relieved to be alone for a few hours as the babysitters took over. By the time I clocked out at 11 am, the locker rooms were mostly empty. I’d hastily apply CVS brand cosmetics and change into heels before rushing out the door, stopping only at the front desk to pick up a freshly printed (mostly barren) resume from the staff computer.

The Equinox at Columbus Circle is a watering hole for New York City’s elite. But as a recent transplant to the city, fresh out of college with Broadway dreams, it was simply my first survival job.

“Have you ever worked at a gym before?”

The manager Arthur, looked up at me over his glasses as he sipped coffee from a mug emblazoned with the logo ‘Long Island Does It Best’. (They do not).

“I’ve worked at a tennis pro shop.”

“You play tennis?”

“...no.”

“Interesting.”

I stared back.

“When can you start?”

“Uh…now?”

And just like that, I was placed on the payroll, booked for morning shifts five times a week, and handed a black cotton tee, labeled “Greet.” Despite the absurdity of employees wearing shirts to denote their purpose (imagine a urologist wearing a shirt that proclaims “Probe!”), I appreciated the simplicity Equinox instilled in its division of labor. There were trainers, there were cleaners, and then there was me, a greeter.

From 5 am to 11 am, I swiped Equinox membership cards and wished, “Good morning, have a great workout,” to every doctor, trader, newsperson, physical therapist, designer, interior decorator, influencer, and socialite on the West Side. Most of them simply grunted in return, except the occasional man who was far too excited to exercise at an hour when most civilians were still in the middle of a REM cycle.

My co-worker was a bodybuilder named Gabrielle who lived exclusively off of broiled cod and broccoli. She’d bring me packets of protein powder once a week and also insisted full body waxing was “really not that bad if you take a shot before.” I have yet to test her hypothesis. She smelled like self-tanner and castor oil.

The ideal location and optional private locker rooms made Columbus Circle ’s Equinox a hotspot for A-listers. Anderson Cooper dropped by for personal lifting sessions, Selena Gomez stopped in the morning of her album’s press tour launch, and Gabrielle and I took turns wiping down the weights so we could sneak glances at Chris Pratt boxing with one of the trainers. At a certain point, the excitement wore off and I didn’t even glance up when Rachael Ray checked in for Zumba. The job became a place to quietly learn lines, stock up on free Kiehl’s toiletries, and cash a reliable check every two weeks.

Until one day, about three months in. I was making the requisite 9 am rounds, passing out ice cold towels in the unclaimed territory between Treadmill Purgatory and Elliptical Island, when a graceful hand plucked a rolled up toilette from my basket. I noticed long olive fingers and shortly clipped nails. I watched as the hand unfolded the towel like a fine kerchief and brought it to a man’s temple, dabbing at a small stream of sweat springing forth from a head of tightly coiled curls.

“Do I hand it back to you, or throw it in the bin?”

I stared at him, agog.

“You can-you can just give it back to me. I’ll throw it away for you.”

“Well, that’s very kind. Thank you.”

“Of course. Have a good work. Out. Workout.”

I raced back to the front desk, holding the soiled toilette aloft like a victory flag. Gabrielle looked up from the staff microwave, the smell of warm cod beginning to permeate.

“GAB, GUESS. WHOSE. TOWEL. THIS. IS.”

“Ew, what? That’s disgusting….Whose?”

I paused for dramatic effect.

“Malcolm Gladwell’s.”

She stared at me, as I searched for a flicker of recognition in her eyes.

“Who?”

“Malcolm Gladwell! You know, the author? Tipping Point, Blink, Outliers?”

“Oh. Cool.”

“Not the reaction I was hoping for, Gab.”

She sighed and put down her forkful of broccoli.

“I dunno girl, we literally had Bobby Cannavale in here last week. Is it that big a deal some author works out here too?”

Yes. Yes it was a big deal. But I couldn’t articulate why. I liked Malcolm Gladwell’s books, sure, but I wasn’t a devout follower. I’d read Blink in high school, moved onto Outliers and circled back to Tipping Point in my college years. After three bestsellers, I began to decipher Gladwell’s writing patterns: Anecdotal set up, a left turn into surprise conflict, followed by pages of meticulous research and data. Then, the inevitable rug pull he worked into every social study that left me scratching my head, wondering how something so simple and obvious had not occurred to me before. Mr. Gladwell figured out how to boil down the inexplicable puzzle of society to easily digestible minutiae, slowly demystifying questions that eluded us for decades. How does a quiet computer analyst become Bill Gates? Why are some athletes destined to be superstars, and others fizzle out before hitting junior varsity? Why in god’s name was a show about a single man living alone with his blue dog so marketable to children? (If you are unaware of this reference, I insist you leave this page immediately and commit an afternoon to the wonder of Blue’s Clues).

I became obsessed with plotting his gym whereabouts. Mr. Gladwell didn’t adhere to any set schedule. His swipe-in hours varied from early dawn to my punch-out at eleven o’clock. Yet he always headed straight for the elliptical. I made excuses to be on the floor anytime I knew he was present: I’d wipe down the bike seats or reorganize the weight racks, craning my neck to catch a glimpse of his curls bouncing along while he glided. He often had a book or a periodical folded in front of him, and I’d watch his eyes move over the words, unchanging, even as sweat poured down his cheeks. He didn’t simply ride the elliptical, he destroyed the elliptical.

His dedication fascinated me. In my mind, Malcolm Gladwell was a thinker, a literary philosopher belonging to the bohemian elite. I envisioned his days spent huddled over a Remington until three in the morning, surviving off of black tea and advances from The New Yorker, pausing only to track down scraps of discarded research tidbits in a messy apartment. Certainly a man dedicated to unknotting the mysteries of humanity didn’t need something as basic as exercise…did he?

It was macabre to see him perspiring under fluorescents alongside men who wore shirts denoting their dedication to “Gym, Tan, Laundry.”

At this point I’d been living in New York City for about six months. I’d gone on countless Tinder dates, pretended to possess money I didn't have at fancy birthday dinners, stood in line for hours hoping to be seen at casting calls, and had bought and returned audition outfits with the tags still on multiple times. The only “health regimen” I’d committed myself to was sampling various flavors of kombucha offered by the kindly sales rep in Whole Foods. I made it to work on time, hadn’t bombed an audition yet, and was able to pay my rent with a little wiggle room (read: discount) from my older sister. I was staying afloat, but discipline was not a word in my vocabulary. I quietly suppressed a tiny voice of fear rising inside me; that voice born from the friction of lofty, childhood goals battling against indifferent, post-grad actions. Perhaps I didn’t have what it took. Perhaps, at the tender age of 21, my dedication to said ‘goals’ was already waning, eroded by the relentless wave of mimosas, marijuana picnics, and total, absolute anonymity one can experience in New York. The siren song of a young woman’s first year in Manhattan.

One Sunday morning, I attended a bottomless brunch I couldn’t afford with three girlfriends from college. I’d picked up an extra shift in an attempt to counter-balance the brunch cost and was expected at Equinox later that afternoon. As the empty Bloody Mary glasses stacked up in front of me, my friends watched warily.

“Should you call in sick?”

“Why would I do that? I’m fine. All I have to do is swipe some damn cards.”

“Is your boss gonna be there?”

“He leaves early on Sundays, no one is ever there past five. I’m goooood.”

We paid the bill and they walked me to the uptown A train. I stood swaying in the subway car, feeling the vodka and tomato juice seeping into my bloodstream. Despite the crisp breeze beginning to settle over New York as the last dregs of autumn seeped out, I felt hot and sticky. I peeled off my sweater, revealing my sweat-stained “Greet” shirt underneath and closed my eyes, resolving to move as little as possible until I disembarked at 59th street.

“You don’t look good, girl.”

Gabriella peered at me from behind the greeter desk. I waved her off.

“Yeah. Had a little too much fun at brunch. Can you cover for me? I’m just gonna go sit in the bathroom with a spa towel over my head.”

There are worse places to nurse an early onset hangover than Equinox.

I sat on the toilet, a cold scented towel draped around my neck. As I breathed in streams of eucalyptus, I started to feel sick with dissatisfaction and embarrassment. I’d been running around, trying to balance my lofty aspirations of becoming an actor with the “young 20-something moves to NYC” montage of booze and dating I’d seen in Center Stage and Sex and the City. In attempting to live both lives, I was failing at each. I didn’t have a plan, just a vague idea of a distant end goal, and I spent my days puddle-jumping between hours of committed concentration and blasé apathy.

I walked out of the bathroom, feeling sufficiently disappointed in myself. As I turned the corner of Cardio Hallway, I pulled up short. There, bent over the drinking fountain, sporting black, sweat-repellent joggers and a white tee, was Malcolm Gladwell. I froze, the moment of recognition already too obvious for him or me to ignore. He slowly straightened and wiped his upper lip as he glanced my way. With a curt nod, he turned and headed straight for the elliptical, his curls mocking me with their peppy, published-author springiness.

“That is the paradox of the epidemic: that in order to create one contagious movement, you often have to create many small movements first.”

So reads an excerpt of Malcolm Gladwell’s first book, Tipping Point. I watched Mr. Gladwell’s sinewy legs accelerate, my hangover towel still clutched in my hand.

I’d assumed geniuses simply lived on a more divine plane than the rest of us, that their work came to them in random jolts of inspiration until they emerged from artistic cocoons, holding a new manifesto aloft. I’d assumed this is what would happen to me. I had spent hours assuring myself that one day lightning would surely strike and I’d be summarily touted as the next big thing, discipline be damned. But here was Malcolm Gladwell, looking stunningly unmemorable in his Hanes tee, committing to a Sunday afternoon of cardio at a public (albeit expensive) gym. He didn’t spend his hours in a soundproof cave as a recluse, waiting for divine journalistic intervention. He clambered onto communal workout equipment day after day like the rest of us plebes. Despite his Pulitzer Prize winning titles, he was not above the gym or above the importance of a routine. Could success, Malcolm Gladwell’s or mine, really lie in simple, day to day dedications? “Many small movements” giving birth to “one contagious movement”? Perhaps a morning of writing, an afternoon of business calls, a cardio hour squeezed in between the constant editing, redrafting, and thousands of tiny steps all pulsing towards the same goal? . Mr. Gladwell’s sprightly curls seemed to indicate, “Yes.”

And just like that on a Sunday afternoon, in the heart of Manhattan, on the floor of the Columbus Circle Equinox, Malcolm Gladwell inspired me to finally get my shit together.

Sort of.