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Working at the gym in grad school always had its charms. Not that I particularly enjoyed seeing people running around sweating or rhythmically gyrating on the elliptical machines or dropping barbells on their necks (yep, saw it with my own eyes, on my first day, no less). But the opportunity to meet all sorts of random people I wouldn’t have come across while strolling through campus made it worthwhile.

I also enjoyed the occasional “guy takes a racquet to the back of the head because his buddy didn’t use the wrist strap and now he’s bleeding profusely” moments that I was able to witness. Unfortunately, those were few and far between.

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The monotony of sitting behind a desk, swiping ID cards and passing out crisply folded towels came with the territory of being a gym desk jockey. Never one to make things boring, I decided to spruce up my days by being extra annoyingly cheery to everyone who crossed my path, no matter their demeanor.

This probably led to many people thinking “that guy is insane” or “he’s drunk”, and I wish I could say the latter wasn’t true a few times, but it was.

During the summer of 2003 I was enrolled in graduate school in the comfortable college town of Oxford, OH. My courses were in the afternoon, which was perfect for either staying out until 2AM boozing, or in my case, working the opening shift to make some extra money.

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However, occasionally I managed to booze until 2AM and still open the gym at 5:30A because I was often scheduled to open on the weekends. I always felt a little better when I’d be out drinking until all hours of the night with other colleagues who were also supposed to be there at 5:30AM.

But for some reason, I was always the only one to actually show up on time, if at all. For the most part, I was still able to function above “black out drunk” at 23 years old, even on 2-3 hours of sleep. Not that I look back on those mornings fondly, but I suppose they served a purpose. I’ll let you know when I figure out that purpose.

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The open shifts during the week were a different story. I’d roll out of bed at 4:30AM, jump in the shower, pack my bag for school, and hop on the Huffy I’d borrowed from a friend to turn the 25 minute walk into a five minute ride to work.

The streets were always eerily quiet, especially considering that only a few hours earlier college students, especially during the summer, had been stumbling down these same streets. The ride was almost always uneventful, save the time a Semi Tractor Trailer, making its early morning cut through Oxford, disregarded the big red stop light at the corner of Talawanda and Spring.

Having your life flash before your eyes before the sun has even dared to get itself out of bed is a great way to reconnect with Jesus. But I managed to slip by the truck’s cab before he could clip my back wheel and send me hurtling down Talawanda Avenue. I’m sure they would have been able to open the gym without me that morning, even if word had spread that I was in critical care at McCullough-Hyde. Yes, even the towel guy is replaceable.

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One Wednesday morning that summer was one for the ages though.

Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday morning a well-known faculty member of the Communications department, Professor Bedrosian, would waddle to the check-in counter, stroll through the turnstile, grab two towels, and begin his descent to the pool. On this morning, his routine was no different.

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I had never personally witnessed him swimming, but stories abounded that his technique was more of a wading in the pool for an hour; nothing resembling a breast stroke or even a doggy-paddle had been seen.

On shifts that I was not behind the desk and was free to roam the halls and make the always terrifying stroll through the men’s locker room to make sure no one was masturbating in the shower, I had seen Professor Bedrosian in his bathing suit.

Based on the man’s physique, I could surmise that his “swimming” involved as little physical activity as possible. Or that he immediately followed it up by stopping by the UDP Dairy Shop and scarfing down about 20 doughnuts.

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His massive belly was supported by his trunks being pulled above his umbilicus and he was always dripping wet as he made his way back to the locker room. No sign of towel in hand, I was left to believe that he’d been raised by wolves.

This particular morning, as every morning, Professor Bedrosian’s entrance to the gym was followed 10 minutes later by his wife, another esteemed faculty member of the Communications department. I always found her tardiness to be odd. It was as if she waited in the car until she knew he’d been inside long enough that even she wouldn’t run the risk of seeing him in his bathing suit.

I would have believed she’d never seen him in his birthday suit, but I’d heard their daughter (biological in nature), was quite the bitch. “Do you know who I am? I’m the daughter of Professors Bedrosian. I don’t care if I don’t have an ID, I’m coming in!” was her most common refrain.

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At 10:15AM, Professor Bedrosian made his way up the stairs from the locker room and into the main lobby, freshly changed into his street clothes and refreshed from his “swim”.

From 10 feet away, he launched his two towels, balled into a wet mess, towards the bin for dirty towels. I had witnessed this behavior several times before and knew that he’d become alarmingly proficient at giving his projectile the necessary arc to enter the clown’s mouth-sized hole in the counter that hid the towel bin. Sometimes it entered as a perfect swish, the sign of a true marksman. Today was one of those times.

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But rather than veer to the right, towards the exit, he continued his waddle towards the counter, as if he was expecting the towels to miss their intended target.

I sat on my stool behind the counter unsure as to why he continued in my direction. He approached slowly, peering at me through his massive lenses until he reached the counter.

He stared directly at the name badge attached to my rumpled, red polo shirt and exclaimed, “Fan Belt!”

I’ve been called many things in my life, had my name misspelled since birth, but never had I been mistaken for “Fan Belt.” In a state of utter disbelief, I quickly grasped my shirt with my left hand and my name badge with my right and expected to see “Fan Belt”, an obvious typo that had been overlooked for months by me and every other person who knew my name. Professor Bedrosian’s certainty with which he spoke caused me a moment’s pause when I recognized the correct spelling.

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“Ean Bett,” I quickly replied to his now obvious mistake.

“Yes! Is that a family name?”, he countered as he turned his body towards the exit.

“Bett is my last name. So yes, that is my family name. Or were you talking about Ean?”

Professor Bedrosian, now moving towards the exit turnstile, slowed his step. And in a brief pause, he let out the most electric words I’ve had the privilege of hearing.

“Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

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As he continued his waddle through the turnstile and turned the corner out of my sight, I stood up, in utter disbelief. I managed to look down at my name badge again, but “Ean Bett”, a name I’d carried for 23 years, was still there.

A wave of disappointment swept over me, as if somehow Professor Bedrosian had looked straight through the name badge and deep into my soul. And once there, he revealed my true name to be Eonnnn Brett. But it was not to be. I wasn’t even Fan Belt, much less Eonnnn Brett.

When my co-worker Kim returned from her break, I quickly told her the case of mistaken identity. She responded with raucous laughter and near tears, she doubled over to the floor. She too knew Professor Bedrosian and could easily imagine the exchange.

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When I returned home later in the afternoon, the story was still percolating in my brain, so I shared it with my roommates Juice and Jinx.  A fellow employee at the gym, Juice nearly spit out his Miller Lite all over the flat screen TV when I belted out “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

Jinx, on the other hand, was laughing so hard that he actually sprayed Miller Lite all over the TV.

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Days passed and I couldn’t help but to be drawn back to that bizarre moment in time; the instant when Professor Bedrosian had made me believe, if only for a second, that I’d been misnamed, and possibly miscast in the story of my life.

What could have been, if I’d been born “Fan Belt”. Or “Eonnn Brett?” Eeeeven better!

So when I was working the same shift a week later and saw Professor Bedrosian turn the corner to approach the entrance to the gym, I was filled with an indescribable joy. I could hear the words “Eeeeven Better!” reverberating through the high arching ceilings of the entrance. He made his way past the turnstile, grabbed his two towels, gave a pleasant smile, and proceeded downstairs without saying a word

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For the next hour I went about my usual greetings and salutations as the rest of the gym regulars, including the other Professor Bedrosian, made their way in and out. But when Professor Bedrosian reappeared at the top of the stairs and headed towards the counter, time had a small hiccup.

I watched as his right arm, holding his two wet towels balled into one, begin its slow ascent through the air. He released the projectile as his arm came parallel to the ground and the towels seemed to float towards the counter. I could see his continued approach from one eye as the other focused on his projectile and its perfect passage through the hole in the counter.

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http://skeptics.stackexchange.com/questions/2982/how-does-deja-vu-work

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He stopped, stared right at my name badge, and exclaimed, “Fan Belt!”

I grasped my name badge as he positioned his movements away from the counter. I responded almost instantaneously, “Ean Bett?” I felt a wave of awe come over me.

“Yes! Is that a family name?”, was his curious reply.

Several thoughts flooded my mind simultaneously. “Am I drunk?” “Is this man clinically insane?” “Am I having déjà déjà vu?”

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If I’d been filled at the time with all of the medical knowledge I now possess, I would have thought I’d just had a seizure, possibly a stroke, and would be crashing to the floor in an instant. Hopefully my face wouldn’t be smashed as it struck the stool on which I was currently seated.

But I didn’t have a seizure. Or a stroke.

I responded, “Bett is my last name. So yes, that is my family name. Or were you talking about Ean?”

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I waited for what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a millisecond. And then, he released in his boisterous tone, “Eonnnn Brett! Eeeeven Better!”

He continued his waddle through the exit and turned the corner.

I stayed seated on the stool for a moment, deep in thought. My eyes darted back and forth, looking to see if anyone else had witnessed the impossible. I wondered if Professor Bedrosian was quick-witted enough to have intentionally pulled off what I had just experienced.

Or, was it possible that my mind had been so blown by his words, as to have not only created the déjà vu moment, but to have generated the memories of me telling the story to other people over the previous week. Is that even possible? Had I attained a level of sub-consciousness that allowed me to attain such great heights?

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—–

I’m not sure what happened that day.

I’m uncertain if Professor Bedrosian has any idea that we had the identical exchange one week apart.

The conclusion I’ve reached is that Fan Belt, the happy, go-lucky towel guy, was mistaken for Eonnn Brett two times in his life.

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And that is a case of mistaken identity, if you listen closely, that can still be heard echoing through those same vaulted ceilings at 10:15AM every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.