I fear that I have become some kind of featured extra for the influencer at my gym

And I do not like it one bit.

“Holy shit, it is you!” The twenty-something kid nearly gets hit by a car darting across the street to get all up in my face. “Maroon Hoodie!”

I think fast, trying not to react in any way that could possibly make the weird prank content they’re creating for social media worth posting on their stupid account. I look around for somebody recording with their phone, but see nothing. Must be a hidden camera somewhere - these influencer budgets are getting out of control.

“Yep. I’m wearing a maroon hoodie.” Is the quick-brain sentence I choose to deliver as I motion toward the zip-up hooded sweatshirt I bought over a decade ago at Old Navy or H&M or some other fast-fashion store I have since learned I shouldn’t shop at, even though the places from which I should shop are outside of my budget. This is why I own clothes that I bought over a decade ago, because I can’t afford to pay for fair labor practices. Not because I don’t have any sense of style or fashion. Not that second thing at all. That’s for sure.

“No. You ARE Maroon Hoodie.”

“Sure.” I say, praying for the walk sign countdown to start so I know exactly how much time I have to wait before I can cross the street and get away from this guy.

“I didn’t think it was you for real, but then I clocked your feathery messed up hair and I knew it was you.”

It’s true. My hair was fucked up. It’s been way too long since I’ve had it cut, and I just kind of rolled out of bed today and didn’t do anything with it. But I work from home, and didn’t have any Zoom meetings today, so why does it matter? I don’t know why, but I felt compelled to answer his comment about my hair in self-defense. “Yeah, I didn’t really put myself together. I’m just going to -”

“The gym,” he says, cutting me off, “I know.”

He was right. I was going to the gym. But how did he know? I guess it’s not that far-fetched of a guess. I was wearing basketball shorts (something I don’t just wear all the time out of comfort because I work from home, so why put on pants, that’s for sure) and running shoes (again, because I was going to the gym, not because they make my feet feel like they’re being hugged by bunnies.)

“You really don’t know,” he says to me. Before I know it, his phone is in my face. When my eyes finally adjust, I see a muscle-bound man I recognize from my local LA Fitness.

“I know him.”

“No shit, it’s Lexxx Muxxxles” he scolds.

“Oh, Lex Muscles, of course,” I reply

“No,” he says, somehow able to tell I said his name incorrectly, even though it’s pronounced exactly the same way, “it’s Lexxx Muxxxles.”

“Oh.” I say. Because I don’t know that this man’s name is “Lexxx Muxxxles.” I see him at the gym, and we’ll nod at each other or even occasionally say hello, but he’s not my “Gym Friend.” Mitch is my gym friend. I talk to Mitch all the time at the gym. Or maybe his name is Rich. I didn’t really hear him well the first time he said his name, and at the time, I didn’t think he’d become my Gym Friend, so I didn’t care enough to get it right. So now I try not to use his name at all, and when I do, I kind of mumble through the beginning and really hit the “itch” with all I got. I tell myself that I’ll get better at remembering people’s names, and paying more attention when I meet them, but I know that this is a lie.

Before I can fully process my thoughts, there I am, on this stranger’s phone screen, in the background of Mr. Muxxxles’s video that is supposed to be demonstrating proper deadlift form, but that I suspect is just to show off his ripped abs.

“Oh shit, that’s me.”

“Yeah, that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. You’re kind of a thing in the world of the Muxxxle-Heads - that’s what Lexxx calls his-”

“Yeah, I get it. You’re telling me I’m in more of these videos?” I ask, as I watch myself struggle in the background to squat a weight that I’m embarrassed to even list in this retelling of the occurrence.

“You’re in, like, most of his videos. I think it started by accident, but now Lexxx gets you in there on purpose. Us Muxxxle-Heads kind of demand it. If you’re not in the background of a video, we rage. And you know how engagement fuels the algorithm. There’s a section of us who are convinced that you’re in on it.”

“I had no idea this was happening.”

“Wow, cause some of the stuff you do in the background is, kinda…”

Fuck. Shit. Fuck. I don’t know what the hell I do in between sets at the gym. My mind wanders. I’m positive that I stretch awkwardly. I know for a fact I’ve caught myself dancing to the song in my headphones on numerous occasions. I probably touch myself in weird ways. What have these people seen?

“I want to see more,” I say to this man. “Show me everything.”

He happily obliges. I am THE Maroon Sweatshirt, after all, and he did play Frogger with his own life to meet one of his internet heroes. We watch video after video. I’m in the background of all of them doing the type of things I’ve always worried that people would make fun of me for doing if they ever saw me doing them…being seen by people…and getting absolutely roasted in the comment section.

Check out my man Maroon Hoodie…writes one Muxxxle-Head in the comments - he’s for sure blasting some farts in this one.

He was right. I know my own “I just farted face,” and I clearly make it in the video I just watched. It happens on the last rep of a set of bench press, pushing less weight than children I see on the social media account of my former high school’s football team, which I follow for some reason. I graduated high school over 20 years ago. I didn’t even play football in high school. If I had, I’d probably have a more respectable bench.

We continue to watch. In one, I’m getting yelled at by a woman who thought I was staring at her, when I was really just staring off into the distance, at nothing at all. I’m clearly mortified. I feel terrible, and she’s furious, and I just kinda let her take it out on me. This happened over a year ago, and sometimes when I can’t fall asleep at night, this exchange pops into my head. I don’t think she believed me when I told her I wasn’t looking at her, and still thinks I’m some kind of gym creep.

In another post, I just sit there on the edge of a bench and I keep counting on my fingers. But every time I only make it to three or four before I just kind of lose track and then start over. I do it like twenty times. I don’t even know what could possibly be going on in this one.

I think Maroon Platoon is having a stroke. Comments one keen observer.

In one video, the entire gym looks at me after I scream “Oh fuck you!” at my phone, a little louder than I meant for it to come out. Lexx doesn’t react and continues to demonstrate “one weird trick to take your Arnold Presses to the next level,” but I know he’s salivating at the engagement he’s going to get from my outburst when he posts this video. I know what happened here — I got a request for a work Zoom meeting for my job that I was supposed to be doing, but since it’s work from home job, I go to the gym in the middle of the day. Now I have to either leave the gym and rush home or try to find a quiet corner of the gym to “jump on a quick call.”

Maybe there’s a bright side to this. This Lexxx Muxxxles guy has millions of followers. He’s making his living from from posting and most of his followers actually want to see me. Maybe I can actually make this work. Maybe I can build my followers from this and funnel them to my writing or my comedy - this could be a good thing. I thank this crazy stranger for bringing this news to my attention and turn around to head home instead of going to the gym.

As soon as I get home, I open Instagram and create a new account. I head to Lexxx Muxxxles’ latest video and post a comment.

Hey Muxxxle-Heads, it’s me! You can follow for more at THEREALMAROONHOODIE.

Then I wait.

Soon, the comments start to pour in.

Oh man, it’s over.

How did he find out?

We had a good thing going here. Sorry to see it die.

I don’t know whether to be sad or relieved. Either way, I can’t worry about that now. I just got pinged to join a work call that could totally just be an email.