Unfiltered Story #117773

I working out at my gym on one of the recumbent bikes. Beside me, a technician is working on four of the eight treadmills. He’s sealed up two and tested them. A woman walks up and points to one of the machines still being worked on. The technician is Latino.

Woman: “That’s my favorite.”

The treadmill in question is still in pieces. Trying to be helpful, I point to the two that have been completed.

Me: “These two are done. I just watched him test them.”

Woman: “I don’t trust you.”

She gets on one treadmill and declares that the belt is uneven. I had just watched as the tech check the belt with a laser, the belt was straight. She gets on the other treadmill that had been serviced. After 30 seconds of walking . . .

Woman: “Ugh! This belt needs to be replaced!”

Technician: “Ma’am, the machine monitors the belt and tells us when it needs a replace . . .” she cuts him off.

Woman: “I don’t trust robots or Mexicans.”

she then flounces off to the free weights. As the tech was packing up, his phone rang with a song by a semi-obscure metal band I’m a big fan of. We talk about the band for a few minutes before he finishes packing his gear and leaves.

As I’m finishing up on the bike, the woman comes back, wags a finger in my face, and tells me I shouldn’t talk to Mexicans.

Me: “But he wasn’t Mexican, he’s Honduran. *pause* And so am I.”

(To preclude any questions, I have a Honduran mother and a Swedish-American father. So I’m light-skinned.)