Email from Andy:

“I think I was an unwilling participant in a freestyle rap battle last night. I’m still not really sure what happened, it all went down so quickly.

I’ve developed a number of superficial relationships at the gym. I say superficial because they’ve never gone beyond a subtle nod of the head, or a passing “hey, what’s up?”. At most, I prefer to only engage in gym conversations that can be held while walking in opposite directions.

Generally it works well for me, unless I get pinned down by a talker (sidenote: I find that talkers are almost always nude, which ultimately just makes conversation infinitely more difficult – where can I look, you know? I’m not interested in eye contact with a nude man, and I certainly can’t just look down in the vicinity of a rogue coinpurse. I end up just staring straight ahead at something inanimate, like I’m looking through one of those 3D magic eye pictures). In any case, last night I was pinned, and it quickly spiraled out of control.

While walking by the check-in desk, I encountered a kid with whom I share one of these relationships. Until last night, we were on a strict, “hey, what’s up?” basis, which I had thought we were both comfortable with. But, on this fateful night, he decided instead to explain to me precisely “what was up”.

“Not much man… just workin’ on my slam poetry.”

What? I should have just walked away. It would have been so easy. But I had never heard such an awkward and equally unexpected answer to such an innocuous greeting before. It was so contrived, like he was waiting for somebody to ask him; like he had set the trap, and as the unwitting white fool that I am, I had just taken the bait.

I slowed, and I think made some kind of noise. Not a word, or a question of any kind – more of a confused grunt (“guh?”). But it didn’t matter. All he required was my brief pause before launching into a verse of debilitating freestyle rap/slam poetry directed at me.

I wish so hard I could remember word for word what was said. I can tell you that it lasted maybe twenty seconds, and that at one point my need of a haircut was mentioned (paraphrasing, but as close as I can remember: “I tell you how it is, you gonna cry, ‘what?’, I’m-a tell you ‘white boy go and get a hair cut.’”).

He ended it with something close to, “don’t try and fight my rhymes, I spit truth like others drop dimes,” at which point he proceeded to actually drop change from his hand onto the gym desk. He used PROPS, Rob.

I know it sounds too absurd to be true, but I assure you it was all too real. And I can probably say with confident certainty that it was one of the more surreal moments in my recent life.

And when it was over, I had nothing to say. It was like I inadvertently wandered into the first half of “8 Mile,” or at least the parts where he’s frozen on stage, vomiting and watching his girlfriend cheat on him. Not since I accidentally went to an LA comedy club on “Latino Night” have I felt so white, and so out of my element.

Ultimately, I laughed and we exchanged pleasant goodbyes as if it weren’t the most retarded situation I’ve ever been a part of. But inside, I knew things would be different for me from then on. You don’t lose a rap battle (even one you don’t know you’re a part of) and emerge the same person. You just don’t.

Needless to say, until the rematch, I’m just workin’ on my slam poetry.”