I was at the aquatic center, on the pool deck, getting into the sauna. Inside were two other men, each seated at an opposite corner of the small room. I walked into the heat and sat between them on the cedar bench.

In the early evenings like this, the sun shines through the pool deck windows and bounces off the rippling water. The glittering light reflects through the sauna’s glass door and dances on the wooden ceiling for about an hour or so as the sun sets. It’s beautiful, and a great time of day for a schvitz.

Getting settled in I see Zane, the guy sitting to my right. Zane’s a regular. He looks like he’s been in here awhile and has a healthy sweat going as he stares into his phone. For work, Zane refurbishes old rowhomes around town. He’s a nice enough guy, just a little full of himself sometimes.

The other guy, the fella to my left, I don’t know. He’s hunched over with his elbows on his knees, head hung low between his shoulders and watching the sweat drip down from his hands onto the wooden floor. As I unravel the cord of my headphones he glances over at me, shakes his head, and looks back down at his feet.

I get the feeling he doesn’t like me having my phone. It is against the rules, afterall–-clearly posted on the door is an image of a smart phone with a big red X through it. The thing is, most people don’t care--not about the cell phones or any of the other rules for that matter. Folks come in under age, they fuck with the thermostat (putting a wet rag over it so the heater overcompensates and cranks the juice up another 15 or 20 degrees). I’ve even seen people eating and flossing in here. It’s a lawless land.

So here I am with Ed Sheeran pumping through my earbuds and Zane’s over there in the corner scrolling away and this other guy is looking more and more agitated. Every so often, he looks over at Zane, looks back down at the ground and shakes his head. The pattern continues for two or three minutes before I lose interest and stretch my legs out on the bench to do some toe touches.

“No!” I hear. “You’re not supposed to have phones in here. Put it away!”

I look up and the guy is staring at Zane, fuming. “I’m sorry,” Zane said. “I didn’t know it bothered you.”

“Well it does.”

“Okay, I’m happy to put it away,” Zane said, placing his phone face down on the bench beside him. “But what’s with the attitude? Your opening foray is totally inappropriate.”

“I’ve been putting up with this for a long time,” the guy says. “I came here to relax. It says no phones on the door and I don’t appreciate it.”

“Well you haven’t been putting up with it from me,” Zane retorts. “Most people aren’t bothered by it, a lot of people like it, and no one is in here filming. A gentle question would have gotten you just as far. What’s with the incursion and getting yourself all worked up--especially if you say you’re here to relax?”

Zane looks over at me with this kind of can you believe this fucking guy look on his face and says “I don’t mind that you’re stretching--even though the sign says not to.” (You’re not supposed to exercise in the sauna.) “Jesus christ.”

It was quiet after that. I laid down on the bench and turned up the music in my headphones, Zane letting off steam with the occasional huff. After a few minutes, a college kid comes in and sits on the bench in front of my outstretched legs. He’s playing around with his phone.

The agitated stranger looks at the kid for a moment, looks to Zane, and says, “You’re right. I’m sorry. It seems like everyone does it.”

Zane looks up at him. Takes a chug from his Smart Water bottle.

“That’s alright,” he says.

“This isn’t my regular gym. I’m only in town for a few days because my father passed away. It seems like everybody uses their phones here. I’m sorry for getting so upset.”

“Well,” Zane says, “that’s a loss I don’t understand. I’m sure I’d be pretty upset too if I was going through that. Where are you from?”

“Brooklyn.”

“No shit? I grew up in Brooklyn, just a few blocks south of Flatbush. Spent the first 18 years of my life there. What neighborhood do you live in?”

“Crown Heights.“

“Man, my parents still live around there.” Zane paused. “I thought I recognized some New York energy in you,” he said. “And I mean that in a good way, genuinely. New Yorkers understand the value of directness.”

The guy didn’t seem to take it as a compliment.

“Well... “ he said. “I really am sorry.”

The two went on talking about the apartment buildings they lived in, the restaurants they ate at, the drinking holes they sometimes sunk into. All the places around town that hadn’t changed in all these years. They went back and forth and the sauna door opened again. This time, Goliath came in. A big, muscular man wearing shorts and a felt winter cap. The cap was grey and had a pointed top and ear flaps and a single red star emblazoned on the front. It looked like something a communist elf might wear. The commy goliath elf stood right next to the heater.

By this point Zane’s on a roll. “I’m an actor,” he said. “After growing up in New York, moved to LA to put a year in in the industry. That turned into twenty, a house, and a kid. Then during the pandemic my wife and I were looking for a place back east. Houses were going for six figures above asking upstate and even down into northeast PA. We found Lancaster and settled here. Kind of reminds me of Brooklyn in the 80s.”

Goliath speaks.

“You know Vinney?” he says, outing himself as both big and Russian, a formidable combination.

“Who’s that?” asks Zane.

“Vinney. He had the pizza shop on 12th street. Old guy. Big dog. Vinney, do you know him?”

“Can’t say I do.”

“Yeah, Vinney. Alvays standing out front of his pizza shop smoking his cigars. I’ve asked dozens of people what happened to Vinney and no one knows.” he said, looking baffled. “I’ve been looking for this guy, you know?”

Me and Zane and the guy who lost his dad looked at Goliath. His barreled chest glistened with sweat. The college kid didn’t seem to notice. I began to wonder how many millions of people have lived in Brooklyn since the mid 80s. And what did the russki want with Vinney, anyways? Was something afoot? And who were these dozens of people he had asked about Vinney’s whereabouts? Were they here, in the sauna, some 170 miles or so from New York City? Not to mention, I thought, it must be awfully sweaty under that hat.

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