Into The Night

Since this place is constantly overflowing with weirdos, I rarely notice when one of them stops coming here. It's like taking sand away from the beach. But recently I noticed that one of my all-time favourites has left. I don't know his name. In fact, I have always gone out of my way to avoid learning it. I know him only as Ninja Man. Ninja Man had only one workout outfit. It was comprised of blindingly white Pearl Izumi running shoes, long black spandex tights, a long sleeve skin -tight black Underarmour shirt, dark sunglasses, and a bandana. Yes, he wore the sunglasses all the time. The Matrix had him, I guess.
Being a kid who grew up on comic books, I always held Ninja Man in special regard. I figure he's the closest I'll ever come to meeting a real-life superhero. No one but Batman owns that much black spandex. This guy was a 5 or 6 day a week guy, and didn't seem like the type to wear the same outfit over and over. One can only wonder what his closet looks like. I suppose he bought the stuff in bulk. The scene at the register must've been a riot.

-So, I'd like to buy all of your spandex tights, and these underarmour shirts. I could only find eight on the rack, are there any more?
-Ummm, I'm not sure. I don't think so. Are they for a team or something?
-No, they - they're all for me.
-Do you, um, are you, like, a ninja or something?

Look, even if the checkout kid didn't say it, they were thinking it. How could you not? There's a real limited number of reasons to buy all that spandex.
a) Ninja b) Superhero c) Complete Weirdo.

Are superheros self-conscious about having their butts and packages exposed in those outfits? I suppose if you're busy fighting crime, you don't have time to think about it. And when you aren't fighting crime, you're either flying or driving some fancy car or something, so people couldn't check out your ass. On the other hand, maybe that's the whole point. Is there any inherent advantage to fighting crime in spandex? I'm not an expert, but I don't think so. Maybe it is for the attention. I really wanted to ask him about that, but I was afraid that ninjas respond badly to being asked whether or not they are are hoping to get checked out by a bunch of tree-necked weightlifting meatheads. He might crane kick me or something. I remained silent.

His gleaming white sneakers always presented a startling contrast to his head-to-ankle jet black outfit. I often wondered how they stayed so clean, despite the many hours he spent running. Then I found out he ran barefoot. Apparently, he thought if it worked for the Kenyans, it would work for him. Maybe I'm wrong, but he never seemed to be pushing world record pace on the treadmill. His sweaty feet did push the room toward world record stink, though. I don't know why this was allowed to go on. I suppose everyone was afraid of getting crane kicked.

Now Ninja Man is gone. True to his namesake, he has left no trail, provided no explanation, left no trace.