The Miles

by Robert Lennon

  “And you there! Yoo-hoo! I know you might have been out at Therapy until the wee hours, but wake up and tell us your name!”

  “Sorry. I’m Liam. Sorry.”

  “You’re too cute to apologize, hon. Now tell me, is this your first time?”

  “Sort of … I have been racing here and there, but this is my first fun run with the group.”

  “Gary, this is the dude I was bragging about. Zoomed right past me at Van Cortlandt during the 5K Championships.”

  Without this pronouncement, Liam would have never pegged the pale face under the moss-colored hoodie as Gene’s. After giving Gene an acknowledgment so cursory it bordered on rudeness, Liam looked over at Monroe. No words needed to be exchanged. That’s what Liam loved about their friendship. Monroe just had a sense of things, a wisdom of situations.

  “Well, Gene. You’ve had an opportunity to meet Liam. Let’s have Marvin run with him this morning. Marvin can give him a nice fast run.”

  The wiry man leading the announcements pointed toward a red-haired man with a splash of freckles across his nose. His legs were short but their muscle-thick definition popped through the black tights he wore.

  “Okay, last and I hope not least.”

  “It’s Monroe.”

  “Love the name! Now what pace, hon?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. How fast is real damn slow?”

  “Don’t you worry, Monroe. We leave no runners behind here. Horace will run with you.”

  A lanky man in neon-blue warm-up pants and a violet Windbreaker waved over toward Monroe. Clutched in both hands, Horace had bronze weights that looked to be a few pounds each. His thick seventies mustache had yellowed with age or bad habits.

  “God, do you owe me,” Monroe muttered through clenched teeth. “Start saving your lunch money, bitch.” He then dashed off without looking at Liam.

  Marvin could not have been more different from Gene. During their run, he offered almost nothing in the way of small talk and answered Liam’s questions in a manner suggesting that he wasn’t looking to make a new best friend. Liam did learn that Marvin taught astronomy at a fancy Upper East Side school for boys and had raced seriously since competing as an All-American for his college cross-country team. As they finished their five-mile run, Marvin asked Liam if he planned on going back to the church for brunch. While Liam had read about the Saturday ritual online, he had not been sure what to make of the whole affair and told Monroe that they would play each step of the morning by ear. Despite his being quiet during their run, Marvin now enthusiastically insisted that Liam go to brunch. It was apparently what made the whole morning, the whole run in the park, worthwhile. And when Liam suggested waiting for Monroe to return with Horace, Marvin snickered and claimed that they would both freeze to death by the time those slowpokes got back.

  “Everyone heads back to the church,” Marvin repeated. “Horace hasn’t skipped bagels since the Pointer Sisters started burning doing the Neutron Dance.”

  It all sounded logical enough. Surely Monroe would want some food after running out in the cold. Even as he supplied himself with this cast-iron logic, Liam could imagine his friend’s pursed lips and could hear Monroe’s curt reassurances that he had managed to fend for himself just fine despite being abandoned. There would be snide innuendo and passive-aggressive back-and-forth, but nothing that Liam had not encountered—and successfully handled—before. After six years of friendship, replete with dramatic fights, Liam had learned how to maneuver the minefield of Monroe’s sensitivities but still often chose to live dangerously.

  When Monroe rescued Liam from an aggressively drunk hanger-on at Starlight Club on Avenue A back in the early 2000s, Liam sensed it to be a more than auspicious start to their relationship. Not having had a lot of gay friends at Amherst College, Liam had to learn how gay friendships differed from straight ones. He chose to ignore the undercurrent of sexual tension at play in his encounters with Monroe and believe there was a tacit understanding that theirs was a platonic connection—nothing more, nothing less. It sometimes saddened Liam that gay men seemed to place a much lower premium on relationships of this ilk in favor of those centered around the ephemeral pleasures of the flesh. Over the years, Liam and Monroe had strengthened their bond, despite the entrance of petty jealousies here and there.

  “Looks like we’re the first runners back today. Bravo to us,” Marvin said, patting Liam firmly on the shoulder. Liam puzzled over the wide chasm between mid-run Marvin and post-run Marvin.

  There were about a dozen men assembled in the gym-like basement area of the church that they had just entered off of Broadway. The bright primary colors of the mats that lined the walls and part of the floor imbued the room with the childlike simplicity of a third-grade PE class. Two men in matching sweater vests split bagels in half while a cluster of chatty men in street clothing assembled chairs in a half moon on the gymnasium floor.

  “That’s the judging circle. You’ll learn all about them in due time. There are volumes for you to learn. You’re in for a trip if you stick around. And it is worth the price of admission. Ah, to be a newbie again!”

  As Marvin reeled off club factoids and fodder, Liam eyed the men who were so methodically setting the stage for breakfast. One gentleman in suspenders and a maroon and green plaid dress shirt spread a plastic tablecloth over a long rectangular card table and then placed jars of cream cheese, peanut butter, and jams and jellies at equal measure along its periphery. The man would place a jar on the table and then step away to see how it looked before positioning something new on the surface. Watching the slow Balanchine-like precision of each man’s moves, Liam stopped to think about whether anyone young would be at the breakfast. Sure, there was Monroe. Liam liked to think of Monroe as his own age, even though the twelve-year gap made him more like a much older brother. But the non-runners working in the room right now had to be fifteen years Monroe’s senior. Of course, there were also Marvin and Gene. But their age was difficult to decipher; they had the boyish style and affectation that keeps gay men looking young until one day, out of the clear blue nowhere, they look silly and sad—and old.

  “So I’m going to rinse this run off me.” Marvin had gathered up a towel, Dopp kit, pair of jeans, and a crewneck sweater. “Beat all those smelly bastards to the showers.”

  “I had just planned on running home.” Liam offered the words like an apology that came too late and did nothing other than fill in an awkward silence.

  “Please, lots of runners skip the showers. If you want to use the bathroom or wash your hands—whatever!—just come this way.”

  The hot water from the faucet hurt Liam’s numb hands, but he turned the yellow hunk of soap over and over, letting it slip faster and faster through his fingers to cast his mind away from the pain. He noticed a ridge of salt across his forehead leading down through his sideburns and tossed a handful of the scalding water over his face. As he turned around to dry off with some paper towels, Liam saw that Marvin had stripped down for his shower. Marvin now stood naked, fumbling through his Dopp kit, just two feet away from Liam. Finding it impossible not to stare at the long arc of Marvin’s penis as it swung back and forth, Liam dried his face with his shirt and darted out of the bathroom.

  Outside, the gymnasium floor had filled with new constellations of people, some who had been in the park for the run and others who had clearly foregone exercise this morning. Liam scanned the room for Monroe. A quick apology and they could both leave. Horace in his electric blue and purple ensemble was nowhere to be found. Neither was Miss Norma Jean.

  “Come, come. First-timers eat for free.” The voice had approached from behind but by the time Liam turned, Gene’s sweaty hoodie was bunched up in his face. The bear hug made Liam cringe.

  “I’m just going to wait.” Liam didn’t know how to finish the sentence. “My friend’s going to get back here in a few minutes.”

  “And what? He’s going to begrudge you starting without him?”

  The w
ay Gene framed the question caused Liam to blush, like he was an adolescent tethered to his best friend. Liam often resented the way Monroe got stuck on the details and could never let anything go, and he hated the predictability of the diatribe that would be delivered now that the morning had diverged from their original plan. But Liam also loathed the juvenile lure that Gene now coaxed him with, particularly since it was working.

  As he spooned some fruit salad into a bowl and took a quick sip from his coffee, Liam noticed Horace and Monroe entering the room. Horace pumped the little weights in his hands belligerently, as though he could wring out some torment they were causing him. Monroe nodded to fend off the barrage of Horace’s words. A skinny man with a wicked Boston accent approached, and Liam indulged the man’s banal questions to avoid the probing glances that Monroe now shot at him.

  In no time flat, this beefy man in the Boston College T-shirt managed to bolt through all the standard questions that everyone in the running club seemed determined to find answers to. While Liam did not mind sharing his favorite distances to race and his best times at different events, he did wonder whether people in the club had anything more to offer. As Joey, who had moved to New York just three months ago from the Beacon Hill section of Boston, finished telling of his hamstring injury from the fall, a young guy dressed in black pants and a purple V-neck barreled into the room in a flurry of hellos. Those gathered around the floor looked up eagerly with changed expressions, delighting in this young man’s arrival. Liam decided this must be a surprise cameo from someone who had moved away.

  “Zany Zane … that boy definitely knows how to make an entrance.”

  “Zane?” Watching the manic display of jumping up and down, the frantic meeting and greeting, Liam felt overcome by a sense of déjà vu. Was it last year’s Gay Pride? The Phoenix Bar? The pier in Provincetown last summer?

  “Oh, I’ve only been around the club for a little bit,” said Joey, “but Zane is kind of everywhere—even when he’s not. It’s impossible to know Fast Trackers without knowing Zane Tyro. You should meet him.”

  Before Liam had a chance to object politely and note that he needed to reconnect with his friend, he was double-whammied with Monroe intersecting right as Joey yanked Zane into what was now an odd quartet. Liam could feel his heart flutter and prayed that he might escape an embarrassing recrimination from Monroe. Liam attempted a look of entreaty with his friend, only to find that Monroe was transfixed by Zane.

  “So, Zane,” started Joey, “this is a new runner. His name is Liam.”

  “Oh, I know you! You’re a celebrity in the making! I saw you pass Gene at that race up in Van Cortlandt.” Yes! No wonder he was so familiar. Liam nodded, feeling as though an itch inside his head had just been scratched. “You’ve been the talk of the club ever since—and a veritable mystery man at that. And now here you are.”

  “Zane, this is my good friend Monroe. It’s his first time too.”

  “Don’t we all wish we could say that!” Zane punctuated his joke by reaching out and tousling Liam’s hair. “Well, it’s always great to have new people come to the club,” he added as an afterthought.

  “So, Zane, do you have an official role here?” Monroe asked. “You flitted in here like a little queen bee buzzing around her little worker bees.”

  Monroe’s biting sense of humor had always bordered on rudeness. Even good friends often became offended by his combative brand of sarcasm. Behind the focus of his hazel eyes, Zane appeared to examine Monroe’s statement like a trinket that he noticed glittering at a bazaar, something that captivated him for a second but proved valueless upon closer inspection.

  “Are you only focused on short-distance running, Liam?” Zane gazed again at Liam. “Actually, scratch that thought. It doesn’t matter. Even if you’re interested in longer distances, you’ll benefit from our indoor training program. We’re starting up at the track just next week in fact. You can get the whole winter season in. You’ll be a huge addition for us.”

  “Indoor training? What, like the ordeal of high school track practice? Once in a lifetime was more than enough on that front.”

  “Believe me,” Zane said, rubbing his hand along Liam’s bicep to emphasize his trustworthiness. “It’s a good group of guys who meet up two nights a week—work hard, play hard, and a lot of camaraderie.”

  “And people of all speeds can join, right?” As the words came out of Liam’s mouth, his eyes moved toward Monroe, and he knew he had made an error in judgment.

  “I just showed up to keep Liam company,” Monroe said, diverting his eyes toward the floor. “Don’t worry, I’m not interested in the track. It was lovely to meet you, though, Zane.”

  Questions about the track program immediately surfaced. How much did it cost? Where were the facilities? Were the runners at the track younger (cuter) than the ones who showed up to jog in the park? But was Liam expected to disengage from Zane? Would a good friend join Monroe at the buffet station where he currently lathered an onion bagel with cream cheese and jelly? It was a catch-22. If he showed solidarity against the slight suffered by his friend, Liam would be accused of pandering and of mortifying Monroe by reducing him to a charity case. On the other hand, continuing to enjoy conversation with the perpetrators would smack of disloyalty, a trait that Monroe abhorred. Finding it impossible to make his friend happy, Liam served his own needs and drilled down his list of questions.

  “Don’t worry about the specifics,” Zane implored. “Just show up this Tuesday night at seven thirty, and we’ll figure everything out.”

  Zane took Liam’s palm into his own and scribbled the address on his hand. Beneath it, he included a phone number.

  “Just in case you need anything before then,” he said.

  After the long meet-and-greet social with the Fast Trackers, Liam thanked Monroe profusely for joining him that morning and providing the requisite support throughout the event. Monroe demurred and said that he had not really done anything praiseworthy, and Liam could sense that his best friend still needed some tender loving care to feel that everything was truly right in the world—or at least in their friendship.

  “We’re going to Barneys Co-Op,” Liam insisted as they strode into the winter glare of a bustling Broadway.

  “You think you own the key to my heart, handsome,” Monroe said, averting Liam’s glance. “But don’t overestimate the powers of your persuasion.”

  “Please,” countered Liam. “You cannot feign indifference here. I know you love getting your designer labels for less. Now, the store is only a block and a half away, so let’s quit this faux fighting and get on with our day.”

  The beautiful fur-trimmed jackets and ski pants provided the perfect antidote to the bickering that had marred their morning. Luxury goods have a tendency to make one feel that there is no need to sweat the small stuff. Everything is going to be right as rain. Monroe tried on a lumberjack vest and strutted through the store as though he were the Jolly Green Giant. Liam donned an extravagant, multi-zippered parka and pranced around as though he were in the new James Bond flick. And suddenly all the tension dissipated. They were two friends whose only interest was making it through another day in the big city. Each knew the other was there for them through anything that truly mattered—boy problems, financial snafus, work issues, and family drama—and everything else was just a diversion. Background noise.

  Liam picked out a cashmere skull cap in the most vibrant shades of hot pink and fuchsia he had ever seen.

  “I am buying this for you!” he said to Monroe, triumphantly. “I need to be able to spot you in crowds.”

  He handed the surly cashier a fifty-dollar bill and told him to keep the change. (The gesture was worth more than the $1.48 he was about to get back.)

  “I do look fierce, don’t I?” said Monroe, sashaying out of the store, sporting the new gift proudly on his bald head.

  “Don’t ask the obvious, sweetie. I am not here to bolster your already huge ego.”

  �
�The hell you’re not!” screeched Monroe. “Why do you think old shrews like me keep young lovelies like yourself around, Liam? Don’t open that pretty little mouth of yours and guess … Let me just tell you that it ain’t the witty repartee!”

  With that flourish, Monroe pivoted around to hail a taxi across town, while Liam headed swiftly in the opposite direction to get the subway downtown.

  MILE 3

  Leaning against the bathroom stall, Liam rushed to remove his dress pants. It was already a shade past 7:30, and the prospect of being late worsened his nerves. Why had he decided to come to the track anyway? His nerves had gotten the best of him during the week since Zane had successfully persuaded him to augment his participation in Fast Trackers with these speed workouts. The sweat had built up during the forty-five minutes of subway time spent stuck between a militant preacher rambling about hell on earth and two teenage girls cracking gum and hyena-laughing, and now his undershirt was glued to his back. Peeling it off, Liam lost his balance and tripped away from the bathroom stall with his bare foot landing in a pool of liquid that had formed as a nasty result of the overflowing urinal and a poor drainage system. Liam had not complained when the attendant in the lobby barked that there were no locker rooms and insisted that everyone change in the bathrooms. Normally, he would have asked where his $350 in membership dues went, but getting ready in a timely fashion trumped exacting pointless revenge on the hourly-wage Armory employees.

  The mint-green cotton shorts that were free with his gym membership renewal and the old Amherst T-shirt he had crammed into his bag as he left the office were now a wad of wrinkles. He compared himself to the three runners lined up at the urinals, the slit of their racing shorts and the light tech-fiber of their tank tops lending a clean line to their long, lean bodies. (They were what his mother would have called tall drinks of water.) Liam felt like a dilettante. The people in the club had definitely done their part to make him feel wanted and at home, but he still questioned the wisdom of enlisting in their training program. He hoped that more attractive men who were capable of talking about things other than running might show up to these workouts. Zane had alluded to that possibility during the follow-up call Liam made the day after the fun run, reasserting all the benefits of running intervals on an indoor track and also hinting that “recreational” opportunities existed. After ponying up more money than he could afford—almost half a month’s rent—to join the program, Liam knew he had to follow through even if it meant pissing off the other fact-checkers at the magazine with his early departures twice a week.