Once inside, Monroe played the proverbial queen in a couture shop, prancing around from the display of cashmere knit scarves to a wall of suede jackets on over to the case of Hermes ties. There were no other customers on the first floor of the store, which made Liam feel conspicuous, as though at any second a salesperson would pounce on them with overzealous offers of assistance.
Monroe led Liam to an escalator hidden behind a tall mannequin in the corner of the floor. The second floor housed all the designer collections that Monroe wanted to check out that afternoon—Jil Sander, Theory, and rag & bone—and Liam sensed an immediacy to his friend’s need for some retail therapy.
“Hold on, cowboy,” Liam laughed as Monroe began bounding up the moving escalator.
“So many shirts, so little time, my friend,” Monroe beamed.
Liam wanted to comment on how radiant Monroe looked when he smiled like this and to suggest that he do it more often but then thought better of it. Helpful observations like that had a tendency to be heard only in their negative, and Liam could imagine Monroe retorting with something along the lines of “What, I look like a miserable troll most of the time?”
The clerk in the Marc Jacobs section convinced Liam to try on the aubergine sweater he had been fondling lovingly. He figured he may as well occupy his time while Monroe was flitting through the Etro sale rack—even if he knew that he couldn’t plunk down the better part of a month’s rent no matter how good the sweater looked on him. He took it and some pencil-legged blue jeans into the expansive changing room. After spending what felt like five minutes shimmying the jeans over his hips and buttoning the pants, Liam emerged to view the outfit in the series of mirrors the store had arranged.
“Why, who knew that James Dean had been reincarnated and brought right down to earth in the center of the Bergdorf Goodman men’s store!”
Liam detected the voice right away and then saw in the angled mirrors that his ears did not betray him.
“Oh my, G-Lo! Are you everywhere? It seems my friend Monroe is right. You can’t turn a corner in this city without slamming straight into a Fast Tracker.”
“And you listen to that tired queen? Where is she? Have her come over here, and I’ll bitch-slap her right now.”
After successfully smoothing things out with Monroe once already, Liam did not have faith that their daily excursion could weather this surprise intrusion by Hurricane Gary. Liam’s mind buzzed as he considered appropriate ways to shoo along the ever-pleasant club president.
“We’re having quiet time together, Gary. I’m sure you understand. I’m going to change out of this overpriced outfit and help Monroe replenish his spring wardrobe. I’ll see you at the track this week.”
“Those clothes were handmade for you, stud. You absolutely have to buy them. It would be criminal for anyone else in this city to be sporting those.”
Liam laughed and looked back in the mirror. He did love the way the jeans hugged his butt and the way the sweater ended just at his beltline, exposing the veins in abdominals when he lifted his arms. This is precisely why he never allowed himself to grasp at things beyond his reach—in clothing and in life.
“You’re too kind, but my credit line is tighter than these jeans.”
“Please, I’ll get them for you, babe. Consider it a very belated Christmas present or an early birthday present or whatever.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Gary. I just tried these on for fun.”
“If you don’t let me do it, then I am going to hang around here until Monroe comes back and torment you both for the rest of the day.”
Liam looked around to see if he was in jeopardy of Monroe dropping by and then considered how much he would be compromising his principles to let Gary buy him an outfit. Given the outrageous lushness of his apartment, Gary could drop $600 for this outfit without batting an eye.
“Fine, I’ll be right out, but this is only to appease you.” Liam darted into the changing room and swapped his clothing as quickly as he possibly could.
When he returned a minute later, Liam saw the train wreck head-on. There, by the cashier, stood Gary and Monroe, decked out in an Etro sports coat, chatting uncomfortably. Liam handed the salesclerk the jeans and sweater and steeled himself for the turbulence.
“Wow, quite a shopping day for Mr. Liam. And here I thought you had overspent at the running store.” Monroe eyed Liam defiantly.
“Oh, those are on me,” Gary chimed in. “I like to help out today’s youth whenever I can.”
“That’s quite a public service you provide,” Monroe said, smirking. “All twentysomethings should be so lucky to latch onto a do-gooder like you. And it would help the flagging economy to boot!”
“Liam’s already given so much back to me by supporting Fast Trackers.” Gary looked off dreamily as he spoke. “More than money can buy really.”
“I think I may need to take a rain check on the Cobb salad, Liam. I have suddenly lost my appetite.” Monroe unbuttoned the jacket he had on and pulled it off in a huff. “I’m just going to find a hanger for this and get out of here.”
“Come on,” Liam said, trying unsuccessfully to get Monroe to look at him. “We’re almost done here and we still have two more Bs on our agenda.”
“After I pay, I’ll be out of your hair,” Gary offered. “I can tell you boys are having special alone time.”
“Don’t rush on my account,” Monroe said. “Like I mentioned, I’ll be leaving. It’s been a long day, Liam. I’m just going to head home now.”
Knowing the premium that Monroe placed on loyalty, Liam wondered whether he should make one final overture but decided against it. The day had been ruined and dragging out the embarrassment on the floor of Bergdorf Goodman would not help matters any. Some future penance would be in store for Liam.
“Well, I’ve seen some divas in my day but that one takes the tiara,” Gary said as he signed the sales receipt dramatically.
“Don’t sell yourself short, G-Lo. You can play royal bitch with the best of them.”
“Oh, shut up and come with me. Now that your plans have been foiled, you’re going to grab a drink with Mitch and me at Townhouse. The piano bar will supply us with laughs for days. And it’s just a hop and a skip from here so I won’t hear any kvetching.”
MILE 12
A pack of kids in big puffy jackets flew out the doors and barreled down the ramp, knocking into Liam. He couldn’t say anything given that he was clearly in the way. He told Monroe there were no good meeting spots outside the Armory, but Monroe insisted that Liam escort him into the facility. Liam knew that being a good friend meant dealing with these irrational requests from time to time. He certainly did not want to discourage Monroe. It was amazing, after all, that he had decided to run a track workout, and Liam knew he would have to do everything within his power to make sure the night went off without a hitch.
In their friendship, Liam understood that one of his primary roles was to anticipate any misgivings that Monroe might have and proactively handle them. When Monroe had broached the topic with him a few days earlier, Liam carefully noted that it seemed odd for Monroe to attend a Fast Tracker event given how much torment the club seemed to cause him. Monroe confessed that he had initially been jealous of the fact that the club stole Liam away from him for such huge chunks of time, but that he wanted to see what all the fuss was about and give Fast Trackers an honest chance. They seemed to have reached a détente, but Liam still felt uneasy about what the night had in store. Liam looked at his watch and realized the workout would be starting shortly.
“So this is quite the hellhole.” Monroe motioned to the cardboard village that had been erected alongside the facility. Liam had neglected to mention the details of the local scene, the homeless shelter next to the track, the urine on the streets, the piquant odor of marijuana. Monroe had dressed in a cute spring outfit, the colors of which were so painstakingly coordinated that Liam wanted to ask if he had consulted a color wheel. But he kept his mouth shut
and played the good ambassador.
“You bet. It’s definitely a neighborhood to be passed through quickly. But the track inside is first-class.” Liam gave Monroe a kiss on each cheek and then, feeling self-conscious, headed into the Armory.
“Where are the locker rooms?” Monroe demanded as soon as they entered the building.
“We’re heading up there now. It’s really nothing fancy.” Liam had been afraid to tell Monroe about the facilities.
As soon as they entered the oversized bathroom, Monroe’s eyes darted from person to person. A tall man sat in his underwear on the radiator by the window, fishing through his knapsack for his workout gear. A compact African American college student balanced his body against one of the stall doors while he laced up his running flats. And a sinewy older man in his mid-to-late fifties crouched cross-legged on the dirty tile floor assembling his work clothes into a neat stack. Monroe shot a glance at Liam who had begun to change into his workout gear. They both stood at the far end of the bathroom, past the urinals and right next to the lone window, under which the lanky man finished dressing.
Liam began his established routine. He took his shoes off first but kept his dress socks on to protect his feet from the grime on the bathroom floor. The pants and shirt came off in quick yanks and were folded into his bag. As he finished putting on his running shorts and tank top, Liam quickly exchanged his dress socks for his microfiber running socks and laced up his racing flats. He glanced over and saw that Monroe had taken out each article of clothing he planned to wear—baby blue shorts, socks and headband, with a black mesh T-shirt and black training shoes—and stared at the ensemble helplessly.
“Do you need me to help bring anything upstairs to the track?” Liam examined the elaborate display of clothes that now rested on bags and was draped over every clean surface in the bathroom.
“No,” Monroe barked, looking up as he attempted to remove the second leg of his pants. His back was bent as he reached to pull the pant leg off. “Just wait here. I don’t want to go up alone.” As his head turned to catch Liam in the eye, Monroe lost his balance and hopped forward twice in a motion to recalibrate himself. In the second hop, Monroe’s free leg got caught in the fabric of his jeans, causing him to lurch toward the ground. His hands stopped the fall in a puddle of dirty water and piss by the urinals. Liam immediately dropped his backpack and kneeled to help gather Monroe up from the spill.
“Are you okay? Did you hurt yourself?” Liam tried to turn Monroe’s leg so that he could see if there were any open cuts or bruises. Monroe slapped Liam’s hand as he began to prod at his knees.
“I’m fine,” Monroe snapped. He then glared in the direction of each person who may have witnessed his pratfall. “I just want to wash my hands, throw on my running clothes, and get to the workout already.”
“Don’t let this get you down, babe. They really should have a proper locker room in a facility like this. I know … ”
Monroe frowned at Liam and then took his one free hand and reached over and shut Liam’s lips closed so that he could not finish his thought.
In the aftermath of his wipeout, Monroe leaned up against the door of one of the closed bathroom stalls. Having been scolded, Liam was loath to say anything until he could hear the person inside the stall flushing and getting ready to exit.
“We don’t want an instant replay,” Liam said, grabbing his friend and moving him over by the radiator, which was now free of any runners. “Just let me help you.”
Monroe threw his tank top over his head and scooped up his belongings before scurrying toward the door.
“We should get going, Liam. The workout was supposed to start three minutes ago, you know.”
The group had already warmed up and was stretching in a big irregular loop when Liam and Monroe arrived at the track area. Liam walked ahead to the bleachers and showed Monroe where their bags went. As they approached the Fast Trackers circle, Monroe directed Liam to wedge in beside Gary and Ben. In a play to avoid awkwardness, Liam chuckled to Ben, who smiled back cunningly—all is not forgiven. As they leaned into the calf stretch, Liam whispered to Monroe: “Glad you’re here.”
“Hopefully, this fires up my metabolism,” Monroe said, with a smile. “God knows I could use that!”
Before Fabio could inquire about the newcomer, Liam walked over to the coach and introduced Monroe, explaining that he was new to running and wanted to see what speed training was all about. Liam looked over the Fast Trackers assembled and assured Monroe that there would be two groups of runners for the workout and that he would not be the slowest one there. Every runner fears being the last finisher in a workout, still trudging around the track while everyone else stands around chatting.
“So did you see that Marvin missed the workout again tonight? I hear he’s dating a nineteen-year-old Peruvian.” Zane jumped up and down excitedly as he spoke. “He goes MIA anytime there’s a piece of barely legal trade within whiffing distance. This will be your time to get faster than him, Liam. Stay sharp! Stay hungry!”
“You remember my friend Monroe … ”
“Oh, of course. Good to have you here, Murray.”
Zane had already flitted away before Liam had an opportunity to correct him. Monroe stood with his arms crossed at his chest, waiting for something to happen.
With his clipboard in hand, Fabio rallied everyone to the starting line with a shout and a whistle. He announced the workout to muffled groans. Four sets of one mile followed by a 200-meter sprint. Fabio insisted that the miles be kept to 10K pace—no faster!—and that the 200-meter sprints be run “all-out” and that they be completed after precisely one minute of rest. As Fabio divided the runners into two separate groups by speed, Liam attempted to explain to Monroe that he should just run at a comfortable pace so that he could finish the workout. Going out too fast would only lead to a painful and disheartening evening.
From the side of the stadium seats, Ferdinand waltzed toward the track, decked out in a suede anorak with diamond-studded fur trim. Off his right wrist hung a pink leather duffel bag. He hurried toward Fabio and whispered something in his ear. Fabio shook his head a couple of times and then shrugged. The man peeled off his street clothes layer by layer uncovering a mint-green running outfit. Everything, right down to his custom-made racing flats, was the exact color of a pack of Wrigley’s spearmint gum. When the opportunity arose, Zane thanked Ferdinand for taking the Urban Bobcat challenge seriously by showing up for a workout. Everyone on the team knew that Ferdinand’s work and party schedule prevented him from attending most weeknight runs. If he wasn’t off to some cocktail party at a fashionista’s house, he had to watch a late-night run-through of the Dolce & Gabbana spring line. Running drills rarely took precedence over the fabulous life, but he still ran at a pace competitive enough to prove a valuable asset to Fast Trackers. Fabio threw Ferdinand in with the first group of runners and immediately moved everyone to the track.
As Liam waited at the starting line, he looked over to Monroe, who smiled as he exchanged pleasantries with Gary. Liam held out hope that Monroe might actually enjoy himself and have a good workout. In his first mile, Liam followed a few steps behind Zane, feeling strong and confident. With each lap, Liam moved more nimbly. When Fabio called out the times as 5:38 pace—a full fifteen seconds faster than his actual best-ever 10K pace—Liam worried that he had failed to heed his own advice by going out too fast. He would try to ease off a little in the next interval.
“You bought that pace,” yelled Fabio. “Now you own it … we have a no-returns policy here, so I hope you’re happy with your purchase. Everyone better hit those times the next go-round.”
After the second mile interval, Liam hunched over and prayed for the workout to end; he imagined what it might be like to fake cramps and stumble off to the side of the track. He wondered whether he could get away with not finishing. Liam liked to fantasize he might do exactly that, even though he knew he would stick through to the bitter end. Looking at the o
verhead clock, Liam counted how much time remained in the workout and then thought back to where he was that amount of time prior. These little mind games helped the time pass.
Liam sucked down his exhaustion as he toed the line for the next interval. As he passed Monroe on the track, Liam mustered the strength to cheer him on. Despite the encouragement, Monroe had slowed to a near limp and looked like he was about to keel over at any moment. Liam glided into a powerful stride to try and jump-start his body out of the stiffened pain he was in.
As he completed his first lap, Liam heard a solid thud followed by a shriek and a string of expletives. Maintaining his form, he turned his head and saw the aftermath of the collision. The muscular black hurdler stood over a felled Monroe shaking his fists and yelling something that Liam could not quite make out. Fabio had engaged the man and, at least from the opposite side of the track, the matter appeared to be under control. Liam could feel the burn in his legs and an ache in his abdominals from having worked his arms strenuously during the previous sprints.
When the interval was over, Liam hobbled over toward Monroe, who was sitting on the sidelines reading a weathered copy of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence. The collision had looked and sounded more dramatic than it really was. The damage was relatively localized, but the incident had clearly injured Monroe’s pride. Monroe pushed Liam away when he asked how he was feeling.
“I’m just going to head home,” Monroe hissed.
“Stay, we’ll get something to eat after.”
“Just let me go home and sleep this one off, Liam. Okay? I’m not angry. This just hasn’t been my night … my week … my year … Take your pick.”
“This is the one that counts,” interrupted Zane. “We have to head over to the starting line now. You can’t give yourself too much rest, Liam. Remember that in races, anyone can pick it up right at the finish line. It’s mile three of a four-miler that separates the strong from the weak.”
The Miles Page 11
