The Miles

by Robert Lennon

  Gary leaned over from his chair to pull out three bottles of Stella Artois from the cooler that anchored one corner of the oversized beach blanket. He wore denim shorts and a polo shirt. A wide straw hat guarded him against whatever sun the beach umbrella might miss.

  “I’m with you, Liam,” he said as he popped open the three bottles, handing one each to Liam and Monroe and taking a long gulp from the other. “Work hard. Play hard. It’s one of the tenets this club was founded on.”

  “I had no idea there were principles behind this traveling circus,” Monroe quipped back.

  “Ouch, no one told me there were sharks in these waters,” Gary snapped back.

  “Looks like you’ve got company now, G-Lo,” Zane announced. “Liam, finish the beer and join me in the water!”

  Zane plopped an orange raft over Liam’s head and dragged him out to the water. Liam glanced over his shoulder and could see that Gary and Monroe were already engaged in conversation. They clinked their bottles of beer together, and their bodies were angled toward each other. Liam thought he picked up the soft sough of laughter through the lapping waves. As the tide pulled him out farther, he tried to focus back toward the shore but could only make out partial shapes and movements on the blanket.

  MILE 24

  The city looked coquettish in the late morning light. As the road rose, gradually, the curve of downtown reflected in mirrors of glass and steel. Up ahead to the right, the redbrick projects of Chinatown stretched in succession toward the great heights of midtown Manhattan. The city revealed itself in flashes and suggestive poses. That was the way that Liam had always experienced the trip over the Manhattan Bridge; he would force cabbies to go out of their way to take this route into the city anytime he was in Brooklyn. Running across the bridge made the effort all the more rewarding. This was not an easy feat, with its slow but seemingly endless incline. Liam had to remind himself to keep a steady pace. This was just the second of five bridges in the day’s twenty-mile run.

  “That mile was 7:07.” Gene heaved a little as he spoke. “We should probably cut it back a little. We’re only about nine miles in.”

  Gene had just purchased a top-of-the-line GPS watch and now tortured anyone within earshot with an endless recitation of statistics. Between the chip on his shoe, the strap across his chest, the TV screen mounted on his wrist, and satellites in the sky, the gadget managed to report back exact pace, average miles per hour, his heart rate, and the total distance run. Everyone rolled their eyes as Gene used the device to order people to pick up or slow down the pace.

  “I can’t believe you spent $250 on that piece of crap, especially considering what a cheap bastard you are,” Ferdinand spoke in a joshing tone that disallowed Gene direct rebuttal.

  “Why are you even running with us, bitch?” Gene began to run a little faster to pull away from Ferdinand despite his edict that the group slow down. “You’re not a high-fiver, and you’re just going to fade and finish this run with the B-Group.”

  “You broke six-minute pace in a four-miler a year and a half ago, Gene. Are we plagued to hear about it forever? You’re a high-fiver by technicality only.”

  Zane used the empirical data of racing to exact revenge on Gene whenever he had the chance.

  “You may have the edge in short distances, my friend, but you’ve never even run the marathon.” A collective groan rumbled through the silence before Gene finished his thought. “Let alone broken three hours in a marathon. All I can tell you guys is that I never could have done that last year without even pacing and discipline.”

  As his feet pounded along the steep decline of the bridge, Liam could feel a sharp pain dagger through his lower back. He bit his lower lip and focused on relaxing his breathing. Marathon day was just a month away now. He knew the race would throw even more discomfort his way—but at least he would not have to listen to the childish bickering of his teammates.

  The long off ramp of the bridge came to a quick halt and spilled the runners out onto the congested streets of Chinatown. Zane, who was at the head of the group, stopped and waited for Marvin to direct everyone toward the Williamsburg Bridge. According to Zane and Gary and the entire nucleus of power at Fast Trackers, Marvin had ended his boy-toy fling after the nineteen-year-old he had been sleeping with stole a fifty-dollar bill out of Marvin’s wallet. Predictably, they said, after months of absence from the club, Marvin returned to the fold as though nothing had happened. The lore was that you always knew when Marvin was single again because he was back on the prowl, hitting on any runner under the age of thirty. But no matter, everyone was just happy to have him back. He could map a run through any borough flawlessly and with just two more head-to-head battles with the Urban Bobcats, Fast Trackers really needed its top line in top form.

  By the time they reached the Queensboro Bridge, no one had any energy left for chitchat. Even Gene had stopped reporting the mileage and pace of the run. Ferdinand had, indeed, fallen off somewhere in Queens, and Matthew slowed down to keep him company. Liam directed his thoughts inward to steel himself for the marathon when man against man, man against nature, and man against himself would all roll together. He knew that the pain he felt now would be nothing in comparison to the last 10K of the marathon. The gabled rise of the Queensboro presented the next challenge. At more than a mile in length, the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge offered a mirage of Manhattan at its halfway point in the shape of Roosevelt Island. This would be mile number sixteen in the marathon, he thought, the quiet valley right before the maniac masses of First Avenue. He felt suddenly emotional and choked back tears. With the heavy part of training over, Liam had only a half marathon next weekend and two weeks of tapering before race day. And then the performance would unfold before crowds of spectators. Thinking of the race course sent goose bumps down Liam’s skin—almost 40,000 runners leaving Staten Island and weaving through Brooklyn, Queens, Manhattan, the Bronx, and then snaking back through Manhattan again to end up at Tavern on the Green. The course brilliantly exploited New York’s eclectic character and uneven terrain. In just a few weeks, Liam Walker would be running the most famous race course in the world and maybe even helping to bring his team a much-needed win against its local rival.

  Fast Trackers had dared not to think that far ahead. The club had inched so close to the Urban Bobcats but would need to score definitive victories in both the half marathon next weekend and in the marathon itself to have a shot. But the Bobcats had so many tricks up their sleeves and so many talented runners in reserve. By comparison, the Fast Trackers had been fragile in recent months. Riser did have good days but still struggled to keep his weight above 120 pounds, and it was out of the question for any Fast Tracker to suggest that he run strenuously given his illness. Matthew had lacked focus since his best friend had gone off the rails. The forecast for Ferdinand and Marvin, both flaky in their own right and subject to the lure of party drugs and boy nip, respectively, had brightened with their appearances at the long run today. No one had expected them to show. But, then again, there were still several weeks for a new diversion to sidetrack them.

  Liam turned off the bridge and led the runners in his group through the northwest zigzag to the diner chosen for the post-run brunch. They had phoned ahead for a table of fifteen, but people were going to be arriving at vastly different times depending on what pace they had run. Catching a glimpse of himself in the mirrored walls of the restaurant, Liam immediately felt self-conscious to be in public with salt rings on his face and his clothes dripping with sweat. Now he would have to tell the hostess that fourteen more just like him would be dining in the big booth in the back this morning.

  “We’re the party of fifteen,” he said to the old woman taking names by the door. “It’s under Loblonicki. We called ahead several hours ago.”

  “Runners,” she spoke in a thick Eastern European accent, her words fraught with disappointment. “A lot of water refill. Not a lot of food.”

  “We promise to eat heartily. We just ran
twenty miles.” Liam tried to smile, but had begun to feel anxious.

  “But I see only seven people here. You said you are a group of fifteen?”

  “The others are coming soon. They were running right behind us.”

  “I sit your party when everyone is here. Please wait outside the restaurant until then.” Her tone conveyed impatience.

  “We’re paying customers,” Gene planted himself in front of Liam to make the assertion. “You sit us now, or we’re going to go elsewhere.”

  “Good luck to you,” she said.

  “Never mind him,” said Liam. “We’ll wait outside for the others.”

  “What’s with the ultimatum bullshit?” Zane yelled to Gene, once they were situated far enough from the window of the restaurant. “Can’t wait half an hour for your eggs and bacon. You’re such an ass.”

  “They should treat us like every other customer. That bitch wouldn’t sit us because she saw us as a big group of flamers about to scare away the pack of breeders in there. It’s typical Upper East Side bullshit.”

  “This whole plan doesn’t make any sense,” Marvin said, matching Gene’s agitation. “We could eat our meals and get on with the day by the time some of those guys get back here. I mean, Liam, what pace was your friend Monroe running anyway?”

  Liam had not computed the time differential between his twenty-miler and Monroe’s. Normally, Monroe ran about two minutes per mile slower than him, but Monroe had never run anywhere near this distance before so it was difficult to know whether he would even complete the run. At least Gary had agreed to jog with Monroe, citing a sore Achilles’ heel as the reason for slowing down his long run. The gesture knocked a huge weight off Liam’s shoulders. It had seemed the two formed a bond of sorts out on Long Island over Labor Day, but Liam had been burned before for taking too much for granted with Monroe and so remained cautiously optimistic on how today might turn out.

  “We’ve already been standing around for the better part of fifteen minutes,” Liam replied. “I bet everyone’s back here in another twenty or twenty-five minutes. What choice do we have now but to wait?”

  As soon as he asked the question, Liam received an answer. His teammates quickly expressed an eagerness to get on with their day. Marvin excused himself, then Ben, then Gene, and within fifteen minutes only Zane and Liam waited outside the Silver Star Diner.

  “I bet Ferdinand and Matthew headed straight home,” Zane said, looking at his watch. “We can just leave a message with the hostess in case anyone comes by, but I have a feeling no one is coming, Liam. She can tell folks that we’ve jetted.”

  “If you feel like heading out, please go ahead, Zane. I’m a big boy. I’ll stick around a little while longer. I want to hear how Gary and Monroe got along.”

  Zane began to laugh and threw his arm around Liam’s shoulder. Liam felt something odd and condescending in the gesture.

  “What?” Liam asked. His hunger disabled his ability to play coy.

  “I am certain they got along just fine, kiddo.” Zane smirked and patted Liam on the shoulder again.

  “Please.” Liam wanted Zane to know he wasn’t in the mood for games. “I know the club loves this type of drama, but I really don’t want idle gossip to cloud my friendship with Monroe.”

  “Are you really trying to tell me that Monroe hasn’t told you?” Zane waited for Liam to respond. Liam just shook his head. “Let’s just say that ever since that day out at Horace’s place, Gary and Monroe have gotten to know each other—real well.”

  Liam stared at Zane for a moment to see if his gullibility was being tested and then excused himself. He began to walk away from the restaurant but did not know in what direction to travel. Zane’s suggestion gnawed at Liam as he replayed the events of that day at the beach. But it could not possibly be true. Monroe told Liam every detail of his life. This was madness. Then again, why would Zane lie? Liam’s head pounded. Perhaps Monroe finally opened himself up to another man. Maybe Gary actually took a liking to someone his own age. But they were both far too transparent to hide romance from a close friend.

  Liam picked his cell phone out of the pocket of his shorts and dialed Monroe. He would leave a message for Monroe—tell him, calmly, to call as soon as he returned from the run. As he walked toward the train, Liam noticed a tall maple tree straight ahead of him. The only greenery on the block, somehow the tree had managed to survive under the cement and asphalt of East Sixty-first Street. A cluster of leaves on the top branches caught the sun in a brilliant flash of yellow and red. Liam wondered when the tree had been planted and for how long it had been holding on against the litter and congestion of the city.

  As Monroe’s voice came on with instructions to leave a brief message, Liam hung up the phone. He looked at his watch. It was not yet noon on a gorgeous autumn day in New York City, and Liam decided to walk west toward the subway to get on with his own day. As he crossed the avenue, he thought of Monroe and Gary doing the same—possibly together—and he smiled.

  MILE 25

  “Did you bring them?”

  The desperation in Riser’s voice was palpable. It was early morning and the sun swept through the room with determination and promise. The beautiful light and the smell of clean sheets made the sight of Riser crumpled helplessly in bed all the sadder. Liam handed Riser the crisp paper bag, and he feverishly opened it.

  “I never would have guessed that a change of wardrobe would be your highest priority right now.” Liam no longer knew what to say. He had hoped that Riser’s initial stint in the hospital would shock him into reality and make him want to live again, but here it was just over a month later and he was back in the same hospital room festooned with tubes and monitors, looking more acutely sick than ever.

  “These jeans were the Holy Grail.” Riser extricated the dark denim from its tissue paper wrapping and held the pants up to offer the evidence to Liam. “Helmut Lang—$345. I refused to allow myself to buy these until I was a size 28.”

  “They’re a very smart look,” Liam offered clumsily.

  “Help me up so I can try them on?” Riser raised his two bony arms in the air solicitously.

  “But there are all these wires and tubes, sweetie. Maybe you should just lie there and rest.”

  “I’ve been in this same position all night long … I’ll have bed sores soon, Li. Please just help me up. All this shit moves. Trust me.”

  Afraid Riser’s bones might snap like twigs on impact, Liam gingerly shimmied his friend off the mattress. Riser leaned his upper body against Liam’s shoulder, and Liam hoisted him up.

  “Oh shit, the room is spinning.”

  “Just stand still with me a second and everything will come into place. You’ve just been on your back too long.”

  Riser squeezed the flesh between Liam’s neck and his shoulder. The pain rippled through Liam, and he bit the inside of his lip to stay silent. He knew Riser was not in total control of his actions.

  “I’ll lift my leg, Li.” Riser paused and looked as if he had lost the ability to form words. When had Riser taken to abbreviating his name? Liam wondered. “I’ll lift my leg up and you can just slip the pants on. Okay, Li? It’ll be a team effort.”

  The pin-legged pants glided over Riser’s emaciated legs, and Liam helped button the fly so that the jeans were on right and proper. Any pretense of humility on Riser’s part had disappeared.

  “I nearly killed myself to fit into these.” Riser turned to Liam and laughed. “I guess truer words have never been spoken, hunh?”

  “You’re going to be fine, babe. Stop being so dramatic. Let’s sit down and watch some Saturday morning cartoons.”

  As he bent down to sit in the leather recliner next to Riser’s bed, Liam’s phone began to ring. There were signs every fifty feet throughout the hospital ordering people to turn off their cell phones, but somehow Liam had neglected to realize that his was still on.

  “Who is it?” Riser sounded as though he was afraid to have an interloper
steal Liam away from him.

  “It’s just Gary, sweetie. I can call him back later.”

  “Holy shit. Today’s the half marathon in the park, isn’t it? You missed the race against the Bobcats because of me. Goddamn it! Bad enough that I can’t run for the team. Now I am causing our best runners to miss key races. Once a fuck-up, always a fuck-up.”

  “Riser, we’re a team. We take care of each other. We help one another out. There are plenty of Fast Trackers who raced out there this morning, and I am certain that they did us both proud.”

  When Liam had gotten the call from the station nurse just before midnight, he took a taxi to the hospital immediately. He was both concerned that Riser’s vital signs kept fluctuating so wildly and incredibly flattered that Riser had listed him—over Matthew or Ferdinand or anyone else on the team—as his emergency contact. The visit wore on through the wee hours of the night and then, just after daybreak, Riser asked Liam to trek over to his apartment and fetch his favorite pair of jeans. Liam conceded the morning’s race to his friendship with Riser, though he did begin to worry over which Fast Trackers would show up to run the half marathon. Each time the thought entered his mind, Liam felt ashamed and tried to dismiss it. Now, Gary was calling—probably with the results—and Liam had to just look the other way, searching for old episodes of The Smurfs on the static-laden TV hanging from the corner of the ceiling.

  “Liam, you should go enjoy the day. Please. I am the one who is bed-bound. You? Go out and have mulled cider in the park … It’s autumn in New York, for chrissakes.”

  Something about the little blue men marching through the heavy snow of the old television set lulled Liam into a sense of peace. The volume was too low to hear, but Liam could easily figure out the one-dimensional plot—the Smurfs were scrambling into hidden brushes in the forest because the evil Gargamel had been spotted. Liam wished the divisions between good and evil were so clearly drawn in real life. Liam fought the heaviness of his eyelids and wriggled in his chair to shake himself awake. As he turned to draw Riser into conversation about the program, Liam noticed that the sleepiness must have been contagious. Riser’s body was swallowed by the whiteness of the hospital linens. His hip bones jutted up sharply, exposing the largeness of the twenty-eight-inch waist of the Helmut Lang jeans. Riser had worked so hard to get into them, and the jeans now swam on his underfed body. In the honeyed morning light, Riser’s skin had the cold alabaster quality of a marble statue. The veins in his hands and his stomach rose to the surface in a desperate but sensual way. Riser’s mouth had fallen open as he drifted into sleep, elongating the concavity of his face. He looked ethereal and beautiful but almost like something imagined, something that had never inhabited the earth.