Resolve (12 page)

Silence.

I knew running was cathartic, but Jesus! All three of my colleagues, if I could still call them that, were triangulated around me and each had backed up a half step at some point. Where the hell did that come from?

Eventually, it was the salesman of the group who felt obligated to fill the empty space.

In his most diplomatic voice, Aaron choked, “Well . . . we still have a little more than three miles to go. We should probably get moving.” He gave a nervous twitch of his mustache and added, “We’re like brothers, right? And brothers fight now and then.”

Randy appeared to be absent. He stared at me and then his head turned toward Aaron and then Jacob. I could tell he was as embarrassed about not knowing what to say as he was about what I had actually said.

Eventually Randy gulped, “I’m going to take a different route back. I’ll see you guys later.”

Randy wandered off into an industrial complex, probably not realizing that he was supposed to be running rather than walking.

Aaron looked blankly at Jacob, and then over to me with disbelief and perhaps a trace of resentment. He mumbled, “I better go with him.”

Jacob and I nodded our agreement.

When Randy and Aaron were out of sight, Jacob said, “I don’t have class until three thirty. What do you say we call this an easy day and walk back?”

I didn’t answer, but started retracing our steps slowly on the gravel path.

“So, I’m guessing your meeting with Clyde did not go well?” Jacob asked while looking up at the Duquesne Incline in the distance.

The Incline is basically a short rail system that runs from the point where the Ohio and Monongahela rivers converge. It scales a steep hill, where the Duquesne Heights neighborhood sits. People can hop in these things that look like shrunken trolley cars and move up and down the slope with the assistance of cables. My own gaze was fixed on the station at the top that was adjacent to the Mt. Washington neighborhood I had visited just a short time before.

“You could say that. Silo’s gunning for me and he’s going to try to get Steven to insist that I get terminated. He’s supposed to be meeting with Steven at some point this afternoon.”

“He’s talked to Steven?”

“At least enough to get him on the schedule. It didn’t sound as if they had gone into any details as of this morning.” I eyed one of the trolley cars levitating up the rise. From this distance it looked like part of the set for “Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood.” Now that I think of it, he had a trolley too. But I don’t recall college girls being strangled in his neck of the woods.

Jacob watched his shoestrings and listened to the gravel crunch under his weight. After a few seconds, he said, “When I spoke to him this weekend, he gave me the impression that he would be fair.”

“He gave you the wrong impression.”

“I’ll keep working on him. You didn’t give him any ammunition, did you?”

“Like?”

“Like, you were professional the entire time. Like, you didn’t melt down and engage in a verbal blitzkrieg that would make Patton weak at the knees? Like, you did not insult his entire person and question his qualifications? Like, you didn’t poke him in the chest and question his manhood and his intellectual abilities at the same time?”

“That doesn’t sound like me.”

I could feel the two laser sights centering on the side of my head.

“It wasn’t that bad,” I lied. “I held it together pretty well, all things considered.”

“That’s why I like you, Cyprus. Always the perfect portrait of discretion.”

Mile 7

W
hile turning south and crossing the Warhol Bridge, a few gusts of wind press against my chest and the right side of my body. Disrobed from the North Shore buildings, I tilt my head down to lessen the wind resistance caused by the moving air along the Allegheny. This part of the race is quiet. The bridge is just wide enough to accommodate all of the runners. No bands on the side. No spectators. Just the PPG buildings with their reflective black surfaces and cathedral inspired rooftops, approaching at my two o’clock position. I unzip my running belt and chew a few shattered pieces of my snack right before my feet hit the shore at the end of the span.

Coming off the bridge onto Duquesne Boulevard, thunder erupts. Runners are exiting the bridge, making a hard right turn, and then duplicating the maneuver to hop onto the Roberto Clemente Bridge. The spectators who were at the starting line and in the Strip District have gravitated over to this choke point to catch a quick glimpse of the athletes before they head back to the North Shore. After the eruption of sound, glimmer of digital cameras, and flourish of homemade signs, the commotion is gone and thousands of feet push back across the river toward PNC Park. As far as baseball stadiums go, it’s first rate. One of the best in the country. The satisfying seats and low ticket prices console a fan base that hasn’t seen a winning team take the field in over fifteen years.

I never thought I would be going to Pirates games. I never envisioned living here at all, much less teaching at a college. It’s funny how one decision leads to the next. Sometimes it’s the small strides that lead to major life changes.

A
fter running my first marathon, I was absolutely hooked. I ran two or three a year, and in between those races I kept up my training by running shorter races at faster speeds. 5K races are 3.1 miles. I used those for speed work. 10Ks are 6.2 miles. Those were for speed and endurance. The 13.1 mile half-marathons were for tuning things up just a few weeks before a full marathon.

I ran locally and I traveled to other states. I spent money on gear, hotel rooms, entry fees, and protein bars, just so I could punish my body on new roads and trails. I felt like a missile. I felt sharp and confident like never before, and it carried over to all aspects of my life. I started taking graduate evening classes at the local university. I willed myself through textbooks and journals the way I did up mountain roads. When I thought I had reached the top of the mountain, instead of standing there in triumph, I sought out others to climb.

Kaitlyn’s practice was doing well enough so that after I finished my master’s degree we decided I could pursue my doctorate full time. I turned in my badge and gun and picked up a new laptop and briefcase. I let my hair grow out and tried to lose the haircut that screamed
cop.
Before long, I had established a formidable reputation as a researcher and writer, but I really found my second calling in the classroom. The students seemed to appreciate hearing from a doctoral candidate who wasn’t on parole from an ivy tower, and they helped me get back to chasing the ideal.

I found that the Criminology students I taught didn’t have the same level of optimism as I did when I was an undergrad. The world had changed. They didn’t believe that things would get better. They didn’t believe that the battle for civilization was going to be won by the good guys. They had watched as jihadists crashed planes into buildings and genocides went unnoticed in faraway lands. Videos of beheadings peppered the internet. New illnesses like SARS and H1N1 flu were popping up for unknown reasons. Our American flags were all made in China. The students thought we were going to lose the war, and that inspired me more than anything. When you stand before an army that thinks defeat is inevitable, but its soldiers keep showing up to sharpen their bayonets, how can you not stand a little taller?

It took me only a few minutes to get cleaned up in the locker room. Aaron and Randy must have beaten us back and had already vacated the area. I dressed in silence, not even bothering to put my tie back on. Jacob went about his program, prepared his gear for the next run, and assured me that he would make another attempt at tranquilizing Silo. Walking out of there, I felt a tinge of guilt for unloading on Randy, and probably insulting Jacob and Aaron and their academic backgrounds in the process, but I felt better overall.

With my shoulders feeling a little lighter, I tried to accept the fact that my fate was out of my hands, and decided to head back to my office. If I wasn’t suspended when tomorrow came, then I would need to go to class and have my material ready. The sun on my face felt good as I crossed the campus and emptied my mind of Lindsay, Steven, Silo, and the police.

I had forgotten to remove the hastily made sign from my door before I took off in search of Steven. The clear tape left a sticky silhouette on the door when I pulled it off. Walking over to the small CD player on a table in the corner, I hit the power button and pushed play. Mozart is always good to listen to when you’re working. I’m not sure the CD player in my office has ever held music created by another composer. The only time I listen to classical is when I’m working—or reading at home—and even then I can only handle Brahms or Mozart. Eventually, I’ll get a stereo that plays digital downloads and my CDs will go the way of the cassette tapes stacked up in my basement.

Feasting on protein bars that were stashed in a desk drawer and sipping on a sports drink I kept in my tiny refrigerator, I tore into ungraded assignments and future lesson plans. Like a possessed professor, I marked up paper after paper and made notations for myself regarding what points I needed to stress more and what topics I could move away from. I doubted any of my students could actually read my handwriting, but I inked comment after comment with zeal. If I was going out, at least I would go out competently.

I didn’t want to leave TRU. For all of its faults, there were benefits. I chose to work here for two main reasons. First, the university pays me surprisingly well. Secondly, the people here don’t really bother me about how much research I do or how often I get published. I’m left alone to be a real
teaching
professor. I suppose I could really solidify my status at Three Rivers if I pulled in some major grant money, but that’s just not me.

Only when I had to turn on my desk lamp did I realize it was dark outside. I had completely lost track of time in my flurry of productivity. Even with the clock on my desk reading 7:30, I found it hard to believe how time had slipped by. I typed a quick email to Kaitlyn, telling her that I would be home in a little while, and I sorted all the paperwork into proper piles.

The old sodium vapor lamps lining the campus streets gave off a yellowish hue and low hum. Most of the students had retreated back to their dorms, apartments, or parents‘ homes and, while not abandoned, the school property was far from bustling. Over the top of the library, I could see the glow from the lights at PNC Park. Opening day wouldn’t be for another ten days, but preparations for another long season were underway. I’m a big fan of baseball. It’s a game of patience and anticipation trying to survive in an ADHD world. Maybe someday I’ll move to a city where the team can actually make the playoffs.

The yellow tint of the air turned to off-white as I entered the parking garage. The first two levels were reserved for faculty and only four cars remained in sight of my Jeep. Reaching over with my keys to unlock the driver’s side door, I found myself thinking about the way my dad used to talk about traveling to see the Cincinnati Reds play games at old Crosley Field.

It was just a slight change of color.

A portion of the dark green paint on the Wrangler turned black and then back to green. I instinctively tightened up and brought my right arm up near my head in a defensive position and spun to my right. Something smashed into the outside of my shoulder and sent a jolt across my shoulder blades. The pain was excruciating. Tunnel vision took effect and all I saw was the tire iron being raised by an unfriendly right hand. Not being able to move back because of the car, I stepped forward toward the figure that was starting to come into focus. I quickly struck out with my left and landed a solid punch center-mass on the blur. The tire iron missed its mark and the shadow stepped back.

Now I could see my attacker. Under the black hood of a torn sweatshirt, Steven tried to regain his breath after I had slammed his diaphragm.

“What the hell are you doing?” I yelled.

Steven’s response was to move forward in a kickboxer’s fighting stance, with left foot and hand forward, and re-engage me. Catching me watching the tire iron still being held in his right hand, he snapped his left leg up and landed a vicious side-kick to my face. I bounced back against the Jeep as he once again closed in on me. Fully coming to the realization that the tire iron had been meant for my head, and Steven had intended to make me a homicide statistic, I charged forward into the storm.

People skilled at kickboxing and karate generally don’t feel very comfortable when an opponent is on them chest-to-chest. They want to have space to put force behind focused punches and directed kicks. Extremely close combat is unfamiliar to them and throws them off their game. Most law enforcement defensive tactics training is based on holds, arm bars, wrestling, and judo techniques. You have to use your opponent’s momentum against them and strike only when an opening in their defenses becomes clear.

The collision with Steven put us right up against each other, and I felt him moving backwards with the force of my body. His legs were neutralized as weapons as soon as he was off-balance and struggling not to fall backwards. When he finally got a leg firmly planted behind him to stop his migration across the parking garage floor, I delivered a crushing blow to his nose with my forehead. The crack of bone breaking preceded a guttural groan. The gush of blood was instantaneous.