The Miles (17 page)

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Authors: Robert Lennon

BOOK: The Miles
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Before Liam had a chance to ask Zane for clarification on the back story to this event, Gary blew the horn and the racers jockeyed into position. Accustomed to elbowing through a chain of adamant runners at the start of every race in Central Park, Liam sprang out to the front of the pack to discover that he led the race for the first few minutes. Zane ran just a few steps behind him, practically on his shoulder, and the next runners were several hundreds of yards behind them.
Racing ahead of Zane made Liam nervous, like he had chosen an unsustainable pace or was simply defying the natural order. As they crested the first hill in the course, Zane challenged Liam by breaking out a few feet in front of him. “Pace yourself,” Zane admonished as he strode past. They hit the one-mile mark with about five minutes, thirty seconds on Liam's watch. A canopy of cherry blossoms lined the next stretch of the course; the air was redolent with overripe flowers as they ran through the white tunnel. Liam noticed how free and unlabored his breathing was and decided he would catch up to Zane before the two-mile point, which he guessed would be coming up within the next minute or two.
As they turned onto the dirt path that hugged the low wall of the reservoir, Zane turned his head to peer over his shoulder. Liam knew now that if he focused he could beat Zane. Monitoring your competition was a sure sign that your confidence had been stolen from you. With the two-mile mark appearing at the end of the reservoir path, Liam moved to his left and pushed hard until he was running up alongside Zane. The paltry margin of dirt afforded the runners very little room to maneuver safely, and Liam apologized as his arm brushed into Zane's torso. Sensing the brevity of the 5K, Liam dug deep and sprinted out ahead.
Looking down at his watch, Liam computed the amount of time he would need to ignore his pain in order to finish in first place. He had never won a race in his life. Even back in third grade during his grammar school's track and field day, Wayne Snipes edged him out at the finish line to take home the blue ribbon in the 100-yard dash. Liam redoubled his efforts and pumped his arms to sustain his newly quickened pace. He struggled to keep his thoughts from sinking into the depths of self-doubt and refused to move his head one inch to the left or the right even as he heard Zane's breath behind him. With each slight twinge of a stomach cramp, Liam looked to a focal point up ahead on the road and resolved to reach that marker as quickly as possible. Exhaustion pressed down hard on his chest. The loop forked to the right, and Liam could see that a long decline led to a straight passage that would certainly deposit the racers at the finish line.
Determined not to take any chances—a sprinter by design, Zane would fare better in the final moments of the race—Liam used the downhill to generate a fast and forceful turnover that he parlayed into a sprint down the last quarter mile of road that led to the arch of bright helium balloons that served as the finish line. His legs stiffened as the finish approached; he could feel his insides writhe as they conspired to squeeze him into submission, cajoling him to stop so that all of his organs could take a mandated rest. Liam leaned forward and attempted to change the angle of his stride slightly so that he might work some unused muscles; he had read in a magazine months ago the importance of engaging one's entire musculoskeletal system when mining the hidden reserves of the body's racing resources. The sun splintered off the red and silver of the balloons, and Liam closed his eyes and staggered into the finish. As he stumbled toward the gentleman who was clocking the finish times, Liam finally looked over his shoulder to see Zane collapse in tears just under the sparkle of the finish line. Once he regained his faculties, Liam shuffled over to Zane. He placed his hand on the small of Zane's back and Zane stood clutching his knees.
“Let's walk it off,” Liam said.
Zane nodded his head in a defeated but willing fashion, and they headed off the course.
“I just, I just ... ” Zane choked on his words, still heaving deeply even as he walked off his exhaustion.
“Don't say a thing, Zane. Just let your body adjust. We all have races like this. Just let yourself recover.”
“This, you know,” Zane started again. “You know, this was a fast race for me. You were just flying, Liam.”
Liam looked down at his watch to see that he had broken seventeen minutes. He had managed to run faster than a 5:30 pace. He could not even remember what his fastest previous time had been, but he knew that he had smashed his old PR to bits. The urge to jump up and down swelled inside, but he resisted. Zane needed him now.
“My God, my God, my goodness!” Gary leaped in front of Liam and Zane and embraced the two runners in a bear hug. “We snagged first and second place! And Mitch came in around fifth. Tremendous! You guys make me so proud.”
Liam attempted to deflect the comment with a nervous chuckle and a shoulder shrug. Zane kept his eyes focused on the ground.
“No, you guys are the future of this club, of this movement. It
is
a movement, you know.” Gary then paused to reflect a moment before continuing. “People think that I am over the top, but these things matter, guys. When Malcolm was a kid, he never tried to succeed in sports because of fear and because he did not believe in himself. You guys show how far we've come. Who wouldn't want to be like you guys? You're young, you're fast, you're beautiful. You're ... You're everything.”
Mitch walked toward the group, chomping on a half-eaten banana as he spoke.
“Uh-oh!” he exclaimed. “Everyone is looking mighty long in the face ... Must mean that Gary has been working his magic again.”
“Oh, shut up, you. We were just celebrating,” Gary retorted. His face had reddened.
“Nothing like tears to spread joy and satisfaction ... ”
“Once you're my age, you guys will understand me!”
“That's an even more frightening prospect,” Zane quipped, seeming alive for the first time since the end of the race.
“Keep it up and you bitches are hitching home,” Gary said, pretending to slap Zane in the face.
Liam looked out over the green football fields and noticed that families had congregated throughout the area to partake in the day, which was growing more and more glorious by the minute. He was overcome with joy.
“Let's have someone take our picture!” Liam exclaimed. “Does one of you have a camera?”
“We can use my phone,” Zane offered. “It's got all the latest gadgets. The camera is almost professional quality.”
Gary found a young mother on the field willing to snap the photo, and the four men posed, arm in arm, against the thick green forest behind them.
“On the count of three, everyone make their most proper smile,” Zane shouted. “One ... Two ...” He suddenly grabbed Mitch's and Liam's nipples. “Three!”
Everyone erupted in laughter.
MILE 17
“W
ait, wait, wait, wait!”
Liam heard the distant wail and turned around to catch the heavy metal door before it closed behind him. There was no mistaking the voice, but Liam found himself sticking his head outside to verify that it was indeed Zane rushing crazily toward him with three big boxes in his hands.
“What a fucking pain in the ass this event is turning out to be!” Zane exclaimed. He scooted into the cold marble vestibule and recomposed himself. “The latest errand was running out for a Charlotte russe, crème brûlée, and five pounds of baklava.”
With the club still needing to raise almost $5,000 to fund the June Pride Run, now just three weeks away, Liam thought it in bad taste of Zane to find fault with the organizer of this fund-raiser.
“If last-minute dessert runs are the worst of the complaints, then I would say that Ferdinand did a terrific job,” said Liam.
“I see
you
didn't have to explain this strange rush order to the sous-chef at Asia de Cuba. Where the hell have you been anyway, Liam? The party started like two hours ago.”
For a second, Liam wanted to open up and confess to Zane, to tell him that he had planned to arrive on time but something had detained him. He could not seem to make a sound. The elevator doors opened up, and Liam took one of the dessert boxes from Zane in an effort to fill the silence. Once inside the elevator cabin, Liam pressed “11” and the slow journey to Ferdinand's apartment began.
“You look like the cat who ate the canary, Liam. Just spill it. What kept you? You're never late.”
Annoyed by Zane's immediate demands for information, Liam turned to his friend and smiled opaquely. After the incident during the game of “I Never” on the way to the Connecticut race, Liam had qualms about telling Zane any details about his time with Didier. But Liam knew he'd eventually share the secret with his good friend. Zane harrumphed as the creaky elevator crawled from the fourth to the fifth floor. Liam wondered if any of the tenants in these converted warehouse buildings were afraid to ride in elevators that hadn't been refurbished since the early 1900s.
“You know that I'm just making conversation, Liam. I don't care if you tell me anything. But you don't have to be a jerk about it either, giving me the silent treatment. If I let my imagination run wild, who knows what I'll come up with?”
“Jesus, Zane!” The elevator just passed the eighth floor. “I was looking forward to telling you all the details, but you're making me want to keep it a secret now. I was with Didier all afternoon. There! Are you happy?”
The elevator doors opened onto the eleventh floor, directly into Ferdinand's crowded living room. It was a shade past nine o'clock and the revelers had started getting frisky. “I'm Every Woman” blared overhead as Liam and Zane stepped gingerly into the festive atmosphere. The news had rattled Zane, who looked a little perplexed and possibly even agitated; Liam second-guessed himself for disclosing anything. From out of the sweaty sea of Fast Tracker faces, Ferdinand sashayed over and kissed both Liam and Zane on the lips.
“You boys have saved the day.” Ferdinand collected the edges of his kilt and curtseyed as he spoke. “Now, come follow me into the kitchen so we can slice up these delectables.”
The apartment felt cold and empty even though there were more than fifty people congregating in the living room and kitchen. Ferdinand had not dressed the floors with area rugs, and no drapes or curtains hung from the floor-to-ceiling windows that wrapped the southern, northern, and eastern exposures of the apartment. Asymmetrical ottomans and some tall teak stools provided the only true seating in the apartment. Everything had been stripped away to draw the visitors' eyes to the views of the Empire State Building to the north and of the Flatiron to the south. It was majestic, but the architectural sparseness and aesthetic purity of the space reminded Liam of Roark in
The Fountainhead
.
“I'll show you the rest of the apartment when I finish dividing up this brûlée, Liam. Zane can circulate dessert among the guests, since he's already had the tour.” Ferdinand handed Zane a tray of baklava and some sliced Charlotte russe. “It's a bit grandiose to call it a tour. There's just the bathroom and the bedroom, really.”
“He must walk you through his closet, Liam. Don't miss out on that. The closet is pure Ferdinand.”
And with that Zane circled around and began offering the drunken masses high-priced desserts. Even though he had known Ferdinand for more than six months, Liam felt a little anxious being left alone with him. It was all the decadent stories of party drugs. The bathroom glistened in silver chrome and black tile. The bedroom contained only a king-sized bed, a Bang & Olufsen stereo mounted on the side wall, and, quite bizarrely to Liam's eye, a lectern at the foot of the bed.
“Is that for Sunday morning sermons?” Liam asked.
“My father was a professor of religion at Harvard,” Ferdinand spoke while smoothing over the crisp white duvet. “He left me that in his will when he died last year. I like to keep it close to me.”
“Of course,” Liam said, glad that the low lighting hid his blushing. “That's very sweet. But I don't see any doors. Where is this famed closet?”
Ferdinand walked over and studied the wall for a second before pressing his hand along a small ridge in the paint. An opening formed that was big enough for two people to walk through, shoulder to shoulder, and he motioned for Liam to come forward and enter.
“It's really no big thing for someone who is in the business,” said Ferdinand, holding Liam in abeyance by the door, “but the non-fashionistas go wild.”
Ferdinand had crafted a closet in what other renters would have used as an office or perhaps even a second bedroom. The twelve-foot walls had been divided into thirds so that three tiers of clothes could hang. Ferdinand explained that the current season was within easy reach on the lowest rungs and that he had a sliding ladder in case he wanted anything from the upper regions. It being early June, floral shorts, crisp madras pants, and raw silk shirts graced the bottom rows of clothes. Liam spotted a chinchilla poncho near the ceiling and smiled to himself. The center island of the room, an area large enough for a bed, housed shoes and accessories—everything from pony-trimmed boots to retro saddle bucs to high-tech Japanese sneakers.
“These are the items that are being offered in tonight's silent auction.” Ferdinand pointed to four jackets hanging by themselves in the far corner of the closet. “They're last year's collections but quite fine pieces by Ferragamo, Zegna, Tom Ford, and, of course, Prada. I figured we needed something tried and true for people to sink their teeth into.”
Liam stared blankly at Ferdinand.
“Speaking of the auction, we should go out and see how the bids are doing.”
As soon as he made his way past the bathroom into the main space where the party was being held, Liam saw the regular cast of characters arrayed in typical fashion. A silver-haired gentleman in a velour sweat suit was satisfying Matthew's geriatric predilections. Gary held court with a small group of twentysomethings. Riser looked like an apparition as he showed a pretty young boy his catwalk strut. Liam wondered if Zane had spoken to him yet—had whatever heart-to-heart he was planning. Then Liam noticed Zane in the corner, looking sullen as Gene wagged his finger at him to demonstrate a point. Zane brightened as Liam approached.
“Now Gene, I want you to hold that thought because you're going to finish telling me about your victory against asthma to become Idaho state cross-country champ.” Zane looked earnestly into Gene's eyes as he spoke. “But I promised I would talk to Liam here in private about something. Our conversation was interrupted on the way in. Please forgive the rudeness.”
Zane grabbed Liam and bolted before Gene had a chance to say whether or not he thought anything was rude. Most people at the party had clustered close to the dramatic windows and stared out at the city hopefully, as though something spectacular might happen. Liam asked if they could meander over to the silent auction and talk for a minute about Riser's weight. Zane glowered at him and said that he had spoken to Riser and that Riser was experimenting with different macrobiotic cuisines and that he had consulted a physician. It might look severe, but his body would adjust and all would be fine. Then Zane whispered through clenched teeth that he needed to know the details of what had transpired with Didier. Liam promised to tell him everything as time allowed and Zane noted that he would check in again with Riser when circumstance allowed. This was
not
the type of thing one could force.
“I've been looking for you guys forever. I have been live bait out there with the geezers of yore. Everyone is having a piece of me,” Gary said, embracing both Liam and Zane.
“G-Lo, what are you talking about?” asked Zane. “You've been canoodling with your boy toys all night.”
“That was a fleeting moment, Zane. I've spent most of this fund-raiser listening to every queen who had a role in the club over the last thirty years tell me how much better the Pride Run was before I corrupted it with young kids and competition.”
“I see you've found your bevy of beauties, Gary. You must feel so much safer now!” The voice came from behind Liam. It was Richard Pollack, one of the founders of the club.
“Let's just move on, Rick,” Gary said in a defeated tone. “These guys represent the future of our club and of our race. Don't blame them for any hard feelings you might have about the past—or the future.”
“You guys don't even know the history of this club.” Rick looked squarely at Liam as he spoke. “What we were founded on and fought through. This here tonight is a goddamn dance party. Our cause isn't about bidding on some Italian jackets.”
“A member donated those articles of clothing, Rick.” Gary's eyes looked bloodshot, but he seemed determined to make his point. “The money that members spend tonight goes directly to the race—to your race. This isn't 1983. This shit costs money, and we have to move with the times or else we get swept away by them.”
“And so the ends don't justify the means, Prince Gary. This race was ours and now it isn't. Someone told me that 3,000 people signed up for the Pride Run this year because of some corporate promotional raffle that you dreamed up. Now people only care about getting extra points on their AmEx cards or some such.”
“I can't argue about this any longer. I paid my $50 to enjoy this party, and from here on in that's exactly what I'm going to do!”
“Don't let him walk all over you, G.” Zane angled his shoulder between Gary and Rick. “We're more respected than ever in the athletic community and that's because of you. What more could the founders of the club want?
That
is what this club is all about.”
“I'll have you know I meet with Stephanie Reeves Bam-mer twice per year to discuss what this club is all about,” Rick retorted.
“That fat lesbian who promotes all the cyclist events?” Zane asked, looking around for others to corroborate his disbelief.
“The author of
The Fast Track
. It's only the book that gave our club its name. Thanks for helping me prove my point.” Rick smirked at Gary. “All sizzle and no steak. That's the usual for Gary's acolytes. It's good to know some things don't change.”
Gary walked away and headed to the little bar that was erected by the elevator. Rick followed suit, heading out of the apartment with three other older gentlemen who had been watching the melee at near distance, wearing scowls on their faces. Liam's head swirled from all the action; he had, after all, arrived just a half hour ago.
“So, I've waited long enough, Sir Sex-a-Lot. Give me the dish on Didier,” Zane demanded. “I promise not to judge you.”
“Judge him for what?” Ben swooped into the conversation like a crow that spotted something shiny. “I would say there is no judgment in a place where they're hawking cosmopolitans like it's still the year 2000. But at least the bartender is hot.”
Liam turned to take notice of the broad-backed man serving drinks just ten feet from where he stood and realized he was thirsty for a drink. As he approached the bar to order a drink, Liam battled aphasia, mumbling for a moment before the meaty bartender.
“To drink,” the man said in the accent of some newly liberated Eastern Bloc country. “Sir, I am asking you what you want to drink.”
After managing to stutter the words “Seven and Seven,” Liam watched the exquisite and fine muscles of the bartender's back rise and fall, pop and fade, bulge and recede as he fixed the drink. At about six-foot, four-inches tall and 220 pounds, the man managed somehow to appear statuesque and not oafish. His body had been issued by good genes and a blue collar living; he did not have the trim waist and volcanic veins sported by the twinks working out in David Barton gyms across Chelsea. As he turned to face Liam again, the bartender topped off the glass with some Seagram's and slid the drink along the countertop without saying a word. Liam noticed the thick bridge of the man's nose and the fat curve of his lips and felt himself instantly turn rock hard. He wondered how all men could be classified within the same species when the genetic pool churned out people of such unfairly different type and proportion.

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