DELICATE - a short story

This is the collection and editing of a four-part story I wrote last spring. I condensed and pruned it in order to submit it to a literary magazine that my high school publishes in the winter and spring. -bg

 

“DELICATE” – a short story by BRIAN GILMORE

THE rain falls in torrents, another flush on the already tired spring soil, but not even a little unseemly weather can derail me from my quest this night. I enter the pub and brush the rain off my jacket. A few disinterested pairs of eyes slowly rise before settling back down to the emptiness before them. Thunder rolls gently in the distance, enough to provide extra cover for hushed conversations but not enough to scare anyone away. I order a pint and take a seat at the empty booth along the far wall, third from the window, the booth we’d been sitting at for years. It was comfortable.

Flickering tabletop candles cast shadows that seemed to dance around the room. The dark wood paneling and exposed timbers exude a feeling of warmth that makes this place feel a bit like home. I reach into my pocket and brush up against the small black box, making sure it’s still there. Still real. Satisfied, I run my hands through my hair, eyes trained on the door, waiting.

Ozymandias: a sandy warning through time

I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: “Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown
And wrinkled lip and sneer of cold command
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear:
`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings:
Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!’
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,
The lone and level sands stretch far away.
-”Ozymandias” by P.B. Shelley

This gem nearly got lost amidst the theme of this week for my students: Christmas break starts Thursday and I’m not gonna listen to anything you have to say. It’s okay, I pretty much felt the same way about anything they were telling me. But, despite all their groaning and my own sluggishness, let it not be missed that this is a pretty amazing piece of short poetry.

Take one look around you. How many people spend effort on inflating, bottling, controlling, and repairing their self-image? Take one look inside you. We do it, too. The amount of time and energy we spend on making ourselves look good is quite considerable, and this poem I think talks about pride taken to the extreme. Pride taken to an extreme, but this extreme is not unrecognizable.

For Ozymandias, or Ramses the Great to his ancient Egyptian homies, his ultimate sense of hubris paves the way for his ironic undoing. He commissioned a sculptor to memorialize his face and his power. Over three thousand years later, all that remains of the once-great king and his glory and civilization is a battered, crumbling memorial surrounding by nothing but blowing, endless sand. Time conquers even the most powerful. But despite the statue’s state of disarray, the arrogant sneer of Ozymandias remains visible. As once-pharaoh of one of the great world civilizations, Ozymandias’s sense of pride and power (”Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair”) is underpinned by the isolation it finds itself in now, yet the spirit of his commission remains. Nothing of the king’s glory remains, but the sculptor’s ironic message is still alive.

What’s lasting in this world aren’t achievements or physical conquests. What’s lasting is the spirit of our actions. People won’t remember all your accomplishments, but they might remember the kind of person you were along the way. What catalyzes our lives? A constant desire to establish permanence or a desire to make the most of the time we have?

“The Story We Know” (Martha Collins)

The way to begin is always the same. Hello,
Hello. Your hand, your name. So glad, just fine,
and Good bye at the end. That’s every story we know,

and why pretend? But lunch tomorrow? No?
Yes? An omelette, salad, chilled white wine?
The way to begin is simple, sane, Hello,

and then it’s Sunday, coffee, the Times, a slow
day by the fire, dinner at eight or nine
and Good bye. In the end, this is a story we know

so well we don’t turn the page, or look below
the picture, or follow the words to the next line:
The way to begin is always the same Hello.

But one night, through the latticed window, snow
begins to whiten the air, and the tall white pine.
Good bye is the end of every story we know

that night, and when we dose the curtains, oh,
we hold each other against that cold white sign
of the way we all begin and end. Hello,
Good bye is the only story. We know, we know.

Hello, it’s wonderful to meet you. But goodbye, big day at work tomorrow, I really should be going. Sometimes it’s forced. Hello, I’m trying to find someone, a certain someone. Have you seen her? I believe she was wearing brown shoes with a crystal snowflake. Goodbye, I can’t believe he died this young, so shocking. I just had a beer with him three weeks ago. Hadn’t heard from him since.

Most of the time, this is the story we know. A story of transience, a story of prophylactic hesitation, a story which scoffs vulnerability. But this story is sane; it protects us. Yet, once the end arrives, where are we?

One day, perhaps a night, we will become confronted by our goodbye, our ultimate goodbye. Hello, it’s lovely to be here. Goodbye, my time looks like it might be up. What have we gained? What have we given? What difference have we made? What have we touched beyond ourself?

Tonight, we block out all the distractions, all the surface dives. We know we will have to leave in the morning. Suddenly, all the ritual, all the tap dancing, all the game playing, it all fades together, converging on oblivion. Nothing we have guarded can be taken with us.

Tonight, we embrace each other, holding each other tight. We turn toward each other, speaking of our humanity, our flaws, our fears. Tonight, as we gaze toward each other, we find out more about what we were sent here to do. We find out more about meaning itself. This is our reality.

Hello goodbye. This we know. But about the space in the middle of the two? Grab my hand and we’ll find out.

My Holden Caulfield Moment

Here’s Bill. Bill is an incessantly polite, upbeat, innocent, happy sophomore…an incessantly polite, upbeat, innocent, happy sophomore who just happens to be one hell of a fierce runner. Fierce, as in, damn the torpedoes, damn the pecking order, and damn you, too, because I’m taking your spot on the line. The kind of guy who you can’t help but root for. A pure athlete in love with school and in love with life.

Moments after the state meet ended, it didn’t appear to me that our previously undefeated team would wear that banner into the night. Our runners didn’t stack up quite as highly as we had expected, leaving the door open for a small handful of teams to rip away the title we had worked so hard for.

In this shot, taken minutes after he had finished, I had found Bill, in the midst of the chaos and confusion of the moment, and embraced him, congratulating him on a courageous race and a great season. A varsity runner all year, he had completed the odyssey of a cross country season without once questioning or subverting his coaches. Even though he and I both knew it probably wasn’t his best race, he was overwhelmingly happy. And, so was I. Happy not only for his success all season, but for how proud I was of him — and all the other guys — giving all they had in that one final race.

You can’t totally tell by the picture, but there was a lot going on at that moment. The runners were regrouping, teammates were coming over to congratulate them, parents were embracing their sons and shooting photos, coaches were scrambling to recreate the finish to calculate who might have won, our “blue army” was simultaneously spreading hugs and body paint. The season hung in the balance, yet I was able to find Bill and his moment of pure happiness in the midst of the chaos. Much of this year has been just that — chaos — and it’s only in these memorable moments, set slightly apart, yet still surrounded by the action, that things can really sink in. Miss the moment and the next one will be on you before you know it.

When I found Bill, I didn’t want someone to run over to our camp and say we were second, third, or even fourth. I didn’t want Bill to in any way think that his best, on that day, was anything less than what he deserved: a team victory. As unrealistic as this was, I suppose I didn’t want Bill to realize that sometimes your best efforts will still leave you short. I wanted that youthful innocence to remain. The notion that if you work hard enough for something, nothing can stop you. But, I sensed his genuine happiness while we talked, and suddenly, I guess I knew he’d be okay, win or lose.

For as much as I’m teaching this year, I’m learning an awful lot.

Independence Day in Rogers Park

Looking out from my third-floor balcony, most people would say I don’t have much of a view. An alley runs below the porch, and other than a couple of church steeples in the near distance, the immediate view consists of backs of apartments, a traffic light, a small segment of my street, and a parking lot. Yet, it’s rarely uninteresting to sit out there and take it all in. City life is largely characterized by a bombardment on your senses: sirens blaring, people constantly on the go, indistinct noises in the distance, a constant flow of planes leaving or coming to Midway and O’Hare - even the occasional odd smell drifting your way. It doesn’t matter how late you’re out there, there’s bound to be something going on.

Another fascinating thing about my neighborhood is the diversity. Not only is there a glaring sense of economic diversity among living spaces, with burgeoning condominiums shooting up on street corners beside a mishmash of low-income housing, one-family brick houses, multi-story apartment complexes, and two-flats, but the racial and ethnic diversity is even more acute. The 2000 U.S. Census reported Rogers Park to be among the most racially and ethnically diverse communities in the country (second behind somewhere in New York City, I believe). Anywhere you go around here, there’s a mix of every shade, color, and shape. Shop at Devon Market, and you’re apt to believe you’re at a corner market in Bucharest or Kiev. A short walk from there holds much of the best Indian cuisine in the city, and keep walking for another few blocks and you’re in the middle of the neon lights of Mexico City. There’s an Iraqi art gallery, a Pakistani hair dresser, many Thai kitchens, an eastern Asian liquor store…all within a very short walk of my apartment. Even though gentrification threatens to push out many of the ethnic minorities from an area whose affordable rents and welcoming spirit attracted them in the first place, Rogers Park remains microcosmic of the American Dream as a whole - people from all over coming together, making ends meet, and trying to lead an honest, happy life. Coming from an area of St. Louis dubbed affectionately by some as Mr. Rogers’s Neighborhood, where my idea of ethnic dining was a night at Taco Bell and of racial diversity was watching a movie on cable, the past five years I’ve lived in Rogers Park have been eye-opening, if nothing else.

As I sit out on my balcony tonight, with the official Independence Day festivities having long since wound down, the celebration in this hodgepodge community in the far northeastern reaches of the city is only getting started. Stepping one foot off the bus at my street tonight, the smell of fireworks and smoke flooded my nose. There’s been a near constant barrage of fireworks for the past four hours, finally dying down a bit in the past hour, now with only the occasional blast or sparkle. This is my first Fourth in Chicago, and never before have I seen such a steady stream of unsanctioned fireworks; it’s almost as if people in the community coordinated how they would time it to make sure the celebration run deep into the muggy summer night.

Tonight in Rogers Park is a true American celebration. How do you say “Happy Independence Day” in 80 different languages? If you listen closely, amid the rumbles and screeches of the fireworks, you may be able to pick up a few. It’s in the air tonight.

Jack Jack the Milk Monster

This is Jack. Pretty damn cute, I know. Jack has become a very important and even symbolic little boy in my life. Born December 5, 2006, I came to know Jack through Kids Club, when his mother, Anne, would drop baby Jack off in our care while she would work out at the gym. Jack and I formed some sort of bond over the days and weeks ahead, and that bond became even more obvious as Anne, closer in age to me than any of my own siblings, and I got to know each other better and formed a bond of our own. I gained her trust in a way that has allowed me to babysit her little angel and house-sit for a week while they were away on a holiday. Last week, over dinner and a beer with Anne and her husband, she confessed that she feels like I have become part of her family, and she even offered me a invitation to live with them should life bring me back to Chicago next year. Jack and his parents will definitely be among the people I miss the most when I leave this city.

Jack also means a great deal to me in a very symbolic way, a coincidence that I only realized a few weeks ago. On the very night of Jack’s birth, an otherwise dark and chilled December night, Lisa and I broke up. Breakups happen, and they’re rarely easy for either person, and this was no exception. I tried my best to hold my head high during the day, but once night fell, I would inevitably lose my composure, raw emotion guarded only by the silence and privacy of my own bedroom. I quit my job, moved home for a week, and went on a last-minute ski-trip to Colorado before moving back to Chicago with no job officially in place — the second time in five months I had pulled off such a feat. Just as Jack and his parents entered a world of firsts, I entered my own time of new beginnings. The time came for me to relinquish control and build fresh, knowing that I could not alter the past but hoping I could help shape the future.

To me, Jack represents the promise and amazing possibilities that accompany any change. The winter months weren’t easy for me, but as I began my job at Kids Club, I slowly uncovered a world that would brighten my days and nights. Not only did I truly love going into work to hang out with the kids, parents, and the staff, but my coworkers grew into my group of friends. On any given night of the week I can be assured that there’s one of them who will want to go out and do something with me. Birthday parties, softball games, dinners, movie nights, barbecues, house parties, game nights — there’s rarely a dull moment with this fun-loving group. I don’t think I’ll often again be out on a Monday night with a buddy singing “Minnie the Moocher” standing on top of the bar with only our bunch and the bartender in the whole establishment. Even though Jack still has never hit the bars with me, I definitely consider him part of the reason why I’m there with an incredible group of people beside me.

I’m very sad to be leaving behind Jack, Anne, and the rest of Kids Club, but from darkness comes light. From love came Jack. From pain comes renewal. I had a job that will forever rest favorably in my memory. I made new friends, went on good dates, went on bad dates, laughed about it all, took new chances, entertained new thoughts, and challenged complacency. As I move my operations down I-55 to St. Louis, it’s time to do it again. I know I can.

Jack Jack, I raise this bottle (of baby milk) to you. For you I dedicate these final two weeks in Chicago.

Code of Honor: A Short, of Sorts

Lights up on an empty dorm room. The door opens and JESS and PAUL enter.JESS    Hello?PAUL  No one.JESS    Finally.PAUL  So what’s up?Jess laughs. She quickly pulls off her top and slides down her skirt to reveal a black bra and thong. She steps out of her heels and jumps on one of the two beds.JESS   Not much. What about you?Paul strips down to his boxers. He stands next to the bed where Jess is now lying flat on her back.PAUL   Same.JESS    What are you thinking?Jess unbuckles her bra strap and the bra rests precariously on her shoulders. PAUL   Stuff.

(Untitled): PS

Part I

Part II

Part III

We sat together in the booth, her throwing me an array of probing questions (”Are you happy?”), and me unraveling my story to this mystery woman — possibly a side effect of the pints, maybe a result of the immediacy of the moment she presented to me, probably some combination of the two. Who was this woman? She (I didn’t even get her name — Amie — until the end of the night) listened unlike any other person I had ever talked with before, sitting freely in the silence that often accompanies our most honest moments.

People can blab endlessly about important things like how drunk they were at X’s going away/birthday/bar mitzvah/ wedding/dirty-doctor-naughty-nurse party, or the latest episode of Grey’s, or how “awesome” their new iPod is, but ask them a question that penetrates even an inch under this flimsy coating of the human everyday experience, and more often than not you’ll find more nervous laughter and spastic bodily twitches than you would in a fourth grade sex-ed class. Silence dominates. But understandably so! This is the hard stuff. You don’t like thinking about what makes you happy because then you realize that much of your life might actually kinda suck. You don’t like thinking about the greater meanings of your job because then you might find much workplace fulfillment there is to be desired. Deep down are you in a relationship that you know has no chance to make an ultimate connection? Then you sure as hell won’t want to see past the shared interests and smoking sex and into the heart-shaped void that may lay dormant. Honest reflection about these things isn’t always comforting, and words become few.

Amie asked about things like my relationship with my parents. How was I supposed to tell her how every time I watch Field of Dreams I cry because the scene with Kevin Costner and his dad reminds me of my own insecurities and fears about my own father? Amie asked about things like my biggest regrets in life. How could I tell her about the time I fucking cheated on Mary (many moons and heart-to-hearts ago) because I went out and got loaded on a night when I was pissed that she blew me off for her girlfriends? The memory of seeing Mary’s innocent, beautiful soul take an irreversible turn inward is hardly something I want to be reminded of.

So when she asked these questions, I inevitably danced around the answers and mushed my words. She didn’t run from the silence or awkwardly try to change its course, though; she sat with it. And much to my amazement, so did I. It would have been easy to clam up, politely send Amie on her way, and wait alone for Mary, but this stranger’s comforting, compassionate gaze suggested that I shouldn’t be so quick to dismiss her; something told me I needed to walk down this dark path where she was leading me. Her questioning exuded a real sense of genuineness, a rare character trait which I find to be utterly magnetic. So I tried to answer her questions as well as I could. I felt vulnerable. Vulnerable! Before she walked in from out of the rain, I didn’t even know what vulnerable was. I had a beer in my hand and the future in my pocket. Life was good, I thought.

Moments. What is life if not a collection of moments? There’s no one storyline that weaves in and out of our days, no cohesion to unite the unpredictable. There’s not even good guys or bad guys. We’re all ordinary, everyday people who try to do good with the life we’ve been given, but inevitably there are times where we really screw up. We lead fragmented lives desperate for a sense of purpose. We somehow hope one moment may shed light on another, and then another. In this way, we attempt to build a cache of moments to supply an overarching motif to our lifelong story.

Moments can be a most powerful teacher. But just as one party, or one retreat, or one vacation, or one class, can all blend together into another in one amorphous blob, so can all the moments of our lives. Not every part of every day changes our course; such a lack of any relative stability would surely drive even the most grounded among us to the nearest asylum. But, sometimes, some moments do. Some moments change the direction of our lives, and these moments become emblazoned into our minds more than, say, an entire year may be. These fiery moments are the ones where our humanity and our emotions shine the brightest.

And sometimes, we have the silly idea that our path is figured out. We make plans and just expect them to happen. What could possibly go wrong, we say? If there’s one thing I’ve learned, only one thing, it’s that I know nothing. Because it is precisely at these moments of self-assurance when the bricks and mortar come tumbling. It always is, no? Just when we think we have things charted out, the legend made and the map color-coded, it all changes, the train derails. Maybe I’m full of shit, but it’s like this for me all the time, really. So I really should have expected some sort of snafu at this moment when things seemed to be the clearest — at least with the things that mattered the most, the woman I loved, the future I wanted, the life I saw myself destined to lead. The only thing that needed to happen was for Mary to walk through that door. The only fucking thing.

But instead, I drew the wild-card, got the trick candles on the birthday cake. Amie touched in me something hidden, something not yet alive, something bursting. I struggle to explain it to you because I can hardly explain it to myself. It’s new. Doesn’t have a name yet. It’s senseless, in a way, but I felt something beckoning. Calling me to something more, something greater than I wanted or thought I was ready for. I had to listen. Then she asked me about Mary. My hand reflexively shot into my pocket and fiddled around. She’s everything I could hope for, I said, slowly, calculated. She makes me happy. Amie nodded. Then I cracked, the fourth wall blown away. For the next stretch of time (though time seemed to be standing still), I spilled everything about Mary — my hopes, my questions, my fears. With tears welling in my eyes, I pulled back into silence and gazed beyond Amie toward the musician now lazily picking at the strings of his guitar.

Excuse me for a minute, I said. I stood up, walked toward the window, and called Mary. After three rings, she picked up, her voice sounding more anxious than usual. Maybe she sensed tonight would be a night set apart from the others. Maybe she knew this was the night her life would take a turn. Mary, I said, what’s your story? You’re over an hour and a half late. I know, I know, she said. Something came up that I have to take care of, I’m so sorry. Are you okay, I said. I’m fine, it’s just something that can’t really wait right now. Don’t worry, I’ll explain when I get there. I love you, honey. This is going to be a night to remember; I know it.

I ran my hands through my hair and walked back over to the booth. Amie sipped her pint and looked at me with a playful, knowing smile. She speaks: Night not going as you planned? You could say that, I answer. God, she unsettles me. No one — not even Mary — has done that to me. At least, not like this. I’ve had enough. You know, I say, I don’t know a damn thing about you. She nods. Who are you?

Amie, she says calmly. Then for the first time, it was suddenly she who looked vulnerable. Earlier tonight, my parents died in a car accident. Amie, I interrupt, I’m sorry. She immediately grabs my arm with one hand and and places the pointer of her other onto my lips. I got the call tonight. They live on the other side of the country, and I didn’t know what to do. So I went for a walk, through the rain, no real destination in mind. I saw this place and hoped to find someone to just chat with. I saw you sitting here alone, and I decided to make the best of it. Then you started talking more and more, and, well, let’s just say this was the last thing I expected tonight. Of all nights.

Likewise, I mutter. Listen, she says, I don’t know how things with this Mary are going to work out; I wish you the best. But take my number. She scribbles a number on the back of a coaster and slips it across the table. Even if you never see me again, don’t forget tonight. All of us need to be challenged. Otherwise, we shrivel up and die on the inside.

Without another word, she rose from the table and walked out the door. I fiddled with the coaster before dropping it into my inner coat pocket — the one opposite the ring — and going to the bar to settle up. I was halfway to the door when Mary walked into the pub. She saw my dazed look and asked what happened. I’m not feeling so well anymore, Mary, I said. Can we call it a night? Of course, honey. We’ll do it another night, I promised. With that, I walked out the door and into the rain, Mary a step behind me.

A Brotherly Bond

This weekend marked the birthday of Brother John. Rather than trying to wax poetic about a brother whom I consider a hero, here’s one of his published pieces that says volumes about the nature of our relationship. Written with his usual grace and wit, it’s a piece about the Chicago marathon that I hope one day to read to my own son after he and his old man go on a run together. Happy birthday, John.

———–

“As we passed the United Center and aimed for Greektown I summoned the ghost of Michael Jordan to lead me to the miracle I’d need to sustain the torrid (for me) pace we’d set for the first 15 miles. Clank! Off the rim.

When I told my brother to go, Brian, who stands 6’-2”, has legs to his shoulders, and weighs slightly more than an iPod Nano, didn’t flinch. So I cut that imaginary leash I clutch to stay behind faster running partners and watched the 22-year-old glide into the sea of marathoners ahead and melt into the future. Quick and painless: Good!

Exactly one year ago, this was the same point in the Chicago Marathon course where Brian had abruptly fallen off the pace. By mile 19, he was leaning over on the side of a Pilsen street inhaling the aroma of greasy tacos, trying not to toss his mix of lemon lime Gatorade and Power Gels, massaging his cramped hamstrings, and questioning if he’d finish his first attempt at 26.2.

Like Nick Carraway gazing into space and wondering where it all went wrong with Jay Gatsby and the American dream, we stared in disgust as the runners in the pace group we had worked so hard to pass stormed through. Brian told me to go get them, but I had promised myself and our parents, too anxious to watch their baby run (“We’ll do more good praying for him at Mass.”), that I would be his escort. They especially wanted me to remind him “he didn’t have to finish.” Right.

“Let’s walk for a minute and see how you feel,” I suggested.

Soon Brian had collected himself, gritted his teeth as all marathoners must through that last merciless 10K, and, with me “one-stepping” him, forced himself into a rhythm that carried his legs through Chinatown, past what I’ll always call Comiskey Park, and north along Lake Michigan to the finish. He beat the Battle of the Bonk and did it with a time placing him in the top quarter of all runners: somewhere between Evans Rutto’s winning mark and Oprah’s PR. After 26.2 side-by-side miles — no small feat in that mammoth crowd — we crossed the line together and life was sweet.

The next day I was back in St. Louis when I received Brian’s email: “Thanks for doing the race with me. I’m not sure what I would have done if I would have been alone. Those first 16-18 miles and the last 8-10 were both rewarding in completely different ways. I guess that means I’ll be back again in 2005.”

On the August 1983 night he was born, I was annoyed that I had to switch off a cool new cable TV channel called “MTV” to head the hospital to meet baby Brian. My 17-year-old, self-centered world had no room for a whiny newborn who would interrupt my time with Martha Quinn and Nina Blackwood, not to mention important phone calls with my non-existent girlfriend.

But over the next two decades, this odd-smelling little guy morphed into a combination of my brother, son, and best friend. Running became part of our bond. If grade-school Brian was staying at my place on a Saturday night sleepover, I’d drag him along to a local 10K the next morning. Of course I’d always present him with my finisher’s medal or the occasional hard-earned “Age Group 4th Place” trophy. We eventually began running together. By high school I found myself breaking down the day’s race with the other track or cross country parents.

Our regular runs together ended in August 2002 when Brian moved 300 miles north to attend Loyola University in Chicago. In each of the next two Octobers, though, he jumped in and ran the final 10K of the marathon with me. In 2004, inspired by the energy and electricity he had felt, Brian opened his arm to the marathon needle and went the full distance.

So it was that just before 8:00 A.M. on October 9 of this year I found myself standing in the Preferred Start corral with Brian, who this time was ready to attack Chicago with a vet’s wisdom. “You’re on your own this year,” I warned, as Sammy Van Hagar’s “Right Now” blared. “Neither of us waits.”

Right now,
Catch a magic moment, do it
Right here and now
It means everything

We’re a good team. Early in the race, just coming out of the Lincoln Park Zoo, Brian pointed out the hospital he had visited for a pre-race exam. As I looked up at the high-rise, my Oakleys flipped off my hat and started rolling down my chest. I envisioned losing my third pair of $100 sunglasses of the season. No! Attempting to stop and turn around against that sea of jumpy marathon runners would be like fighting a latte-fueled crowd swarming the Michigan Avenue Nordstrom’s for a post-Christmas sale. In seconds they would be crushed.

My only chance was to buy time by kicking the glasses in front of me. Amazingly, I managed to do this. But I was too shocked at my success to carry out the crucial “pick them up” part of the plan. Before I could ask my 39-year-old old back to bend over while sustaining a 7:45 pace, Brian swooped down like a plunge-diving pelican and, without breaking stride and in one graceful motion, reached out, nabbed the glasses, and gently placed them into my hand.

Over the next several miles, until Brian broke free during mile 16, I pretended to be in control and barked out advice, much as I had back in St. Louis all summer during our Wednesday track workouts, neighborhood tempo runs, and long, slow Sunday runs: “Grab water up here on the left, not Gatorade! Open your gel now and get it ready! That last mile was about 20 seconds too fast, so let’s rein it in, Khalid!”

“Where’s Brian?” asked Chicago Tim as he jumped in to run with me at mile 17. “I saw you guys together at 13.”

“Pace was too fast.”

“We’ll catch him before the finish,” said Chicago Tim, doing his best job as an illegal pacing partner to crack the whip. “You’ll see him again.”

“I hope not.”

Over the next nine miles, despite Chicago Tim’s valiant efforts to keep me focused and moving, I suffered more than in any of my previous 10 marathons. I saw stars. I saw a joyful, marathon-less future. I saw visions of using discarded cups to build a comfy bed alongside the Mile 23 aid station. In an epic St. Louis Cardinals postseason-type meltdown, I managed to let eight minutes and a new marathon PR slip away over the last few miles. But, dragged along by Brian’s fast pace-setting, I had clocked my best time in five years.

I didn’t see Brian again until I was hobbling through the finisher’s area. There he was, chatting with Diesel, my long-time St. Louis training partner, as the two sipped Mich Ultras. They looked like they had just finished an easy 10K. Were they even sweating?

That’s when I found out the student had become the master: Brian had not only maintained our pace, but gutted out a negative split. He had slapped 13 minutes on me over the last 10 miles.

I pictured Diesel and him trotting through the course in Negative Split, 3:20s-Land, where surely runners must sip Gatorade from champagne glasses and use silver spoons to nibble on tasty fresh fruit gels. “Jeeves, another sodium tablet and strawberry-banana gel, pronto.”

“About time, man,” said Brian. “Let’s get a picture. Hey, you don’t look so good.”

That night I opted to flop down in the hotel room bed with an ice bucket full of Guinness and a remote control in-hand when Brian and his 19-year-old marathon-running girlfriend (crazy kids!) headed to Navy Pier for the finisher’s party. “You guys don’t need me.”

I’m not one of those philosophical, George Sheehan-disciple runners who finds the postmodern meaning of life in a pair of Nikes or who can point to apparitions of the Virgin Mary in the swooshes. I just do it because it feels good. I just do it because I’m addicted to the adrenaline. I just do it for the camaraderie. Finally, I just do it because the pain and effort feel real in a reality-TV, virtual world too-often lacking in authenticity. And the feeling of guiding your kid brother from his first steps through the day he sprints away from you as a damn good marathoner is about as authentic as it gets.

Now I have my own four-year-old son, Joe, who still believes I won the race when I bring home my finisher’s medal. See you in Chicago in 2023, little man. Gimme your best shot.

frozen tears

dropping down your face
icy night wind blowing through you
whipping around the corner toward a dark place
where it’s going god only knows
dropping down my face
icing over the bloom within
stopping up the telescope ahead
immediately, somewhere, a heart breaks