MARY WAS CRAZY-BUSY PAINTING sets for an upcoming production of The Crucible at school, so she hadn’t made it to the race that morning. Not that she was crushed she couldn’t be there. Driving more than two hours each way to see someone run a fifteen-minute race, perhaps catching a glimpse of them for maybe twenty or thirty seconds, wasn’t exactly enticing. I got that.
Instead I met up with her that night and drove her across town to this place I loved called Charley’s Drive-In. It’s this cool little dive Dad sometimes took Caleb and me to that he knew from his college days.
Charley’s was way out on Manchester in Brentwood, and the place was usually packed with people wolfing down cheeseburgers and onion rings off paper plates, but that night the place was almost empty. Charley’s was tiny, just a long counter with several swirl stools that wrapped around a grill, fryers, and a soda fountain. The cook was none other than Charley himself. We ordered a couple of cheeseburgers, a basket of fries, and two icy mugs of his special homemade root beer. It tasted like heaven.
I gave Mary a detailed recap of the race, but I knew she didn’t really understand or give a rip about the tactics Curtis and I pulled off that morning. So I shifted the conversation in her direction and learned a few things about drama and set design that were probably about as compelling to me as my race tactics were to her.
Charley had this old-fashioned jukebox, and the guy changed the playlist religiously each month. It was music you’d never heard before, and it was always great stuff. I slipped a bunch of quarters into the machine, and we pressed random numbers and letters. Soon the sounds of Tommy James and the Shondells crooning “Crimson and Clover” provided the right mood. I wanted to hang there forever.
We settled back down into our stools and lingered over our root beers and a few remaining fries for another hour, listening to old tunes and talking about movies we liked, songs we loved, and teachers who confused us. Then Charley told us he was getting ready to close up.
As we headed out the door, I directed Mary’s attention to this old, grizzly guy with no teeth who’d been sitting alone across from us. He was gnawing on a plate of cheese fries and sipping black coffee and making a mess of himself. We sat in the car and watched him for another minute really going at those cheese fries, the sauce now smeared across both cheeks and dripping from his fingers.
“I wonder what his life story is,” I said to her, thinking we might create some juicy life story for the poor guy on the journey home. But instead Mary decided to get all serious on me.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about your life story, Leo,” she said.
That confused me. “What do you need to know?”
“Like, I want to know more about you.”
I put the car in drive and made a move toward the radio dial, but she hit the off button. Now I was trapped by silence. “I hate to break it to you,” I said, laughing, “but it’s been a pretty uneventful life up to this point.”
“Cut the crap, Leo.”
May the traffic gods be with me, I thought, because I didn’t know where this conversation was going.
“I want to know if you’re okay,” she said.
“What’s up, Mary?” I asked. “We just had this amazing time at Charley’s, and I had this great race this morning, and now you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“I’m not talking about right now, Leo. Sometimes you shut down, you check out for a few days, or you’re just not there. Is something up?”
“I’m a man of few words.”
“That’s bullshit. In case you need reminding, your mother is running around having some kind of an affair. I’m not exactly sure what your Dad’s deal is, but I imagine he’s not clueless and knows something is up. And as much as I love your brother, that can’t be easy.”
“It’s all cool, Mary. It is what it is.”
“That’s so clichéd, Leo. And what’s up with you always having some scratch on your face or a bruise on your neck, arm, or some other place I haven’t seen yet?”
“Is that a pass?” I joked.
“Does your father hit you?”
“Christ, Mary! No! What’s up with you tonight? I know you’re into theater, but maybe you’ve been hanging around the drama crowd a little too much.”
She stared hard at me for a moment. “I think you’re full of shit.” She slapped the radio dial, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers flooded the car. “Enjoy your damn music!” she shouted.
By the time I pulled into her driveway, the ice had begun to melt. I put my arm around her and kissed her on the forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “Maybe I do sometimes shut down.” Then I kissed her cheek. “Sometimes my family brings me down,” I admitted. “But I’m okay,” I promised her. Then I found her lips and we kissed a little longer.
Before she got out of the car, she looked at me for a long moment, but she didn’t push the matter any further. “I care about you,” was all she said.
I figured I dodged that bullet, but when I got home Caleb hadn’t quite worked the fish-and-chip tantrum out of his system, or whatever the hell was bothering him this time.
Within minutes I was running the empty streets in the darkness of night. But it felt great. The sear in my lungs from wasting myself in the race that morning was still there, but my legs felt light and strong, and the runner’s high seeped through me and I began floating above myself. Again I felt like I was soaring. I took inventory of the day, its highs and lows, and despite Caleb’s outbursts and the little clash with Mary, I decided it was a pretty damn good day.
Five miles later I slipped back through the door and into the bathroom, where I stripped and wiped down with a wet towel.
Before heading back to the bedroom, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and examined my face and torso, and I didn’t see a single scratch or bruise. I was all right.
I crawled into bed, Caleb and I went through the forgiveness routine, and the room became silent, but just as I closed my eyes, he spoke.
“Why Leo run?” he asked.
“Leo runs because it makes him feel damn good,” I mumbled. “Maybe you should run too.”