THE CONVERSATION with Jimmy has me unsettled. Returning home, I decide on a run to ease both the tension and to work out the kinks in the stiff right knee. Two short miles through Prospect Park at a modest pace.
It’s after eight o’clock when I exit my building, hustle down 12th Street, and enter the park over a low stone wall bordering Prospect Park West. Turning left on a designated pedestrian footpath, I begin the first leg of my run. The goal is to reach the band-shell, loop around the shell, veer east to the dog beach. From the dog beach to the ball fields and return to where I entered the park at Prospect and 12th.
A leisurely walk home to cool down.
On the path, I’m forced to weave in and out to avoid slower moving foot-traffic and mothers pushing babies in strollers. Faster runners whiz by. On the lawn, Manhattanites enjoy the final balmy breath of a summer evening. Young, old, black, brown, Asian, white, gay, mixed-gender, mixed-race.
Though the temperature remains into the mid-seventies, the slice of low sun on the horizon offers hope for the arrival of cooler, night air.
At the dog beach, stamina deserts me. Hands on knees, I double-over to find my wind.
Huffing and puffing, I curse my good intentions. A jogger passes by and stops. In my current position, I see only the lean, athletic-looking legs of a practiced runner.
“You okay?” a woman says.
This being New York, she maintains a cautious distance.
I respond with a nod. “I’m good.”
“You sure? ‘Cause you don’t look it.”
Standing upright, I suck air. “Really, I’m good.”
“If you say so. But you’re a long way from the nearest ER. You want me to stick around? Call 9-1-1?”
I smile.
“Suit yourself.” She hustles off, backside churning like the pistons of a locomotive engine beneath DayGlo spandex tights.
Further along the path, I double-over again. Still struggling to recover my missing wind, a second Good Samaritan wearing a hoodie pulled over his head like a boxer in training stops to question my fitness.
“You okay, bud?” the guy asks, running in place
“I’m good.”
“You don’t want to overdo-it first time out.”
Wishing to suffer in peace, I say, “Who says it’s my first time out?”
“Do ten miles a day it’s easy to spot the newbies.”
Rising, I resume a slow walk along the path, stitch ripping a hole in my gut.
“I’ll walk with you, just to be sure.”
“Suit yourself. It’s a public park.” It comes out sounding churlish. “Sorry.”
“No offense. Though if you wanted help, I imagine you’d have asked it from the girl in the DayGlo tights.”
Only half-listening, I nod.
“I’m in Greenwood, other side of Ocean Parkway.”
Good for you.
The guy is getting on my nerves. I think I might puke, and I don’t need an audience.
“Sure you’re okay to make it home? You look awfully pale.”
The sound of traffic thrumming along Prospect Park West builds as we near an exit to the street. Obsessed with holding down my gourd, I move briskly away, ignore the stranger, thankful to escape from the damnable park dignity intact, if somewhat in tatters.
✽ ✽ ✽
True to her word, on the news at eleven, Florida Germaine runs with a combination of fiction and fact. The Chatterbox Killer has claimed a fourth victim. For the women of New York City, bar your windows and lock your doors because a psychopath is on the prowl.
To Florida, my no comment translates to mean no suspects, no progress, no clue. The video shows Gabby and I leave the crime scene together. Beside my partner, I look positively bargain bin. The news anchor listens and nods, appears thoughtful as Germaine conjectures and theorizes to her audience as if she’s a highly trained FBI Special Agent in Charge. By the time she’s done, the Department looks both insensitive and foolish, no one more foolish than I.
On the bright side, there’s no mention of hamsters. Later, I laugh myself to sleep.