Running Away
I close my e-mail and slam shut my laptop because this news calls for a run.
I attach my iPod to the device that tracks my pace and pulse and weave my hair into a fat braid. My hair’s probably the one frivolous thing about me—to appear my most professional, I should sport a neat, swingy, shoulder-length bob. Instead, I have the thick, dark tresses of a country music star, or possibly Wonder Woman. Actually, I heard the comparison a lot as a kid since I also have light blue eyes rimmed in gray and pale skin, much like Lynda Carter in those old reruns. (Minus the leotard, golden lasso, and ridiculous jugs, mind you.)
Geri’s always saying my long hair dates me, and then Mary Mac will chime in about that being impossible, as no one wants to date me.
Yes, ha-ha-ha!
P.S. That’s why you’re not in my will.
Those two have always been envious of my looks. Whereas I’m a contrast in darks and lights, with long, toned limbs, they’re short, red, and rotund and appear predisposed for guarding pots of gold or bitching about “me lucky charms.”
My point is, I feel my style suits me, and besides, my hair’s always restrained in some respect, be it pony/bun/chignon, so is it truly anyone’s business? And Sebastian’s always said my hair’s my best feature.
Personally, I’d say my willingness to be naked in front of him would be my best feature should he finally return my call, but let’s not split (lovely) hairs.
I slip my keys into a slim nylon waist pouch—fine, fanny pack—and lace up my lemon yellow/dark shadow–colored Mizuno Wave Rider 15s, which are the optimum choice for those with high arches. Right before I head out the door, I douse myself in a second layer of sunscreen and grab a baseball cap and sunglasses. After Hawaii, bits of my face and arms were peeling off for two solid weeks, so now I’m exercising extra caution.
I head down the stairs and lock my door behind me. When I step into the vestibule, I notice that my idiot neighbors have left their mail scattered everywhere. Of course they have. That’s the downside of living in the Lincoln Park area of Chicago; you can’t escape the influx of all the recent Big Ten grads.
However, I shouldn’t complain, as the rent I collect from the Hawkeyes, Boilermakers, Hoosiers, Spartans, Wildcats, Badgers, et cetera in the garden and first-floor apartments covers the entire mortgage on my classic Chicago graystone. That’s how I was able to afford it in the first place. Plus, my tenants’ parents write the checks, so they always clear. Were these twentysomethings in my care, we’d have a long chat about codependency, but in this case, helicopter parenting works out for all of us.
My goal is to one day have the resources to make this a single-family home, yet when I shared that news with Mary Mac, she was all, “Why? You hate families.” No wonder she’s always exhausted—that kind of negativity has to be draining.
I skip down my front steps and bask in the brief coolness of the morning. Later today, the city sidewalks will be hot enough to fry eggs, but right now the temperature is still bearable.
I’ve always been fit, but I’ve been a dedicated runner since my time at Pepperdine. Between the stress of my program and the year-round spectacular weather, it made sense to take advantage of the outdoors. Actually, that’s how I met Boyd in the first place. I was running on the Malibu Lagoon State Beach, which is one of the premier surfing spots because of a wicked right break. I was halfway through my five miles when this massive bandanna-wearing dog came out of nowhere and plowed into me. The mutt somehow hit me in the solar plexus and completely knocked the wind out of me, and I couldn’t even catch my breath to shout for its feckless owner.
As I spat out sand, this—for lack of a better description—bronze surf god materialized to see if I was okay. The first thing I saw was his abs.
Holy guacamole.
Not only did he sport an insanely chiseled six-pack, but he had that V-cut musculature that you see only in underwear ads or old Marky Mark videos. FYI, the men at University of Chicago? Did not look like this. His dark hair had turned tawny in the sun and the surf, and his skin was perpetually golden, offset by eyes the color of a Tiffany box.
Turns out Boyd was as beautiful inside as he was on the outside. And he was smart, too. Originally from Long Island, he’d attended NYU and spent his summers surfing Ditch Plains in Montauk. He’d come to Pepperdine for his MBA, but after a semester, the lure of the waves was too much and he went from Future Master of the Universe to Part-Time Bartender.
We fell for each other hard and were inseparable . . . until his presence in my life jeopardized all my goals.
Like I said, you can’t sustain yourself with ice cream for dinner. And that was a long time ago. Point is, even though Chicago isn’t Malibu, my love for an outdoor run is everlasting.
Today my plan is to take a left down the densely tree-lined street, even though I’d much prefer to head right. I live a couple of doors away from the Caribou Coffee on the corner of Clark and West Arlington, and normally, nothing would make me happier than an iced green tea. But I have some frustration to process and the endorphin rush of a quick five-miler will serve me well.
I’ve run this route so many times, I could do it with my eyes closed. Today, like always, I stretch out on the stairs before starting a leisurely jog heading east down Arlington. Then I take Lakeview south, which borders the park, down to Fullerton and turn right on North Lincoln Park West. Sometimes I have to stop here and catch my breath. Today my gastrocnemius (the outer calf muscle) is tight, so I pause for a quick round of toe lifts, bracing myself on a bench at the intersection of North Lincoln Park West and Fullerton.
By the time I reach the Shakespeare statue a few blocks down, I’m all warmed up and I loop back up to Stockton until I can cut over to Cannon Drive by the Lincoln Park Zoo entrance. Depending on the weather and time of day, sometimes I can hear the sea lions. I have no desire to see them, however. If I want to see a bunch of surly creatures flailing around in water, I’ll watch Mary Mac’s kids swim in my parents’ pool.
After I cut over in front of the zoo, I run the length of the lagoon. No matter what time of year it is, I can count on seeing old men fishing in that spot. Never seen them catch anything, but I admire their commitment.
By this time, my heart’s really pumping and I’ve entered the zone. Although with all the adrenaline already coursing through my system, I’m not surprised. I mean, I’m not angry at losing my summer off—this is the price we pay for prime-time exposure. And trust me, we’re about to be well compensated for this sacrifice. But to cut Patty loose after everything she’s given to Push? This show was as much her baby as Wendy’s. I can’t even fathom what the network brass at DBS was thinking in replacing her. How are we going to function without our spiritual center?
And will the new executive producer allow me to keep my prime parking spot?
Patty must have sensed this was coming, hence her being so upset on the beach that night.
Driven by my fury, I keep moving.
At North Ave., I cross over to the Lakefront Trail and keep going until I turn around in front of the Drake Hotel, which is my halfway point. On my way back north, I turn up the heat and do a tempo run all the way up the lakefront. Even though it’s early, the beach is already busy, with cooler-toting families having staked out the prime spots. Sun dappled though the lake may be, I’d never actually dive into Lake Michigan, having seen the number of saggy-swim-diapered toddlers on any given Sunday. Cryptosporidiosis, anyone? Thanks, but no thanks.
Despite this being a lake two thousand miles from where Boyd lives, I find myself inadvertently scanning the horizon for him anyway. Old habits, eh? I admit it; I miss him. After I decided we couldn’t be a couple, we remained friends until I met Sebastian. Seb was so gung ho about being the only man in my life that I slowly stopped responding to Boyd’s e-mails. It’s better this way, though, or would be if Sebastian weren’t sending such mixed messages at the moment.
This stretch is where I challenge myself, and my goal is maximum roadkill. (Passing slower runners. Of which there are many.) I keep up the velocity until I hit the volleyball courts on North Ave. I slow down a bit to see if I can spot any friends. Then I realize it’s a weekday and anyone I’d recognize is at work, so I accelerate again. I maintain that pace until I hit Fullerton. From there until I reach Arlington, I do my recovery run.
I find it almost impossible to be upset after hitting the pavement. The runner’s high is a real and powerful phenomenon.
So maybe I overreacted to hearing Patty’s news. To be fair, Wendy was equally upset and she whisked Patty away for some quality time at Canyon Ranch. Seems like Wendy could have added the proviso that Patty run the show when she sold it to DBS, but her business is none of mine. Yet I’m confident those two will make it over this blip in their relationship . . . after all, they’re like sisters. (Technically not a selling point in my world, but still.) And I hate to broach the possibility, but what if Push could benefit from fresh blood? Perhaps DBS is bringing in an executive producer who’ll shepherd us to the next level. I guess I’ll find out at the staff meeting this afternoon.
As I reframe events, I can feel my spirits lifting. Everything will work out as it should, and the universe has a plan.
Then I laugh at myself. I swear, Deva’s starting to rub off on me. I wouldn’t say we’ve become bosom companions since Hawaii, and I don’t buy into her ridiculous beliefs like astral projection, but she’s not without charm and I recognize that now. Just last week, we had dinner at the Green Zebra, a vegetarian, farm-to-table concept restaurant. Apparently she’s friends with the owner, who wouldn’t let us pay for a single bite. I’m a big fan of free.
As I slow my pace to a walk up my street, I blot the sweat from my brow and check the numbers. Twenty-nine minutes—bravo! I’m delighted with today’s stats and make a note to run angry more often. I shaved a minute off my usual thirty. It’s iced-tea time!
Except my good humor vanishes as soon as I see what appears to be an angry leprechaun perched on the wide cement railing by the front door, holding a foil-wrapped dish.
“A Cubs hat? Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, where did we go wrong with you?”
I lean down to kiss her cheek. “Hello, Ma.”
“What, it’s bad enough you have to live up here with all the quiche eaters, but you’ve gotta support their team, too? Your grandfather Murphy is rolling in his grave right now.” My mother then stands to her full height of five-two—in heels—yet she carries herself like a giant. Her once flaming red hair is now shot with white patches, and her freckles are beginning to fight for real estate with her wrinkles. She refuses to try any of the fine antiaging products I’ve gifted her, saying she won’t “put on airs.” I hardly think moisturizing is “putting on airs,” but it’s simply too exhausting to argue.
Her still-vibrant green eyes are boring a hole in my stupid hat, as I’ve inadvertently reminded her of the crosstown rivalry that’s been raging for a century. “Okay, okay, I’m taking it off,” I tell her. My hair’s damp with sweat, and I do my best to smooth it down.
“What I don’t understand is why you’d put it on in the first place.” Do I even need to mention that the rest of the family bleeds Sox black and white?
I try to remain patient. “Because I wanted to keep the sun off my face and it’s the first thing I grabbed. Besides, it’s not even mine—I think it belongs to Sebastian.” Note to self: Have his assistant schedule us some time together over the weekend.
“Him,” she snorts. Of course my family worshipped Boyd and they’ve never forgiven me for ending things. Geri was all, “But I love ice cream for dinner!”
Of course you do, sweetie.
Ma clucks her tongue, and she’s still glowering as I toss my damp hat into the vestibule. “You know, your sister’s already been to a dozen games at the Cell so far this year.”
“I’m sure she’s maintaining her girlish figure with a constant influx of ballpark hot dogs and giant beers.”
Naturally, my mother defends her precious baby Geri. “You wouldn’t know because you haven’t seen her.” Pfft. By design. “Besides, Geri’s been busy working out. I hardly ever run into her anymore.”
“Ah, so she’s finally moved out of your basement?”
Geri is five years younger than me, but in that time period, everything changed in regard to how parents related to their children. I’ve no concrete evidence—yet—but I suspect the transition to helicopter parenting has something to do with those damn yellow Baby on Board decals that became so prevalent in the mideighties. I wasn’t even made to wear my seat belt when I was little, but suddenly, Geri comes along and she’s so valued she merits a sign? I remember my early summers when Ma would be all, “Go play in the vacant lot. The drifters and stray dogs won’t bother you if you don’t bother them.” By the time Geri was five, my folks had fenced in the yard, constructed a massive swing set, and installed a swimming pool so she wouldn’t ever want to roam from our yard.
Ma shoots me yet another disapproving look. “Nobody likes a smartass, Reagan.”
I find myself clenching my fists. “Better than a fat ass, cough *Geri* cough.”
“Is that what they taught you in your fancy mental health college? To mock your sister’s underactive thyroid problem?”
“Oh, so it’s her underactive thyroid that makes her eat all those nachos? Noted.” Then I stop myself. I hate when I get like this, but there’s something about my little sister that brings out the worst in me. “You know what, Ma? That was inappropriate and I apologize. Please send Geri my best.”
I don’t mean it. But I have to say it.
“I’ll do that.”
We reach a tentative truce.
“Hey, what are you doing on this side of town? What’s caused you to venture north of Madison?”
She shrugs. “Eh, there’s a something at the Notebaert Museum and I promised Richie I’d swing by.” I do admire how my mother’s so thoroughly unimpressed by anyone that she has no problem referring to the former mayor as “Richie.”
“Is Dad joining you?”
“Nah, he’s over at Mary Mac’s. One of the kids tried to flush a box turtle and now the plumbing’s all jacked. The turtle’s fine, though. Little pissed off . . . largely at being pissed on.”
My mother cracks herself up at this.
(This incident does nothing to disabuse me of my notion that those children are trouble.)
“Anyways, the closet bend in the toilet? It’s messed up, so your dad’s working on it and couldn’t come.” Dad sold his plumbing business a few years ago and grudgingly retired, so he leaps at any chance to roll up his sleeves. Ma glances at her simple Timex. “Listen, gotta go. But here, this is for you.” She thrusts the foil-wrapped pan at me.
“Um, thanks. What is it?” If I were a betting person, I’d wager whatever it is contains canned cream of mushroom soup, chock-full of MSG and sodium.
“Turkey tetrazzini.”
“You made it with turkey?”
“That’s why there’s ‘turkey’ in the name, dear. Didn’t they educate you on anything at Battle of the Network Stars school?” And then she snorts to herself again.
“Thank you, Ma, but did you forget I’m a pescatarian?”
She shrugs. “That’s why there’s no beef in it.”
“Can’t argue with that logic.” Fortunately, the Nittany Lions who live on the first floor are going to love this dish, so I’ll save it for them.
“Take care, Reagan.”
“Okay, Ma. See you soon.”
I kiss her cheek again and open the door to the vestibule, sure to retrieve my hat before it’s usurped by a neighborhood Golden Gopher. I watch as my mother strides confidently down the stairs in her sensible shoes.
In terms of familial interaction, this wasn’t so bad. I maintained my cool, and we didn’t get into it over Geri. Mission accomplished!
But before I step onto the stairs leading up to my unit, I realize my mom’s at the door.
“Hey, Reagan, I won’t see you soon; I’ll see you Sunday. We’re having a birthday party for Finley Patrick. Plan to be there.”
And with that, she totters off to her Buick, neatly and completely annihilating any positive energy created on my run.
• • •
After I shower, I grab the casserole and knock on the first-floor apartment’s door. One of the boys occasionally telecommutes, so I take a chance that he’s there.
Trevor answers the door clad in Penn State boxers and a rumpled hockey jersey, his early-days-of-Bieber ’do hanging even more in his eyes than usual.
“Trevor, did I wake you up?” I glance down at my watch. “It’s almost one p.m.”
He stretches and his shirt pulls up over his stomach, which he then scratches vigorously. “Yeah, I like to sleep in on the weekends.”
“It’s Wednesday.”
He shrugs. “’S the weekend somewhere.”
“Actually, it isn’t.”
“You sure?”
I nod. “Pretty sure.”
“Shit. Anyway, wanna come in?” I step past his foyer and then into the living room. The layout of his place is identical to mine, with a large living room surrounded by bay windows. Whereas mine is arranged with low gray linen couches and butter-soft cashmere throw blankets, his entire room is taken up with a leather couch the size of a boxcar, positioned in front of the television altar. I have ecru silk dupioni curtains on top of feathery sheers, whereas he and his roommate, Bryce, have nothing. I don’t know why this generation cares so little for the concept of privacy, but I suspect it has something to do with sharing every aspect of their lives on social media. Today’s not the first day I’ve inadvertently seen this kid in his underwear.
Beyond the living room is the dining area. I have a vintage-look Parsons table from Crate and Barrel, whereas they’ve opted for the more traditional billiards table. Our units differ in that I renovated my kitchen and swapped it with the front bedroom for better flow. In his place, there are a couple of bedrooms and baths between the dining room and the kitchen, which made no sense. Now my master is over their kitchen. As they’ve no idea how to cook, I never hear them in the back of the house once I’m in bed, which works out nicely for all of us.
“Listen,” I say, “I won’t keep you from your, um . . . busy day. But I have this casserole I thought you might want.”
Trevor snatches the container out of my hands. “Sweet! What flavor?”
“Turkey tetrazzini made with canned soup.” I shudder involuntarily at the idea of the preservative-laden, gray-mushroomed, goo-topped noodles.
“Thanks, playa! Did you make it for us?”
“My mother brought it over. She knows I’m a pescatarian and yet she insists on bringing me a dish made with turkey.”
He angles his head, looking down at me. “Thought you were Catholic.”
I weep for this generation.
“Lapsed. And ‘pescatarian’ means I don’t eat anything but fish. So turkey? No. No way. I’m sure it’s not organic, pasture-raised, antibiotic-free turkey, either. Whatever’s cheapest at the Jewel? That’s what she used.”
His whole face lights up. “Badass! How cool is it that she makes you dinner and then takes the time to drop it off? You have the best mom in the world, son!”
That’s his takeaway from this situation? Here she completely disrespects my lifestyle choice and he thinks it’s “badass”?
I point out, “Your mother pays your rent.”
He rotates his head and I can hear the vertebrae in his neck popping. “Yeah, and I appreciate that. But anyone could write a check. It takes, like, commitment to make a dinner. I mean, my mom’s my best friend, but she never learned to cook for me. That’s love.”
Yeah, love.
Or passive-aggressive.