The Man Who Was There
I
once read a theory that exists somewhere in the vast internet, a theory that
somebody formed during their childhood. The theory stated that when a person
dies, they don’t actually go on to an afterlife; let it be heaven, reincarnation,
nothingness, or wherever. Their soul, spirit, mind, or whatever the hell you
want to call it, merely leaves this universe and moves on to another, where
their death didn’t come to pass. This occurs seamlessly so the deceased isn’t
aware that Grim Reaper paid them a visit. The dearly departed might notice a
close call, but it is just that. Close calls, nothing more. This happens again,
again, and again, a never-ending Dance of Death, Danse Macabre. “So far,” said the theorist, “I haven’t been
proven wrong.”
∞
‘Where are we gonna run to, eh?’
There was me, that is Jack, and my
three (or two?) mates, that is Wilson, Allen, and Stewart, Stewart being really
queer (or was he?), and we ran on Banta Street making up our mind where to run to
this afternoon, a fine day in spring with birds flying and going “tweet, tweet”
in hopes of getting some good old in-out-in-out, and soon the trees and flowers
will be doing the same with ruinous results to my sinuses. Soon, soon, the mucus
that results from the trees and flowers’ jizz will flow into my throat and
lungs, giving each of my breaths a lovely rasp to it. My teammates find this to
be the most unsettling and make it apparent by nicknaming it “Death Rattle.”
Anyhow, a beautiful day calls for a scenic route, wouldn’t you agree? And so. We
decided to take our usual haunting path: some real nice rail tracks heading south through many buildings
and trees with plenty of things
to gasp and gawk at.
Earlier, we were getting dressed in
our beautiful short shorts and flimsy tee shirts for the weather wasn’t quite warm
enough for bare skin; nipples with glass cutting capacity were not a fun thing
to have. We then went and did our usual routine. Six laps around the track for
warm-up (two thousand and four hundred meters). Stretch in circle (fifteen
different stretches with three sets of ten seconds each). Do drill (nine
different drills done over seventy meters each). Then Coach Steven gathered us
in a circle and told us what was in store for us on this glorious day (three
sets of four two hundred meters at thirty-five seconds each). ‘Twas fun stuff,
much better than doing sets of four hundred meters which is hell on
the track.
During the workout itself, Stewart may
or may not have been burning our group[1] of
three (four?) on each two hundreds. He would remain within this questionable
state ‘til something may or may not have happened to him later in the season
but for now, he may or may not have been the top dog. After the excellent workout
left us with an enjoyable burning sensation within our legs (lactic acid build
up), we went on a recovery run (thirty minutes). Usually, Coach Steven would
have us run around, around, and around the campus itself every single day. But
not today. Today, my friends, we run off-campus. We shall taste the sweet,
sweet taste of freedom on the roads. And thus starts our harrowing adventure.
Starting at Banta and Shelby, the cornerstone
of all of our routes that were and will be created, the three (four?) of us ran
eastbound on the sidewalk within shadows of trees and a lady that lined up to
watch us run past, ‘til we came upon a busy intersection. At that point, the
plan of crossing depended on how merciful the stoplight was feeling on that
day. Sometimes, we’d dance across the street in glee when the light allowed us
to do so and take a right at the next sidewalk, but on most days, the light decides
to spite us and force us to take a right turn on the sidewalk and run for a bit
‘til a lull in the traffic allowed us to take a risky dash across the street. Dance
or dash, it was a zesty enterprise either way. From there, it was only a short run
through rows of houses and a yard to the ditch where the rails lay and led to
our source of lore.
The previous winter, those very
rails were our quick track to amusement and enjoyment. Since there weren’t any
in-season running sports that we could partake in, most of us opted for winter
conditioning. The winter conditioning itself was unofficial, meaning that we
were free of Steven’s reign. With that freedom, the whole world within running
distance became The Land of Do-As-You-Please.
And so, with that, I introduce you to a succinct and exciting list of our
stops, starting from the moment we jump onto the rail-road and run through the
wondrous land.
- Bridge (1 mile): A bridge. Take care to not step into the space between the rails or you’ll get a nasty scare and scar. There, Stewart may or may not have stood on the very edge of the bridge and looked down to the shallow rocky creek sixteen feet under.
- Playground (1.2 miles): Frequent and popular stop. Much fun was had swinging on the swings, spinning on the roundabout, sliding down the slides, and climbing the monkey bars. There is also a nearby creek where one could relieve themself if they desire to do so.
- Stink (2 miles): At this point, the ditch outside the rails starts to look funky. There is a scent of raw sewage in the air. Running quickly through this part is advised.
- Field (3 miles): A vast and open grassy field. One could have an excellent game of ultimate frisbee here. Being that there was only three (four?) of us, we settled for passing the disc around. There, Stewart may or may not have looked into a seemingly abandoned tent (it wasn’t). Also, he may or may not have picked up a dumped dildo that lay on the rails and after briefly attempting to stab us with it, threw it into the swamp.
‘Twas a truly wonderful time of the
season, doing as we please as it snows. Many years later, I would still recall
those days where I ran on the railroads as white flakes floated down. Then it’d
become a storm and we’d have to run five fucking miles back to our school. Sure
was a cold day.
But for now, back to the story that
we’re focusing on at this time. The ditch with the rails itself is located
behind some sucker’s house. In order to get into there, we have to sneak across
the backyard. This is a perilous act. Go too fast and you‘ll look like you’re
trying to get away from an angry shotgun wielding homeowner and only attract
more attention. Go too slow and somebody is sure to call the cop on you for
“trespassing.” So, the best way to cross the yard safely is this: Run up to the
property line. Take a look around. Casually yet quickly run across the yard.
Simple enough. However this time, it was bit different. As we ran across the
yard, Stewart may or may not have taken off.
Now, when you’ve been running competitively
for a while, you learn to chase and catch somebody when they try to quickly get
away. Eventually, when enough people try get away from you in races, it becomes
an instinct. Much like how dogs chase after cars. They do it, yet they wouldn’t
know the first thing to do with a car if they caught it. A reflex.
This was the same with me.
I ran. Caught up with Stewart.
Overtook him. Jumped into the ditch. Stood on rails. Took a couple second to
bask in triumph. Deep breath. Yes. Another victory. Pause. “Wow, it’s sure
taking them a while to catch up,” I thought. Turning around to tell those
slowpokes to hurry the fuck up, I saw that they were standing at the top of the
ditch’s slope looking at me like I was one crazy motherfucker. It was a
rumbling moment where we could’ve stared at each other for an eternity, me
looking up at them with a puzzled expression and them looking down to me as if
I’ve finally cracked like a nut in a nutcracker.
Allen broke the moment by waving and
yelling at me.
Wilson joined in.
Stewart may or may not have joined
in.
WAVE WAVE MOUTH MOUTH.
“Just what the fuck are they doing,”
I thought to myself, becoming even more befuddled. Allen, being on the
frontlines of brilliant ideas, started pointing. He pointed to my right, to the
northern direction of where the railroads came from. I, being accustomed to
shenanigans from them, saw right through their ruse. “Aha! The old ‘Holy shit,
look at that… Psych!’ trick. I won’t fall for it again.” I looked at them,
nodding my head. Yeah. Sure. Ok.
Stewart then may or may not have
jumped into the ditch, onto the railroads.
Now to get a bit ahead of ourselves.
When all was done, at the end of school year, Stewart may or may not have quit
running. At the time, I assumed that he did so because he couldn’t recover
fully from the pulled hamstring that he may or may not have gotten earlier in
the season. Later, when we were eating at Mancino's Pizza during cross
country’s summer camp, Wilson complained about how Stewart may or may not have asked
him out. It was at that moment I would discover that Stewart may or may not
have come out of the closet shortly after he quit the team. At the same
location, Coach Steven, who was a hardcore Catholic, found out. He hung his
head, shocked and speechless. Did Stewart quit, fearing that he would lose
favor with Steven? After all, Steven had proven that he could be a man of
subtle cruelty the year previous when he had Wilson and I run ten miles with a
whopping total of five pounds worth of dumbbells for failing him in a meet.
“Works out your upperbody!” he said. Sounds
like nothing considering the light weight, but damn. That shit wasn’t easy or
fun and to this day, still remains one of the hardest runs I’ve suffered
through. Fucking hell.
Now that I think back to this day… Stewart
could have done a different sport. Stewart could have been in a different
group. Stewart could have fallen off the edge of the bridge. Stewart could have
gotten killed by the roundabout as he tripped. Stewart could have gotten
stabbed by the tent’s inhabitants. Stewart could have pulled his hamstring
earlier. Stewart could have come out of the closet earlier. Stewart could have
quit earlier. Stewart could have skipped the practice that day. Stewart could
have been getting treated for herpes on his hands from touching that dildo.
Stewart could have not jumped into the ditch.
But I’m still here.
Stewart then jumped into the ditch,
onto the railroads.
Stewart grabbed me. “What the fuck
are you doing? You can’t touch me, bitch!” I yelled at him. He then forced me
to look northern bound and by god, there was a massive twelve ton steel beast
of a train making its way over to my puny mortal body. It was only two hundred
meters away (much less than thirty-five seconds). THE FUCKING TRAIN, Stewart
seemed to be telling me, GODDAMNIT, THE TRAIN. But alas. He knew shit of
getting his point across visually. Instead, he settled for pointing and
attempting to drag me away.
Well. Who would I be to argue with
him?
Out of the ditch we jumped. We stood
and watched the steel beast roar by. Laughter all around. “Boy, that was a
close one!” Finished the run and went back to the track. Armed with a new lore.
Stewart then pulled his hamstring, came out of the closet, and was gone. He
wasn’t mentioned of again, memories of him started fading away, and finally disappeared
for years. Until now, when I remembered. Now, he might have been forgotten by
all but yours truly, but I remained within that universe for a bit longer
because of him. For that, I shan't forget him. Again.
As for I, that is Jack, I might have
dodged a massive steel beast, but it certainly wasn’t the last thing that I
would dodge. I would have to deal with more shit from cars -both moving and
parked- dogs, bikers, poles, trees, tennis balls, and a runner or two (but
thankfully, no trains). Each time, it seems that I miraculously stepped out of its
pathway while being oblivious only to have somebody run up to me and go HOLY
SHIT, ARE YOU OK OHMYGOD DID YOU SEE THAT CAR, FUCK! Over time, it became a
recurring event to the point where it was no big deal and I would only find out
about my near-death when my group nonchalantly brought it up in the stretching
circle at the end of practice.
“Well,” said Wilson one day after
yet other close call, “you still haven’t been hit by an airplane yet. So, you
still have that going for you, I suppose.” Yeah. We were sitting in a wheel
with the freshmen forming the hub as a part of our hazing/getting-to-know
process. All was quiet. Suddenly, everybody looked up into the sky, where the
sun was shining. Normally, I would have looked up with them (albeit a
millisecond late) but right in front of me out in the distance, in front of the
haze of the scorching rays on the road, there was a lady. She seemed familiar
as if I have seen her before and then again, again, and again. Then at once, I
knew. I stood up and walked to her as the team took off running. Oh, you.
You’re a capricious thing, aren’t you? Offering me her pale hand, which I took,
she said Yes. Yes, I am. Earth and
air surrounding yours truly started to rumble and tear. Let’s dance, sweetie. The sunlight darkened. We shall dance. Yes, the team is dancing with her, the pavement of
the roads slamming under their thick shoes and the airplane roaring by in a
smoky exhaust somewhere in the deep sky. Doo
doo dum dee dum dee doo. Grinning over them shall be yours truly, Jack, and
I shall be half-naked, dancing, my blister scarred feet striding and bounding
and now kicking and bowing to the lady. Jack
never stops, I say. I say that Jack will never die. I bow to the airplanes,
trains, cars, trees, and step out of the way and afterward, throw back my head
and laugh in a roar. He is a great one,
that truly Jack. With a flick of my head, the sun-bleached mess of my hair
passes glimmering under the flames in the sky and I leap about and jump onto
the ash covered road and I gallop and make a lap (four hundred meters), two
laps (eight hundred meters), dancing
and running at once. Dum dee dum dee. My
feet are light and swift. Jack never
stops. I say that Jack will never die. I dance in blazing sunlight and in
freezing torrent. He is a great one. He
never stops, the truly Jack. I am dancing, running, dancing, running. I say that he will never die.
She winks and I am dust.
[1]
Within our team, there was a system of groups based on how fast we were. First
was stud level (two people). Second was good (three [four?] people). Third was
average (six people). Lastly, was below average (four people).
