And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun
But it's sinking
Racing around to come up behind you again
--- Pink Floyd, Time ---
Tim Maudwin's scowl belied his nickname Smile as he crowded in for the group photo alongside the other top finishers of the men’s 45 to 49 age bracket for the marathon that he had just completed. He was a popular teacher that taught astronomy at a local high school, and three of his past students came rushing from afar towards him with large helium balloons as soon as his picture was done being taken. In unison, they shouted as they approached like it was a surprise birthday party. But instead of shouting ‘surprise!’ - they all went with, “Happy birthday Mr. Smile!”
Tim's face scrunched up like a reflex to a rancid odor. He acted like he didn't notice them and was about to start jogging away in the opposite direction but made eye contact with one of them by accident, so he stayed put. As they got closer, he complained to himself, Of all the. Now I have to. Okay -
He presented the best smile that he could muster up hoping to appear appreciative, or at the least not bothered, “Wow guys. Gabby, Tim, and Ian, right? What’s it been, like two or three years? Thank you. How are you all doing? Wow, this is very thoughtful. How’d you even know I’m here or it’s my birthday? “
Jason, Ian, and Gabby all answered at the same time, “Facebook.”
Tim wanted to kick himself for posting about his participation in this marathon while it was still upcoming. He also noted to himself that when he gets home, he is to check settings and see if the notifications of his birthday can be stopped on Facebook. He’s been looking forward to today. The biggest part of today that he’s been looking forward to is getting back from the marathon and relaxing - alone. His New Year’s resolution four days prior was to only allow himself to drink only as many beers as miles he runs on any given day. He was convinced that this was his best idea yet for self-moderating his alcohol consumption. Not only will it limit his drinking by making the sweat-cost of each drink so expensive, but it will also compel him to exercise more. Not to mention it's a rewards-based system, 'positive behavioral reinforcement' as the notable American psychologist B.F. Skinner called it. As in, zero miles ran on any given day equals zero drinks allowed that day. But a twelve-mile run earns him a twelve-pack of beer. So, because of today’s marathon, Tim had twenty-six hard-won cold delicious brews waiting for him in his fridge. But thanks to this run-in, his alone-time and drinks now had to wait. Triggered, the ambient level of urgency to get home that already started nagging him hard by the marathon's halfway mark was now rising fast. He complained to himself, Screw having to change my birthday notifications and worry about visibility settings to my upcoming events, I’m deleting my Facebook account altogether as soon as I get home. Done. I swear -
An involuntary reflex, he slammed his water on the ground. The plastic bottle, almost full, with cap off, hit the ground bottom-first causing a jet of water to shoot straight up in the air above their heads.
Startled by his own unexpected flash of temper, and quite embarrassed by it, he tried to lighten the moment with a charming sarcastic grin,"Woops. -
His grin disappeared, "No. Seriously. I'm just going to, uh, get this -
He picked the bottle up from the ground, bolted about ten feet over to one of the million marathon-day temporary recycling bins, put it in, and returned, “Guys I am so sorry for that. Ian, I think you used to smoke back in high school, right? Might you have a cigarette on you? I was heading to my car to get one the moment you all greeted me. I’m parked like a mile away. All I could think about was a cigarette for the last thirteen miles, the moment I hit the halfway mark. I hardly smoke anymore, but I do allow myself to smoke on days I go for a run. And only after my run is done. So like Pavlov’s dogs salivating for food when they hear a bell go ding, I am having the strongest nicotine fit. And guys, again, that wasn’t me, slamming my water down like that, I am so sor-
Ian to the rescue, he interrupted him as he handed him a cigarette and lighter, “Here you go.“
Gabby, the smartest of the three students, set a gift bag with balloons tied to its handles on the ground right next to his feet, “You’re obviously cooling down from a fresh marathon so I’m going to set this right here. Sorry about this. But since we’re here! We wanted to not just say happy-birthday, but to also say thank-you.”
He lit his cigarette and took in a long draw followed by a meditative and slow exhale. He did this twice more. All with his eyes closed the entire time. He opened his eyes, his agitation towards them and Facebook relaxed, “Thank me? For what?”
Gabby was trying to untangle a balloon’s ribbon from her arm, “I know we just ambushed you. Sorry again. But yeah, I just want to thank you for everything. For being my teacher. Everything. I literally decided to major in physics because of you. Why in the hell can I not get this thing untangled from my arm?-
She lost her balance, bumped into him, grabbed a shoulder and hip of his to brace herself from falling, and then recovered. She let the tangled balloon around her arm be, and smiled, "Okay let me try that again. I literally decided to major in physics because even though I had straight A's, I hated school before taking your class, which you taught like a hilarious stand-up comedian meets fascinating Ted Talk presenter every day, which started my love of science, which gave me purpose. So, thank you for that."
Tim was dabbing drenching sweat off his forehead and eyes with a towel, “Nah… I mean, thank you. But that's all you. I remember clearly. The smart questions you asked, how hard you worked, you were made for it. You would've found your calling no matter what. How’s it going? I’m guessing you might be graduating in the next year or two?”
Gabby smiled, “It’s going great. I’m psyched and impressed you remembered all three of our names. And by the way, it’s not been two or three years. It’s been five and half years. Five and a half freakin' years! How can that be? Seems like forever ago. I just finished my masters in astrophysics from MIT right before Christmas break, one semester early.``
Tim himself had been enrolled to start work on his master's back when he was Gabby's age. Right after completing his bachelor's degree an unplanned pregnancy made him decide to take a one-year break from University, but he never made it back. He felt a ping of needles on the palms of his hands and bottoms of his feet, as though electrocuted by a hundred megawatts of could-a-been's. Like a method actor, he recalled how excited he himself felt when he himself still thought possible the full realization of his true god-given potential, “Are you serious? MIT is one of the best. If not the best. I am not surprised in the least. From almost day one it was evident by the smart questions you asked and by how hard you worked: you were bound for good things. I could not be happier for you.”
Jason, the most serious one, got the balloon untangled from Gabby’s arm, “Don’t be downplaying it Mr. Maudwin. You played a huge role with me too.”
Tim was still dabbing the towel on his forehead and eyes even though they were now dry, compliments made him awkward, “Guys. This is really nice but. I mean, really, this is all so very thoughtful but. Look-
Ian, the most fun one, interrupted, “Hold that thought -
Ian reached into the gift bag next to Tim’s feet and pulled out the gift, “Two bottles of Macallan 15 Year Double Cask Scotch. Can we open one up and have a happy-birthday slash congrats-on-the-marathon toast together?”
Tim’s face lit up with its first honest smile of the day, “No way guys thank you so much this Scotch here is the real deal. This is way above and beyond. And yes, gladly, let me go find some cups. They’ve got tables everywhere today with stuff like energy bars, plates, and cups for the runners.”
Ian reached into the gift bag again and pulled out a package of shot-sized red SOLO cups, and presented them with a proud smile, “No need.”
***
Eighteen hours later Tim woke up to a splitting headache, the torture of which was only outgunned by his bladder that was begging him to get up out of bed and go to the bathroom. But the idea of getting up sounded worse than the excruciating piss that he had to take. He spent the next twenty minutes trying to fall back asleep but could only concentrate on resisting his dire need to urinate. No matter how much mind-over-matter he tried to exercise over the pain of his exploding bladder, he just couldn’t make it go away. He cracked one eye open just enough to look at his clock and saw it’s 5:04 AM, only one minute before his alarm was set to go off. Like a spring-loaded mousetrap that’s been triggered, he yanked his sheets off sending them airborne halfway across the room and sat up all in one swift motion, “Fine! I’ll get up!”
And then right on cue, as though to rub his nose in it, his alarm rang. He turned it off.
His face rested on his arm that was resting on the wall in front of him like how students fall asleep at their desk during class, and almost fell asleep right there leaned over his toilet relieving himself of the gallons of whatever all he drank last night. He flushed his toilet, exited his bathroom, came rushing back, and had one enormous but quick vomit that all came out in one fell swoop. He flushed, went to the sink, splashed his face, swished a mouthful of water and gargled, spit it out, dried his face with a towel, tore off a nice thread of toilet paper and blew his nose.
He returned to his room, sat on the edge of his bed, grabbed the phone off his nightstand, scrolled to the contact of the relevant school administrator, hit the call button, and put it on speaker. Tim waited for the automated attendant to finish, and then left the following message, “Good morning Jan. This is Tim Maudwin. Sorry for the last-minute notification. It is 5:07 on Monday morning, January 5th, and I can’t make it in to work today. I ran the marathon yesterday, and I just woke up, hardly able to use my feet or legs. I will echo this message in an email.”
Without getting up, he pulled his laptop out from the bottom of his nightstand, opened it, wrote his absence letter, hit send, closed it, and placed it back under its nightstand. Then reached one of his legs out as far as he could, leaning back to get leverage hoping to reach his earlier-thrown sheet with the tip of his foot, got it by pinching a corner between his big toe and its neighbor, pulled it toward him up from the floor close enough to grab it with his hands, lied down, closed his eyes, and cocooned himself inside of it.
He failed to disarm his alarm, having snoozed it instead, so it went off again. He tore off his cocoon, got out of bed, went to the kitchen, opened his fridge, and investigated what’s inside of it. He was pleased to see that he still had fifteen of his twenty-six marathon-earned beers left, that means he only drank eleven of them. He pulled a beer out, cracked it open and took a long refreshing sip with his eyes closed. Leaning against the counter he scanned his kitchen for more clues and noticed the two bottles of scotch that he had forgotten about until this moment, one was empty and the other had already been started. Next to the bottles were a torn-off wristband and rather large looking crumbled up receipt. The black wristband with yellow happy faces all over it was evidence that he must have gone to his favorite downtown bar. He checked the notifications on his phone and found that Jason from yesterday had tagged him in a picture with the four of them each holding up a SOLO shot cup right before their first shot, with the caption, "Happy Birthday & Marathon-Congrats Mr. Maudwin."
Tim smiled and hit the like button.
He walked into his TV room and saw Gabby on his couch lying on her stomach, fast asleep, zero clothing, blankets or sheets. Butt naked, her back rising and falling in tandem with the sound of her slow breathing that was almost a snore but not quite. He thought to himself, Holy shit. Of all the. Please don't say -
He hurried to his room and got a fresh blanket out of his closet, returned unfolding it, draped it over her covering her from neck to foot, backed away about ten feet, and yell-whispered, “Gabby. Gabby? Are you awake? Wake up.”
Nothing.
He escaped to his bathroom. He turned on his sink and splashed his face a few times with cold water. He gripped the edge of his countertop on either side of his sink with each of his hands and leaned forward towards the mirror making confrontational eye contact with himself, his face dripping with sink water. He dried his face and sat down on top of his closed toilet. He bargained with himself, Please don't tell me her. She looked so up to me. She is such a good person. Five and a half freakin' years? How can that be? Seems like a minute ago. If I learn that nothing happened. Nothing embarrassing. And, especially, most importantly, nothing out of line. I will never drink again. Done. I swear.
After building up enough courage to go try to wake her again, he stood up and realized that he had a full erection. He sat back down and started practicing his standard method of managing these cases when they happen to him, which was to focus on any actual specific stressful or negative things that might be currently looming or unresolved. Like this morning, he called in sick last-minute due to a tremendous hangover, which he lied about, blaming his sick day on soreness due to yesterday’s marathon. And the fact that he's been getting verbally warned at work about his recent increase in tardiness and decrease in focus, and the start of an almost once-a-month trend of last-minute sick days. But his case here was a stubborn one and would not go away. He needed to invoke the nuclear option, he had to picture his family members’ faces, which brought his unyielding involuntary swelling problem to an immediate end. He went back to his TV room and commanded, “Gabby! Are you awake? Gabby! Wake up!”
She didn’t move, but her voice came from the depths of where her mouth was planted between a throw pillow and the couch cushion, “What?”
Tim moved a little closer to repeat his wake-up call but found a hand-written note on his coffee table. There was a large hand-drawn shape of a heart, inside of which it read, “Gabby. Yesterday *especially last night* was amazing. I’ve missed you. I've missed us. Ian.”
Like when the good guy in a movie snips that final wire, which they weren’t sure was the right one, stopping the ticking clock by having just stopped the bomb - Tim blew out an audible exhale of relief and rejoice. Then rested into the posture of the statue ‘The Thinker’ as he spent time collecting himself. He stood up and made a quiet Tiger Woods styled celebratory fist pump. Returned to his kitchen, grabbed his open bottle of beer, and took a very long swig with his eyes closed. And then lit a cigarette.
--- the end ---
Comentarios