Losing Is Not an Option

by Rich Wallace

  And he pulled even at the head of the straightaway and eased into a kick, hearing her ehh, ehh, ehh as she worked to hold him off.

  He matched strides with her, not straining and not moving ahead, just opening up and stretching it out and giving her a pace to hold on to.

  “Thanks,” she said as she stumbled to a stop, hands on her hips, face red and sweaty.

  “Great effort,” he said. “Really tough.”

  “Thanks,” she said again, her eyes shut from the effort. “Needed that one. Jog with me. Okay?”

  Since the separation, Ron’s mother is a little more mindful of her two kids. “I spoke to Devin today,” she says as Ron comes in from track practice. “He may be home next weekend.”

  “Cool.”

  She’s taped some of the kids’ old school photos to the refrigerator,

  Devin in first grade, with a buzz cut and smiling so wide that his eyes are shut; Ron in kindergarten, skinny, wearing a striped tie and a tough-guy smirk.

  Most vestiges of their father are out of sight. The TV remote is in its own little metal box instead of on the coffee table. The comforter on the bed is now light blue with flowers, not the dark, solid one they’d had forever. Little touches of feminine energy have emerged—candles burning, sassy country-music women in the CD player. She’s even started baking, with mixed results. Yesterday she tried a batch of muffins but something went wrong and they turned out all branny and gooey. She’s happy but jittery. Her “Don’t stay out too late” is less out of concern that Ron will get in trouble than a general unease at being alone at night.

  “Look,” she says, pointing to a framed color photo that shows him leading the state cross-country meet, about to be passed. “Isn’t that great?” she says. “I finally found a frame for it downtown.”

  “Terrific,” he says flatly.

  “I’m really proud of you.”

  “I know,” he says. Give it a few more weeks. Then there’ll be a picture worth keeping.

  There are rugged paths through the woods that lie between the high school track and the elementary school, where Ron can do hilly 3,000-meter circuits over dirt and grass and not have to think about dodging traffic or developing shinsplints from running on pavement. He loves to blast up those twisty, rocky inclines beneath the newly leafed maples of springtime, feeling the strain in every muscle, the forced pumping of the arms, the rising of his abdominals, the tightening in the back of his calves as bits of gravel and dirt slide backward, the shortening of his inhalations, and the gritting of his teeth. Pushing through all of that, reaching deep and finding enough to make those last few uphill strides toward a breakthrough. Then down the other side of the slope, toward the edge of the woods, breathing more deeply, opening his stride and stretching out his fingers and loping onto the grass of the soccer field and feeling his shoulders relax. Running alone. Running long and hard and loving it. Beginning another circuit. Wanting more of that pain.

  Friday after practice he goes straight to his grandmother’s apartment for dinner with her and his dad.

  These were farm people, but they live with few hints of the past. No BLESS THIS HOUSE samplers or prints of old barns on the walls. Ron’s grandmother has lived in this apartment for twenty years amid the Kmart decor and wooden furniture from Sullivan’s on Church Street.

  When they sold the farm there was almost no profit at all because of the back taxes, and they rented a small house near the hospital while Ron’s grandfather held a job at Sturbridge Building Products and drank himself to death. That was way back, even before Devin was born. She moved here. Waited tables for a time at the diner but hated serving other people. Now she haunts the dollar store and Rite Aid. Watches soap operas. She treats Ron well—roasting chicken and making cookies and handing him a couple of dollars “just between us.” She sneaks in a few sharp words about Ron’s mother, assuming the breakup was his mom’s fault. Not likely that she’s ever discussed it with her son.

  It’s obvious that he sleeps on the couch out here in the living room. There’s only the one bedroom, but they try to keep things tidy, at least when Ron visits.

  It’s a long, narrow apartment. You’re in the living room when you enter from the stairs, then there’s a hallway with a large bathroom on the left, then the kitchen, then the bedroom that takes up the back third of the space.

  “Did you know this boy is the fastest guy around, Ma?” Ron’s father is saying over dinner: pot roast with potatoes and stewed carrots.

  “Not quite,” Ron answers. “Not for pure speed, anyway.”

  “I used to be able to run like hell. Especially if the cows got loose. Remember, Ma?”

  “Oh yes,” she says. “Remember that time they were all out at Harry’s across the way? Eating his apple trees?”

  His father laughs for the first time in months. “I thought I could shoo them all back at once, but one of them was so ballsy. She was the leader. When she trotted off, the others all followed. Cows have personalities, Ron. People think they’re stupid, but they’re not. I could tell you the individual differences between every cow we ever had.”

  “He’s right,” Grandma says. “The young ones are like puppies, curious and getting into mischief. They’d come right up onto the porch and eat my flowers.”

  “They’re sweet, though,” Ron’s father says, pushing back his glasses, which were sliding down his nose. “When I was a kid there were more cows in this county than people.” He shakes his head, still wearing half a smile. “You know who’s living in our house now, Ma? Two queers. I swear it. Queers with New York money. They’re only here on weekends. A buddy of mine went out to fix the furnace and told me about them.”

  “Nothing surprises me anymore,” she says. “Every time I go to the supermarket I see people I’ve never seen before. This town is changing right before our eyes.”

  They’re quiet for a minute. Grandma reaches over and pats Ron’s hand. “Your father is a good man, Ronald. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise.”

  Ron nods and digs into his plate of food. The noise level from the Main Street traffic is low, especially in the evening. You can always smell the pizza from Foley’s down below, but it isn’t an unpleasant or overpowering aroma.

  Ron excuses himself and gets up to use the bathroom. It’s kind of sad to see his dad’s razor by the sink, his clothes hanging from a rack in the corner of the living room. For now he has no private space at all, but it’s temporary. Most of his stuff is in storage at the Sturbridge Store-It-All out on Route 6.

  There’s something new on the bathroom windowsill. Ron picks it up, a little toy cow, maybe two inches tall, made of hard white rubber with large black spots painted on its flanks. The kind of toy kids played with fifty years ago.

  “We playing poker tonight?” Tony asks on Monday evening. Several of them are gathered at the bench outside the Turkey Hill convenience store. “I need to win some money.”

  “Where’s Geno?” Kevin asks. “If we’re playing, it’s at his house. My old man’s home and he’s drunk.”

  “He said he’d be by,” Ron says. “I talked to him after practice.”

  It’s raining very lightly, just a mist, but tonight’s the first really warm night of spring and most of the guys are in T-shirts. They’ll all be graduating in a month. They tend to herd up here every evening, getting Cokes and Yodels from the store but mostly sitting on the bench and watching cars go by. They share a common embarrassment, not wanting to bring these friends home and get grilled the next day at dinner about each one’s families and job prospects and ambitions. They’re all comfortable visiting Gene’s house, though, where they can play cards in the rec room and maybe have a beer apiece and not feel like they’re being watched.

  Ron goes into Turkey Hill for a bottle of iced tea. When he comes out Gene has arrived, and he’s talking to Kevin. Tony is chatting with Darby and Ellie—the track girls—and Ron stops cold. He caps the bottle and walks over. Darby is looking his way, hands in the front pouch
of a blue Sturbridge Track sweatshirt.

  “Hey, Speedy,” she says, meeting him halfway.

  “Hi. What are you guys up to?”

  “Ellie and I decided to get some ice cream. We ran into Gene on the way over.”

  “We were thinking of heading to his house,” Ron says. “Play some cards.”

  “Big bucks?”

  “Little bucks. Dimes and quarters.”

  “Just for fun?”

  “It adds up.”

  She’s in jeans and old running shoes, and now she’s standing with her hands in her back pockets, kind of leaning backward. “How was your workout today?” she asks.

  “Excellent. Coach worked my ass off. He’s saying I can get under nine.”

  “That’d be big time.” She understands. Track people think in minutes and meters.

  “So, what’d you do today?” he asks.

  “Six-hundreds and three-hundreds. Then like two miles easy, in the woods.”

  She smiles at him. He notices Ellie looking their way, leaning against the back of the bench. He waves and she comes over.

  “Hi, Ron,” she says, her voice sounding perky and inquisitive. Something’s in the air.

  “Ice cream night, huh?” he says.

  “Mmm, boy,” she says. “We’ll work it off tomorrow.”

  “Gotta fuel yourself somehow.”

  “Yeah,” Ellie says. “So you guys are gambling tonight, huh?”

  “Absolutely. You up for it?”

  Ellie giggles. “Nah. Maybe sometime.”

  “Definitely,” Darby says. “We’ve got piggy banks.”

  Ellie giggles again. “You dork.” She gives Darby a playful shove on the shoulder. “My bank is a plastic dinosaur.”

  Darby shoves back. “Well,” she says to Ron, “we won’t hold up your game. Guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Right. Get two scoops.”

  “See ya.… Bye, Gene,” she calls. “Bye, guys.”

  Gene goes back in the store and comes out with a giant bag of potato chips. He and Ron fall behind Tony and Kevin as they walk up Main Street toward Gene’s house.

  “She’s hot, man,” Gene says.

  “Yeah?” Ron says. It isn’t really a question; he knows Darby’s cute. The intonation came from wondering why Gene had pointed it out.

  “Yeah,” Gene says flatly. He turns his head toward Ron and squints. “You hadn’t noticed?”

  “Yeah, I noticed.”

  “You better notice, man. You better.” They walk another block past the darkened stores, then Gene says, “Play your cards right, buddy. Don’t overplay the hand.”

  On the bus ride to the league meet over in Weston, Ron rode by himself in a seat near the front and stared out the window. He was the top seed in the 1,600 and 3,200 and no one in the league had touched him all spring. Still, he had nerves; he always had nerves before a meet. So while others joked around and threw shirts at each other and Darby sat way in the back and laughed with a couple of pole-vaulters, Ron chewed on his lip and checked his gym bag twice to make sure he hadn’t forgotten his racing shoes.

  He could pick out her voice from time to time; she had a sweet laugh and tended to get lots of attention. So he sat there with a dual focus, or one focus and one distraction: a championship track meet and her.

  He warmed up easy. His coach told him not to overextend himself in the 1,600 if he didn’t have to. The battle for the team title would be close with Laurelton, and they were counting on two wins from Ron. So he jogged a couple of miles and ran a few strides, then checked in for his race and leaned against the fence to watch the girls’ 400 meters.

  Darby got out fast and led coming off the final turn, compact and efficient and determined, braid flying, but a tall girl from East Pocono came on strong at the end and nipped her at the wire as Darby stumbled and fell to her knees.

  The boys’ 1,600 was next. Ron took a deep breath and shut his eyes and stepped onto the track. He looked around. No one in this race was at his level, but you never knew. He shot into the lead immediately and pushed through the first turn, feeling the energy of the runners in his wake, their hurried breaths and the clicking of their spikes on the track.

  A guy from Laurelton stuck to his shoulder for half the race but didn’t have the stamina to push it on that decisive third lap. Ron won going away.

  He had a couple of hours to kill between races. He put on his sweats and drank some Gatorade and watched the hurdles final. Then he went for a walk to stay loose and look for her.

  She was sitting over by the back entrance to the school, leaning against the brick wall and staring at the ground between her legs.

  “Hey,” she said quietly as he approached.

  “Hey.”

  “Nice race.”

  “You, too.”

  She rolled her eyes and mouthed an obscenity. “I had her whipped,” she said.

  “She had a hell of a finish.”

  “Well, she’s going to get her ass kicked in the 800,” Darby said. “No way she gets me again, bro. No frickin’ way.”

  “You’ll get her,” he said, but he was already backing away. “I’m gonna jog.” She didn’t jump up to join him. “I’ll see you later,” he said.

  Darby just nodded, staring into space, her eyes narrowed and her mouth a tight line. Ron jogged off toward the track.

  He won again easily; she didn’t. She opened up a lead on the first lap and held it to the final straightaway. The East Pocono girl came firing past again and won it by a yard.

  Darby didn’t say a word the rest of the day. To him or to anybody. Ron might have sat next to her, taken the opportunity to show some compassion and offer some “Suck it up and work your butt off every day until there’s no way that girl can beat you again” advice. Make some headway. But he didn’t. The bus ride home was her turn to sit alone and glare out the window.

  “Jacks over threes,” Ron said, laying down his hand and sweeping the coins toward his pile. “I would say I’m on a roll, my friends.”

  “You suck,” said Tony, who’d stayed in after getting out-bluffed by a pair of tens the hand before. He set down his cards. “Three bitches.”

  “Hey, shut up,” said Gene. “My mom’s upstairs.”

  “I’ll buy the next round,” Ron said, pushing back his chair and getting up to grab some Rolling Rocks from the refrigerator. He stumbled a little. He’d had three beers already. “Okay, Geno?”

  “Yeah, go ahead. Thought you had a limit during the season.”

  “State meet’s two weeks away and I haven’t had a beer since February,” he said. “This is my last buzz until summer.”

  He opened the refrigerator and took out four more bottles. “Think your father will notice?”

  “He’s cool as long as we don’t clean him out,” Gene said. “The way you’re going we might.”

  Ron set the bottles on the table. “Hey,” he said, pointing his thumbs at his chest. “Who won two titles today? Huh?” He rolled his shoulders and gave a little dance. “Mr. Excitement, that’s who.”

  “You’re wasted, man.”

  “Not yet. I’m getting there.”

  Kevin shook his head and smirked. “Mr. Excitement?”

  “Mr. Ex-cite-ment,” Ron said, rolling his fists around in the air. “Man, I’ve been wound so tight all spring. I deserve this.” He picked up one of the bottles and held it aloft at arm’s length. “I’d just like to say what an honor it is to win this award—the Darby Rolling Rock Memorial Award for great running and dedication, and especially, especially I am proud that all my friends could be here tonight to share this great honor with me.”

  The boys sat back and laughed. Kevin shuffled the cards.

  “I’m just sorry my father couldn’t be here to see me get this prestigious reward, but he unfortunately is unavailable. So”—he stopped and took a long swig from the bottle, then wiped his mouth with his sleeve—“so, I’d like to thank the Academy and the Grammys—both of my grammy
s; my grampas are dead—and all you guys who unstintingly hang out on Main Street every night; you are truly an inspiration to us all. God bless us every one.”

  Oh my God, the room was spinning and Ron lay flat on his back, his arms outstretched and clutching the edges of the bed, and his mouth was dry as cotton. There was tension in the center of his forehead; a headache beginning to form. Oh shit, was all he could think. Oh shit.

  He got up. Tiptoed to the kitchen and downed a big glass of orange juice. Brushed his teeth again. Took a leak and crawled beneath the covers. The room continued to spin until he faded into sleep.

  “Ron,” came his mother’s voice. He opened his eyes. The room was bright with sunshine. It had stopped spinning.

  “Huh?”

  “You have a phone call, honey.”

  “Okay. Thanks.”

  He opened his mouth wide; the corners of his lips were sticky. His mouth tasted like a sewer. He sat on the edge of the bed for a few seconds, shaking his head. Then he went downstairs to take the phone call.

  “You read the paper yet?” It was Gene.

  “No, man. I’m just getting up.”

  “You guys get the Philly paper?”

  “No. Scranton.”

  “The Inquirer’s got results from some meets down that way. That kid Daniels from Council Rock ran 9:02 yesterday.”

  “Geez.”

  “That’s fast, buddy.”

  “No kidding.”

  “You got some work to do.”

  Ron let out his breath. “Guess I do.”

  “Think he drank six Rolling Rocks last night?”

  “Not likely, huh?”

  Ron feels like shit and knows he deserves to. But he drives to the track and stretches lightly, then sets off into the woods, fast, not bothering with a warm-up jog. He pushes up the hill and tastes bile in his throat, but he keeps going hard.

  You set yourself back last night, he thinks. Daniels is running a national-class time and you’re puking potato chips over Gene’s back fence. You’re gonna win the states? In your mind, pal, in your mind.