“Order food by self!” Caleb said.
“You got it,” Dad agreed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.” He pulled out his wallet and handed Caleb a ten-dollar bill.
Then Dad turned toward me. “Let’s wait out here a moment,” he said. “I could use a breather.”
When Caleb was young, Dad had taught him how to order from a menu. It was painful. Caleb ordered by giving not only the name of the entrée but the entire description as well, plus his own special requests. It sometimes took him up to five minutes to place a simple order.
Caleb marched purposefully toward the two women behind the counter, who were conversing. They stopped talking when they saw Caleb and stood at attention. They knew him well. The lunch-hour trickle was over, and the restaurant was empty except for an older couple seated at a two-top near the front window.
Dad timed our entrance just as Caleb was placing his order.
“LONG JOHN SILVER’S TWO-PIECE COD MEAL!” Caleb demanded. “Choice of Sweet and Zesty Asian or Creamy Garlic salad dressing. Want Creamy Garlic. Sides green beans and corn cobbette. Two hush puppies. RIGHT!”
Despite all his challenges with communication, Caleb had no problem expressing his needs in restaurant situations. The women behind the counter treated the situation like a stickup. One grabbed the microphone and slowly repeated Caleb’s order verbatim. The announcement reverberated throughout the entire dining room: “Long John Silver’s Two-Piece Cod Meal! Choice of Sweet and Zesty Asian or Creamy Garlic. The customer would like Creamy Garlic. Sides green beans and corn cobbette. The customer has requested two hush puppies. Right!”
He had Long John Silver’s completely under his command.
“Large Diet Coke. TWO ICE CUBES!” he demanded.
She relayed his precise drink order into the microphone: “Large Diet Coke. The customer would like two ice cubes.”
The woman at the beverage dispenser went out of her way to show Caleb that she was fulfilling his demands. Aware that she was under his watchful eyes, she clutched a pair of tongs and slowly placed the ice cubes individually into the paper cup. Caleb paid his bill with the money Dad had given him, counted his change, and took his receipt to an empty table and waited for his order.
It was our turn to order. “Hope you’re in the mood for fish-and-chips,” Dad said.
As we made our way to Caleb’s table, Dad patted me on the shoulder. “Just remember, Leo. Life is always going to throw you curveballs.”
26.
MARY WAS CRAZY-BUSY PAINTING sets for an upcoming production of The Crucible at school, so she hadn’t made it to the race that morning. Not that she was crushed she couldn’t be there. Driving more than two hours each way to see someone run a fifteen-minute race, perhaps catching a glimpse of them for maybe twenty or thirty seconds, wasn’t exactly enticing. I got that.
Instead I met up with her that night and drove her across town to this place I loved called Charley’s Drive-In. It’s this cool little dive Dad sometimes took Caleb and me to that he knew from his college days.
Charley’s was way out on Manchester in Brentwood, and the place was usually packed with people wolfing down cheeseburgers and onion rings off paper plates, but that night the place was almost empty. Charley’s was tiny, just a long counter with several swirl stools that wrapped around a grill, fryers, and a soda fountain. The cook was none other than Charley himself. We ordered a couple of cheeseburgers, a basket of fries, and two icy mugs of his special homemade root beer. It tasted like heaven.
I gave Mary a detailed recap of the race, but I knew she didn’t really understand or give a rip about the tactics Curtis and I pulled off that morning. So I shifted the conversation in her direction and learned a few things about drama and set design that were probably about as compelling to me as my race tactics were to her.
Charley had this old-fashioned jukebox, and the guy changed the playlist religiously each month. It was music you’d never heard before, and it was always great stuff. I slipped a bunch of quarters into the machine, and we pressed random numbers and letters. Soon the sounds of Tommy James and the Shondells crooning “Crimson and Clover” provided the right mood. I wanted to hang there forever.
We settled back down into our stools and lingered over our root beers and a few remaining fries for another hour, listening to old tunes and talking about movies we liked, songs we loved, and teachers who confused us. Then Charley told us he was getting ready to close up.
As we headed out the door, I directed Mary’s attention to this old, grizzly guy with no teeth who’d been sitting alone across from us. He was gnawing on a plate of cheese fries and sipping black coffee and making a mess of himself. We sat in the car and watched him for another minute really going at those cheese fries, the sauce now smeared across both cheeks and dripping from his fingers.
“I wonder what his life story is,” I said to her, thinking we might create some juicy life story for the poor guy on the journey home. But instead Mary decided to get all serious on me.
“Why don’t you tell me a little more about your life story, Leo,” she said.
That confused me. “What do you need to know?”
“Like, I want to know more about you.”
I put the car in drive and made a move toward the radio dial, but she hit the off button. Now I was trapped by silence. “I hate to break it to you,” I said, laughing, “but it’s been a pretty uneventful life up to this point.”
“Cut the crap, Leo.”
May the traffic gods be with me, I thought, because I didn’t know where this conversation was going.
“I want to know if you’re okay,” she said.
“What’s up, Mary?” I asked. “We just had this amazing time at Charley’s, and I had this great race this morning, and now you think there’s something wrong with me?”
“I’m not talking about right now, Leo. Sometimes you shut down, you check out for a few days, or you’re just not there. Is something up?”
“I’m a man of few words.”
“That’s bullshit. In case you need reminding, your mother is running around having some kind of an affair. I’m not exactly sure what your Dad’s deal is, but I imagine he’s not clueless and knows something is up. And as much as I love your brother, that can’t be easy.”
“It’s all cool, Mary. It is what it is.”
“That’s so clichéd, Leo. And what’s up with you always having some scratch on your face or a bruise on your neck, arm, or some other place I haven’t seen yet?”
“Is that a pass?” I joked.
“Does your father hit you?”
“Christ, Mary! No! What’s up with you tonight? I know you’re into theater, but maybe you’ve been hanging around the drama crowd a little too much.”
She stared hard at me for a moment. “I think you’re full of shit.” She slapped the radio dial, and the Red Hot Chili Peppers flooded the car. “Enjoy your damn music!” she shouted.
—
By the time I pulled into her driveway, the ice had begun to melt. I put my arm around her and kissed her on the forehead.
“I’m sorry,” I told her. “Maybe I do sometimes shut down.” Then I kissed her cheek. “Sometimes my family brings me down,” I admitted. “But I’m okay,” I promised her. Then I found her lips and we kissed a little longer.
Before she got out of the car, she looked at me for a long moment, but she didn’t push the matter any further. “I care about you,” was all she said.
I figured I dodged that bullet, but when I got home Caleb hadn’t quite worked the fish-and-chip tantrum out of his system, or whatever the hell was bothering him this time.
Within minutes I was running the empty streets in the darkness of night. But it felt great. The sear in my lungs from wasting myself in the race that morning was still there, but my legs felt light and strong, and the runner’s high seeped through me and I began floating above myself. Again I felt like I was soaring. I took inventory of the day, its highs and lo
ws, and despite Caleb’s outbursts and the little clash with Mary, I decided it was a pretty damn good day.
Five miles later I slipped back through the door and into the bathroom, where I stripped and wiped down with a wet towel.
Before heading back to the bedroom, I took a good look at myself in the mirror and examined my face and torso, and I didn’t see a single scratch or bruise. I was all right.
I crawled into bed, Caleb and I went through the forgiveness routine, and the room became silent, but just as I closed my eyes, he spoke.
“Why Leo run?” he asked.
“Leo runs because it makes him feel damn good,” I mumbled. “Maybe you should run too.”
Part Two
27.
THE FIRST TIME I SAW HIM running was on a cold December afternoon. The sky was gray, with a mist in the air that could turn to snow any second. I was on my way to pick up his meds at Walgreens when I saw his familiar figure and his loping stride on the shoulder of Clayton Road. His form looked painful. He ran with an awkward skip, his knee lift exaggerated and uneven, his hands clenched in tight fists.
But it was definitely Caleb, and he was miles from home.
He’d started running the week after the state cross-country meet. One afternoon he simply asked me, “How far Leo run?”
I told him, and he asked, “Where Leo run?”
I told him, and then he put on his shoes and charged out the door. He began to disappear for long periods of time when he got home from school, often not returning until after dark, and at dinner he’d rattle off the directions and street names of the routes he ran. He had become a long-distance runner too. He wasn’t stupid. He was aware of the attention I was getting from my parents, especially Dad.
I passed him in the car and thought briefly that I should keep going, but I decided to pull over and got out to greet him. “You’re a long way from home, buddy,” I said to him. He stopped running.
“LONG-DISTANCE RUNNER!” he yelled.
I laughed. “You’re a long-distance runner all right,” I told him. “Why don’t I give you a ride?”
“NO!” he screamed. “Long-distance runner!” he repeated. He started running again.
I gave him a two-honk salute as I pulled back on the road. In the rearview mirror, I watched his clumsy stride. It had to hurt like hell to run like that.
Forty-five minutes later I saw Caleb again on the return. I slowed as I went by him, and he looked over at me, then refocused his gaze straight ahead. I didn’t even bother to ask him if he wanted a ride.
When I got home I told Mom and Dad where I saw him.
“I think it’s great he started running,” Dad said.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But Christ, he’s a long way from home.”
“You don’t need to worry about that,” Dad told me. “Your brother has a very high pain tolerance.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumbled. I looked outside. It was dark now, and it had begun to snow.
28.
BY JANUARY I WAS HANGING OUT at Mary’s place two or three nights a week. My parents liked Mary, and I think it made them feel better that it also gave Caleb and me a break from each other so we weren’t getting into it as often. As long as I got my homework done and maintained mostly As, Mom and Dad pretty much let me come and go as I pleased.
Mary and her mother loved to cook, and between their homemade pizza and awesome Mexican, I was staying well fed. All I had to do was put together a decent playlist on the computer and wash the dishes.
After dinner Mary and I would park ourselves in front of the television. On Saturday nights we tapped into a local cable station that featured what they guaranteed were the worst movies ever produced. We watched ’60s classics like They Saved Hitler’s Brain and Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. Before each movie this flamboyant host named Montrel Sinclair, dressed in a peach suit and purple feather boa, introduced the featured film with an in-depth explanation noting the faulty plotline structures and artistic flaws that viewers should pay attention to. Mary and I would sit back and critique it for ourselves. She had a keen eye for the set and costume-design complications, while I paid attention to plot and dialogue problems.
For the most part Mary and I were acting like old people, the kind who never get off their porches to do anything. That was, until Mary’s mother began dating some new guy. Then we started getting to know each other in new ways.
—
When Curtis started dogging me about starting up our training again, part of me was craving the structure and discipline of a daily workout. The other part of me dreaded going back out on the roads with him and running at full throttle.
He cornered me on a Monday morning at my locker after Ohlendorf’s class. I was starving, and I wanted nothing more than to head to the cafeteria. “Your time is up, Leo Coughlin.”
“My time is up?”
“You’ve had your month’s rest,” he explained. “It’s time for you to commence winter training.”
“Come again?”
“For track,” he explained. “You’re going to be the next state champion in the 1600, Coughlin,” he informed me. “The metric mile. Track and field’s premier event. We start tomorrow.”
“The last time I checked my calendar, track didn’t begin until March,” I reminded him.
“You’re getting soft.” He laughed. “Bring your running shit tomorrow,” he said over his shoulder as he headed off to his next class. He jumped up and down a few times in the hallway and shook out his arms like a prizefighter. “I’m getting a little restless, Coughlin. It’s time to start up again.”
After school the next day, when Mary asked me if I would help her make homemade tortellini, which she explained was basically little curly pasta pillows stuffed with cheese, my stomach began growling. I seriously considered ditching Curtis, but guilt got the better of me. I knew my gut was getting soft and it was time to get my body back in shape.
When I met him in the locker room, he tossed me a Gatorade and directed me to take a seat on the bench. I laced up my shoes and prepared myself for another one of his lectures.
“You have raw talent, but you still lack the base necessary to ascend to the next level. On the other hand, I’ve got some raw talent, but I basically won state with my brute strength and cunning. You need to work on your base this winter, then come spring we’ll sharpen your speed and you’ll dominate,” he told me. “This is the hard part, my young protégé. Just grinding it out and logging miles.”
“Sounds like heaven.”
Curtis pulled out his car keys. “Let’s take a break from our customary superblock, Leo. I propose we launch our winter training season by running someplace inspiring.”
Within fifteen minutes we were out of suburbia, heading west toward Chesterfield and the Missouri River. Winter had arrived, and the light had already shifted to the blue and orange of late afternoon. Curtis reached into his backpack beside him and pulled out a plastic folder. He tossed it onto my lap.
“What’s this?”
Curtis was looking blissfully through the windshield as if the barren Missouri landscape before us was the most beautiful sight in the world. “Open it up,” he said.
Inside was a collection of letters from collegiate cross-country coaches, expressing interest in Curtis joining their programs next year.
“Wow, these guys are actually offering you scholarships?” I asked.
“No offers on the table yet,” he said casually. “Just some expressions of interest. I really don’t have much to my credit besides that state championship.”
“Christ, Curtis. Isn’t that enough?”
“For all they know, it was just a fluke. Gorsky is going to help me out and make some calls. Besides, all we’re talking about is a partial scholarship, maybe. Cross-country and track don’t exactly bring in the cash for a university like football and basketball do. We’re talking about covering the costs of room and board at most.”
“Still, do any of them
interest you?” I asked.
“Sure as hell would be cool to run for Mark Wetmore in Colorado, let that mile-high altitude make me some more red blood cells, which might be all I need to take this finely tuned machine beside you to a whole new level.”
I leafed through the letters once more, recognizing the names and logos of some prestigious colleges and universities, and felt envious. “This is pretty cool, Curtis. I’m happy for you.”
“We shall see, Leo. We shall see. I show these offers to you not to be a braggart. If you pursue this fine sport with the same intensity as the runner beside thee, I have no doubt you’ll be courted with even greater rewards.”
I stared down the highway, thinking about Curtis heading away to college and not being around next year. I was happy for him but also bummed out. As much as he was a freak sometimes with the way he spoke and acted, he’d also kind of become like a big brother to me.
“What made you start running, anyway?” I asked him.
“I run to keep my demons at bay, Leo.” He sighed.
“Demons?”
“Nothing serious. I used to have a few anger-management issues when I was younger. I might have gotten a little frustrated if school didn’t move at a fast enough pace. If I wasn’t in the mood for doing something pointless or inane, I might have gotten a little defiant. Sometimes I tossed a few chairs across the classroom. I threw an occasional punch if I lost my patience with another kid because he was bugging the hell out of me. Just the usual shit they don’t tolerate in school.”
“So when did you start running?”
“I finally had a counselor in middle school who suggested I go for a run every morning before school.”
“And?”
“Let’s just say that running took the edge off. Plus I realized I was pretty good at it. I was never too good at anything that had to do with throwing or kicking a ball, but I could run. By the time I was in eighth grade, I was the fastest runner in the school.” He glanced over, squinted his left eye, and wagged his index finger at me. “Still am the fastest, as a matter of fact, Leo. Don’t forget that.”
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