ZOOM IN ON FIGURE OF BOY AND DOG WALKING
Without ambition one starts nothing. Without work one finishes nothing. The prize will not be sent to you.
You have to win it.
– Ralph Waldo Emerson
Lee looked around the campus at the hustle and bustle of hardworking (judging by the stacks of books they were lugging) summer students rushing from building to building. Made him think he could easily take up people-watching as a hobby. They were different in so many ways from one another, yet they all had that student look on their faces. They seemed to have a purpose, and to know exactly what it was, and for that reason, it was more than a little bizarre that he felt as if he fit in perfectly. But purpose was seeping from his very pores this morning.
Lee untied the margarine container from his belt, put it on the ground, and filled it with water from one of his bottles.
“Have a good long drink,” he said to Santiago. “You’re in for a workout.” Lee took a swig from the bottle himself, put it back in one pocket, and pulled his cap gun from the other. They were standing outside the Max Bell Sports Center at the very spot where thousands of runners had only yesterday crammed in at the starting line of the Manitoba Marathon. Lee was a day late, and he’d be walking the course instead of running, but right now that mattered little to Lee. When Santiago was finished drinking, Lee tied the margarine container back onto his belt. He set his digital watch, raised the cap gun / starting pistol above his head, and looked down at his dog. “Ready, girl?”
CUT BACK TO JOE’S BAR
ZOOM IN ON GERTRUDE’S FINGERS CRACKING PEANUTS
“Thing is, the kid’s nuts about setting his own records,” said Gertrude to Joe. “Obsessive, almost. When he was eight, he saved his allowance for months so he could buy enough dominoes to set up the length of a full city block.”
“Dominoes?”
“You know,” said Gertrude, “the way they line ’em up and then set the whole thing in motion with a nudge.”
“A full city block,” whistled Joe. “That must have been impressive.”
“Not really,” said Gertrude. “He’d get just so far before a chipmunk or a neighborhood cat would come along and knock a domino over, and then, well, you know. He must have started over fifteen times before he finally gave up and moved the whole shebang into the house. I was tiptoeing for days.”
“Sounds like a kid with determination,” said Joe, “and that’s a good thing, don’t you think, Gertie?”
“Determination and patience he has by the truckload,” said Gertrude, “but it seems to me he could get more bang for his buck if he’d invest it in something a little more important than dominoes. Ah, shoot,” sighed Gertrude.
CUT TO UNIVERSITY CAMPUS
CATCH SUN GLINTING OFF BARREL OF CAP GUN
ROLL SOUND
BANG! Lee’s cap gun fired, and an insanely startled Santiago took off faster than a bullet. Even though Lee intended to walk the marathon, he was forced to run the first fifty meters. “Hold your horses, Santi,” he panted, afraid the leash would pull his arm right out of its socket. “It was just a starting gun. Haven’t you ever heard of a starting gun?”
CUT TO JOE’S BAR
“Haven’t you ever heard of passion?” said Joe to Gertrude. “Sounds to me like the kid’s got it in spades. And that’s gotta come in mighty handy one day when he finds out where his talents lie. He’ll probably grow up to be a van Gogh, or an Einstein, or something.”
“Maybe you’re right,” said Gertrude, downing her glass and standing up.
“Now don’t be too hard on him,” said Joe. “You going out looking for him?”
“Hell, no,” said Gertrude. “I’m certain he’s not up to anything dangerous. He’s got a good head on his shoulders.” She scooped up a handful of peanuts from the bar for the road. “It was the marathon yesterday. That always seems to fan his fire.” She smiled at Joe. “Or should I say, his passion. If I know Lee, he’s probably gone out to run forty-two kilometers backwards on a pogo stick or some crazy thing.” She lifted her hat. “Thanks for the wise words, Joe. You’re a prince among bartenders.”
FADE TO A HEADSHOT OF LEE, TALKING INTO INVISIBLE MICROPHONE
“Note to self: Next year, think about training to be the first person to walk the marathon backwards.” Lee looked down at Santiago, who had calmed down enough by now to enjoy the walk. “If I did that,” he said to Santi, “you really could be my seeing-eye dog.”
CHAPTER NINE
Some men give up their designs when they have almost reached the goal, while others, on the contrary, obtain a victory by exerting, at the last moment, more vigorous efforts than ever before.
Herodotus
By thirty-seven kilometers, Lee was going through his predictable “Am I nuts?” phase. If his life was some kind of crappy movie, it definitely wasn’t a comedy anymore. He slowed down, bent over, and took Santiago’s jowls in his hands. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Am I nuts, girl? What are we doing? Why are we doing this, Santi?”
Santiago licked Lee’s face and gave a questioning whine. Lee sighed, glanced at his watch, and kept walking. Seven and a quarter hours they’d been trudging. His “bring-it-on-bro” enthusiasm had left him at sixteen kilometers. It hit him hard when he realized that, aside from the red spot on his white ankle sock from a busted blister, there’d be no blood and guts for him here today. It’s only the sweating, give-it-all-you’ve-got runners who hit that heart-breaking, soul-sucking “wall,” thought Lee. Walkers? Oh yeah, they ache, they hurt, but they’ll never have the kind of agony or the ecstasy of a true hero.
Instead of bricks, Lee imagined his “wall” made of a thin, unbreakable membrane—strong enough to bounce him back every time he tried to break through, but thin enough (like the over-stretched wall of a chewing gum bubble) to be able to see vague shadows of something better on the other side.
“What the heck are we doing, Santi?”
As if in answer, Santiago stopped to take a whiz near an apparently interesting-smelling tree. Lee sat on the curb. He tried to remember the word that had leapt out at him from this morning’s Einstein quote, the one he’d read when he was still chipper and undaunted and certain that he was not a nutcase. What was it, anyway? Something about … oh yeah, Mastery.
Lee absentmindedly pulled up his sock, which unfortunately took the stuck-on top of his weepy blister along with it. Shoot. He wondered if he’d ever really be “master” material at anything, or (and this felt much more likely) remain forever “mediocre.” Mediocre at everything.
Mastery. Mediocrity. What’s it gonna be, Lee?
He tossed Santiago a dried passion fruit from his trail mix. “Know what Einstein said, Santi?” He took her yip as a yes. “Only one who devotes himself to a cause with his whole strength and soul can be a true master … mastery demands all of a person.”
Einstein, thought Lee, I sure hope to heck you know what you’re talking about. “Okay then, girl,” he said, “Time to give it our all.”
As they passed the thirty-seven kilometer marker, Lee began a slow jog. Santiago, for her part, was ecstatic. She galloped ahead until the leash was taut and soon she had him picking up speed. Lee suddenly remembered why he’d decided to walk this marathon instead of running it. He could feel his lungs protesting. He was about to tell Santiago to give him a break, to “slow down, ya maniac, you’ve obviously never suffered with asthma,” but when he opened his mouth, something entirely different flew out: “Frig it.” Lee was suddenly overtaken by an overwhelming urge to let the pain grow and intensify until he exploded into a million mediocre bits, blowing through his mediocre universe. He caught up with Santiago and started running at a punishing speed. The more it hurt, the faster he ran. His heart became a pair of boxing gloves, pounding the inside of his chest: left-right, left-right—thump-thump. He could even feel the pounding in his temples, like the top of his head was about to blow off. Yep, here it comes. Self-combustion. Lee McGillicuddy up in smoke. POOF!
Nothing left but a smoldering heap of cinders. He was waiting for it, expecting it. But it didn’t come.
Instead came the miraculous: Without warning, without explanation … jeez … he started to feel good. Absurdly, ridiculously good. And strong. Strong enough to spin the planet on the tip of his finger like a basketball. And then he did it— the impossible. He maxed his speed, screwed his eyes shut, spread his arms wide, and took a suicidal leap at his “wall”— that rubbery membrane of mediocrity that stood between him and mastery—and instead of rebounding into space … holy crud … HE … BROKE … THROUGH. As Lee stepped onto the track at the university stadium—the same track that thousands of marathoners had stepped onto only yesterday as they took their last steps toward the finish line—he knew he’d broken through.
It was like putting on perfect prescription glasses when you didn’t even know your eyesight was crappy. It was like having a huge plug of wax removed from an ear that you didn’t know had been blocked up for years. The volume was up and everything seemed vibrant and sharp and full of possibility. He’d done it. Lee Sonny Daddy Beanpole McGillicuddy, if only for a tiny, infinitesimal fraction of his life, had entered Mastery.
Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.
– T. S. Eliot
You can become a winner only if you are willing to walk over the edge.
– Damon Runyon
CHAPTER TEN
Slang Kischuk looked up from his soccer practice inside the university stadium and did a double take. He saw a boy and a dog coming through the gates onto the track. The dog was bounding, and the kid had his arms raised high in the air. He was running sideways, facing the empty stands as if they held thousands of cheering fans. He was staggering; Slang could see he was exhausted, but the kid nodded toward the stands and croaked, “Thank you! Thank you very much.” Must be hallucinating, thought Slang—unfortunately he knew a thing or two about “Hallucination City” from recent personal experience. (Slang cringed at the sudden memory of a talking sesame seed bum.)
“Kischuk!” yelled the coach. “We don’t have time for daydreaming here. Get with the program or get off the field!”
But Coach Thorwaldson lost the attention of more than one of his players as they stopped to stare at the strange spectacle coming around the track.
“Someone should tell that kid the marathon was yesterday,” joked one of them.
“Maybe he’s been running since yesterday,” called another. “Maybe he’s going for a world record.” He held an invisible microphone in front of a teammate’s face: “Tell me, son, how does it feel to hold the world record for the slowest marathon ever run?” Some of them laughed. But Slang was too fresh from his own marathon experience to find it funny—he still had the aching muscles to remind him. He began walking toward the boy and his dog, and a small crowd followed. The coach blew a sigh of frustration, but his curiosity was as strong as anyone’s. He trailed behind them.
Slang reached the finish line just in time to catch Lee as his knees gave way. He took Lee by the armpits and laid him out on the track. The kid was mumbling, trying to say something.
“What?” said Slang, lowering his ear.
“Puffer,” choked Lee. “Left pocket.”
Slang dug around in Lee’s pocket until he found his asthma inhaler. He put it to Lee’s lips and pressed the nozzle. It took a few minutes, but Lee started to breathe easily again, and the whole time the smile never left his face. “I broke through,” he whispered.
Far better is it to dare mighty things … than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.
– Theodore Roosevelt
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.
Hebrews 13:2
“Take him up to his front door and make sure his parents are home, Kischuk,” called Coach, as Slang helped Lee toward the parking lot. “And make sure you show up for the game good and early tomorrow!”
The coach, being a devoted dog lover and the devoted husband of a woman with dog allergies, roughhoused with Santiago another second or two before reluctantly letting her go. “Beauty,” he whispered as she loped off to catch up with Lee.
“You didn’t have to volunteer to take me home,” said Lee on the way to Slang’s car. “Really, we don’t mind taking the bus.”
“Are you kidding?” said Slang, “you’re my ticket outta here today, kid.” He grimaced from the pain in his calves. “No person should be subjected to a soccer practice the day after running a forty-two-kilometer marathon.” He playfully elbowed Lee. “Consider yourself my angel of mercy.”
Never mind an angel, Lee felt like a pipsqueak beside this muscular athlete. Even so, he realized with some pride that he also felt a certain kinship. After all, they’d both recently experienced “the agony and the ecstasy” firsthand, right?
Slang unlocked the car door for Lee. “Ignore the mess,” he said, clearing a pile of books and hamburger wrappers from the front seat. “Now, you’re sure you’re okay? I don’t mind taking you to emerg,” he said. “Asthma’s a serious thing. I had it myself as a kid.”
Another similarity, thought Lee.
“Never been better,” said Lee, putting on his seatbelt, and he meant it. He reached an arm over to calm Santiago in the back seat. Lee wasn’t exactly great at small talk, but at least there was the marathon. “So … how’d you do in the race yesterday?”
“Pretty good in the first half,” said Slang, who seemed so comfortable inside his own skin that Lee wondered if he’d ever suffered an awkward moment in his life. “But I ran into a little difficulty near the end.” Lee couldn’t imagine this guy having difficulty with anything. Slang took the sweatband from his forehead and tossed it in the back seat. As he shook his wild hair loose, Lee had a feeling he’d met this guy somewhere before.
“Yeah,” continued Slang, “it got kind of surreal there for a while. I started getting tired and crazy-hungry, and at thirty- seven kilometers I had a major meltdown.” He looked over at Lee. “Keep that to yourself, though, eh kid? I’ve got a rep to maintain, if ya know what I mean.” Slang chuckled. “Honestly. I thought I was gonna die.” He glanced over at Lee, who had the amazed face of someone putting two and two together. Slang must have seen the stunned disbelief on Lee’s face. “Really!” insisted Slang. “Got all delirious and everything. Thank God some guy on the sidelines stuffed a candy bar in my hand.” Slang shook his head. “I don’t think I’d have finished without it.”
Lee was bursting to yell out, “It was me!! I was the guy who gave you the Mars Bar!! I’m the one who helped you finish the race!” He could barely stop himself from leaping about like Santiago did when she was happy.
Instead he checked his instinct to blabber like an excited six-year-old. He smiled to himself and said, as cool as he could, “Run into any sesame seed bums lately?”
“Huh?” said Slang.
“You know,” said Lee, “two all-beef patties, special sauce …”
Slang pulled the car to the curb and stopped. He looked at Lee in amazement. “No way!” Lee just smiled back at him. “No way!” repeated Slang. “You’re the magic candy man?!”
In answer, Lee gave what he hoped was a mature smile.
“No way!” said Slang. “You saved my life, dude! That chocolate gave me the last ounce of energy I needed!”
For half a nanosecond, Lee thought about mentioning Rhonda, considering it was her precious Mars Bar. Then he told himself to get over it and claimed one hundred percent of Slang’s shining approval.
“It was nothing,” insisted Lee.
“No, it was something,” said Slang. “It was definitely something, and I owe you, my friend.” He pulled the peak of Lee’s baseball cap down over his eyes, and then he popped Lee on the shoulder a couple more times. “No way, man! That’s perfect!”<
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As Slang pulled up to Lee’s house twenty minutes later, he turned to Lee, who hoped there wasn’t another playful punch coming. Instead, Slang bopped Lee on top of the head. Then he took off Lee’s baseball cap and mussed up his hair. “Here’s my number. So you’ll be there, right?”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” said Lee, taking a scrap of scribbled numbers from Slang.
“Need me to pick you up?”
Lee could see his mom standing at the front screen door with her arms crossed. “No, I’ll see you there. Can I bring Santiago?”
“’Course!” Then Slang spotted Lee’s mom as well. “Hey, maybe I should come and talk to your mom or some—”
“See you tomorrow,” said Lee, pulling Santiago from the car. He pretty much floated up his front steps and into the house. Not even the word “grounded” could bring him down.
i thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes
– e. e. cummings
CHAPTER TWELVE
There are only two ways to live your life.
One is as though nothing is a miracle.
The other is as though everything is a miracle.
Albert Einstein
What a day, eh, Milhouse? The sun is out, birds are singing, bees are trying to have sex with them—as is my understanding …”
– Bart Simpson
The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records Page 5