So, I talk. I tell her how the run started out as normal, with Marlene and her two minions—Gretchen and Carly—at the head of the pack and me standing as far away as possible. Marlene, our group’s run leader, gave her usual sermon about what she expects of us in terms of how long our running intervals would be in proportion to walking. It was only a three-mile training run but she approached it with all the drama of a competitive relay.
When Marlene speaks to a group, even a small group such as ours, she talks over everyone’s head without making eye contact, as though she were a queen addressing her subjects. This led to her being dubbed ‘Marlene, the Queen of Mean’ in whispers well out of her hearing.
However, I’m a big girl with my big girl capris on, so if a little pomposity is all I have to deal with, I’ll brush it off and enjoy my run. But after a condescending reminder to the group to remember to hydrate before, during, and after a run, she motions towards the back of the group where I stand. She points in my direction and, after pretending to struggle for my name—she whispers it enough behind my back—says it loud and clear. Now, for the first time, she makes eye contact.
I’m not one for melodrama, and goodness knows I despise a pregnant pause, but I have to stop in my rant to Stax to catch my breath before quoting—not paraphrasing, mind you, but quoting down to the last syllable—what this parking lot princess had the audacity to say to me.
“Spit it out, woman!” Stax barks, my two-second breather being a couple of seconds too long for her nerves to handle. “I don’t think I could hate Marlene more than I already do, but I’m perfectly willing to be proved wrong.”
I take a deep breath and dive in. “She pointed at me and said ‘Um, it’s Lacy right? Yes, Lacy. Listen, I’ve been talking to a couple of girls at Leicester’s Deli where I often lunch about joining our group here at Run For It. As you know, our run takes us by their shop. I have a feeling they’ll be watching us today so, if you feel you can manage it, please pick your feet up when you run past, m’kay? I don’t want any of us to be embarrassed.’” Big exhale.
Stax stares up at me, chin on chest, eyes burning over the black rim of her glasses. I wonder if I made a mistake by telling her. I’m imaging Stax confronting Marlene and a giant mushroom cloud rising from the ground where our blighted nemesis once stood.
“She told you to pick up your feet?” Stax says, her voice a cold burn. “She called you an embarrassment?”
Screw it, I decide. Bring on the mushroom cloud. “Yes.”
Stax removes her glasses. This means business.
“She says ‘where I often lunch’? So, she doesn’t eat lunch, she … lunches?”
“Yep, she’s a luncher.”
“That alone deserves a reality check.”
I can see Stax is as bothered by Marlene’s treatment of me as am I. For some reason it makes me emotional and I grab her in a hug. I feel her body stiffen under my arms and I worry perhaps I crossed one of her many boundaries. But she softens and returns the embrace.
“Geez, I wish some of the men around town were this easy,” is her flippant response.
“I want you to know, Stax, that no matter what happens, I’m going to keep you and a couple of the other girls in my life.”
I feel her hands on my shoulders, then a push. I am again staring at those big brown eyes over thick black frames.
“What is this, your Last Will and Testament?”
“No, but I am thinking about quitting the program.”
“Seriously? Screw Marlene; you love running. And regardless of what she says, you’re quite good at it.”
“I don’t plan to stop running. But I might pursue my options at one of the other stores, like Run City. Or maybe you can be my Mr. Miyagi?”
“If you quit because of that over-the-hill Mean MILF, the only thing I’ll wax on and wax off will be your eyebrows. No, huh uh… we’re heading over there right now.”
She grabs my arm and starts to march up the aisle, but I resist.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Stax. Not while you’re hot like this.”
“Trust me, I’m worse if you leave me simmering.”
“Look, I don’t want to make waves. She’s been running there a lot longer than I have and if she’s who Marti and Chase want in charge, then…”
“You think Marlene acts this way around Marti and Chase? Not a chance. Around Marti she’s all ‘Oh, you’re such a brilliant businesswoman. What an entrepreneur!’ and around Chase she’s all eyes and legs. Don’t think I haven’t had many a word with Marti about her. But look at me. I’m like the polar opposite of Marlene, so I’m sure they think I have some green streak for her. But, now, if you were to say something… well, that might make a difference.”
“Me? I don’t see the connection.”
“Oh, please. Marlene has that whole homecoming-queen-twenty-years-later thing going on and you’re like Jane Fonda when she did 9 to 5.”
“Wait, didn’t she play like a church mouse in that movie?”
“Okay, when she was doing Jazzercise or whatever. Fonda in her forties. Point being, with you around, Marlene doesn’t feel so Queen Bee-ey. And that’s what this is all about.”
“I don’t know, you’re probably right. But it is what it is, so maybe I should take the hint.”
A little ink-smudged finger flies up in my face. “No, no hints. Instead, you’re going to take her advice and you’re going to pick up those feet and march with me to Run For It where we’ll find Marlene. Once we do, you can watch me pick up this foot right here and shove it right up her—”
“Okay, fine,” I say, exasperated. “We’ll go. But no feet! I’ll see if Marti has a few minutes and I’ll tell her what happened. We’ll go from there.”
Stax drops her shoulders and appears to contemplate for a moment. “Fair enough, but no promises. I don’t mind ruining a new pair of shoes for a good cause.”
Larry agrees to watch the store and off we go. Short though they might be, Stax’s legs are limber and toned, and I have to break into a short jog more than once just to keep up.
When the crosswalk squawk box yells at us to ‘Wait!’ I think to myself perhaps that isn’t such bad advice.
THREE
Trudging along behind Stax I see Run For It looming large and moving closer. Normally a beacon towards which I sail, I now find myself searching for an anchor to slow my approach. It doesn’t help that my run today (or maybe the stress of my confrontation with Marlene) irked the little gremlin in my butt and now my Piriformis Syndrome is sending flashes of pain undulating up and down my leg.
Marti and Chase Reynolds purchased what would become Run For It from the city for a song. When they got their hands on it, the nondescript box of a building was a derelict savings and loan bank. But there is a progressive commerce movement in the town and the Reynoldses took full advantage of it.
The running store sits behind rose bushes and a corner rock garden, surrounded by a parking lot that serves both it and the small strip mall running behind the store’s building. The strip mall was constructed in soft-toned red brick to resemble Run For It’s already standing façade. An ornate covered sitting area outside the side entrance relieves the building of its boxed appearance and give it an added sense of dimension. Wall-sized display windows along the street side attract foot traffic and draw attention from the drivers meandering along at the 25-mph speed limit. To see it is to want to be in it, runner or not.
Stax tromps up towards the side entrance with me lagging in tow. I’ve psyched myself up for a heart to heart with Marti and Chase but I cross my fingers that Marlene did not lounge around after the run.
As I come around a large family van I see the obnoxiously bright yellow Prius resting in its shadow. Only one woman in town owns a car like this. Only one would (it must be a custom job). Next time I’ll cross my toes as well.
Stax enters the store a few yards ahead of me. I imagine her breaking into a full-throated scream upon sight of Marlene
. Or worse, her stumpy little body rocketing through the store—walls of shoes and racks of headbands exploding in her wake—and slamming home into Marlene’s gravity defying bosom (also a custom job?). I hope I’m not about to be an accomplice to murder.
I grip the edge of the door so hard I feel the mushy foam lining compress under my palm. I poke my head in and brace myself for whatever might be transpiring on the other side. I’m greeted by silence.
Stax stands inside the door to my left, her arms crossed in front of her and one foot tapping the cream-colored tiles. Whether by coincidence of timing or because they saw Stax I couldn’t say, but Gretchen and Carly exit through the front door, sans Marlene. They remain outside with their backs to the display windows, talking.
Billy, a young man who works part-time at the store, explains to a hipster couple the difference between compression sleeves and compression socks. Jessica chats with a customer at the front desk.
I ponder my foolishness in allowing my imagination to run away with me. My gaze rests too long on Jessica, who, feeling the weight of it, turns and smiles at me. The customer, a small older lady with wavy grey hair, looks my way as well and says ‘Afternoon, Miss Purdy.’
Her familiarity surprises me but I manage a quick ‘Afternoon’ in return as I try to place her in my mind. I can feel it pushing to the fore of my brain when Stax tugs at my sleeve. This is her cue to me she wants to whisper. She enjoys the thrill of a secret and likes to whisper a lot, but for all of her practice, she is terrible at it. She whispers in a low tone that carries an echo all its own, and because of our height difference, I inevitably bend down to give her my ear. Not the most inconspicuous of exchanges.
“Chase ain’t here and Marlene’s in the brault with Marti,” she echoes as I twist myself down to her position. “She’s not only psycho but psychic as well. She must have figured what your move would be.”
My move? I planned to quit the program and run from another store. If Marlene is psychically linked with anyone, it’s Stax. Even an imbecile would know if you treat people like garbage it’s you who eventually gets taken to the curb. No doubt Marlene is trying to get ahead of the damage.
“Let’s get out of here,” I whisper back.
“No chance!” Stax bellows into my eardrum, dropping all pretense of a whisper. “You can play the wallflower if you want, but when I leave here, it’ll be Stax: 1, Bully: 0.”
She punctuates her proclamation with a defiant nod and I do my best to melt into the wallpaper.
A few eyes dart our way but everyone pretends not to hear our strange conversation. I look again to the older woman talking with Jessica. She steps back from the counter to reveal her distinctive garb—a pair of fading striped shorts reaching halfway down to her knees. I now recognize her as being a member of the Level 3 group running—or, rather, walking—from the store. They come and go at different times from us but we often pass them leaving as we’re returning.
The lady and I are not acquainted but her outdated clothes make her the subject of snickers. While I would never make fun behind someone’s back, I must admit I’ve speculated about her situation. I’ve wondered if perhaps she owns a retro clothing boutique. Or shops at one. Such things are trendy nowadays, albeit not in the running world. It occurs to me she is probably on a fixed income and simply doesn’t possess the means to pay the high store prices for new running apparel.
I cannot see the brault from my vantage point as it is tucked into a recess on the lower level of the store. When renovating the building from bank to running store, Chase and Marti discovered if they weren’t willing to take down an entire side wall and hire in serious equipment to remove the giant steel bank vault door, they’d have to find a way to embrace it. Making the most of it, they painted and papered the inside of the vault, installed two small dressing rooms in its back, and displayed the store’s impressive selection of sports bras. Marti referred to it as the ‘bra vault’ and someone—there’s no consensus as to whom—truncated it to ‘Brault’ and the term stuck.
The huge door always remains open, and the locking mechanism was removed in the event some wisenheimer decided to close it. It is a popular spot for quick meetings or small talk.
Two new voices join the quiet murmur of chitchat in the store. Marti and Marlene. They are moving in our direction. As they lift their feet to make the single step that separates the floor in two levels, I catch a snippet of their hushed exchange. Both women mention the word ‘scissors’.
As the women come within a couple of yards from where we stand, Marlene spots Stax and myself and grinds to a halt. Marti deflates. She pushes her mouth up into a smile for our benefit, but there is a telling pause there. She looks as though Marlene has drained her tank and seeing me zaps her remaining fumes.
Stax’s brown skin turns a disturbing shade of red, a teakettle left too long on the burner. My instincts tell me to take the lead here in hopes of restraining my friend, but I don’t move fast enough.
Stax sucks in air and stabs the air with her finger as though in front of her hangs an invisible effigy of Marlene. “You are not going to call my friend an embarrassment. Do you understand me?”
Marlene, normally indomitable to the point of pretension, now stands before us a rattled mess with red eyes that speak of recent tears. She shakes her head in response to Stax’s admonishment and attempts to respond, but only sputters “I didn’t mean…I didn’t mean to.”
I want to talk it out but Stax is having none of it. “You know what you meant and you meant what you said. Thanks to you, Lacy wants to quit the program and take her business to another store. I don’t think you had that in mind when you made Marlene run leader, was it?” She directs this rhetorical question at Marti.
I never said I would stop being a paying customer of Run For It, but Stax is going for full effect. I want to wiggle my nose and disappear to an island somewhere.
All life in the store stops to watch us. Billy, now showing his young couple the store’s range of therapeutic shoe inserts, clears his throat as a sign for us to keep it down. Jessica gawks in rapt attention from her place behind the register. Only the older lady, perusing a rack of gluten-free energy snacks, seems not to notice the heated exchange.
Marti steps forward as though to prevent any possible escalation. “Juanita, I got this.”
Everyone respects Marti greatly, including Stax. Not only is she one of the fastest female runners in the state, she has great compassion for runners of all abilities, almost to a fault. I expect Stax will cool down when Marti assures her she has the matter under control. No dice.
“You’ve ‘got this,’ do you? You mean you have her back, don’t you?”
Now it’s Marti’s turn to try and keep her cool. “Marlene told me what she did today. And Lacy, I’m sorry that happened to you. I was mortified when she told me, but Marlene has taken responsibility and you’ll both be happy to know she’s resigned her position as run leader.”
She what?
A heavy silence fogs the room. Marti looks disappointed and I want to cry. Stax’s mouth hangs open and her eyes freeze big under a furrowed brow, as though the confusion overtaking her indignation forced the circuits of her brain to give up and fry out.
Marlene breaks the impasse and moves towards me. “Lacy, I’m sorry for how horrible I was to you. I know how I am and how I can be. But I was out of line this morning. I haven’t been myself for the past week. The scissors and… there’s just too many things wrong.”
To my absolute shock she gives me a hug. And weeps in my ear. Then she is gone, out the door behind me.
Stax and I look at each other and I can tell she is as lost as I am. We turn to Marti for enlightenment.
“You know, you two could have called me, or at least held your horses until we could talk in private.” Her soft voice drips with reprimand I’m ashamed to say was not out of place.
“We came here to talk to you in private,” I offer meekly. “Everything else just… kind of happe
ned.”
Stax pushes air through her lips, making a ‘Pfffft’ sound. “How were we supposed to know she’d choose this moment to grow a soul?”
“I’ll admit Marlene’s a little closed off,” replies Marti. “All right, she’s a snob. But she’s a good runner and people listen to her. Look, I don’t want this to get around, but she thinks someone is stalking her. She’s at her wits’ end and I’m afraid you, Lacy, were the unintended victim of this. But if what Marlene says is true, she’s also a victim.”
Marti’s sympathy for all sides is obvious and infectious. I feel like a total heel for my part in all of this.
“Well, crapcakes,” says Stax. “Had I known all this I wouldn’t have put her on blast. But that’s what happens when I only get half the story.”
I was about to set the record straight for Marti when a piercing cry burst our sad little bubble. It came from the parking lot.
Time stops. My breath catches in my chest. Being closest to the door I run out first, everyone else on my heels. Gretchen and Carly round the corner from their perch in front of the building. Nothing appears amiss at first glance, but a soft, whimpering sound draws our attention to the bright yellow Prius.
I run to the Prius and look through the window, expecting to find Marlene crumpled in the seat, crying over our confrontation, milking it for all it’s worth. But aside from a few bags and a pair of heels, the car is empty.
“Marlene, what’s wrong?” asks Marti. She stands to my right, behind the car. I join her and find Marlene, down on her knees, a simpering wreck.
Something happened to her out here. But what? Marti poses this question to her and all Marlene says in response is ‘scissors’. I count this as the third time in the last twenty minutes I’ve heard this word. But what could scissors possibly have to do with all this drama?
“Look!” Stax cries out, right under my ear again. “In the tire!”
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