by Brock Law
tempest of abusive personal conflict threatened to break his ego. The trialed endurance of his body thus far was all that gave him the semblance of composure. Having never been so extensively and relentlessly tested, the desperate transience of his mortality made him faster and stronger than whatever was lurking in the shadows of history. It made him vulnerable, but it also made him dangerous. Just like practice, he just had to push a few more miles and he would be ready for the next encounter.
He didn’t know why, but more and more he was beginning to believe that there was a reason. Not just anyone could have survived so far. Questioning his role wasn’t unraveling any mysteries. Without confirmation, or even the hope of yet understanding, the simple fact that this was his new life was enough to convince him to keep steady. Perhaps by luck or perhaps by fate, there was a chance at a little pride as well. By virtue of acceptance among his new superiors, Will felt meant for eternal life.
Admittedly, there was a hint of greed. He eschewed it whenever he felt its possessive desire creep into his rationale. This was a gift from Heaven, of which Will knew the legendary terms. It wasn’t the kind of thing that you could just take with willpower and ambition. He immediately squashed anything that felt like self-righteousness. At least he had the comfort, as he wanted to consider it, of feeling that the Grail sought him rather than the reverse. It certainly didn’t appear that it was going to leave him alone.
His stride lengthened and quickened. The arches in his feet burned. His hips ached as his spine swiveled with the motion of his arms. His heels never touched down, and his swiftness startled the casual joggers who turned angrily at him. The summit of the Art Museum came into view as he closed the distance to home.
Out on the water, the scullers were perfecting their rowing as dominantly as ever. The methodical stroking from the slim boats lulled Will back into his own time. Coming up to the Regatta grand stand, he passed the statue of the athletes’ patron saint. Jack Kelly, father of Princess Grace, who lent his name to the aquatic boulevard, sat immortalized at the oars of his boat. Will’s mood shifted positively as he pondered the accomplishments of the entrepreneur and three-time Olympic gold medalist.
His admiration amped him up and he powered past, looking sleeker and more determined with every step. The rest of the pack crawled in comparison. Will nearly matched the cars that whizzed past on the cliff-side street. The beauty of the day and the people’s rigorous exercising of freedom around Will mixed into a mortar of compassionate duty and rectitude in his mind. The unknown chaos that had befallen society was now solely his responsibility to manage. Although no one would ever thank him, though he was just another guy in the crowd, he was their champion.
Centering the traffic triangle of the upcoming intersection, a statue of General Grant took a commanding pose above the junction. Mounted on his horse, his resolute face pointed uneasily from under the brim of his tall hat. His solemn composure and calculating expectation transferred down to Will, whose fatigue plateaued.
Just a few paces further was the adventurous rendering of the Cowboy. This gritty figure reeled his horse around perfectly in the midst of the vehicular commotion. Will empathized with the feisty spirit of the pioneering westerner and spurred on at his own audacious gallop.
As Will came upon Boathouse Row, he dodged the congestion of pedestrians and launching boats. Less concerned with the tumult though, was the heavily-armed Thorfinn Karlsefni, who beamed out sternly. He stood poetically adjacent to the port where the modern rowers dragged their boats out of the river. The intrepid Viking settler eternally surveyed the wilderness of the new land to which he had led his people.
The skyscrapers and the Art Museum were now in view. Will wove around the bending road, and underneath the banners of the boat houses. The avenue broadened and the cliffs declined into green park space, which supported hundreds more meandering people along the edges of the apartment towers.
At the next light was Abraham Lincoln. He sat resolutely, flanked by eagles, emancipating quill in hand. He would never know how close he was to achieving the same life Will’s comrades endured. Nor would he realize his labors kept his forefathers together. All the same he cast his protecting eye over the union and continued to draft his encouraging words for the future. At the President’s urging, Will pushed harder for the cause.
Will turned off the road and followed the trail up a driveway towards the back entrance of the Art Museum. His stamina was boosted by the eminent stances of the perennial occupants of the setting. Despite the tiring heat, his integrity prevailed. The workout wouldn’t mean anything to anyone other than himself, but he knew he couldn’t let anyone down. As he approached the tan stone under the tiled roof, a further cluster of convincing heroes gathered to receive him.
General Friedrich Von Steuben, Captain John Paul Jones, General Casimir Pulaski, General Peter Muhlenberg, John Marshall, Stephen Girard, General Richard Montgomery, General Nathanael Greene and the Marquis de Lafayette stood in rows leading up to the museum. Will ran through the illustrious crowd remembering the deeds of each, and, in Greene’s case, some personal anecdotes. You don’t get a statue made of you for leading an ordinary life, Will thought. Perhaps there was room for one more beside them.
Will skirted the museum’s foundation back towards the street. Once out of the trees and back into the sunlight, the glint of gold caught his eye. Proudly mounted on a pillar of stone was the triumphant gilt parade of Joan of Arc. Her gallant horse marched into battle, as she held her forked standard high above her head to announce the advance. The light cascaded around her and washed the people below in her glow. The heat from her precious metal heart invigorated Will as it seared his face.
He kept steady, running around to the front of the museum where the traffic converged and intensified. The steps were covered with people milling around for a photo opportunity. Just across the street in Eakins Oval, one monumental equestrian figure stood guard over everything else. Washington was perched high above, staring down the length of the Ben Franklin Parkway towards City Hall. A menagerie of native animals and symbolic people were stationed in tiers around him with water flowing in between the bronze and granite. The General watched quietly, positioned in strength, as Will had seen him do so many times before. It was there where the quarterback finally stopped running.
With his hands on his hips, Will let his body wind down for a moment. He admired the likeness of Washington, which he noted was pretty accurate. There could not have been a more suitable conclusion to his route either. Inside, he knew it was worthless to bother with a normal life now. There were much more important things out there for him to discover. Considering change in his life as an inconvenience rather than an opportunity was completely counterintuitive to what he had set out to learn. Even if the change was bizarre and wildly dangerous, it was still uniquely transformative. Fame, fortune, immortality, he just couldn’t decline. Finally, he was finding some initiative for his mission.
“Excuse me?” a woman said as she approached Will.
Will snapped back to life with a dispersing air of confusion.
“Would you mind taking a picture of us?” she requested.
Momentarily forgetting where he was, Will looked over her shoulder. Her friend, already smiling for the camera, was standing next to the statue of Rocky. The boxer recaptured his iconic stance just beside the front steps of the Art Museum.
Will took the camera and pointed as they lifted their fists next to the triumphant fighter. Once taking the shot, they kindly thanked him and headed for the famous cinematic ascension. Will, however, remained.
He stared up at the chiseled character. The enduring tribute to the underdog gleamed victoriously. Though lacking the same historical significance, the imaginary titleholder embodied the same sense of valor shared by the other monuments. Even if the immortals were intrinsically emblematic, if no single hero could advise Will through his unreal challenge, then maybe a little real fiction would provide just the right inspiration.
A funny grin spread across his cheeks. Will backed away and skipped into a running stride. In his head, the theme started playing.
One Travels More Usefully When They Travel Alone Because They Reflect More
The suitcases were a struggle. Although under the flying weight, Will’s reluctance to leave made them heavier than boulders. He dragged them to the car and heaved them into the trunk with an embarrassing lack of effort. Professor Mith followed behind with a pair of garment bags. The hesitancy that his son exuded was obvious. The two men said nothing as they packed up Will’s gear, unknowingly tossing his adolescence away with the bags.
Mrs. Mith waved from the front window. Will twisted his wrist back at her and stared up at the comfortable life he was about to abandon. As the trunk snapped shut behind him, he absorbed one final moment of bitter parting. He turned, downcast, and got into the car.
Professor Mith gave his son a reassuring glance as he pulled out of the parking spot. Will, however, was unresponsive and just looked blankly up the street. His chest was still and his hands cemented together, which left nothing to indicate that the young man was even alive. With eyes fixed, the