Edward knew that his
physique belied his soul. Outwardly an upper-crust, Anglo
business man backsliding into his golden years, he was as yet, on the
inside, a contender, his instincts polished quick and canny from
decades of flight before the corporate fledglings always out to take
down the big guy. Thinning silver strands of hair, oiled and
combed, pushed up from a crown that encased a brain that that still
pulsed to the beat of the market. Although his spine had begun to
curve with his years like a divining rod pointing toward the grave, it
remained rigid despite the cumbersome load of responsibility. The
small but inevitable paunch that clung to his midsection obscured a
granite gut and a cast-iron stomach, both of which had added to his
reputation as a tough closer.
Edward was a man of means.
He stood straight on the spongy surface of the track, his weathered
running shoes clashing with his white-on-white Polo wind suit.
The sun was burning slowly through the early morning haze. A
gentle breeze was rising. It would be cooler than the day before, he
thought. The air hummed through the empty aluminum bleachers
sending the pulley-rope on the flagpole to periodically donk against
the hollow pole. The ends of the flags were ragged and snapped in
the breeze, the American flag raised only slightly above a marginally
smaller banner which read, in a severe black-on-white design, “Edward
Gallant Consulting. 3000 minds strong." He made a mental note to
have his secretary have the tattered flags replaced. The
movement of the air tickled the back of the old man's neck like cool
fingertips, then slipped past the suit's neckband to caress the spot
between his shoulder blades.
Edward could no longer reach his toes, although his pale hands strained
toward the latticework of blue veins on his calves. The lowest
that he could get was mid-shin, but he pushed hard enough to redden his
jowls. Straightening, he swung his arms back and forth like a
human helicopter, back then back again, the muscles in his waist
complaining. His back popped. He put his first two fingers
to his jugular. He timed his pulse by the second hand on his weathered,
silver wristwatch, a gift from his father on his eighteenth
birthday. Seventy-one beats per minute. At one time it had
been less.
Edward began to run.
His body was a bucket of rusty nails crashing against each other as he
bounced along the track. Coaxing his old frame into motion was like
pointing an old horse away from the barn and saying
"Giddy-up." But he quickly lost himself in the soft
pounding of his feet on the urethane rubber. After the first two
laps his arms began to grow loose, swinging more easily by his sides,
and his breath pushed and pulled in tempo with the pulse of the blood
throbbing across the membrane of his eardrums. The passing of the
goal posts became a slow, monotonous rhythm. The perpetual oval
course brought him always back and then back again. Passing his
starting point created a cyclical mental massage.
As Edward’s mind slowed, his pace began to increase.
The bottoms of his nylon pants whipped more vehemently against one
another as his legs moved faster, until the sound of their central
union was a tenor squeak. In his peripheral vision, the white
lines on the field rushed behind him until he leaned into the curves
and then rushed behind him again in the opposite direction, moving
backward and backward again, making no net progress in either
direction. He pushed his index and middle fingers into the loose
skin of his neck once more. His pulse had risen. His
strides stretched out. His knees rose higher, pumping down hard
to propel his body always ahead toward where he had begun at the entry
gate.
Lap after lap, the
gate became his point of reference.
As his body covered the circumference of the track, his mind circled
his schedule while mentally ticking off the laps. The board
meeting should go well even though there was still that ass, Delany, to
deal with (Gate). Shouldn’t be too tough. At ten, Janice
had scheduled him to meet with Anderson about a (Gate) potential
signing. At 11 there was that pushy lawyer (Gate) to worry about.
That would conflict with his (Gate) granddaughter’s recital --no help
(Gate) for that -- but not with his ex (Gate) wife about the alimony
(Gate). Then the (Gate) merger (Gate)... His pulse rose with his
pace as the pressures of the day began to boil within him, driving him
to new speeds. The distance between the goal posts seemed to
become shorter. The white lines on the field blurred. The
gate advanced then retreated. Advance. Retreat.
Advance. Retreat. Advance. Retreat. It
repeatedly flicked by ......Gate ......Gate .....Gate .....Gate
....Gate ...Gate ..Gate GateGateGateGateGate...
A grin sliced the wrinkles on Edwards face. The fox was going to leave
the dogs behind. Let them yowl.
His old frame shook and rattled like a rickety car pushed beyond its
limits. He tried to take his pulse, and regarded the slow tick of
the second hand. The time between the change was long -- two
heartbeats and then three, four, five... The wind cut at his face,
pushed back his cheeks. His legs, trembling with
effort, thrust down so forcefully that he covered yards with each
stride. He leaned so far into the turns that he could smell the
grass. He was a blur around the track. Looking ahead, the
sunlight that reflected from the fences and the white lines of the
track began to take on a red and then a blue tinge. The field
lines streamed by him until they merged into one line and then were
gone completely. The pressure of his flesh doubled with each
lightening step. He became dense to the brink of implosion.
Exhilaration. Pain. Speed. Pressure.
Thrill. Blindness. Immortality. Damnation.
Adrenaline zoomed up, sparkling his circuits with POWER!!!
Edward the god. Edward the ghoul.
Glancing down at his silver wristwatch, he saw that the secondhand now
ticked in reverse. Ahead, there came into view another runner on
the track. Amazingly, he seemed to be keeping Edward’s own
pace. A challenge. Edward wanted to win. Win to
win. Win for the sake of winning. Win so that he would not lose.
Edward ran faster. His body shook. The pain of his feet
rebounding from the track became unbearable. As his velocity
increased, so did that of the other runner. Edward ran faster and
faster, falling further and further behind. Tears of frustration
ran down his weathered cheeks only to be torn off his face by the
wind. The other was out of site now -- behind him. Who
could he be? No one ever used this track. All of the new
men preferred the air condition and the lying mirrors of the gym.
What kind of upstart would dare to compete with him? Who could
possibly compete with him today? A machine gun rattle of steps at
his back matched the beat of his pulse. Edward bolted, every
muscle striving, his old bones cracking. The footsteps quickened,
melting one into another. Fear barked in his ears over the
howling of the wind. Frustration choked him. Like a winded
racer that had led the whole race leaving nothing for the finish, he
twisted his neck to steal a desperate glance at his
pursuer.
Edward was running up behind himself... and he was gaining. He
ran and wept like a babe, himself stepping on his own heals. He
stretched forward, a geriatric sprinter lunging for the tape... and
caught up with himself.
Edward was striding forward and running backward. The second hand
on his watch sprinted in counter-clockwise circles. He was
running, stretching, walking to the track, driving, getting up.
The sun set and then rose again, moving from the west toward the east
-- slowly at first, then gaining momentum until its revolution created
a strobe of light that rolled back his life in frenetic
slow-motion. He was receiving his first social security check and
tearing it to shreds, he was watching his daughter’s wedding (the boy
didn't deserve her), divorcing his wife, pirating his first company,
getting on with the firm (and making plans to run it), holding his
daughter for the first time (he couldn’t have helped missing the
labor), getting married, graduating college, sleeping with his wife,
leaving for college, being admitted to Harvard, graduating from
preparatory school, celebrating his eighteenth birthday...
Slow...
Edward was growing tired.
Slow...
His knees were bombshells exploding with every
impact.
Slow...
His will was a heavy sack of
water.
Slow...
His heart was
an anchor dragging in regret.
Stop.
Edward found himself
staring again at a watercolor landscape that yawned out in front of
him. A large body of azure water loomed, still, toward distant
snow peaks. Its depth defied the two dimensional canvas. A
wide, tranquil moon rose lazily to cast lengthening shadows from the
pines that smothered the nearby hills. No clouds corrupted the
silent sky. No insects chirped or whirred amid the green brush
strokes of leaning grass. Edward’s left arm was stretched toward
the painting. A long paintbrush was clasped loosely in his
fingers, awaiting a mental command to add the final bright stroke to
the glimmering waters. Edward’s wrist was bare. Edward had
never worn a watch when he was young.
The door to his studio whined open and Edward’s father -- long since
dead -- entered the room. He had remained in his business suit despite
the late hour, his collar fastened at the neck, his tie still perfectly
wound and tucked into his vest.
The old man was carrying something in his manicured fingers. He
presented, as if for Edward’s perusal, a small box wrapped in hardy,
masculine paper. His father’s breath smelled of scotch and
cigars.
"Happy birthday, son."
Taking the box, Edward unwrapped it to discover a polished silver
wristwatch.
"Just needs winding," the old man said. "A man needs a good watch
to keep track of his business." And without waiting for a
response or a "thank you,” he strode out of the room, closing the door
behind him with a click.
Edward slipped the watch over his hand and fastened it on his
wrist. It snapped on comfortably, a perfect fit. He lifted
his easel and brush, preparing for the final stroke. The tip of
the brush remained poised over the water. There was something
wrong.
Edward’s eyes could not move past the glitter of the watchband.
In its glow he could perceive all the tribulations of his past or
future life.
Setting his brush and his easel on the table, Edward walked to his
dresser where there sat a small, mahogany box. Dark burgundy
velvet lined the empty interior. He slipped the watch from his
arm and placed it in the box. He peered at it for a moment in an
admiring, detached way, a boy mulling over a toy, which he wasn’t sure
that he should pick up.
The second hand was still. He had not yet wound it.
He glanced stealthily back at the door.
Then slowly... cautiously... Edward shut the lid.
The End
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