Runners often describe the euphoria of crossing the finish line at the end of a long, tough race.  But for me, it’s all about the starting line.  At 7:00 am on a crisp, no-excuses Sunday morning, at the beginning of my first half marathon, the loud music is making my heart pump, and I take my last deep breath as the swarm of runners ahead of me begins a slow, determined glide beneath the inflated red and yellow START sign.  They slip gracefully over the slight dip in the road at the beginning of the course, moving like a well-planned waterfall, as they pick up speed.  Anxiously, I await my turn, a long-playing track of Aretha’s “Freeway of Love” pulsating through my earbud, until I am quickening my pace, working up to running speed, looking for a small gap in the sea of people in front of me.

Getting to this place was not easy.  I didn’t start to run regularly until I was 55.  A few years before, at my kids’ insistence, I registered for a 5K race that our school district held as a fundraiser.   Then I had to teach myself how to run.  (I’ve since learned that this is an old runner’s motivational trick:  pay the money, then worry about how you’re going to do the race.)   I started out my training with a quarter-mile on the treadmill at the gym until I built up to the 3.1-mile distance.   After I finished that very first race, I became more confident and more interested in running.  But only a few months later, barely a week after my second 5K, I blew out my knee during a training session at the gym.  Thankfully, nothing had been torn, but I had to go through three months of demanding physical therapy to regain use of my right leg.   Dave, my therapist, seemed confident that my knee would eventually be “about eighty percent back,” but cautioned that I would have “some limitations.”

“Such as?”

“Well, forget about running,” Dave told me.  “You’re not likely to ever have your full strength back.”

I didn’t like that answer, because I knew what Dave really meant.  It was the subtle beginnings of a discussion about the limitations of age, one that I would undoubtedly be having more frequently as I grew older.  So over the next year, I worked very hard to rebuild that knee.  I started to race again, a few cautious 5Ks, then a couple of emboldened 10Ks, until I finally built up enough confidence to try a half-marathon.   Or at least to register and pay for one.       

Whether someone thinks it’s a good idea to take up serious running over the age of fifty seems to depend on the age of the person you ask.  When I floated the idea to people close to my age, I received a litany of reasons why it was a terrible idea.   Risk of a back injury.  Developing bad knees.  Having a heart attack while crossing a finish line.  Being hit by a car.  Being hit by another runner.  Yet when I test drove the concept with people under thirty, I received a more consistent and positive response.

“Fuck, yeah.  Do it.”

The evidence supports the millennial point of view.  A 2011 University of New Hampshire study of 50 runners, ages 18 to 77, found that the runners 60 and older were just as physiologically economical as younger runners, even those in their 20s and 30s.  In fact, the percentage of New York City Marathon finishers who are under the age of 40 consistently declines every year, while the finishing times for runners over 60 has decreased by seven minutes for men and over fifteen minutes for women.

So runners are getting older, and older runners are getting better. In 2015, The Atlantic reported that a growing number of senior citizens have begun competing in marathons and triathlons, causing experts to question much of the conventional wisdom about age-related changes in physical capacity. In U.S. marathons, runners over the age of 40—known as “masters” in the running world—now represent more than 50 percent of male finishers and 40 percent of female finishers, often outperforming younger athletes.  In fact, contrary to popular belief, older adults are not at an overall increased risk of injury when participating in any exercise activity.

My first two attempts at a half-marathon had not gone well.  Before I would be ready to tackle 13.1 miles again, I definitely had to make some changes.    Running 5Ks and 10Ks were challenging, but I always knew I could finish.  At that point, I was running three miles a day already, so shorter races required minimal training and were just a matter of adjusting to the course.  I could put some vintage R&B on my iPod and pretend I was somewhere else for the half-hour or the hour it took to complete the race.  Best of all, I could do it all on my own, and in fact, preferred to do so.  I could be that fiercely independent loner that I’d been as a younger man and feel perfectly happy.

I started to put myself through weekly long runs.  First six miles (just like a 10K), then seven, then seven-and-change.  When I reached that point, I badly needed motivation and advice.  Eventually, I hired Jake, a 24-year-old high school teacher, and an elite runner himself.  A virtual trainer who has never actually seen me run, he began to program my entire week for me, telling me when to run, where to run, how fast, and how long.  He checked up on me every single day via text message to make sure I completed the day’s program, asked me what felt right, what didn’t, where we needed to course-correct.   He was at once my new best friend and a relentless dick.  I asked him when I would actually run the entire 13.1 miles.  He told me ten or eleven would be fine.  “The race will carry you the rest of the way,” he assured me.

But as weeks passed, it became clear that Jake expected me to carry me the rest of the way. The practice runs became more demanding, the tempos more intense, the time commitment higher.  When it started to feel like the running was taking over my entire fitness regimen, I sent him a quick e-mail.

At some point, we should discuss/refocus goals for the coming months.  Two things to consider – 1.  I will likely be doing some shorter races in the near term, where I’d like to improve time.  2.  My trainer is also concerned that I’ve lost weight since picking up the running and strength training performance has declined.  So we need to create a balance.

Jake surprised me with his acerbic reply:

As your coach, I, first and foremost, want you to be healthy and able to train and enjoy running. I want you to be able to pursue goals and “defy” age 🙂 When I see that he is concerned about a decrease in performance and a decrease in weight, I think to myself – what does Don want out of the two activities? As your running coach who is working you toward marathon and half marathon training (now I see some shorter stuff too), being able to lift heavier volumes isn’t my concern, nor is losing a bit of weight (though I have never seen you and don’t know anything about your BMI).

“What an asshole,” I thought.

“I’d fire him,” my gym buddy Brice suggested.  “Like right now.”  He handed me his iPhone as if inviting me to do so right then.

But I was too invested to end my virtual relationship so abruptly.  I cooled down and tried to gain a more positive perspective.  As I thought it over, I realized that Jake was training me the way he had been trained.  And as my coach, I needed to trust him.  I waited a few days, then sent him a short plea for a bit of balance.

“Gotcha.” he texted back.  “Let’s move on.”

It was a stunning Sunday morning in March in Oakland, California, with a hint of sun but a refreshing breeze that runners crave as their natural air conditioning.    I was resigned to the tough two-plus hours ahead.  If I were a better runner, I lectured myself, it wouldn’t have to last that long.  But compared to the thin, nimble gazelles that graze my elbows and gingerly cut in my way, I was a novice.  Jake insisted that it’s “all about the finish.”  But I simply did not believe that he didn’t care about my pace.  I was convinced that Jake secretly hoped I would break a 1:50 time today. 

As I started the race, I carefully maneuvered around the run-walkers ahead.  I passed a group of middle-aged women wearing bright-colored t-shirts with their team name, The Red Hot Estrogen Divas, prominently etched in sequins.  One of them nearly elbowed me as I pass, as if to remind me of the utter rudeness of my speed, like my passing was meant to signal that I thought I was better than them.  But I blocked out these negative thoughts, reminding myself of the too-many miles ahead of me.

I was not yet past the first-mile marker, and already my nose was running, a curse and a distraction.  I quickly sniffed and tried to ignore the short stream of liquid pooling at the tips of my nostrils, but it wasn’t going away.  I pulled out the neatly folded Kleenex from my left pocket, almost afraid to use it so soon because I knew I’d need it for the tougher miles later.  As I slowed my pace a bit and snipped my nostrils with the soft tissue, my left foot fell into a pothole, twisting my ankle slightly.  I raised my leg and recovered my balance quickly, but I felt a painful twinge at the top of my foot.  Shit, I said to myself.

Today I needed an anchor, another runner on whom I could focus and mentally commit to keeping up with.  It was purely psychological voodoo.  Usually, when I find my pace lagging so early, I just look for “The Guy.”  He’s a decent runner, not lightning fast but steady and skilled.  He wears a red or yellow Nike shirt.    I have no real relationship with this person.  There is no social contract.  I need the dude to get me through a couple of miles and get me back on track.  Often, he’ll have a wife or girlfriend with him, a less experienced running companion who will make him keep the pace reasonable.  Sometimes I’ll fantasize about exchanging cell phone numbers and grabbing a beer with them one day.   If I could just find him and keep up with him for most of the miles ahead, I could get through this race well.  But today, The Guy was nowhere to be found, quite surprising in a race of over two thousand runners. 

In the periphery, I spotted a pace team passing a group of slower runners. Ignoring the pinch in my left foot, I ran ahead so I could get a glance at the team leader’s sign.   “2:10,” it said.  I had never run with a group, but the thought of becoming part of a pack suddenly appealed to me.  I would have been quite happy with a two-hour ten-minute finish time.  I merged nonchalantly into their space.   It was a small group of three women and two men, running at a comfortable, steady pace.  My ankle still hurt, but the newly found attachment made me forget about the pain for a while.

One of the guys asked me a question that I could not hear over my music.  I pulled out my earbud and asked him to repeat himself. We engaged in the usual runner’s small talk.  Runners like to gab about their running history with other runners. What got you started? How many marathons have you run? When was your last injury?  I was not used to talking and running at the same time, and it seemed to throw my breathing off a bit.  But the pace team was pulling me along, and I did not want to risk losing that asset.   So I learned to adapt my breathing to light conversational running.

I felt a new sense of joy, one of just being with people.  My focus was no longer on the physical challenge but the emotional one, the one about becoming attached.  Those runners were all at least fifteen to twenty years younger than me.  They were good-looking, fit people, dressed smartly in colorful Under Armour outfits, bits of technology dangling from their wrists and waists like aerobic Christmas trees.  At first, I felt like they were pulling me along, but as we mastered the abrupt changes in the road surface, the turns, and angles, the polite passing of slower runners, it felt like we are moving as one.   I became focused on the unit rather than myself.  I was conscious of our time and pace, not merely my own.

The light conversation made the pace seem comfortable.  One of the team leaders, a woman in her thirties with short brown hair and no body fat, was telling two other runners about doing a marathon in Atlanta in the summer and how crazy-hot it was.  I inched myself forward to hear her.  I was tiring, but I anchored myself to her story, determined to stick with the team.

“Are you refueling?” she asked me.

“I’m good,” I said, trying to maintain the regularity of my breathing. “

“You should have something,’ she warned.  “The next few miles are going to get harder.”

We ran through a charming neighborhood in West Oakland.  People had come out of their Saturday morning refuges to watch us.  A half-dozen high school cheerleaders, the red sequins on their uniforms sparkling in the sun, clapped for us and shouted words of encouragement.   There was a garage band on the corner, playing a raucous brand of rock and roll, giving us an unexpected shot of exhilaration.  Local merchants were out, too, offering cups of juice, fruit, tiny bite-sized cookies.   Mindful of the leader’s warning about refueling, I grabbed a half-banana from the tray extended by a Latino grocer who smiled broadly as I uttered a quick thank you.

Around mile eight, I saw a small hill ahead. Truthfully, it wasn’t much of an incline, but my ankle had started to hurt more, and so the grade felt steeper than it is.  My instincts told me to conserve my energy and walk up the hill, but I knew my team isn’t going to slow down.  A traffic stop about a mile back had cut into our targeted finish time, and we needed to make up for it.  I tried to run steadily. The distance between the team and me was slowly increasing.  No one was looking back. No one was saying, “Hey, wait for him.”   I felt abandoned but tried to stay positive, hopeful that I could make up the time on the downhill run.  As I reached the peak, I saw the “2:10” sign in the distance and started to run again.  Just a bit faster, I told myself.

I was within twenty feet of the team when an awful stitch grabbed hold of my right side.  I took several deep breaths, trying to shake it off, encouraging myself to keep going.  But the stitch was really hurting now, and as I slowed down, my pace team became a little spot of color in the distance of the course.  Crossing the nine-mile mark, I cursed myself, disheartened that I was no longer part of the pack.

Then I noticed a young man sitting on the curb, clutching his right leg in obvious pain.  He was wearing a bright red shirt and a pair of Nike Air shoes like mine.  He could have been “The Guy,” I thought.  If I had seen him miles back, and had not joined up with my pace team, I might have run most of this race behind him.  And since he was now hurt and unable to continue, I would have been completely screwed. 

Like me, he had been abandoned.  It seemed unfair to both of us.  Over the last hour and a half, I had become attached to a cadre of strangers.  Because I began to hurt, I was left behind.  At that moment, I felt the gross unfairness of age, the small physical limitations it places on us so that we can no longer keep up as well as we once could, and the price we pay for it.  Finishing the race in 2:10 was far more critical to that team than I was.  What I had mistaken for camaraderie had merely been part of the machinery that moved them forward.

But I had four miles left to cover.  Tired and worn as I felt, having a third of the race left to run felt depressing. Then again, during my training, thanks to Jake, a four- or five-mile run seemed almost effortless.  Finishing the race at once seems like an impossible feat and a manageable task. 

I stopped and grabbed a soggy Dixie cup of water.  It was unrefreshing and warm, salty from the drip of sweat off of my brow.  I stood still for just a few seconds and pretended I was at the starting line again.  The last nine miles had been a dream.  I just tried to convince myself that I was about to run a quick 5K and a mile sprint. 

I tossed my soggy Kleenex into the trash can and set off, determined.  I forgot about the pace team.  I forgot about The Guy.  I was my own “Guy” now.

Oakland’s Lake Merritt is a stunningly beautiful jewel in the middle of the city.  The three-mile loop around the lake and a short, flat run through Chinatown would complete the course.  But as scenic, as it was, the lake was probably the worst place to end a half marathon.  It was the only part of the course that was unpatrolled, and I hit it at a time when the Saturday morning joggers, the righteous dudes on skateboards, and the oblivious dog walkers with headphones were crowding the paths around the lake.  I slowed down, following the thinning line of racers as we maneuvered the course. 

At this point, my feet were moving, but I lacked the sensation of going anywhere.  My calves had started to stiffen and cramp. I was tempted to stop and stretch them, but I was too determined to finish the race.  I convinced myself that I could last the couple of miles that remained.  When I completed the loop, I pushed my limits just to climb the gleaming white steps that led out of the basin around the lake and back on to city streets.  I forced myself to breathe deeply, repeatedly counting to one hundred, as I head up through a gritty section of Chinatown.  Unlike the festive crowds of West Oakland, these folks seemed to ignore the influx of soggy, determined runners.  The race has thinned out so much at this point that there was little energy, no uplift.

The sweat and dust mixed in my hair felt like leftover honey, its warm stickiness clutching my scalp.  The salty drops angled over my eyelids and made my contact lens burn.  A stab of pain penetrated the right corner of my lower back as if the miles I had run had cut through my frame and infected my body.  Still, dirty and worn as I felt, I plodded along, trying to control my breathing, convincing myself that I was only minutes from finishing the race.  But at mile twelve, I knew I had at least ten minutes left, probably longer, as my pace waned, and my feet seemed like they were no longer moving me forward.

I wanted a surprise burst of exhilaration to carry me across the finish line, but it came only a couple of minutes afterward when I no longer had to move my feet.  Everywhere around the end of the course, amidst the shadows of the majestic office towers, people were laughing, congratulating one another, with a bottle of cold fresh water in one hand and a mason jar of free designer IPA in the other.  I looked around the crowd of finishers for my pace team but didn’t see any of them.   Disappointed, I finished my water and protein bar and made my way back to the car.

It had started to rain.  As I walked up Broadway, now empty and creepy on what is still an early Saturday morning, I texted my finish time (2:17) to Jake.  I had accomplished my goal.  So why didn’t I feel the enormous pride I expected? 

Then I realized that running was no longer the solitary endeavor I had found so easy and appealing.  In those tough middle miles, I had discovered something I’d never experienced before.  I had found a community, one that in those tough moments, became very real to me.  Immersed in the grueling physical challenge, the sporadic pain, the endless pounding of my feet against the rough pavement, the other runners counted much more than ability or perseverance.  For as long as it lasted, they became the connections between the miles, the very context of the run, the very reasons why runners choose to experience the world in this way.   No matter how many years we live, how many miles we run, we never stop looking for those connections.

And therein lies the real challenge of being an older runner.  Not the physical limitations, because we just get used to them.  Not the breathing, because you learn to control it.  Not the endurance, because you always have virtual people like Jake to help you improve.  It’s the gradual sense of loss that you start to feel in other aspects of your life. You are becoming less needed, less relevant, less able. 

As difficult as it was, I learned that a long race can also be a source of reinvigoration and joy.  The opportunity to be out among people, however long it lasts, is uplifting.   It is not about the finish, because finishing can be painful to think about.  It is the sense of accomplishment, even if it is anticlimactic, that is so affirming.  You take away whatever you can from experience, and learn to expect no more. 

You become your own “Guy.” 

The white cardboard box was barely half full as I put the last of my few personal possessions into it.  I stared at the corners of the lid and thought about how moments ago, I had carefully folded the sides of the box together.   Open side A, pull side B and side C. 

R. Gabriel was a lanky kid of not more than twenty.  He opened his browned chiseled arms as I carefully sealed the box.  “Do you need me to carry that, sir?”

I didn’t need any help, but I did need to feel in charge for a single moment.  So I nodded yes.  R. picked up the box with a single oversized hand, effortlessly, and patiently waited for me to walk ahead of him.  I glanced around the office to make sure I hadn’t left anything behind.

I followed R. Gabriel to a seldom traveled corner of the building and down the single flight of stairs that led to the back exit.  He dutifully placed the box on the freshly cleaned carpet in the back of my SUV.  I waited for him to shake my hand and wish me luck.  He did not. His job was to make sure I left and that no one at the prestigious firm of Sullivan & Baker ever saw me again.

It was the first time I had been fired.

My eleven months with Sullivan & Baker had been a slow death by drudgery in a cubicle, though an inevitable next step from my first dead-end job with Cannon Wise.   I had thought my pedigreed business schooling would be enough to land me a decent job after graduation, but after being rejected for each of the fifty different positions that the career center had matched with my profile, I started to have my doubts.   Some of my classmates, mostly the marketing types, spoke of “selling” themselves, a mandate I found completely repulsive.  And with nothing to sell, my scheduled one-hour interview typically concluded in thirty-five minutes or less.  One of those meetings had lasted close to the full sixty minutes, but only because the interviewer, a kindly young man named Marvin Craymeyer Soul (and no, I didn’t make up the name) had taken pity on me.  Frustrated with my short half-answers, Marvin had closed his notebook and leaned forward, the sharply pressed cuffs of his charcoal gray Hugo Boss suit jacket in perfect alignment with his knees.

“Philip, are you even remotely interested in a position with us?” he asked.

“Why, of course,” I said.  “Why else would I be here?”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering,” Marvin said, almost sarcastically.  He twirled his pen like a baton, which annoyed the fuck out of me.  “I’m not detecting any enthusiasm in this conversation.  Like you’d really want to work for Graham Clark.”

“I’m sorry,” I half-apologized.  “Am I doing something wrong?”

Marvin made it clear that I’d flunked the interview, but as a gesture of goodwill spent the next twenty minutes coaching me on posturing, handshake, how to answer questions, how to close.  No one else had ever bothered, and by the end of the hour, I began to feel genuinely grateful for his attention.  Until twenty minutes later, that is, when I decided that he was completely wrong and that there was no good reason for me to sell myself.

Linda had wanted to get married a lot more than I did, so it wasn’t fair that she blamed me for our splitting up.  We’d been dating only since the beginning of my last semester at school, and had never lived together, so marriage seemed like a big step for us.  The first couple of months had been pleasant enough, but then her new job started, and she seemed to abandon me.  I tried not to resent coming home every night at six and finding she was always still at work.  The unspoken reality was that she was a lot busier than I was, a lot more needed.   So we avoided discussing our work, chalking up my choice of positions as simply a mistake we were enduring for the sake of paying high rent for a cozy new townhouse.    Truthfully, there had been no “choice,” and I was the only one living with it.  But we pretended I was making a career sacrifice for us.  That, at least, entitled me to an occasional diversion.

Linda rarely did anything domestic, so it was almost an accident that she had taken my jackets to the cleaners.  Her glum look was unusual, almost a rare treat, as bored with her frozen smiles as I’d become.

“This yours?” she asked me, holding up the crinkled foil wrapper.

“No.”

“Funny, I found it in your pocket.”

“What were you doing looking in my pockets?”

“A habit I developed after ruining one of my suits with a pack of Dentine,” she said wryly.  “I always check for stray objects.”  She flicked the condom at me in disgust, like I was one of her stray objects.

“Huh.  I must have found it on the floor of a restroom and picked it up.”

“And you must think I’m a fucking idiot,” she replied quickly.  I simply said nothing.

“Want to try that again?” she asked.  “Are you seeing another woman?”

It was not a fair question, so I didn’t answer it at first.  I needed to break the silence and squelch Linda’s icy stare, but I couldn’t get any words out.

“Another man?”

“Not … exactly,” I finally said.

Those two words ended my first marriage.

I had read everything I could about Sellers & Cross during the week before my interview.  The recruiter who had cold-called me didn’t have a lot of depth on what the firm did, so she accepted the vague generalities I offered her about my last two jobs without many questions.  People can be so gullible.  So far no one had asked if I’d ever met a client.  If my luck held out, no one ever would. And after all, did real experience really matter?  People with far fewer smarts than I had were successful in this business because they got people to do the work for them, and managed to bullshit their way out of what they couldn’t deliver. 

My stepdad Art was a prime example.  All I ever heard him talk about was “the deal.”  Occasionally I’d hear him on the phone, berating some junior person for dropping the ball, or pleading with a customer to give him a chance “to get this resolved internally.”  Never did he fix a problem himself.

Once I had borrowed the desktop computer in the room he liked to call his “home office” to print a term paper I’d paid Alex Krebs fifty dollars to write for me and accidentally left my work on his desk.  Mom ordered me not to disturb him, saying he was deep in thought, preparing an important presentation.  But it was past nine o’clock, and I had to hand in the paper the next day.    Carefully I knocked on the door and hearing no response, slowly walked inside the room.

Art swiveled around in his leather chair, a pad of paper in his hand, his eyeglasses tilted over the tip of his nose. Quickly he turned the notepad to a clean sheet of paper.

“Sorry, sir.  I left my paper in here.”

“Let me show you something, Philip,” he began.  I watched him draw an x- and y-axis, then plot a rising curve over a straight line.  “This is the key challenge of sales,” he explained.  “The customer will always tell you his needs are stable,’ he said, drawing over the flat line, “and will tell his investors that his business is growing.”  He plotted some points along the curve.  “Here, in between, is the opportunity,” he said.  “Our opportunity.”   He shaded in the area between the line and the curve. 

I nodded, pretending to be impressed.  I remember that conversation so well because it was the first time I realized that substance was never going to be a requirement for getting ahead.  Simply choose your words carefully enough and make sure you stay in control of the impressions other people form.

“I need a break,” he said, as he got up from his chair.  He gestured toward the corner of his desk. “Your paper’s over there.”

As he left, I picked up his notepad and flipped to the page before, looking at a string of arithmetic.  At the bottom of the page was a column of numbers titled “Monthly Expenses,” the total of which was divided into $15,000.  One of the numbers in the column caught my eye.  $1,175. 

That was our monthly rent.  Art was trying to figure out how many more months our savings would last.  I suppose even Art realized that his ability to steer people’s impressions might run out someday.

I sat in an antiseptic white-walled conference room off the main lobby of Sellers & Cross for twenty minutes, fingering the surface of my charcoal grey suit.  An energetic blond woman abruptly entered the room.  She hurriedly flipped through my resume.

“Monica Tomes,” she told me, not even looking up until she had seated herself across the table.  Then she raised her black-framed glasses over her eyebrows and gave me a short smile.  “Quite a morning,” she said.

I nodded.  A moment had passed before I realized that I had failed to stand and shake Monica’s hand, immediately violating the first rule of interviewing.  Goddammit, could I have blown this deal so early?  But curiously, Monica didn’t seem to notice.

“So you were with S&B,” she began.  “Terrific firm.  They certainly give us a run for our money.  So Dan’s told me about the Crosby Project.  How did that go?”

I was still trying to recover from the aborted introduction.  I answered only with a quiet smile.

“I know, I know, trade secrets,” she laughed deeply.  “I know you can’t tell me any details.  But listen, global supply chain is an area this company’s been trying to break into for years, decades, even.   I know S&B has, too.  So how’d you bastards land a big consulting gig like Crosby?”

I had never heard of the “Crosby Project,” though even someone as dispensable as I knew that Crosby Enterprises was one of Sullivan & Baker’s largest accounts.  I searched my brain for an appropriate answer to her question.  “It was a team effort,” I told her.

“Sure, sure,” she coaxed.  “But you had to have a decent role in it if Dan’s heard of you.”

I was growing more and more confused but dared not give myself away.  “Well, to tell the truth,” I began.  Suddenly I realized my one shot to make the first impression was about to slip away. 

“Let’s just say we all did our part,” I said, coyly.

“I know someone at your level won’t always get the glory,” she sympathized.  “But you’ve had to have gotten some decent visibility out of it.  Carl Crosby is an absolute legend in the business.  Have you been in meetings with him?”

“Well, perhaps one,” I said.  The first lie had slipped out.  “Or two.”  There went the second.

“I like your modesty, Philip,” Monica said, holding a black pen over the side of my resume.  “Good education.  Worked for a decent firm.  Why would you want to come here?”

I had my speech rehearsed, but the conversation had taken an unexpected turn.  “I’ll be honest with you, Monica.  One great project doesn’t make a career.  I didn’t think S&B really had the commitment to build the level of practice it needs to land the next Crosby account.  It’s a fairly conservative firm, as a rule.”

“I’ve heard that before,” Monica answered.  “So tell me more.”

What followed was a masterful bouquet of embellishments that made up for every bit of underselling I’d ever done.  I took full advantage of my hook, the unforeseen association with this Crosby Project, and now I had something I’d never felt before in an interview.  Credibility.  I raced through my bio, carefully emphasizing the things in my coursework that sounded better with the word “global” in front of them.  I told the Cannon Wise story and expressed my dismay that such a reputable firm could have wasted my abilities with such low-level work, dealing with relatively unimportant (though “global”) clients.  I nonetheless exhibited my loyalty, sticking with the firm for almost a year, seeking counsel, doing whatever was required, until I realized that the company didn’t have the client base to support the growth of the many talented people it was recruiting.  “We work in an interesting business, as you well know,” I told Monica.  “We’re supposed to be at the cutting edge of strategy, and yet there are a lot of people who are perfectly happy to see us operate the same way we always have.”

She nodded in full agreement.  I knew I had Monica sold, especially when I caught the carefully hidden thumbs-up she gave to my next interviewer, Lance Crowley.  I repeated the story to him, emphasizing my interest and experience in supply chain, but making sure he understood that I was open to other good opportunities.  Lance ate it up as well, thankfully not mentioning the Crosby deal, so by the time Stacy from H.R. arrived, I had done everything Marvin Craymeyer Soul had expected of me, and then some.  I had only to convince Stacy of my commitment, sense of teamwork, cultural fit and genuine interest in the success of Sellers & Cross.  Globally.

Stacy told me that “preliminary feedback” was good.  “Dan may want to meet with you for a final round,” she cautioned.

“Dan?”

“Dan Wiley.  I understand he had a particular interest in … some particular area of expertise you worked in,” she explained, “with your last company.”

Good Lord.  The Crosby Project.

“But I know he’s out of town,” she continued.  “So he may rely on Monica’s assessment.  But assuming he’s good with it, well . . .” 

I felt completely elated on my way back home like I’d just proven the world had simply been wrong about me.  I played some mindless games on my mobile phone for the rest of the afternoon, taking generous breaks to reflect the joyously high points of my interview.  It was before three o’clock when I received a cryptic e-mail from Stacy.  “Dan is okay with proceeding.  Expect a letter from us tomorrow.”

On my first day at Sellers & Cross, I figured out who Dan Wiley was within the first few minutes of the Monday morning staff meeting, and went up to shake his hand as soon as we finished.  “Sorry we couldn’t meet in person during the interview process,” I said.

“Sure, sure.  Listen, I just wanted to say how glad we are you’re here.  I know how involved you were in the Crosby Project while you were with S&B, and  –“

“Yes, well, as I told Monica,” I interrupted. “I was, I mean, it was a pretty large team.”

“Of course, but Philip, the word’s out that Crosby has some other big projects on the table, and we want to be a player.  Your familiarity with Crosby, and in particular, your past exposure to Nelson Breiling could be very valuable.”

 “Who?”

Dan looked at me, puzzled.  “Nelson Breiling.  The GM at Crosby who runs supply chain?”

“Oh, sure, Dan.  But please understand, my work was kind of behind the scenes.”

“We’re not going to waste any time, Philip.  Crosby’s about to sole source a major engagement to your former firm, so we have to move fast.  I have a meeting with Nelson and his team at ten o’clock tomorrow morning, and it’s imperative that you attend.”

I started to form the words in my head.  “I’m afraid I don’t know Nelson.”  But I knew a truthful answer would disappoint him. 

Dan looked a bit dumbfounded. “Is something wrong, Philip?”

“No,” I said confidently.  “However I can help, I’m glad to do so, Dan.”

That night, I canceled the obligatory “first day on the job” dinner with my girlfriend.  Of course, she understood perfectly, knowing the demanding hours I’d be expected to keep.  It wasn’t a surprise to her at all that I’d landed a major assignment on my first day.  I stayed up until one o’clock in the morning, trying to decipher the mountain of briefing documents Monica left for me in advance of the morning meeting with Crosby Enterprises.  I churned over the detailed operational overview, read and reread the complicated request for proposal, very little of it making sense to me.  Desperately, I pulled some old business school textbooks off the shelf, searching in vain for some fundamental definition of all the acronyms and terms of art dispersed throughout the thick binder. 

What disturbed me more than my lack of understanding of the project itself was that somehow my bio and credentials had made it into the accompanying proposal.  “Philip R. Trousdale.  Staff Consultant.  Formerly with Sullivan & Baker.  Specialization includes global supply chain management.”  It was now clear to me why Sellers & Cross had moved on the offer so quickly.  They needed me to land the Crosby account.  They needed the credibilitymy name brought to the table.

I began to panic.  How the hell had an innocent stretch of the truth, a white half-lie I’d used simply to make a favorable impression, led me so quickly into a disastrous situation?    At half past eleven, I toyed with the idea of calling Dan Wiley and admitting the truth.  But what good would that do at this point?   Save him the embarrassment of having me in the room?

What would Marvin Craymeyer Soul do in such a situation? 

What would Art do?

Overtaken by drowsiness early in the morning, I felt something more powerful than fear.  Hope.  There could be a graceful way through this perilous situation.  Maybe Nelson Breiling was such a self-important prick that he wouldn’t even remember a lowly staff consultant who had supposedly worked for him, even on such an important project.   Maybe Nelson wouldn’t even show up for the meeting, sending his underlings instead, who would take my being on the team at face value.  Or perhaps sitting around the table chatting, everyone would suddenly realize that someone (not me) had gotten the story wrong, and they would all have a good laugh over the mix-up. 

I could faintly hear those strains of laughter over the sharp buzz of the alarm clock going off at six.

There had to be eighteen or twenty people crowded into the executive briefing room, and I couldn’t tell who was from Sellers and who was from Crosby.  Dan was chatting up an older, balding guy wearing a tweed jacket and beige khakis that I guessed must be Nelson Breiling.  Immediately I turned away, avoiding any eye contact with Dan.   I said good morning to Monica, who eyed me strangely. 

“We haven’t had a chance to brief you on this proposal,” she whispered.  “So let Dan and I do the talking unless we call on you, okay?”

I nodded, relieved. Maybe the meeting really would pass quickly.  I could be a wallflower for the hour or two the meeting would take and not have to own up to my deceit.   A nagging hollowness still gripped my stomach.  Suddenly I felt sick.  I tried to breathe normally.

Dan stood at the head of the table and suggested that we get started.  Dressed in an impressively tasteful black suit, he appeared to be quite the salesman, polished and smooth in his delivery, very articulate.  His presentation continued for over forty-five minutes, during which I started to feel more relaxed.  Perhaps I had worried for nothing.  All I had to do was get through this one meeting unscathed, and then I could figure out how to make this situation work out.  I just needed a bit more time.

Then Dan began to wrap up.  “Nelson, we’re certainly aware that you have an existing relationship with S&B.  It is a fine firm.  But I think you’d find our methodologies to be refreshingly creative and insightful.  We’ve succeeded in every area of operational consulting in which we’ve built a practice.  And we’ve invested in putting together a top-notch team to serve you.”

Dan paused, and suddenly gestured toward me.  “Including our most recent hire, Philip Trousdale, with whom we believe you had the pleasure of working while he was with S&B.”

I froze, biting my lip, trying to focus on the moment.  Nelson Breiling had been jotting something down while Dan was finishing, and at first, I thought he hadn’t even noticed.  Then he put down his pen and looked straight at me, scowling.

“Who in hell are you?” he asked.

After I’d abruptly left the meeting, I retreated to my office and pretended to be busy with something on my computer.   On the way out at lunchtime, I ran into Monica in the hallway.

She closed the door to the conference room.  “So did we have a misunderstanding?” she demanded.  “Did you or did you not tell me you’d been involved with the Crosby Project at S&B?”

“Well, I remember your mentioning it, sure,” I said.  I spoke slowly, but my mind was racing fast to devise a convincing explanation for what I knew Monica was about to grill me.

“You brought it up during your interview,” she began.

“Well, actually, you did, Monica,” I said firmly.  “You said Dan had told you he’d heard about it.  Though I’m not sure where.”

“Right, yes, but then you told me you were a part of the team.”

“I told you there had been a large team involved –“

“Of which, I understood, you were one.”

            “I suppose I did some work, yes.”

“But you didn’t know who Nelson Breiling was when Dan asked you?”

 “I never said I met him.”

“And never heard of him, obviously.”

“Not directly.”

“Not directly?” Monica asked impatiently.  “Philip, either you knew the man, or you didn’t.  Which is it?”

“As I said, I worked behind the scenes.  Not just on that project.  Many different projects.  But no, I didn’t meet Nelson Breiling until today,” I admitted. “However, I believe there was a Nelson Cheever involved.  Perhaps I’d been confused about the name.”

“Nelson Cheever?” Monica looked frustrated.  “Philip, I can’t tell you how completely pissed Dan Wiley is right now.  I suggest you leave for the day.  And get your story straight by the time you show up for work in the morning, okay?”

Monica gave me an affirming half nod. I swore she learned that deadly frozen smile from my ex-wife.

I arrived at the office the next morning a bit after nine.  “Something’s going on, Philip,” Lance said bluntly.

“I know.”

“Did you know a guy named Mark Traymor at S&B?” he asked.

“Yeah.”  Truthfully.   An asshole.

“So from what I heard, Traymor interviewed here for the job you got.  He worked on the Crosby Project.  Dan got wind of it and told Monica.  But Monica mixed you up with Traymor.”

I nodded slowly.  “So that explains why all these questions about the Crosby Project came up.  None of this was my fault.  It was Monica’s mistake.”

Lance seemed a bit puzzled.  “What’s not understandable is why you didn’t set her straight,” Lance said.  Why you didn’t just tell her she must have you confused with someone else. And you never denied it.  It looks like you used her mistake to your advantage, just to land the job.”

“But … I was confused, Lance.  I mean, you have to understand the way work gets done at S&B.  I think I actually did do some work on Crosby, you know?  And it’s kind of understandable, isn’t it?  I’m trying to put my best foot forward, and she latches on to something that makes her view me as valuable.  I mean, I had no idea why she thought whatever work I did on that project was so important, but she did.”

“Dan’s not going to buy it, Philip,” Lance warned.  “You let this pretense go until you were in front of a client, and embarrassed the hell out of Dan and this firm.”

I hesitated.  ”I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought,” I said.  I pulled out a horrifically complicated diagram I had fashioned the night before. “See, I even put it in pictures, just to show him.  He’ll get it, Lance.  He’ll totally get it.”

“Dan’s no fool,” Lance said.  “And Dan knows his way around this business.”

“But he’s never worked for S&B, has he?  He doesn’t know how things work.”

“No, but he knows people there. Philip,” Lance said. “At least one person well enough to find out that S&B fired you for gross incompetence.”

I started to fold up the diagram when I glanced down at the columns of numbers I’d jotted down on the back of the paper the night before.  The first one was $1,975.   My monthly rent.

I drove down the block and pulled over to the front parking lot of a vacant office building.  I needed to be near some emptiness for a while.  I turned on the news, just to hear conversation, as I drummed my fingers over the cover of the cardboard box.  Open side A, push together side B and side C. 

When I was seventeen, I had sat in another car next to another cardboard box.  I had tried not to cry when Art pulled up to the front of the school the day I had been expelled.  I hadn’t been a particularly good student but had managed to get by for the two years I’d attended Harmon Day Academy.    Harmon offered more education than my parents could afford, and certainly more education than I was capable of absorbing.  The work became more rigorous and demanding during my junior year.  The second term, I struggled to complete the junior essay requirement along with a twenty-five-page history term paper for Dr. Gunn’s class.  One of those requirements was destined to fail.

I thought I did understand the origins of the first World War quite well, and I thought the paper was one of the best I’d written.  I just didn’t have the time I needed to get through all the research that Gunn expected.  I had composed as fast as I could, simply piecing together miscellaneous recollections of textbook summaries and points made in class. Then I spent two days in the library verifying and trying to footnote all that I had scraped together.  Time was running out.  President Wilson’s foreign policy was enormously flawed, and he was truly ill-advised.   There was no doubt that I was right.  All I needed was someone, someone with authority, to say it was true.

So that was when I cleverly invented a historian named Nelson Cheever, and a fictitious essay, “The Social and Political Causes of the First World War.”  I footnoted it four times in my term paper.

It was the first time I had been caught cheating.

I ran my hand over the smooth top of the cardboard box once again.  Barely a day’s worth of a career filled its contents, like I had time only to pack up half a life.  It felt good to travel light, I thought.  But then, as my arm brushed against the lightness of the box, I too felt empty.  It was hard for me not to see how dismally I’d failed this time. 

My cell phone vibrated suddenly, and I saw it was Bart calling.

“How goes the new job, buddy?” he asked.

“I’m afraid it’s not going to work out,” I told him.

“Not going to —  Buddy, it’s been like 48 hours!  How can you tell so soon?”

“It’s not what I expected,” I told him. 

“Really?”

“They have shitty clients,” I said.  “One, in particular, was a prize asshole.  Chewed me out in my first meeting, and the head guy didn’t even back me up.”

“Wow … I’m sorry,” Bart said.  “Listen, remember Dave Castor?”

“Of course.  Dave referred me over to Sullivan, remember?  My last dead-end job.”

“Yeah, well he just jumped ship and moved to Becker.  Maybe you should give him another call.”

“No, thanks,” I said.  “I think I’ve had enough of consulting.  I just don’t think I have the right temperament for it.”

“No, this is a totally different gig,” Bart insisted.  “Becker’s hiring a boatload of analysts.  Really ramping up their research division.”

Research, I thought.  Now there was something I had always done very well.  Ever since my school days at Harmon.

“Give me his number,” I said.  “I’ll call him today.”

Walking home from the library, Marty wished he had seen Jess sooner, so he could have entered the dorm through the back door.  But Jess had glanced over his way, at first dismissively, then as if remembering something, suddenly smiling and gesturing him to come over. 

Too late, Marty thought.  I’m caught.

“Hey, Marty, you know Kim? Benny?”   Jess always did an excellent job of appearing to widen his circle, feigning inclusiveness.  Marty nodded politely, not taking Jess very seriously.  Kim and Benny, whom he vaguely recognized from a party he had attended a few weeks earlier, smiled at him politely.  They were holding hands, as if boyfriend and girlfriend, but weirdly, looked enough alike to be siblings.

“Studying all this time, my brother?” Jess asked.  “Eleven o’clock?  In the library all night, I’ll bet.  No wonder you’re so smart.”

Marty tried to smile.  He didn’t appreciate the presence of the two strangers.  And he didn’t particularly like Jess calling him “my brother.”  Was he kidding?

“Yeah, well, nice to meet you both,” Marty muttered.  “Have to get to bed, Jess –“

“Hey, wait up,” Jess replied, then quickly waved goodbye to Kim and Benny.  The pair appeared disappointed, their polite smiles now clouded by the hurt of their apparent dismissal.  “Lemme walk with you, Marty.”

As the two made their way toward the dorm, Jess asked, “Hey, so did you get my message from this morning?  About the paper, I mean?”

“Sure,” Marty said.  “Sure, I did.”

“So?”

“Listen, Jess,” Marty began.  “I know you’re in a bit of a bind here, but I don’t think it’s worth the risk.  I mean, I wrote that paper just a year ago.”

“I promise you, no one will figure it out, Jess replied, self-assuredly.  “Half the junior class takes Allington’s course.  You don’t think he would recognize it, do you?  I can guarantee he’s never read your paper because he has twenty-five fuckin’ T.A.’s working for him every semester.” 

“And many of them come back –“

“And none of them come back, because it’s a big, boring course and he’s a prick, and the ones who read your paper have all moved on to something else.   So no, I repeat, no risk.”

Just that easy, Jess, Marty thought, just that easy.   He caught himself unexpectedly, admiring Jess’ trim beard.  His stiffened brown facial hair tidily framed the clean warmth of his handsome face, as he carefully enunciated the words he used to make his point.  “I . . . repeat no risk.”  Part of him wanted to do him a favor, to make things right between them.  Make Jess owe him something.  Truthfully, there was probably very little risk that someone reading ten pages about the social history of a small industrial town in the mid-19^th century (a town already mentioned in two of the required texts and in one of the early lectures, and probably already written about by dozens of students) would ever recall a very similar paper with a very similar title from two semesters ago, even if they had read it before.  And even if he were caught, if the same T.A. who had given him that “A” last year just happened to be the one grading Jess’ paper and recognized it, would he bother to pursue it?  Was a T.A. going to go to the trouble of tracking down which of the dozens of papers he had graded last year seem to resemble the one at which he was squinting in a dimly lit cubicle at eleven thirty at night?  So yes, this would be an easy thing to do.  It would be an easy gift to give.

But then he wondered, why should he?  What had Jess ever done for him?  For that matter, he wasn’t even sure what he wanted Jess to do for him.  Did he want him to be his best friend?  Did he want himself to be Jess’ best friend?  Was he after an intimacy in which Jess had never before shown an interest?  And if so, was a mere ten-page paper enough to win that prize?  Wouldn’t that require something more heroic?   Like sitting for a final, or writing a senior thesis from scratch?

“So whatcha’ thinking, Marty?” Jess asked hopefully, the warmth and brightness of his face making Marty feel weak.  “Can you do a buddy a favor?”

So he was his “buddy” now?  Was that better or worse than being his “brother” five minutes ago?  His contact with Jess almost seemed like one of obligation, because they attended the same college, lived in the same dorm and had a few acquaintances in common.  The ease with which Jess could pretend that such closeness existed between them suddenly made Marty feel angry and disrespected.

He shook his head.  “Jess, I’m sorry, but I’d rather not.  I don’t want to take any chances.”

Jess stared at him, silently nodding his head.  “Okay, okay, I get it.”

“Look, if there was some other way to help you, maybe –“

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Jess interrupted.  “I don’t want you taking any chances, Marty.  Even imaginary ones, okay?  That’s your right.”  The warmth in his face had evaporated.

Now Marty felt slightly guilty.  He was starting to think he should change his mind.

“And you know, I still have the final exam, right?  That’s most of the grade anyway.  Just have to ace it, and then I’ll get a C, and I pass, and we’re fine.  No risk.”

Jess was talking down to him now.  “Well, I guess that’s one option,” he said.

“Yes, Marty boy, it’s one option.  The only one I have right now, thanks to you, but you’re right.  At least I have an option.”

Jess slowly walked up to him, standing only inches from him, his face darkening and his body tensed.  “It’s good to have options, right?  Like who you hang out with, and who you don’t, and . . .”  Jess wet his lips, pausing.  “And whose life you can choose to make difficult.”

Marty couldn’t speak.  He closed his eyes, not wanting to look at Jess this way.  Let me give him the goddam paper, he thought.  If I get caught, I can always say I lent it to him, only to look at, so that he could get some ideas.  No, I never dreamed he’d actually copy it.  Let Jess take the heat because he hated him enough right now to do it.

He opened his eyes, but Jess was already walking away.

Marty had been an average student in high school, though not an excellent one.  His parents had split up just before his eighth-grade graduation, and he and his mother left the spouse he’d grown up and moved to the other side of town with his Aunt Joyce.  It was far enough from his old neighborhood to make him lose the four or five friends he had growing up.  A lonely boy with no athletic talent and mediocre grades has a hard time starting over.  That was what high school had been — four years of starting over.

He had made only one real friend his freshman year at Bailey High, a transplant like himself named Ted.  The boy’s father had relocated from Rhode Island for a new job, and Ted made it clear how much he resented the move.  Marty and Ted would spend afternoons together at the library, pretending to do homework, but mostly hanging out on the back steps of the building, smoking stolen cigarettes and commiserating about how unfair life was and blaming their parents for everything that was wrong. 

But when sophomore year started, Ted changed.  Over the summer, he had quit smoking and discovered how fast he could run.  Suddenly he was hanging out with the jocks, and Marty was friendless again.

Marty kept to himself most of the time and focused on his studies.  Only on rare occasions would he take a break and allow himself to imagine that he actually had friends, a short dream that lasted only as long as it took to start the next chapter of whatever book he had open.   Late afternoon one Friday, during the last half of senior year, Marty was heading home from the library when he saw Ted walking ahead of him.   He watched a blue notebook slip from the pocket of Ted’s backpack.  Marty picked it up off the ground.  He started to run toward Ted to return it to him, but Ted was chatting loudly with a group of his friends and didn’t notice Marty walking beside him.  Marty stopped and carefully hid the notebook inside his jacket.  He would keep it with him, just for a while. 

Three days later, Marty showed up at Ted’s house.  Ted answered the door, looking at him strangely.

“You lose this?” Marty asked, showing him the notebook.

“Oh, yeah,” Ted replied.  “Where’d you find it?”

“Oh, just on the street, near the school,” Marty said. 

“Huh,” Ted said, taking the notebook from Marty’s hand.  He flipped through the white lined pages as if he were checking to make sure no one had ripped out anything.  “Well, thanks.”

“Marty.”

“Huh?”

“My name is Marty,” he said, raising his voice.

“Of course.  I remember.  “We used to hang out together,” Ted said. 

“I think – I mean, I know we’re in the same history class this year.  You’ve never even spoken to me.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I’ll look out for you, then.  Listen, I gotta run.  Thanks.”  Ted quickly closed the door.

Marty stood outside the house for a moment.  He reached into his backpack and pulled out the mixtape of the vintage Rolling Stones music he had created.  Marty has been inspired by the “No Satisfaction” logo on Ted’s tight gray t-shirt,  the one he only wore on warm days to show off his jockness and impress cheerleaders.  He thought that perhaps he and Ted might listen to it together.

He was mistaken.

Marty spent the next week fretting about Jess.  He hadn’t seen around since that night they had spoken about the paper.  Marty’s moods swung from relief to depression.  Some of the time, he felt relieved that he had stood up to Jess, had not let him take advantage of him and allowed himself a measure of self-respect.  But for what?  So he could continue to be friendless and alone?   Yesterday, he had seen Kim, that girl Jess had introduced him to that night, and had said hello, perhaps hoping to connect to Jess through someone who was already close to him.  (Or was she?  Did he really know that?)  But Kim had looked at him strangely, appearing not to remember him, and he felt too embarrassed to remind her.  Or did Kim already know that Marty had refused to do Jess the favor of loaning his paper, and was by her lack of recognition, rejecting him as well?

His thoughts wandered as he sat in his cube at the library.  The thing to do, he told himself, was to confront Jess and talk to him about it.  Explain to him that while he wanted to be a friend, he had his standards.  He would not facilitate a violation of academic rules by knowingly loaning him a paper he intended to plagiarize.  Jess might be angry at first, but with a bit more explanation, surely he would be persuaded that Marty was right.  And at the end of the conversation, maybe he would thank him.  Pat him on the shoulder, squeeze his hand.  Their friendship would be cemented. 

And then Marty would surprise him.  He would generously offer to give up his free time to help Jess create his own work, an even better paper than the one he wanted to copy.  He pictured the two of them, tirelessly working together under the pressure of the deadline.  Marty closed his eyes, imagining himself leaning over Jess’ shoulder as he sat in front of his laptop, gently suggesting a different phrasing, a fresher perspective, patiently guiding him through the conclusion, as only a true friend would.  For a brief moment, he could hear Jess’ low voice.  “Yes, that’s it, Marty  … that’s brilliant!”

Marty stopped his daydreaming.  Now he realized that he was making it way too hard.    After all, why put Jess through all of that work when he could just give him the stupid paper?  Instead of spending countless hours trying to get Jess to write it himself, they could share the time to have fun together.  Surely Jess would give him that.  Yes, he may seem a bit distant, a tad dismissive sometimes, but Marty was sure there had to be a sincere and caring person inside that he didn’t show to just anyone.  Jess was apparently under a lot of pressure, and a friend wouldn’t add to it by failing to do him a favor, would he?  Besides, there was likely little time left for Jess to start the paper from scratch if he hadn’t done it yet.  He might even be in danger of failing.  And if he did, Marty felt like he deserved part of the blame.

Quickly Marty picked up his books and raced back to his room.   He turned on his computer and searched through his file directory until he found the paper.  He’d simply copy it on to a disk and slip it under Jess’ door.  Maybe with a short note.  Or better yet, let me make it really easy for him, he thought.  Change the name, print it out and have the whole thing ready to turn in.  Why waste the poor guy’s time, Marty thought.  Yes, just change the name in the corner.  Martin Dunne.  April 27, 2011.  Jesse McCleary.  April 27, 2011.  No, that was wrong.  Make that 2012.

He printed the ten pages, stapled them together and placed them into a manila envelope, writing Jess’ name on the outside.  He didn’t want to think too hard about what he was doing.  He grabbed an extra sheet of white paper from the printer tray and scribbled on it.  “Sorry I was so stubborn.   After all, what are friends for?  Marty.”

Marty took the back stairs to the fourth floor and crept slowly down the empty corridor to Room 451.   Thankfully, there was no one in the hallway to notice him.  Crouching down in front of the door like a dutiful servant, he started to slide the envelope under the door, when he heard a low voice, then a cool guttural laugh from inside the room.  Was that him inside? 

Perhaps it was better to give it to Jess in person.  As nervous as he felt, he knew he wanted to see him.  Then he could explain to Jess why he’d been so goddam unreasonable before, and why he wanted to make it up to him.  He would personally deliver the gift he had created.  Yes, that would be much, much better, he thought, as he withdrew the corner of the envelope from beneath the door.   He stood there motionless for a moment, unable to bring his hand up to the door.  Marty drew his breath, his knuckles made three short raps, and he quickly stepped back.

Jess flung open the door, obviously quite surprised to see him.  Dressed in a black ribbed muscle shirt and faded jeans, he was still unshaven, but his hair had recently been trimmed. 

“Hi, Jess,” Marty said meekly. He couldn’t quite make eye contact with him. 

Jess said nothing.

“I was just … “  He stopped, praying for Jess to say something.  “I wanted to give you the paper,” he finally said.

“No need,” Jess answered coldly. 

“No, really,” Marty continued.  “I was wrong.  I should have just given it to you in the first place.  Here,” he said, showing him the envelope.  “I even printed it for you.  And put your name on it.”

“Put my name on it?” Jess asked incredulously.  He rubbed his beard as if to hide a smirk.   “You put my name on it?’  Marty picked up the sneer in Jess’ otherwise controlled voice.   He hated standing here, not knowing what to say back. 

“Sure,” Marty finally said, almost proudly, like a waiter who presents the main course that has been prepared exactly the way the customer had requested.  “I want to make this as easy as possible for you, Jess.  Take care of every detail.”

“Why?” Jess asked.  “I mean … Why would you do that?”

“If you’d rather I didn’t, I could –“  Marty stammered.  “ . . . erase it.”

Jess shook his head slowly.  “Listen, Marty boy,” he said, tapping him lightly on the shoulder.  “I don’t need your paper, okay?  I got the situation covered.”

Marty couldn’t tell whether that fogged glaze on Jess’ face was from lack of sleep or simple contempt.  He began to sense that awful creeping pain that always worked through his insides when he thought he was making himself look foolish.  Then he heard a voice from inside the room and looked up.  There was Benny, sitting at Jess’ desk, shirtless, bending over the computer screen intently, his fingers rapidly flying over the keyboard, cursing at his occasional typos.

Jess saw Marty staring at Benny, and stepped out into the hallway, grinning.  “Like I said, the situation’s covered now, Marty.  No need.”

Marty nodded.  He felt angry, too, because Jess didn’t seem to need him anymore.  It wasn’t fair that he had lost this chance.   It just wasn’t.   As he listened to the pitiful whining in his head, he began to think of himself as even more pathetic than before.  Slowly he started to back away.

“Unless . . .” Jess added.  “Unless, of course, you’d like to deliver it for me when Benny’s done.”  Jess leaned forward, staring at Marty intently.  “Would you do that for me, Marty?”   Jess touched his shoulder.  “Would you do pretty much anything for me, Marty?”

Marty backed away from the door.  Halfway down the hall, he ran toward the back stairway.  He yanked the fire door behind him so that he wouldn’t hear any more of Jess’ laughter, peeling like church bells on an Easter Sunday morning.

Martin returned to his dorm from an early morning run.  After he showered and dressed, he sat in the dark, holding the unsealed manila envelope.  Jess’ shameless ridicule of him still seeped heavily into his mind, like the wet drizzle outside.  But he was determined not to let it overtake him.  Not this time.  Not like he had with Ted.  Not while he had other plans.

It had taken only a bit of effort to find out that the name of Jess’ TA was Emily Skelton, and to confirm with her in an anonymous phone call when the final paper for her section was due.  He waited until seven-thirty when Baker Hall was scheduled to open.  He found Skelton’s mailbox outside the history department’s office, a tall stack of envelopes pressed tightly inside.  Quickly he sorted through them until he found the one with the familiar handwriting on the outside.  He carefully opened it and removed the paper inside.  He saw Jess’ name on the title page. 

It took him just a few seconds to swap Jess’ paper for the one he had brought with him.  It was an exact copy of the one he’s written last year that had earned him an A.  Only this time, it had Jess’ name on it.  And the date.  April 27, 2011.  How careless of him.  Almost as careless as leaving his name, Martin Dunne, in the footer at the bottom of each page.  He resealed the envelope and pushed it into the stack with the others, and quietly left.

Marty never bothered to read Jess’ paper.  He wasn’t even mildly curious what Buddy had written for him.  He waited until he was back outside in the rain, then stuffed the paper into the trash can outside of Baker Hall, along with all the other saturated waste of life.

1964.

On Tuesday, Sarah took her son eight-year-old Blake to Dr. Felipe, the haughty pediatrician on the fourth floor.  “He hasn’t had the mumps,” she complained to the nurse, a middle-aged woman in a pristine white uniform.

“You’ve brought him here because he isn’t sick?” she asked Sarah.                                     

“If he doesn’t get them now, he’ll get them later,” Sarah told her, nervously touching her orange wool cap. “Like when he’s twenty.  I read he won’t be able to have children.”

The nurse left her desk and went to the back of the office behind the counter.  Sarah watched her talking rapidly, flailing her hands about as she ranted to the calm, antiseptic-looking doctor with the blackest hair Blake had ever seen.  Her hands are too big for a woman, Sarah thought.  She shouldn’t be wearing red nail polish in a doctor’s office.

“I’m afraid you’ll have to come back,” the nurse told Sarah, closing Blake’s chart.  “When he’s really sick –”

“Fine!” Sarah interrupted.  Crusty old bitch, she muttered to herself, as she slammed the door

1967

Blake waited restlessly on the hard plastic chair.  He tried to read his comic book, but the lighting in the hallway was too dim.  He didn’t understand why his mother would make a doctor’s appointment after dinnertime.  He didn’t like this place, and he didn’t think anyone else did either.  The taxi driver who had reluctantly taken the fare complained about coming to “that part of town.”

Finally, his mother came out.  She limped, one hand clutching her stomach, the other wiping a few tears from her tired face.

It wasn’t until he was twenty that Blake figured out what she had done.

1975

Blake had done it once with Fonny, the Italian kid who pumped gas at the Esso station on Howard Avenue.  He regretted his poorly thought-out experiment.  “Should have known he’d give me some shit,” he thought, as he sat in the waiting room of the free clinic.  He had an hour’s wait to deal with his remorse until he was escorted to a small office by a counselor named Ivan in the back.  The room was furnished with two discarded kitchen chairs and a makeshift desk fashioned out of a dismembered door.

Ivan asked him the number of instances of oral copulation in which he had engaged, having recently been trained on the risks of venereal disease transmission through oral sex.  He didn’t believe Blake and asked him twice again. 

“Can I just get the shot?”

“Let me give you these pamphlets to read first,” Ivan said.

1987

Blake held Amanda’s hand while they waited for Dr. Smith to return.  Amanda admired his cherry wood bookcases and ornately carved desk.  A preoccupied man of fifty finally appeared, as if magically transported him from his 10:10 am appointment.

“Pneumonia?” he said, as if they were supposed to decipher the question he was answering.

“We were on vacation in New York,” Blake explained, hoping that if he rambled through enough details, he would eventually answer his question.  “She got unbelievably sick on the second day.  We went to the hospital.  They kept her there for ten days.”  He paused.  “You should see the bills,” he complained.  He sounded like he was expecting the doctor to arrange for a discount.

“How do you feel now?” the doctor asked. 

“I feel bad all the time,” Amanda said.  “Especially at night.  Bad sweats, headaches, so tired.”

A chilly moment of silence passed.  “How long have you been together?”

“Over ten years,” Blake replied.

“And have you been faithful to each other, all that time?”

Amanda sat up, startled.  “What kind of question is that?”

“Of course we have,”  Blake lied.  Amanda squeezed his hand as if agreeing.

“Mrs. Steele?”

“Why, yes.  I’ve never even thought about seeing anyone else.”  Amanda smiled.  “Blake’s always been enough for me.  I was in a car accident only a year after we met.  He never left my side.”

“Car accident?”

“Yes.  A terrible head-on collision.  The man who drove into me didn’t survive.”

The doctor leaned toward her, now quite serious.  “Did you happen to have a blood transfusion?”

2004

Blake stopped at the clinic on his way from the lawyer’s office.  He was overdue for his flu shot.  There had been no vaccine available the year before, due to the contamination, and he had been sick for two weeks.  Not this year.  He fingered the red slip of paper with his number and the consent form he hadn’t bothered to read.

As he waited for his number to be called, he opened the manila envelope his lawyer had mailed to him.  Despite all he had learned from requesting Amanda’s medical records for the useless AIDS lawsuit, it had been a nearly impossible task to obtain his own.

He thumbed through the stiff photocopies of the file from the office of the antiseptic pediatrician with the black hair.  Dr. Felice’s practice had been sold twice and moved three times.  This last bit of Blake’s medical legacy was a hard-earned prize.  He stared at the copy of handwritten notes section of the file cover.

COMMENTS:  Do not ask child about father.  Illegitimate. 

“Number 94?” 

2005

Though he’d avoided check-ups for almost ten years, Blake knew he had to have one before his 49^th birthday.  He had heard too many frightening stories from his middle-aged peers about Colonoscopy@50.  His strategy:  if he got his check-up now, he would avoid having the doctor ask about scheduling the procedure.

He thought he was finished after a short lecture on avoiding sodium and the suggestion that he get a mumps vaccine.     

“I didn’t know there was one.”

“I never mentioned it before?”  The doctor didn’t wait for an answer.  “And of course, next year, you’ll be due for …” He gave Blake a knowing smile.  You-know-what.

Blake put on his tie.  Crusty old bitch.

2015

Inoperable.

2019

COMMENT:  Just keep patient comfortable.