The Running Life

By Steven McCann

Running is a part of our consciousness and subconsciousness all through life. We run as children chasing kites and ice-cream trucks, and run away from irate parents. We run as teenagers in our sports. We run as adults to stay in shape, and as elderly people, we run after toddlers that suddenly escape our protection. We run in nightmares. We run in happy dreams for the exuberance of pure freedom. We run to catch subways, buses and planes. We run to meet our lovers. Our clocks run fast, or slow, and we run late, or early. My running stories capture some of the ways we run. A kindergartener chases his mother for an entire mile, so he can walk her to the grocery store. A high school track athlete runs to win the heart of a classmate. A college coed wakes up late for her final exam and runs frantically across campus to preserve her grade point. Another young woman runs to escape a rapist. An elderly man watches joggers sweep by on a country road from his seat in a wheelchair, holding in his heart all the wonderful miles he once ran himself.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2021
• ISBN: 9781543497892

Steven McCann

Steven McCann is the author of novels, novellas, stories, plays and poems, and a 2021 recipient of a City Artist Corps Grant. He was born in 1948, graduated from Spring Valley High School in New York where he excelled in three sports. He enrolled at the University of Kansas, and later at NYU, majored in English and received a BA. His work experience is varied; nightwatchman at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, hotel detective at the Plaza, home renovator and shipping manager. In 2005 he was stricken with paraplegia and has been wheelchair bound since. He lives in New York City and remains passionate about Central Park, the Shakespeare festival, the Met Museum, Lincoln Center, the opera, and the people of New York.

Book preview

The Red Jacket

Knock…..Knock……Knock…..Trink….Trin.kle….Knock….Trink…..Knock..

Out of the half-light loomed the proud bow of the battleship Arizona, and behind it, like the ragged sail of a clipper ship, the broken venetian blind catching the early autumn breeze from the bottom of the window, rising and falling. For just a few minutes these sounds seemed to echo his suspiring breath and the beating of his heart.

Knock….Knock….Trink….Trin..kle….Knock…..

Suddenly his head and shoulders shot up and turned, to one side, then the other, as quickly as a rabbit lifting its head from a bed of leaves, and listening. Holding that pose for just a second, he seemed to gather his thoughts all in a bundle and throw them on his back. Then he bounded up, spun around, and fully dressed in sneakers, jeans, and a flannel shirt, sprang from the bed.

He was through his doorway without losing stride, then down the hall, and not needing any time to loosen or prepare his body, leapt down the first three steps. Hitting the middle landing with both feet, he spun in a half turn, took the long set of stairs at a scramble, while keeping his balance on the handrail, and leapt again over three steps to the phone landing.

He stopped. In the quiet living room before him, his older sister Mary sat on the sofa, pausing as she turned a page of Black Beauty with a partially eaten apple on her lap.

Where’s Mommie?

She went to the A and P. She just left.

The words were like a starter’s gun to his young muscles. He had two more steps down that gave him enough lift to make it almost to the fireplace in one leap. As he flew past his sister, past the coffee table, lounge chairs, and hutch, he heard her cry out behind him:

She left ten minutes ago! You won’t catch her!

He lunged through the heavy front door, pulling it closed it behind him with a bang. He stopped outside only long enough to measure his next leap, then fearlessly, in two bounds, he took the five brick steps. He cut across through the garden, down the front of the lawn, and off the four-foot high front wall, that he bent down on to negotiate. He raced to the middle of the street where not a soul stirred in any direction, no person, pet, car, or plane. In the stillness, standing in the middle of the street, he searched feverishly in the far offing, and all the way at the end of the block, smaller than a ten-cent piece held at arm’s length, a swatch of red appeared. As he stood frozen, not even blinking an eye, the tiny swatch of red moved steadily to the left and disappeared.

Again, he ran, but this time his running had a sobriety to it. He ran to the far sidewalk, and then began his tedious marathon. He could not look up steadily, because the sidewalk lay in uneven concrete slabs that would catch his sneakers and cause him to bruise his knees, which were already covered with scabs. Occasionally parked cars veered into view, hedges and picket fences.

Neighbors’ homes passed as swiftly as images in a dream; the Knowles’ whose father was a fireman with two teenage boys who played catch in the street, Mister Knowles who always gave him a stick of gum when he came to talk with his father; the Donovan’s who did not have children of their own and took the train every day in Sunday clothes and made wine from grapes grown in their backyard; Misses Polesky who grew tomatoes in the summertime that she brought to his mother; and Mister Sanders who drove the bulldozer he kept in the lot beside his bungalow house that he used to help the city shovel snow in the wintertime. But after Mister Sanders, he suddenly entered unknown territory that he’d only passed in the back seat of his father’s station wagon and in the school bus he took home from kindergarten. It was land he passed through with foreboding. There was the red brick house with the perfectly cared for lawn in front that had a flagpole, but no people in it; then the house always under construction, but never finished, that had been vandalized by older boys; then the house with the chain linked fence in front and a small terrier behind it that now ran frantically yelping at his heels along the other side.

When he looked straight ahead, a car passed quickly from one corner to the other, and the distance he’d already traveled surprised and excited him. His side was hurting and he felt dizzy. Should he turn back? But the corner where she disappeared got closer. He reached the hedgerow of the last house, as high as his father’s head. He heard manual hedge clippers chopping on the other side, then suddenly, a dog, bigger, with ferocious barks.

Quiet King! Shouted the dog owner, pausing in his hedge cutting. The dog sent shivers down his spine and made him run faster. He made it to the corner, looked to his left, and saw a street that descended very slightly on a long gradual slope with large trees on both sides sending out tree limbs overhead that blocked the distance. Breathing heavily, his face red with the effort, he moved partially into the street, searching the offing once more. Sure enough, he saw the swatch of red, hardly bigger than when he’d spied it previously, moving on the right side of the road, and suddenly disappearing behind the overhanging, lush greenery of tree limbs.

He crossed the road in a scamper and started to run again. It was hardly a sprint, although it was as fast as he could possibly go, an exhausted sprint, maybe. But there was a reward for his efforts. He was running on the side of the street instead of the sidewalk, and he could now look up, not having to worry about catching his feet on the uneven paving stones. What he saw were the bobbing up and down tree limbs, giving him a greater view of the distance for every minute of running. Yet each minute now cost him, in pain and ache, his side stitch hurting him so badly that several times he reached down to rub it as he ran. Another dog leaped out from somewhere, only to stop at his owner’s boundary and race back and forth across the edge. But he didn’t have time enough or strength enough now even to look. If he should be bitten by a rabid dog and die before he reached his goal, so be it. He only knew one thing now, the swatch of red, somewhere in the distance.

The overhanging branches suddenly moved up and back out of his view. With consternation he saw only emptiness; a barren road, a distant house on one side, woods on the other. But suddenly, and his heart leapt into his throat, it appeared, coming from behind a parked car. It was bigger this time, maybe as big as the half-dollar he had in the drawer under the battleship Arizona. But his pain was bigger, too. Was he going to die? He could not turn back, because he might not even make it home walking. He was an explorer in a new world, not waiting to be brought there by grown-ups. He must get close enough to yell. Yet he could hardly breath, much less gather enough air to yell. He sprinted instead, that is, he lifted his exhausted legs and churned his exhausted arms.

There was one great advantage now and that was his mother’s itinerary that did not turn off to the right or left anymore. The road remained clear with only a slow, long curve that didn’t erase her from view. She was a fearless walker, probably moving faster than any man, much faster than his father. It had been a reckless move on his part to think he could overtake her. But his life was caught in the gamble, and he ran with fear as much as with love.

When the whole world became blurry and gray and he felt he really was dying, her shape began to grow larger. He saw her arms swinging to the sides, he saw her heals kick up in back, and her blond hair, kept in a twist, bounce between her shoulders. He saw the folds of her corduroy red jacket that fit snugly around her waist, as well as her pleated plaid skirt, that came down to her knees. He stopped and tried to yell, but no air came out. Then:

Mommie!

But she didn’t hear him, so he picked up his legs and ran again. He thought he would never run again, if he could now simply reach his goal. Better to be fat like Lawrence in his kindergarten class. He ran until she was the distance of their front yard on both sides of the house.

Mommie!

She stopped, but did not turn at once.

Mommie!

Then she did turn. She put one hand up to her forehead as if she were just remembering something very important that had escaped her.

Eugene! What in the world—What are you doing here?

He ran the rest of the way, almost collapsing ten feet in front of her.

How did you get here?

I fol—lowed you.

You ran all that way? It must be almost a mile!

Yes, I did. You’re a fast walker.

My Lord! Well, I can’t walk back with you, or we’ll have no dinner. Do you think you can walk with me to the A and P and back?

Yes, only I can’t run, anymore.

I should say. Well, I’ll go slow at first. But you’ll have to keep up after that.

Can we stop at the store with the model ships?

I don’t think, today, Eugene. Well, maybe, just for a bit. My! That was some run! I know what, we’ll stop to get an ice cream cone in the pharmacy. How would that be?

Any flavor I want?

Any flavor as long as it won’t ruin your appetite for dinner.

It won’t.

Okay, are you ready?

Yes.

He came to just above her waist, their blond heads contrasting against her red jacket, and as they strode along, Eugene scampered at times to keep up. But he lost his pain and came home not knowing he’d ever had it.

A Narrow Escape

Terry Cullen was big for his age and a precocious athlete. At the schoolyard during summer recess, he played ball with kids two, three, even four years older, holding his own in the basic skills of hitting and catching. All of his friends were older and he even boxed with them, when someone was given boxing gloves as a birthday present. But they hadn’t quite reached puberty yet, when Terry was nine years old, so he didn’t feel at any disadvantage. He certainly didn’t feel any with James Steiger, although James was about to start high school the following September. James was exactly Terry’s size, no stronger, not a bit more agile at climbing trees, not even a shade faster at running a foot race from telephone pole to telephone pole. That is probably why Terry didn’t think James could get him into any trouble. Only the previous autumn James had moved in directly across the street from Terry, a good enough reason for them to be friends.

Late in the afternoon on a hot July day, Terry went over to visit James. Terry had played ball all day, but James was not at the ball field, having stayed home to do chores for his father, a small muscular man who beat him occasionally. James had finished all the mowing, raking, stacking, and digging, and had an hour and a half free time, before his father’s scheduled return from his job as a sheet metal worker. When James led Terry to the water spigot at the side of his house, and took some party balloons from his pocket, Terry didn’t suspect any real danger. James filled the balloons with water, tying their ends, and handed them to Terry.

Hold these.

What for?

I’ll show you later. Hold these.

Terry held three water balloons, while James filled up and tied a fourth, then he took one back from Terry, so they each had two.

Come on.

Where to?

I’ll show you later. Come on.

They headed into the woods behind James’ house to a path that stretched for about half a mile. Terry followed on his heals quietly, wondering what could possibly be their targets with the water balloons, because it didn’t make sense to be carrying them without any reason. Finally, they came out at the back of a construction site, a single-family house that hadn’t been finished, the work halted a few months before. Terry was vaguely familiar with the house, having ridden his bike a few times down that street, only two blocks from the train station. James led him past the side of this unfinished house, to a high mound of dirt on the front of its sloping property. They climbed to the very top of this mound, looking down on the street below, about forty yards distant. Across the street a large man wearing a white T shirt washed his red Ford station wagon, deep in his driveway. When James saw him, he immediately stepped down, so that the top of the mound shielded him from view.

Get down! He might see us.

What for?

Get down!

Terry complied.

What are you gonna do?

You’ll see in a minute.

They stayed hunkered down on their side of the mound, not daring to show our heads. In the distance, Terry heard the commuter train pulling into the station and leaving it.

You hear that? They’re coming home from work.

Mister Jervis and Mister Fenton come home from the city on it.

That’s our street. The people on this street are different. You don’t know them.

Terry began to study the house under construction. Its cedar clapboard siding had been finished, but remained unpainted. The windows and front door had been installed, but the garage door underneath hadn’t.

It’s easy to get inside. You can climb up from the basement, James said, guessing Terry’s thoughts.

You’re not supposed to, though.

Why not? Who’s gonna stop me? Are you chicken?

I ain’t chicken, but what if they catch you?

No one’s ever gonna know I bin there. All I did was piss in it. Cats do that. They piss on the rolls of insulation. Get down! he suddenly hissed at Terry. Terry lowered my head, while James peeked over the top to spy on the street below.

They’re coming.

Terry kept his eyes on the house under construction, wondering why the carpenters had stopped and left it for so long. He must have been thinking about it for a while, because the next time James uttered a word, it was an urgent demand. He stepped back to get better footing, then heaved the water balloons in long lobs down onto the street, laughing as he did so.

Give me those!

He took one of Terry’s and threw it. With the last water balloon in his hands, Terry peeked over the top and saw several distraught commuters on the far sidewalk looking up at him in surprise. When he glanced back, James was already running away to hide behind the corner of the unfinished house. Terry dropped the last balloon, splashing it at his feet, then scampered to catch up to James.

They hid behind the house for about a minute, poking their heads out. Suddenly, they saw the tall broad-shouldered man in the white T shirt standing at the top of the dirt mound. James pulled his head back and started to run, turning onto a path into the woods. Terry lingered, perhaps to proclaim his innocence. But when the man in the white T shirt saw him and started down the slope, he turned and ran, knowing that the circumstantial evidence against him was too great. Up ahead, stumbling along the wooded path ran James, still unable to control his laughter.

Terry caught up with James and ran behind him. The path was too narrow for Terry to pass, and too bumpy and shrub strewn to get up full speed. James snapped branches back against Terry’s chest, slowing him down. But Terry didn’t sense any grave danger, not believing a grown-up man would chase two kids through the woods. When the path forked in two directions, he veered to the right, leaving James on the wider, straighter path, a slower runner and the likelier one to get caught. James continued laughing, his shoulders shaking clumsily as he ran. Terry ran his way, thinking he was safe.

He ran for fifty yards, into the densest part of the woods. Before he could stop, hide behind some brush and catch his breath, he looked over his shoulder, and in that instant, he got the scare of his life. The very large man in the white T shirt was right on his tail, so close he could have tackled him with a dive forward. Terry saw his cut-off jeans, his white socks, his construction boots, and his furrowed brow and face contorted in anger. Without any people around them in that wilderness, the man could beat him to death and leave his body to decompose. Terry sprang into low gear, his heart pounding into his eardrums, legs and arms thrashing past any brush in his path. A nine-year old scared enough, can outrun any grown-up on earth. Terry was that kind of scared.

He didn’t dare look back again, knowing he could lose a step. He was ready to squirm and twist free, if the man caught a piece of his shoulder. He heard the man gasp and grunt and his boots crushing leaves only a shadow behind. A fallen log appeared and Terry jumped over it, ducking a low branch. Suddenly he saw daylight, the opening of someone’s backyard stretching into the woods. He saw the back of a house he didn’t recognize, and in sheer fright, he veered off to his left to cross this backyard and head past the side of the house, to what he thought must be a street out in front. In the middle of a street with other grown-ups nearby, he couldn’t be beaten to death, or so he told himself.

He sprinted into the backyard, heavily shaded by trees and without any fencing, and caught a glimpse of a dog house to his left. But he was already too scared for dogs to pose a problem. I can outrun him, he thought, in this dash for his life. A chain rattled and an enormous German shepherd lunged at him, filling the air with a gust of vicious barking. Terry fell. The German shepherd lunged down at his prostrate body, jaws fully opened, saliva covering his canines, his muzzle and eyes contorted in sudden frenzy, his jaws coming to an arm’s length from Terry. Then in a flash, the dog shot backward and away, the chain yanking him back, and giving Terry space enough to get to his feet and run again. But Terry knew he might break the chain at his next lunge. Hearing a torrent of barking behind him, knowing he might get killed by a man chasing him, or a German shepherd, or a home owner shooting him for trespassing, he sprinted past the side of this house, up a set of wooden stairs, and out onto the middle of a street. Beeping traffic would have been welcome, but he didn’t see any. With his heart pounding and gasping for air, he looked up and down the strange street, seeing only a few houses far in the distance. Then he sprinted again, into the brush and the woods on the other side.

He ran through briars that cut his legs and underneath low-lying branches, and came out onto a stream bed. He jumped the low stream, one foot landing in the middle, the cold water soaking up to his ankle, and dove behind a large rock on the other side. With the dense woods surrounding him and the rock to shield him from view, he crouched low, heart and lungs pounding to bursting, blood throbbing against his temples, and looked to see if anyone was following. He stayed there for almost ten minutes, until he felt the coast was safe, then began slowly walking through the woods he’d just entered.

He followed the winding stream through a tunnel underneath a road and then into woods again. It took some time to get his whereabouts. The backs of people’s houses and properties from the woods, looked so different than seeing them from the front road passing on his bike. But gradually he made his way. Luckily, there were no more dogs to get past. He climbed several fences, crossed half a dozen backyards, and came to the back of a house two houses down from James Steiger’s, at an angle across the street from his own house. It was the property of the elderly Howard couple who lived alone and rarely went out. He slipped past their garage and the side of their house, and crouched down behind tall front hedges to reconnoiter his street. Suddenly, he got the third big scare of his life, one that almost made him give up. A red Ford station wagon was parked in front of his house, and the large man in the white T shirt stepped out from his front door, exchanging a word with his father. Then the man walked down their steps, got into his station wagon and drove off. Terry’s father closed the door, without seeing him as he lay behind the hedges in the Howard’s front yard.

What is a nine-year old to do when it looks like the world is against him? He was too tired, too hungry, too cut up, his legs and arms covered with scratches, and too splattered with mud from the stream bed to run away from home. So, with his head hung low between his slender shoulders, he stood up, crossed the street, slowly climbed their steps, and entered his house.

His father didn’t hit him, but he did a lot of shouting. Don’t you know you can cause an accident, if you hit a car with a water balloon? Didn’t you know those were grown-up men you were throwing at? Terry tried not to make excuses and didn’t mention James Steiger. But his father knew.

Stay away from that kid. He’s nothin but trouble.

Terry took his father’s word for it. He stayed away from James from that point on, unless James was at the ball field with other kids. That was rare, because James didn’t have much interest in sports. James attended a vocational high school the following September and was caught by the cops