|
The Summer of Our Unemployment
The sun rises and treads overhead, a 45-degree angle devastating the bedroom in brightness. It’s hot in here. The air conditioner is off. There’s the electric bill to think about. Also, the environment.
On the earliest mornings and the coolest afternoons, we run. Five of us. Heart-healthy individuals. Sometimes there’s a sixth runner. Sometimes he temps instead.
Our six-mile loop is beautiful. Beautiful and urban. On our right, the river splays itself between shorelines, a dark finger rippling below marvelous bridges—feats of engineering, genius, industry.
We pick each other up along the running route without stopping. The next person stretches at the corner, waiting to join the cluster. He pushes off as we jog past, weaving into the crowd. To say hello, we salute or wave.
One runner wears only a sports bra and shorts, another a hand-me-down T-shirt from someone else’s middle school. Two wear wife-beaters—one in black and one in white—and matching sweatbands.
Our feet fall hardest in the beginning. Our muscles, tight and stiff. Our knee joints resist loosening. They were happier resting on the coffee table. They do not appreciate all this flexing and contracting. They are doing all the work.
To drown out the naysayers under our skin, we make conversation. We talk about the changing real estate landscape. The land around us sprouts high-rises in different phases of construction. Concrete skeletons rise 20 stories high. In a massive lot to our left, a tractor sits unattended along the slope of a 15-foot dirt pyramid. Farther off, a glass fitter hoisting a translucent blue window christens the 50th floor of an apartment building.
There are luxury condos named by location—“1 Main St.” located at 1 Main St., address as destination—and luxury condos named by off rhymes. Most have names that evoke water. The residents without the view tell friends and family: “It’s on the canal. You can see it from the apartment across the hall.”
We guess at the maintenance costs, what the amenities might include. Someone prophesizes a future filled with vagrants populating the abandoned floors. The grim futuristic vision reminds another of an article about exurbs—“The Next Slum.” The reference is well received. We bob our heads in agreement as we bob forward on our heels.
Could we be the ones to enjoy the rooftop margarita bar, before it all becomes “Blade Runner”?
The clouds cast immense shadows on the river. The air is unseasonably cool. We talk about the nice weather. Then we talk about how bad the weather’s been.
We look so good in our running clothes. Fit and trim. Degree-d. Fun-loving but thoughtful. Laid back but frugal. Mature but youthful.
You would want to know us. We travel. We read the newspaper. We drinks lots of water.
***
Can you blame us? We like it sometimes. The leisurely pace of the run. The waking up early with nothing to do. Someone sent an email at 7:15 a.m. How ambitious, the rest of us thought. We felt guilty for forgetting to set the alarm. We felt guilty for the alarm not mattering at all.
The email said, “Run at 10?” Maybe. We’ll see how breakfast goes.
The days of the week still count. We make them count. Weekends are for bagels. Weekdays are for running.
We experiment with our coffee-making technique. We call the cable company and negotiate a lower rate. We read more newspapers. We watch Rachael Ray at one and Rachel Maddow at nine.
Our apartments have never been cleaner.
***
After 10 minutes our muscles warm. Our joints loose, oiled. Our heels hit the ground lightly, with the grace of five modern dancers. Our footfalls rhythmic, but not uniform. The pace quickens. The blood pumps to all our extremities. A perfect circuit.
We are primal. Running by natural design. Winners. We do not need to see the finish line. We feel our success. Our ability. Our worth. It runs through our bones. It pumps through our arms and legs. Pumping the ground as we fly by. Passing the parked cars and the playground. Pounding the concrete. Avoiding the hypotenuse. Taking the long route across the parking lot.
We are the lucky ones. We regret nothing.
We remind each other of a funny thing that happened in college. We remind each other of a funny thing we said last week. We remind each other how nice this is.
***
After five more minutes our legs strain, heavy with weight, movement, burdened once again. We reposition. Leaning forward to relieve lower back ache. We take longer breaths between our words. We speak less. We try to remember if the loop is six miles or 6.5.
We have seen this skyline before. Run past it on our right and our left for variety. We have seen the barges and the wharf, the commuter ferries and the tour boats.
The sun emerges from behind a cloud. We keep our eyes out of its direct path. We do not want early crow’s feet.
***
We sense our ambition. It’s back at home somewhere. Buried under the dirty laundry or tucked in behind the DVDs. At the back of the fridge with the expired yogurt. We’ll find it soon. There are extenuating circumstances. Economic contexts. We are not to blame.
Except for the graduate students. And the one who was about to quit anyway. Five, sometimes six, running along on a Tuesday morning. A 20-something, 30-something spread. In our prime. We look great. We feel great. We will be great.
Or fine. We will be fine.
Our portable coffee mugs are on hand. We are ready. We wait.
***
At the halfway point of our route, there is no sense backtracking. It’s the same distance backwards and forwards. Maybe we should have turned around earlier. We blew our adrenaline during mile three. It was a great mile.
We turn the corner and see the water fountain beside the canal outlet, the river’s edge.
We stop to catch our breath. Rehydrate. Stretch. What’s the rush?
Some of us think about how nice it would be to walk the final miles. To saunter along the river promenade. To feel the cells of our skin drinking the morning sun. Our little slice of photosynthesis.
We would stop to lean against the railing along the pier, gawking at the sailboats and motor boats.
We would cross our arms and rest them against the cool metal at the water’s manmade edge. We would watch the quiet water traffic. We would not think about who would be the first to say, “Let’s go.” Or who, without speaking, would start moving the crowd forward, back toward homes.
Our water break is over. Already one of us bobs her legs, keeping her momentum. Others follow. One person pushes off with his right heel and comes back down with his left. And then the next person. We do not lean against the railing. We do not gawk at the sailboats. We leave, one by one.
Running. The least we can do.
***
Along the pier, men fish. Catch and release. Hispanic and black, mostly. Vietnamese. They stand next to coolers filled with tackle. Some of them bring camping chairs. They set themselves down for the day.
We talk about The Others. We love The Others. The Others’ languages, colors, countries. On rainy days, we visit the Indian-district lunch buffet. We get chais at the snack shop next door. They make it fresh.
The laid-off Mexican day workers remind us of our own good fortune. They don’t get paid by the Department of Labor for reading the Craigslist job postings.
We freelance when we can. We start and abandon blogs. We research airline tickets.
We take nothing for granted. We appreciate our own decent straits.
It does not feel extraordinary, this group run. We talk about the National Climate, but we look at each other.
Five men and women between 26 and 34. The median push 30. The median run an 8.5 minute mile. The median are in relationships. The median buy food at the farmer’s market.
No lawyers. No bankers. No cobblers or bakers.
A lot of higher degrees. A few of us would like to get into solar paneling, or windmills. No pharma reps.
Someone rolls an ankle. We make jokes about our varying health insurance coverage.
***
We discuss a road trip. To Montreal perhaps or Savannah. It’s hard to know what to think of this road trip idea. So much paralyzed adulthood pickled in the car. Where would we put our oversized camping backpacks?
We would rather focus on the days at hand. Monday to Tuesday. Tuesday to Wednesday. We create spontaneous to-do lists.
On bad days, we think about the money we would save living in Ashville. On good days, we discuss opening a food truck.
***
We approach the end of the pier. From here there are two options—turn left and begin the final miles home, turn right and continue along the water, past the abandoned railyard and along the reclaimed barges.
The back of the pack watches the feet of the front runner. Her toes angle right, and we sigh. An extra half mile. How ambitious.
***
Sometimes, in the afternoon, we shop together. It is so fun. The supermarket overcharges us for hummus. We speak to the store manager. We get our refund. We have time. We’ll wait.
On the way home, we spot two women seated at the outdoor table of the brick oven pizzeria. They are halfway through their bottle of red wine.
We wonder if they are former bankers, recently laid off. Or perhaps they are still on payroll. They woke up this morning to a glorious day. They called in sick from their separate stainless-steel appointed apartments. They watched the morning talk shows in their fine silk pajamas. Maybe they are stay-at-home moms celebrating after a vigorous midday Bikram workout. Their children, angels to behold. Could they be the hippest lesbian couple in town? Successful artists. Work hard, play hard.
They look like live versions of the men and women in the luxury condo ad: “The dream worth living.” Their mouths move with animation. They are having a great day. Cheers!
We pass them on the opposite sidewalk. We carry the weekly discounts home from the supermarket in reusable green bags. The heavy cans pull down each shoulder. We try to equalize the strain on either side. Roll the shoulders back. Chest forward. Tight core. Good posture.
For a moment we are quiet, wondering what we will talk about next. Talking about these women will be our last resort.
We struggle with grocery bags. We earn our usefulness through small things.
***
We run the distance along the barges faster than expected. The front runner was right to push us further than we wished to go. The path is shorter than we remember. We lengthen our strides, showing off for the tourists gathered at the water’s edge. We concentrate on our form. We fan out in a line and dodge among the denser crowd.
The extra challenge. The extra half mile. We do it.
***
During the lazy afternoon hours, some of us babysit the neighborhood animals. We like to be with domesticated animals. They do no think about their schedule. They do not self-deprecate about their daily productivity. They do not wonder about their passion. They do not consider taking the LSATs.
There are a lot of prosperous-looking people walking dogs at noon. We wonder about their day. Do they wonder about ours?
The couple among us clocks the most miles run per week. When they are not running, they are at home. Together.
It’s good they have a cat.
***
We run along the northern canal and back out toward the street. There are people aboard a docked yacht. They play music. They sun bathe. They name their boat something silly, and they are not ashamed. If we had a yacht, we would sail it out to sea.
We run inland now. The ground momentarily changes from concrete to gravel. It crunches below our heels.
There are no trees here, or water. There is an old factory-style building. We do not know if it is abandoned. Up ahead we see the hospital. The first business as we reemerge into the streetscape.
We hate this stretch. The almost-home stretch. The hospital is farther than it looks. Without trees or high rises to obscure the horizon, the hospital remains in our eyeline. One long, hateful block.
The hospital is expanding. A construction crew lays parking deck beams.
We consider looking into health care jobs. A growth industry. It’s not the career path we envisioned—blood, illness, fat people. But we could make a go of it. Perhaps.
We do not look into health care jobs.
We keep in motion at the red light, lifting our knees, jogging in place. We take deep breaths. The light turns green. The hospital recedes.
***
On the final leg, we run past the diner, the brownstones, the sushi place. Our faces flush and wet with sweat. We quicken our stride for the final push. We sprint past the Puerto Rican women on their stoop. They yell something. We run too fast. Their words are lost behind us. No breath left for a friendly rejoinder.
We sprint the final block. We come around the final corner in succession. We run faster. We pump our arms higher. Our footfalls hit the concrete hard. We are filled with self-satisfaction and relief.
Our strides slow. Our footfalls soften. Long huffs. We walk up and down the block, catching our breath, hands along our hips. Someone takes out a sweaty dollar bill from his shoe. He buys Gatorade at the mini mart and passes it around.
We amble outside the nearest home of one of our runners. Three flights up there is an apartment where we could spend our afternoon together.
“Did you guys want to have some tea or something?” someone asks, as if it is someone else’s suggestion.
Tea is a good beverage for the day. We wouldn’t drink beer. Not on a Tuesday or Thursday, midday. That would be so undergraduate. So Sunday afternoon. It’s not football season yet.
We stretch by the stoop, thinking about the afternoon hours and the possibility of tea. Up on the fourth floor, we’d sit down along the white Ikea couch and make conversation.
It wouldn’t be like running. No labored breath. Our heads bent down, trained on the ground ahead, watching our feet rise and fall. Raising our eyes to take in the landscape. Looking forward and seeing the backs of the runners ahead.
Upstairs, we’d sit in a semi-circle and see only each other, still a bit flushed. We’d watch each other’s hours unfurling—our mutual availability, our aimless afternoons.
We’d tell each other admiring, tongue-in-cheek, befuddled stories about rich, successful people we know. We’d speak ruefully about recent business school grads whose monthly loans top two thousand. We’d imagine their dry-clean only suits hanging unworn in closets. We’d laugh. We’d become quiet.
Suits do not hang unworn in our closets. Suits do not hang in our closets at all.
We do not have credit card bills we cannot pay. We do not have rents we cannot afford. We are prudent, within our means, for now.
We continue stretching, drinking Gatorade, passing time. We’d like to go upstairs. We’d like to avoid our homes.
At home, we witness our lost hours tick by in the upper right hand sand of our laptop screens. We refresh the online news site, Facebook, whatever. The websites are a cliche.
We no longer read the day’s editorials from start to finish. The headlines say enough.
We wonder who will be the first to leave us. We wonder who will be the next to join us. We could almost imagine ourselves continuing like this. Never marrying. Never aging. Never working. Running.
Maybe this time is precious. Maybe we should savor it. Maybe we’re the lucky ones.
We reconsider going upstairs. We might make plans for a trip to the supermarket. We might make plans for an afternoon movie. The movie sounds like a good idea, though not in this beautiful weather. It’s against the rules. The rules are essential.
We do not go upstairs. We keep the same secret. We guard each other from the story of our days. In our respective homes, reading or job hunting or watching Bravo. We do not wish to see our reflection in a friend’s unscheduled hours.
We’re better off parting now, post-run. When we can still speak qualitatively.
Good run. Shitty run. Better run next time.
Return to Volume 5.3
|
