by Max Mauney

Me & Ted: Selected Short Stories of Self-Loathing v.1

Last stretch of the run.

As Caleb approached the rotting hollow pine, he knew it would only take him about 3 ½ minutes to reach the end of the trail. He dialed his mp3 player over the song. He always ended his run with the same song. It had a fast tempo. It helped him keep the pace up. Great for sprinting. Burning lots of calories. Ted Leo – or any of the Pharmacists, for that matter – would be appalled if he knew how the song was being used. The irony was not lost on Caleb.

As I was walking through a life one morning …

Later, he will hop on the computer to calculate his pace, to determine the calories used, and to gauge the next day’s meals. Any excess will just be that much more to work off later. Gotta make sure you don’t over do it. Most guys don’t usually worry about such things, but Caleb did. That irony was not lost on him either.

Do you believe in something beautiful? Then get up and be it.

He liked this path; it was narrow but paved. The trail was mostly used by cyclists, which suited Caleb even better. Those lean, hairless pretty boys could blow past him before he had time to fixate. He would meet the occasional speed walker, but he could slowly overtake them and be alone again. Few runners used the path. Those who did run the trail easily passed him. Caleb told friends that he went for runs, but that was a generous description of what he did. His activity was more like a jog; in actuality, it was a lumbering trot.

I see it in your eyes. I know how hard you try.

“Does anyone know how hard I try?” he asked himself. Certainly, none of the twenty-somethings at work had any idea. Young and active, they had good exercise habits instilled in them at an early age. Not Caleb. He fought the middle-aged spread vehemently, and he had to force himself into the battle every time. Whenever the twenty-year-olds spoke of sports and exercise regimens, they would ask, “Hey, Cal! What kind of exercise do you do? Do you run? Go to a gym?”
Caleb always scoffed and retorted, “The only time I run is when I’m being chased.”
This was usually followed by, “And it’s Caleb, not Cal.” Those last words went unheard; his coworkers’ attention seemed to fade just as their polite chuckles had.
“Damn, pretty boys.” Spittle flew from his lips as he popped the P sound.

Who was he running from now? Himself? His coworkers? Their mocking laughter? The myriad of voices and thoughts running through his head? Once again, Life was teaching Caleb a lesson. Life always sought to teach him the same lesson: never say never. Every time Caleb declared he would do this or could never do that, he invariably ate his words. Case in point … he now runs. The irony was not lost on him.

Sick to death of my dependence, fighting food to find transcendence. Fighting to survive, more dead but more alive.

Picking up the pace now. His feet slam against the asphalt. He labors for breath. He runs to escape. He runs to escape his immense dissatisfaction with himself … his life … his coworkers … their mockery … the myriad of thoughts bounding through his head. As always, he ignores the knowledge that soon the music and the trail will end. His only thoughts are of the moment. Pushing himself. Posture. Stride. Suppressing the urge to faint or vomit. Ignoring the dizziness.

And even the nights, they could get better.

The song ends. The trail ends. His feet pound as they slow from a run to a trot to a walk. Literally, he is back where he started. Gasping for air and sweat streaming down his face, Caleb plods towards the nondescript white sedan. He collapses into the driver’s seat and Reality begins to wash over him. The very adjectives he has been running from slowly envelope him: depressed, discontent, devalued, demoralized … Yet, these feelings are comfortable and familiar. These same emotions will bring him back to the trail tomorrow. He will try to escape them; he will hope to banish them. For now, they offer him solace.

That irony is not lost on Caleb.