Running Into Trouble Page 2

  Finally, when he thought the itch would bore through his foot, tunnel through his arteries, and commence eating his brain, Hell stood up, grabbed her coat, and walked out the door. As soon as he heard the click of her key in the lock (Hell locked the door out of habit, even though, as far as Eli knew, there’d never been a burglary in the Notch), he sat up in bed, threw off the covers, and scratched his foot until it was streaked with puffy pink lines. Ah, relief. Feeling lighter and less constrained, kind of a little kid finding out that school was unexpectedly cancelled for snow, he got out of bed and headed for the kitchen where, he knew breakfast and a fully-loaded coffee machine were waiting.

  Click. Oh shit. Hell must have forgotten something, and it was too late for Eli to get back into bed. The lightness of a few moments ago was gone. In its place was the dull heaviness of guilt. I am a bad boyfriend, he thought, stepping out of the kitchen to greet Hell.

  “Oh baby, you’re up early,” she said, putting down her briefcase and looking at him with googly I-want-a-hug eyes. Eli reluctantly encircled her with his arms, and Hell latched onto him, running her hands up and down his back and making little cooing sounds. “Did you get a good night’s sleep?”

  “Yeah,” said Eli, trying not sound irritated. “It was fine.”

  “But you seemed so tired, you didn’t even kiss me goodnight.”

  Eli cringed. Although Hell’s voice was bright and teasing, it was, at least in his experience, an imperfect cover for a brittle anger that could easily explode into a hundred sharp little pieces.

  “I was so tired I don’t even remember. But if I didn’t kiss you goodnight, I’m sorry.”

  “Well, you can make up for it now, baby. Let’s have a nice good morning kiss, something I can think about at my dreary, boring job.”

  Hell closed her eyes, tilted her head, and made a fishy-looking kissy face, which filled Eli with fear. He knew that Hell was hoping for a big tongue-involved, pelvis grinding production, the sort of thing they’d stopped doing shortly after moving in together. In fact, it seemed to Eli that she was daring him to kiss her, or face her wrath.

  “Uh, Helen, I haven’t brushed my teeth yet. My breath is pretty foul.”

  Hell’s pale face flushed deeply and her eyes filled with water. “You don’t sound very enthusiastic. It’s like you think kissing me is a chore or something.”

  “No, I don’t think that, it’s just that I, um, I just got out of bed, and I haven’t had any coffee yet. Look, I’ll go brush my teeth right now.”

  “Don’t bother. I’ll see you tonight. Have a nice day not working.”

  Hell slammed the door, and Eli could hear her fumbling to get her key into the lock. He took a long breath and went back to the kitchen, where he pressed the red button on Hell’s high-tech coffee maker and watched it gradually fill with liquid energy. He knew that he should feel worse about this latest fight with Hell, but all he felt was numbness mixed with guilty relief that he hadn’t had to actually kiss her. For some reason, no matter what she looked like or smelled like or acted like, he just didn’t want to touch her. At all.

  At first, he’d thought this was just a natural part of “settling down.” In his experience, it just wasn’t possible to sustain excitement for more than a year or so of togetherness; after that, if you were lucky, it would wax and wane on a more or less random basis. So, to avoid having to reject his girlfriend’s advances, Eli just started going to sleep later and later so that Hell would be dreaming before he even went to bed. Given a little time and space, he figured, things would perk up again. There was no reason to Talk About It, especially since he didn’t have any particular reason for the way he was feeling (or, more to the point, not feeling).

  The problem with this plan was that Hell, who observed Eli’s everyday behavior with an unnervingly close and careful eye, quickly noticed that he was avoiding her at bedtime. And instead of just letting it go, her reaction was to try harder, staying up later whenever Eli decided to watch Letterman, providing an endless stream of forced chatter, and wearing fancy new lacy underwear that, to Eli, looked more scratchy than sexy.

  But, the more Hell tried to make him want her, the more restless, suffocated, and definitely not sexy Eli felt. And the more distant he became, the more insistent she became. Ever so gradually, bedtime became a silent battle of wills. Hell began drinking coffee with dinner so she could stay up until two or three in the morning with Eli. And Eli started going for late night trail runs, ignoring the Forest Rangers’ latest warnings about hungry mountain lions to get away from the girlfriend who seemingly wanted to swallow him whole.

  Pretty soon, this standoff gelled into a way of life that wore away at them both. For Hell, it was like the neutral buffer around her emotions had been shaved down until it was only about a centimeter thick. Her anger was close to the surface all the time, and it tended to burst through for the smallest and most trivial reasons. For Eli, it was like the dumpster in the back of his brain where he shoved all his emotional garbage was getting uncomfortably full. As long as there was still space left in that dumpster, he could remain outwardly clam and rational. But now there was only room for about another month or so of compacted hostility.

  The situation was getting so bad that Eli was rethinking the merits and demerits of having a Talk. The problem, however, was that he had no idea what he would say, other than, “Back off, you're smothering me!”

  If Hell were just some girl he was dating, he would have broken up with her using some clichéd feelings-sparing line like, “I’m just not ready for a serious relationship right now.” Or he might have starved the relationship to death by gradually calling and e-mailing and getting together less frequently.

  But he and Hell weren’t just dating, not at all. Instead, they were symbiotically enmeshed like two Siamese twins sharing a critical blood vessel in the brain. Not only did they live together, but Hell was his life support system. She cooked his food, paid his bills, arranged his workouts, cleaned their house, and generally managed every aspect of his existence.

  Even worse, his social life, which used to revolve around a group of like-minded guys who enjoyed a simple life consisting of running and playing video games and hooking up with tourist girls in the Uvula, was now comprised almost exclusively of couples. All his friends had witnessed his life with Hell—the clean house, the yummy meals, the nice car, the promptly paid bills—and promptly found girlfriends of their own and even (like Scott and Matt, two formerly extreme slackers) regular employment.

  As he drank the strawberry banana smoothie Hell had left for him (made just the way he liked it), Eli considered what, exactly, it would take to actually leave her. First, he thought, there was the matter of money. He still had some cash saved from his win at last year’s Death March, even after he’d paid off every friend who’d ever loaned him money plus all his credit cards. It would be enough to get him a small, cheap room in a crowded house in the “slums” of the Notch, where all the waiters, dishwashers, and other folks who depended on the kindness of tourists were warehoused. Of course, he’d have to get a job and pay rent; the Death March was three months away, and he couldn’t exactly count on winning it. And he’d have to give up his coach (who, he suspected, liked Hell better, anyway).

  Just thinking about the money was enough to make Eli queasy. He decided that he would try to keep things with Hell under control until the Death March, and then, if he won, he could wait a decent interval (like two weeks or maybe a month) and then move out. (If he didn’t win the Death March, he’d have to adopt some sort of incremental plan involving a part time job and saving money gradually.) His priority would be maintaining a peaceful environment. He would be nice to Hell no matter what. He might even force himself to sleep with her more often, if he thought it would calm her down.

  It would be a totally crummy, rotten, evil thing to do, something bad enough to seriously screw up his karma. And, once she no longer had such a stranglehold on his life, then, yeah, he’d almost certain
ly miss her. But he just didn’t know how they could keep going, locked in a battle that could not even be defined.

  After leaving the remains of his breakfast in the sink (he intended to clean up eventually, but Hell would probably wind up getting to it first), Eli put on his running clothes (a mesh blue t-shirt and black shorts) and shoes and stepped outside. For late July, the air was surprisingly brisk, and the sun was an unseasonably icy yellow that suggested a windy afternoon.

  -Helen Kale-

  Oh shit, thought Helen, pulling into the Globus Insurance parking lot, I forgot the dry cleaning, again. Unable to stifle a loud, honking sob, Helen gasped and shuddered as tears gushed from unwilling eyes. She would have to wait in the car until she was composed enough for a sprint to the downstairs Ladies’ room where she could fix her ruined makeup, because nobody wants to see an actuary cry.

  -Eli Hawthorne-

  Eli stood outside the house and evaluated various options for his morning run, an easy 20 miles. He figured he’d take Swooping Hawk through Muddy Bog, climb Puking Peak, and follow the Dangerous Diversion until he reached the old deer skeleton by the abandoned fire station, where he’d cut through several Unnamed Trails to reach the Organic Food Store. Then he’d get some water and some orange juice, and head back home.

  Soon after he started his run, thoughts of Hell began to fade. He started noticing the warmth of the sun on his back, the rustling sounds of birds and other creatures moving in the bushes and the trees, and the occasional passersby.

  “Only fifteen more weeks to the Death March,” said Bob Robertson, a deep brown sinewy man in his fifties whose gangly limbs reminded Eli of Slim Jims.

  “Getting ready for a repeat?” inquired Sue Ellen Dawson, a blonde Texas transplant of indeterminate age who always wore her hair in two high ponytails.

  “Say hello to your better half for me!” called Mickey Hotchkiss, the cherubic business manager of the Death March. He used to work with Hell at Globus Insurance, and they had stayed friendly, even after Mickey had been laid off in one of the giant company’s annual purges.

  Eli knew most everyone he saw on the trails through the Runners and Masochists Club (known informally as the R&M club), which organized the Death March each year. Until he’d met Hell, Eli had used the R&M club as a date farm during the warmer months, when the supply of transient snowboarder chicks in Crawford Notch dried up. He’d managed to attract lots of women, just by being relatively good looking and one of the club’s stronger runners.

  Because Eli never turned down a date (unless the woman asking was a total troll, and there were no female trolls in the R&M club), he’d briefly developed a reputation as a slut, which rapidly dissipated when he started bringing Hell to all the club pub nights, pasta dinners, monthly drunken bashes and other events.

  Hell had never been a regular part of the R&M scene or even a casual runner, so he avoided all the wounded feelings that could have cropped up if he had gotten serious with one of the club girls. Indeed, Hell had become friendly (almost too friendly, for his taste) with some of the women he’d dated. Eli had spent many nervous hours wondering just what, exactly, they were talking about. And then, when he won the Death March, he’d become a local hero, as did Hell, who was credited with providing a heroic degree of support for Eli’s racing efforts.

  As he made his way down the Unnamed Trail number four and a half, he briefly considered how his friends and acquaintances in the R&M club would react if he broke up with Hell. But, before he could get too depressed, Eli found himself in the refreshingly cool air conditioning of the Organic Food Store. He quickly grabbed a large water and a large orange juice, and got into line behind Jennifer Champion, a phenomenally gorgeous, athletic woman who was having an in-depth discussion with a Goth checkout clerk about the comparative virtues of paper and plastic bags.

  -Jennifer Champion-

  “Paper or plastic?” asked the Goth Girl manning the Express Lane at the Organic Food Store.

  Actually, the Goth Girl was Bryony Smyth (also known to parents and school administrators as Bethany Smith), a tall, zaftig nineteen year old girl whose mime-pale skin, dyed black hair, numerous tattoos, and dominatrix-style outfits made her what the local folks in outdoorsy Crawford’s Notch called a Character. People routinely greeted her with a hearty, “Hey, Goth Girl!” that combined amusement (at her clothing choices) with mild contempt (for her more than plump figure, so out of place in the Notch).

  “Plastic,” said Jennifer, who looked at Bryony with mischievous blue eyes the color of pre-washed denim, which contrasted nicely with her pecan-colored skin. In part because she had won the women’s 2004 Death March, and in part because she had a supple, long-limbed beauty, Jennifer was a Crawford’s Notch Celebrity, which was a bit more fun than being a Character, because it often involved free stuff from local merchants.

  “But don’t you know that plastic bags aren’t biodegradable?”

  Jennifer merely shrugged.

  “Don’t you know they’ll wind up oozing toxins in a landfill somewhere…bitch?”

  Several customers turned around. A couple murmured “tell her!” under their breath while others couldn’t believe a checkout clerk had the temerity judge a customer’s bag selection.

  “I still want plastic bags, damn you!” said Jennifer, trying hard not to giggle. “Paper bags kill thousands of innocent trees every day!”

  Back when Jennifer worked at the Organic Food Store as a sub-assistant manager (in the days before her trust fund payments kicked in), she and Bryony had argued the merits and demerits of plastic and paper bags almost every morning. This came about because a surprising number of customers were almost paralyzed by indecision when offered a choice between paper and plastic.

  “Our in-store paper convenience bags are made of 100% recycled paper. When customers choose the paper option, they are not contributing to fresh timber harvests.”

  To punctuate her point, Bryony waved a copy of the three hundred and twenty sixth edition of the Organic Food Store employee handbook (which also contained a similar set of talking points in favor of plastic).

  “Maybe,” said Jennifer, “except that the recycled paper comes from a plant that emits carbon dioxide and contributes to global warming.”

  “Yeah, but the carbon dioxide spewed by the recycling plant is totally cancelled out by the trees that it saves because trees purify the air, sort of like a Britta filter.”

  Bryony smiled. This was a new angle she had learned from her mom’s copy of Scientific American, and she didn’t think Jennifer would be able to answer it.

  “Ahem, ahem.”

  Jennifer turned around and saw Eli, the hottest guy in the R&M club, wearing a smirk on his face that said he was annoyed to be kept waiting in the checkout line, but still happy to see her. Just looking at him caused her to blush from pecan to rosewood, because she knew a lot about Eli from various R&M club women, who often killed time on long runs by describing Eli’s most intimate anatomy in extreme detail, and lamenting that he had decided to “settle down” with Helen Kale, whose unswerving devotion was alternately praised, questioned, and mocked.

  “Oh, um sorry, Eli, didn’t mean to hold you up. Bry and I just always have this conversation, you know, paper versus plastic.”

  “Carry on then, I wouldn’t want to mess with tradition,” said Eli, smiling slowly, as if he were anticipating a delicious dessert.

  “Oh, um, that’s okay,” she said, turning to Bryony, “we’ll pick it up later, we always do.”

  Jennifer rushed to pay Bryony (who gave her a quick wink), opening and closing her wallet several times until she realized that, for some reason, her cash was in the front pocket of her shorts. In the process of all this flailing around, she had managed to drop several old food receipts and a nickel on the floor, all of which she ignored with what she hoped was unforced nonchalance, because she didn’t want Eli to think she was a total spastic dork.

  Relieved to be done with the whole transaction, Jen
nifer hurried into the parking lot, where she took deep breaths to dispel the nervous tightness in her throat. She walked briskly to her car with a hefty gym bag full of groceries (she never used either paper or plastic bags, figuring they were both evil), and marveled at the fact that the crush she’d developed on Eli five years ago still wouldn’t die. Oh well, she thought, at least I don’t make a regular practice of being a complete hormonal idiot.

  After setting her bag on the ground, Jennifer attempted to open the trunk of her decrepit ’92 gold-beige (except for the blue hood) Hyundai. This was a complex process that involved putting the key in the lock, whacking the right rear side of the car three times, and turning the key while applying steady forward pressure. (Her trust fund payments were regular, but not large.)

  “Having a bad day?”