Oliver's Story

I ran.

When I left the doctor's office I felt much more angry and confused than when I had begun. And thus the only therapy for therapy seemed to be running hard in Central Park. Since our chance reunion I had managed to con Simpson into working out with me. So whenever hospital commitments gave him time, we'd meet and circumambulate the reservoir.

Happily, he never asked me if I ever followed up with Miss Joanna Stein. Did she ever tell him?

Had she diagnosed me too? Anyway, the subject was conspicuously absent from our dialogues.

Frankly, I think Steve was satisfied that I was talking to humanity again. I never bullshit with my friends and so I told him I had started seeing a psychiatrist, I didn't offer details and he didn't ask.

This afternoon, my session with the doctor had me very agitated and unwittingly I ran too fast for Steve. After just a single lap, he had to stop.

'Hey, man, you go this one alone,' he puffed. 'I'll pick you up on number three.'

I was pretty tired too, and so I slowly jogged to get my own breath back. Nonetheless, I trotted by some of the many athletes who appear at eventide in multicolored, multiformed and multipaced variety. Of course the New York club guys would go by me like a shot. And all the high school studs could dust me off. But even when I jogged I did my share of passing: senior citizens, fat ladies and most children under twelve.

Now I was flagging and my vision slightly blurred. Sweat got in my eyes and all I vaguely could perceive of those I passed was shape and size and color of their plumage. Hence I can't accurately say just who was running to and fro. Until the incident I now relate.

A form was visible some eighty yards ahead of me, the sweatsuit blue Adidas (i.e., quite expensive) and the pace respectable. I'll groove along and gradually pick off this … girl? Or else a slender boy with long blond hair.

I didn't gain, so I accelerated toward the blue Adidas. It took twenty seconds to get close. Indeed, it was a girl. Or else a guy with a fantastic ass — and I would have another issue to discuss with Dr London. But no, as I drew nearer still, I definitely saw a slender lady whose blond tresses were a-blowing in the wind. Okay, Barrett, make like you're Bob Hayes and pass this runner with panache.

I revved up, shifted gears and gracefully gunned by. Now on to newer challenges. Up ahead I recognized that burly opera singer whom I regularly took in stride. Mr Baritone, you're Oliver's next victim.

Then a figure passed me in a flash of blue. It had to be a sprinter from the Millrose Club. But no.

The azure form was that same nylon-packaged female whom I'd calculated to be twenty yards behind me. But now she was ahead again. Perhaps it was some new phenom I should have read about. I shifted gears again to get another look. It wasn't easy. I was tired, she was going pretty well. I caught up at last. Her front was even nicer than her back.

'Hey — are you some champion?' I inquired.

'Why do you ask?' she said, not very out of breath.

'You went right by me like a shot … '

'You weren't going all that fast,' she answered.

Hey, was that supposed to be an insult? Who the hell was she?

'Hey, was that supposed to be an insult?'

'Only if you've got a fragile ego,' she replied.

Although my confidence is shatterproof, I nonetheless was pissed.

'You're pretty cocky,' I replied.

'Was that supposed to be an insult?' she inquired.

'It was,' I said. Not masking it, as she did.

'Would you rather run alone?' she asked.

'I would,' I said.

'Okay,' she said. And sprinted suddenly ahead. Now she was smoking — obviously just a ploy — but I was damned if I'd be bluffed. Acceleration now took total effort. But I caught her.

'Hi.'

'I thought you wanted solitude,' she said.

Breath was short and hence the dialogue was likewise.

'What team do you run for?'

'None,' she said. 'I only run to help my tennis.'

'Ah, the total jock,' I said, deliberately to slight her femininity.

'Yes,' she said demurely. 'And yourself, are you the total prick?'

How to deal with this, especially when straining to keep running at her pace?

'Yes,' I managed. Which in retrospect was just about the wisest thing I could have said. 'How's your tennis, anyway?'

'You wouldn't want to play me.'

'Yes I would.'

'You would?' she said. And slowed — thank God — to walk.

'Tomorrow?'

'Sure,' I puffed.

'At six? The Gotham Tennis Club on Ninety-fourth and First.'

'I work till six,' I said. 'How's seven?'

'No, I meant the morning,' she replied.

'Six a.m.? Who plays at six a.m.?' I said.

'We do — unless you chicken out,' she answered.

'Oh, not at all,' I said, regaining breath and wit near simultaneously.

She smiled at that. She had a lot of teeth.

'That's fine. The court's reserved for Marcie Nash — who, by the way, is me.'

And then she offered me her hand. To shake, not to kiss, of course. Unlike what I had readied for, she didn't have a jock-like, crushing grip. It was normal. Even delicate.

'And may I know your name?' she said.

I thought I'd be a trifle jocular.

'Gonzales, madam. Pancho B. Gonzales.'

'Oh,' she said, 'I knew it wasn't Speedy Gonzales.'

'No,' I said, surprised she'd heard about the legendary Speedy, the protagonist of many filthy jokes in many filthy locker rooms.

'Okay, Pancho, six a.m. But don't forget to bring your ass.'

'Why?' I queried.

'Naturally,' she said, 'so I can whip it.'

I could counter that.

'Of course. And naturally, you'll bring the balls?'

'Of course,' she said. 'A lady in New York is lost without them.'

With that she ran off at a sprint that Jesse Owens would have envied.