I look behind me and see Tom
Otten’s eyes clamp shut, smiling, his fist is curled pumping up and down. A fellow district manager
congratulating him by slapping him on his back like they are old drinking
buddies. There is a look on joy on his face. Behind my own thick glasses
everything is moving as if it is swallowed inside a fish tank. The sound of
hands pattering together snapped in applause.
I leave my seat and slowly modulate towards the front of the boardroom table.
I leave my seat and slowly modulate towards the front of the boardroom table.
They shepherd the rest of the finalists out of the
boardroom. There are perfunctory handshakes, needled with flashes of
disappointment. I seal my erupting elation. Josh Noel seems to be the first one
to grip my palm up and down in an earnest chomp and say congratulations. David Bradley is second. There is an off
kilter smile found in H. Jonathon
Sterling’s face as he grips my hand. Three-fourths of the finalists have their
plaques tucked under their arms like wings. James Feger grants me a slap on the back. There seems to be
no animosity between any the vying contestants whatsoever. I try not to look at Tom.
Just as I am duly being congratulated by
my competitors Tom is being congratulated by the fellow district
Mangers. Gordon doesn’t offer me a
handshake but is smiling and waves his arm as he is handed his trench coat and
heads for the door. Daniel Walters is smiling looking like he is connected to a
slinky.
Josh Noel points and says that I better go ahead and send
him a postcard when I get to England
since of course, he taught me everything I know.
I smile and nod.
I smile and nod.
“I’ll see you on the track in a couple of months.” Josh says making a shotgun motion with his
finger tips, motioning that his mile now is down to 5:30.
I nod.
“I’ll be there.” I say. I still have yet to look at the oversized winner's
plaque. I am almost universally calm. It’s like some temperature inside my
veins knew the moment I had caroled out the final stanzas of the speech that I
had nailed it. I can’t help but feel a loss for Nathan DeBoard since it is his
second year and I can’t help but commiserate with his loss, knowing that I
was just a simple judges vagary from going home, removing the thick glassy
courts of my spectacles while staring at the bedroom ceiling before the sockets of my
eyes glisten into a gradual pond of loss. Hands are lanced in my vision from
nearly every vector of the room like sabers. I am modest. I thank them. I look
at the winners plaque, trying not to scrutinize it in front of my peers—trying
not to mentally capitulate the fact that after three formative years of trying
to make something happen, three years of failure and of self-discovery, I have
finally crossed the finish line. The voices and accolades and the sprinkles of
bodies drift out from the room and I find myself alone, with Kelli Rude,
Tom and a lady I have never seen before who is some sort of a reporter. I try not
to think about the look in Tom’s face a half-minute earlier when they announced
my name, announced it almost back to back since all of the plaques were in
alphabetical order, I try not to remember looking back and watching Tom get
slapped on the back by a fellow DM, while his eyes fold down like petals into
his own face, his fist rattling in front like a victory gavel, mouthing the
word “yes.”
Still in the conference room I look
down, noticing the instrument to my right.
“Do you mind if I call home first?”
I inquire. There is an almost unanimous nod.
*
“Hey mom,” I say, nonchalantly and swiftly before
stating the third vowel connoting the first person singular pronoun briskly
followed in tempo tandem by the word whose linguistic features connote the
sound of the first known integer, bracketed homonym cosigning triumph,
victory.
*
After I pause and tell her that I
can feel the eyelids of my maternal guardian clasp shut. On the antipodal end
of the phone I can feel her eyes crunching, tithing a tear. I can feel that she
has her hands alighted above her head, elbow stationed above the copse of her
chin while simultaneously cradling the receiver end of the phone into her
shoulder. My mom replies in hosannas. In dual syllables as if brandishing a
palm leaf. She is saying praise the lord.
***
The lady with the clipboard
proceeds to ask me a myriad of rehearsed questions, to which I volley back a
response as best I can, watching as the
dim, brown ambiance of the Journal Star conference room wallows around me as if in a haze.
There is the wafting aromatic scent of stale coffee. The lady who is interviewing me looks as if she has only been out of
college for a few years. She nods her head like a rehearsed buoy at my
responses to her queries and then loops my words into her clip board,
making a ring with her thumb and pointer finger twice and scooping the fabric
of her loose dangling sleeve up to the cap of her elbow. I hold both plaques in
front of me, push the center of my glasses into my face, try not to reminisce
too much about the look on Tom’s face when I won—try not to mentally picture my
God fearing mother perhaps shuffling back errant tears like drips of crystal
near her own nose, thanking God for letting her son win this trip. My mother,
on her knees in devout supplication, in prayer.
***
“Move your head just a little to
the right.” He gesticulates. I debate
taking my glasses off but concede in following
his mandates. The photographer continues to scrunch behind a tri-pod and behind
the photographer Tom is next to Kelli who is reeling the clipboard into her
chest and pogoing up and down as if she needs to pee. When the photographer announces
and okay and I think we got it.
I am handed a nest of papers to be filled out and
validated from Kelli Rude, the lady in charge of community events at the PJS..A letter addressed Dear Mr. & Mrs. Von Behren which looks that
it could have been composed a week earlier until I realized they probably had
the letter scribed and formatted and just inserted my name and addressed into
the heading and body of the letter. Everything in the packet must be
sufficiently completed and is due back to the Journal Star no later than next
Tues, Jan 26th. I am advised that tomorrow I should go apply for a
passport, and am told where to get shots for my passport photo. The other
packet, Kelli tells me, needs to be reviewed by my parents ASAP, preferably
tonight and then returned back to the STAR. On the top of the stationary is the
PARADE logo, the words YOUNG COLUMBUS PROGRAM stamped underneath in blue, below
that is the pending date of my trip, the words ENGLAND
Today is January 21st.
Three months exactly I will be overseas, finishing up trip, ready to come home.
Today is January 21st.
Three months exactly I will be overseas, finishing up trip, ready to come home.
On the drive home I inform Tom Otten that this is really the
first time in my life that I have ever won anything. The last awards ceremony I
attended was the medallion ceremony where the crème de la crème of cross
country athletes in this state were coronated for their achievement. The last
two Young Columbus it has been overcast all day. Overcast the whole time the
dinner and the speeches were transpiring. Overcast during the perfunctory
post-gala tour of the Journal Star. Overcast as I looked at the chalky-wraith
outline of my visage on the ride home, skidding over snowbanks the color of
slightly incinerated charcoal.
He tells me that he is proud.
I think about last year at the grade school state track meet
where I finished second. I think about how I had a promising freshman season
that was voided by injury. I think about
coming home the last two years of the competition to an empty house and walking
around feeling emotionally mortgaged and psychologically numb.
It hasn’t set in yet.
It hasn’t set in that in less than three months I will be
overseas.
As I walk in the French door I am greeted with the scent of
moms German coffee cake. She has been praying and baking all day. I give mom a
hug. Tom shakes my mother’s hands. Mom is smiling. I show her the winner’s
plaque. Tom says that there is some paper work that needs to be completed and
dropped off at the Star tomorrow. Tom
keeps on smiling and bobbing his moustache countenance up and down. Mom says
that I need to call Grandma. She tells
me that Dad will be home in an hour. She says that the girls will be excited
when they hear the news.
I think about all the people I need to call.
“Thank you.” Mom is telling Tom.
“Thank you once again.”
***
***
I am going.
The sky is boll coated-cheek lavender and is heavy, almost a
fresh drywall of bulk cumuli sifting haughty overhead as if arched, and as
Mother drives me down to Manual High school there is a silver ripple January
sunlight—a stem that seems to drool out from the cobbled petoskey coated clouds
and touch the center of Madison Golf course. Mom seems to have her palms and
fingers welded together saying thank the lord, thank the lord as I catch my
reflection into the tint of the station wagon, my body looking back at my body
in the passenger seat, looking out past my body into the golf course where
Cross country transpires and mom, wheeling the brown and white station
wagon, taking a hard left on Ligonier, floating down as the plateau shaped brick
of my high school becomes even more visible as she floats the vessel past
Shpekes, past the alley across the street where in less than two years time I
shall go over with the other insurgents and smoke a cigarettes before classes
convene. She lumbers the wheels over the speed bums and parks the car near the science
hall, neat the southern entrance to the building where the school sporting
records are kept on display—where my second cousin Todd Brooks Fresh cross
country record is kept, framed, the record I tried to beat and somehow failed
last autumn.
But life here is new.
“I’ll only
be a minute,” I inform my mother, still clad in tie and jacket as I slap the
metal wing of the station wagon closed, perhaps not listening as my mother
informs me, through the dashboard and tint, to go ahead and take my time.
***
I
walk into the hallways of my high school with my tie loose and my jacket held over my shoulders the way I envision
I will hold it over my shoulder someday when I am older and have a real job,
walking into the high school, past the metallic grind and musk aroma of the
weight room, past the chlorine-riddled entrance to the pool and the rubber gym
where volleyball and wrestling games or held (not thinking about the joke Tim
Flanagan told me two years ago that I didn’t get at first about how you can’t
get pregnant in the rubber gym—not realizing at the time that rubber was also a
euphemism for condom), taking a right as I drip down the steps leading to the
odorous den of lockers and naked athletes ducking into shower stalls, toweling
off, cleaning their bodies in elongated stripes amidst steam and body odor and
cheap cologne. I fall down the steps casually, looking for my mentor, for Coach
Ricca, for the lanky-limbed individual who calls out mile splits during my
races. I remember how after I received the recommendations father read them and
said how he felt like framing the one from Coach Ricca. I proceed down the
stairs to find my coach. He is in the
office with Coach Winkler and the Field specialty Coach. As I walk into the
office Coach Winkler is giving me a look that I better have a damn good reason
for missing practice today.
I don’t know exactly what to say to
my mentor. There seems to be a glazed smile on his face.
“Hey coach, “I say, “ I won.”
 |
| Coach Ricca, DVB, the late Arthur Von Behren, Linda Von Behren |
The look on my mentor’s face is both glazed and bruised at the
same time. He is not talking. He is just looking at me and shaking my hand. I
think about coach when he gave me m cousin’s number from the state meet that he
just missed qualifying.
I failed coach this year. I failed.
Somehow he is Coach.
He wrote me a recommendation.
He is not saying anything.
He is smiling.
***
“Well it’s a good thing you are a
freshman because if you were a senior we would not let you go.” A beefy cheeked Coach Winkler
says. I think he is kidding. There is a look of serious gauged into his eyes. Coach
Mcelferish still seems asleep. Coach Ricca is smiling.
“How about this. You can go but
only if you take your running shoes. You need to run as much as you can when
you are overseas in England.”
I tell Coach I will.
I tell Coach I promise.
I thank Coach again.
***
"One more thing," Coach says as I am walking back out the door.
"Just don’t let it go to your head,” Coach Ricca admonishes.
I think to myself and smile.
***
That afternoon I call Grandma and tell her. Grandma informs me just how proud Grandpa Lloyd
would be, telling me that in two days time she is going to purchase a suitcase
for me, her gift to commemorate a job she says is well done. She will bring over Hardee's chicken for diner and celebrate. I call David Hale and Tim and Patrick. I call David Best, informing him that I have won, trying not to inquire too much about Renae Holiday. I watch as my father navigates the purple ’78 oldsmobile he bought from my Aunt Evelyn into front of Bernies house, where he parks, and then quickly scoots inside, ferrying his briefcase by the handle a smile dented into his lips so that his filling-clad teeth seem to glean in the late overcast January afternoon.
There is looking at my reflection into the mirror over the mahogany buffet in dining room and phoning those who collaborated in my glory—I call Larry Reents first and tell him that I won by which he responds in a beautiful hoot, raising his voice up several octaves, telling me that I am going love London. I am apprehensive and change the subject, ask him what I missed in class that day, even though he tells me not to worry about it. . His voice sounds bruised with joy, “David,” he says again, “You are going to love London!!!”
“I just really need to thank you again.” I think of listening to classical music and jazz as we take our weekly vocab tests.
“I just want to say thank you again. Not only for writing that letter, but for teaching me so much.”
“Well David you can buy me a beer someday.” Mr. Reents says. I can feel him smiling on the other end.
I can hear them laughing. I thank them for writing the recommendation letter again.
The last person I call is Mrs.
McCellan. Mrs. McCellan who lost her son, Mary’s twin brother to a drunk driver only a year before. Mrs. McCellan who admonished me for going to Manual and even wanted to call my parents telling me that it just wasn’t safe down there. Mrs. McCellan whose college-aged daughter I am just smitingly in love with. The daughter who is older, who I imagine opening the door one Saturday in her underwear as I row up and down the street in my Manual jacket Who always smiles and bumps into me and grabs my arm and says my name.
.
.
She answers after dual nasal purrs. I can recognize it is her when
she says hello.
I say hi Mrs. McCellan. She says
yes.
“Hi. This is David Von Behren. You’re paperboy.”
“Oh hi,” She says, seeming surprised.
I quickly tell her hi. I quickly tell her well, anyway, you
know how I was in that contest for that trip to England that I asked you to
write a recommendation for, yeah, well, I won.
“You won?” Mrs. McCellen says, in
more of a question.
From behind her I hear a feminine yip.
An inquiry. I can feel Mrs. McCellan benevolently placing the cup of her pam on
the receiving end of the phone and speaking.
I picture her jumping up and down, the golden bangs of her blonde hair spraying in all
direction, I can hear her screaming my name. I can hear her screaming Davvveeee!!!
Her body is undulating. She is screaming. I am embarrassed.
“Yeah. I won I’ll be going over to
England in about three months.” I just want to say thank you so much for
writing that recommendation I letter.
Mrs. McCellan says something on the
opposite side of the phone only I cannot hear her.
I can only hear Mary screaming.
Mary pirouetting. She is screaming my name. It sounds like she is going crazy.
It sounds like she is pogoing up and down.
She is screaming my name.
She is saying Dave.
Before I go to bed I hug my father
and my mother. My father tells me to say a prayer and thank Jesus for the
victory. I tell him I will.
I walk into my bedroom. I remove my
notecards from the interior of my Dockers. I snap of the TO DAVE: Love Renae identity bracelet. I see the morning paper with Nat Pflderer’s
affable visage smiling. I wonder if perhaps I should meet him prior to leaving. I refrain from looking at the silhouettes of the college girls next door. Instead I kow tow on the bony fifteen year old caps of my knees and say thank you. After three years thank you lord.
Thank you.
***
Even though I shouldn’t, even
though I am thinking about Renae the last person I call is Dawn. I am hoping to
prove to her that I am intelligent. That I am smart. That I have achieved
something conspicuous of note.
It is 11:30 at night. Everyone is
my house has gone to sleep. I use the phone in the dining room on the mahogany
dresser, the same phone I used to thank the customers who sent me
recommendations three hours earlier.
When the phone picks up I can tell that it is her mother.
“Yes I was wondering if Dawn Michelle is available.”
There is a static pause.
“Who is this?”
“Uhm. This is her friend David.
“Are you a friend from Speech?”
No. I’m just an old. Friend We used to hand out quite a bit
over the summer.”
There is another pause. It feels like she is also cupping
the phone.
“I’m sorry. Dawn Michelle’s not here right now.”
I wonder if Dawn Michelle has again been kicked out. I
wonder if she is at Monical’s in Westlake center I wonder if her parents’
caught her smoking. I wonder if Dawn
Michelle’s matriarch just has some sort of vendetta against me for some reason.
I wonder if Dawn Michelle is next to her having some sort of heart to heart
about birth control on the edge of her bed.
I remember how Dawn Michelle told me that when she was
twelve years old she appeared as a snotty-nosed Veruca Salt in Charlie and the chocolate
factory.
I remember when I thought we were dating I used to try to
get her to talk to me using her uppity British only she said I was being
Puerile.
“Well, I’m sorry Dave. Dawn’s not here. I don’t know when
she will be back.”
I want to ask if she got kicked out again. I want to ask if
she broke some sort of rule.
“If I hear from her I will tell her that you call.” The
voice says offering an authoritative lilt.
The voice tells me please not to call back this late.
I apologize.
I go back into my room and turn my lights off.
I look up into the geometric squares of the ceiling
wondering where I will be come three chartered months’ in what is conceived of
time.