Frick Park
Pittsburgh
June 1982
I started running after college. I mean, not like The Running Man, where you literally had to run for your life, and definitely not like what one does in politics. The running I was doing was sometimes, in those days, referred to as jogging. Y’know, fitness.
I live two blocks from Frick Park, the largest park in the city. Running in Frick Park has always been a joy; I do it three or four times a week. The trails are just a little tricky in spots, covered with gravel and dirt. On my run today, a mediocre run at best, I stumble on a rock and pitch forward, narrowly escaping a face plant by using various other parts of my anatomy to break my fall. My arms, my hip, my legs, all make rude contact with the ground. I’m thinking, “Dang!” I’m also thinking, “Ouch!” Makes sense. I’m still thinking these things even now that I am upright and running again. However, each repetition of footsteps propels me forward at an increasing rate. “Dang! Ouch!” Turns into one of my best, hardest runs I’ve ever done. I am pissed.
Cooling down, I walk home from the park, passing the regal, medium-sized stone mansion home of my accountant. Bernie is just coming down the walkway with his wife, Bunny. Yah, Bernie and Bunny. Their daughter is with them. I’ve known Bernie professionally for years and I never knew he had a daughter. ’Tis a pity as this woman is stunning. She is exquisite. She is just the right shape and size to be making me google-eyed. Oh my oh my! I’m not a religious man and I am instantly regretting all the sins I have ever committed, hoping now only to be given the opportunity to commit new ones.
Bernie says hello and introduces me. I want to make an impression on his daughter. I want to be so instantly charming that she, too, will want to commit sins. I smile, I lower my voice, I tilt my head down slightly, I try to appear both great and humble at the same time. Y’know, someone to sin with.
I’m pretty sure none of this is working. I have just finished sixty hard minutes of running after my fall. I am dripping sweat. My hair is plastered on my forehead and sticking out on the sides. Blood is leaking out of several gashes in my body. I am breathing heavily, but not in a sexy way. I am dirty and scraped up. My shorts have a rip in the fabric.
No one seems to notice. But wait… Her eyes widen, she is getting ready to speak! She is going to speak to me! She draws a breath, her chest rises. Her lips part. The words, the words are coming… She speaks directly to me: “How much did your shoes cost?”
“What? Um… How much did my shoes cost?” Why would an angel ask such a question? Why would someone carved in flesh from the ethereal wisps of my dreams begin our relationship with such coarse words? Of all the possible opening lines that could issue forth from my ordained and obvious soul mate, “How much did your shoes cost?” were not the ones I expected.
Oh cruel fate… I am crushed. I must suffer my wounds and I must take my leave. The accountant’s daughter is a chimera, an illusion. Perhaps I am delirious from blood loss.
I slump home, two long, agonizing blocks of bleeding, sweating, spiritually bruised agony. Aargghh…
Well okay, it’s not that bad. I’m just being dramatic.
I arrive home, and behold, Hortner awaits. Hortner, my college roommate and friend since, is attending medical school in Belgium. He’s between terms so he’s back in this country for a visit, staying with me. I walk into my house and Hortner’s eyes light up. He begins to laugh, “What happened to you?”
“I had a little accident,” I say. “I tripped on the trail.” I don’t tell him that my ego has been utterly pulverized by the most gorgeous woman I have ever met. Yes I do. Of course I tell him.
He laughs again and tells me to sit down while he goes out to his car. “My father gave me his first aid kit. Let me take care of your wounds.”
He returns carrying a metal box with a trip-proof clip locking it shut. It is army green and the surface is spotted with rust. “This is the kit he used in the second World War,” Hortner proudly states.
It doesn’t take long for me to convince him that I am not going to allow him to touch me with anything that might be inside this box. I mean, even the alcohol, so often used as an antiseptic preservative, has bacteria the size of squirrels swimming in it.
In consolation, I allow Hortner to clean my wounds with more modern water and soap. He takes care of my physical ailments and the bottle of whiskey we share that evening takes care of my spiritual ones.