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I wake up the next morning with my right ankle throbbing like all the blood in my body is trying to squeeze through my foot at the same time. Adrenaline and endorphins are wonderful things, until they wear off. I stumble around my kitchen like a zombie, getting the coffee set up. I sit down while it’s brewing, and I look up on the wall where some antique cross country flats with half-inch spikes are hanging like art. The leather is worn, but the spikes are still vicious. I allow myself to daydream for a second about all the races that pair of shoes saw in its day. Then it’s off to the car where I sip my coffee and read my tablet on the way to work.
Usually, I try to walk at work as often as possible. Sometimes, I even stand discreetly on one foot at a time, trying to practice my single leg balance. Maybe develop some glute strength. Today, I’m trying to rest my ankle a bit, so just like everyone else, I sit at my desk with everything within arm’s reach. A microphone is attached to my head so I can use it to talk on the phone or to command my computer. I don’t really have to be at my desk to work at my computer, but no one ever remotely commands their machine unless they happen to be up getting coffee and they’re on an important phone call. Even though I am thankful that I have a job where I can rest my foot when I have to, I was not made to do this.
It is not in my genetic blueprint to sell pharmaceutical crutches to a society full of people who are happy to just exist. I was not intended to sit on my ass all day at work where I only have to stand up to get coffee or to go to the bathroom. Even in the bathroom, I end up sitting down half of the time. I was not made to take indoor transit walkways to my car where I sit down again until I get home, where I only have to walk about ten feet until I’m greeted by my home-chair, which is kind of like a cross between a recliner and a slow-moving scooter. I was meant to run across vast lands of grass, through forests and up hills. Instead, I am left to walk past my home-chair so that I can begin my welcome home tradition of walking up and down my stairs between the first and second floors of my house. Of course, I have an in-home elevator like most people nowadays. Stairs are a remnant. A leftover just for show, like those fake shutters still attached to the outside of windows. Just like everyone’s trim, apparently athletic bodies. Not real. And certainly not functional.
I snap out of my daze and try to get some work done. I ask my computer for the next phone number, and I instantly hear a telephone ringing in my earpiece.
“Hello?” a wavering female voice answers. She’s skeptical already.
“Good afternoon, ma'am. My name is Jeremiah (it isn’t), and I am calling today from PharmaOne (I am). Our records indicate that you are not yet a subscriber to our Omega Pill. Is that correct?”
Silence.
“Ma’am, I know what you’re thinking. I don’t make enough money. I can’t afford the pill. But I assure you, the cost of not subscribing to the Omega Pill far outweighs the price of our product. How much is your health and a long life worth to you? What good is saving a few dollars, when you end up spending it in the long run on the outrageous fees of unregistered and often unethical doctor hacks?”
“I can’t afford it. Just like you said,” the woman finally responds. “Now, please don’t call me back.”
“But what if I told you that we’re running a special introductory rate today where your first six months are free,” I say in one long breath, slightly cutting the end of her sentence off. That’s right. Six months are absolutely free. With no obligation to buy any additional months. We would basically be paying you to have perfect health for half a year. No sickness. No visits to…less than reputable medical providers. And as an extra bonus, the Omega Pill fine-tunes your fat processing sub-systems. Just think of how much wonderful food you will be able to enjoy without gaining a pound! What would you say to that, Mrs. Dillwitty? And of course, after six months you will be eligible, should you decide to continue your subscription, for our starter healthcare plan for you and any members of your family also subscribing to the Omega Pill.”
That last part always gets them. The type of people I call and try to convince that they would be better off paying for our product than taking care of their health on their own are not used to people giving them anything for free. They also don’t think past six months into the future, if that. That’s according to our marketing research division, at least. To Mrs. Dillwitty, six months is indistinguishable from the rest of her life. Her brain doesn’t possess the natural proclivity to understand that six months is nothing in the long-term. She inherently does not grasp that six months will soon be over, and she certainly has no clue that after getting hooked on the Omega Pill, she will pay however she can to continue receiving her daily dose.
I can tell, even before she agrees to the trial period, that Mrs. Dillwitty and her family will be lifetime customers before long. She will barely have enough money to do anything with her new-found health, but that won’t really matter, since most people nowadays don’t seem to do much of anything anyway.
After I get her credit card information (just to hold for the future, of course), the line goes dead, and my soul is one shard lighter and just a little more owned by the corporate devil I call my employer. I hate what the world’s become, and I despise the very place where I work, but I still need to eat, and every once in a while, even I need a doctor. Until all of that is free, I’ll keep selling to people like Mrs. Dillwitty and collecting a paycheck. I slowly let out a deep breath and try to remind myself that people like her can always say “no.” They don’t have to buy the Pill. Of course, they do have to buy it if they want health insurance. And with no health insurance, Mrs. Dillwitty can’t go to a registered doctor. And without a registered, regulated doctor, there are all sorts of things that can and often do go wrong. If she really cares about her family, Mrs. Dillwitty really has very little choice.
I decide to reward myself for my sale by getting up to retrieve a cup of coffee. It’s one of the few times I can walk at work without someone casting a disapproving eye. Thank god they’re too focused on stuffing as many of us as possible into this big square room with the nasty fluorescent lights to even think about giving us mobile chairs. As I stand up, my right ankle gives me a little tweak just to remind me that it’s still not up to par. I try hard not to limp as I walk through the cubicle isles. You never know who’s getting kickbacks from corporate to rat on their co-workers. I suspect Gordon, the quiet guy with the bad posture who appears to simply go about his day most of the time. I’m not sure why, but he always seems to be interested in what everyone else is doing even though he rarely joins in on a conversation.
Walking without a limp is not easy, and now my situation is starting to piss me off. Gotta remember to ice this thing when I get home, and I should probably stay off it for a couple of days. But I don’t have any vacation time to spare, and staying home sick…well, that’s not really an option since I’m supposed to be on the Pill. But with the race coming up, I don’t want my pace to slip because of this stupid injury. While waiting for a new pot to brew, I flex and un-flex my gluteus muscles. Yeah, I know it sounds weird, but a strong butt makes a strong runner, and sitting on my ass all day weakens and flattens what’s supposed to be one of the strongest muscles on our bodies. I get through two sets on each side before the coffee is ready. Exercise time is over as I fill my cup and start back for my cubicle.
As I slide back into my seat and queue up my next call, I purposefully rotate my foot, stretching my Achilles. Trying to do some clandestine self-care the best I can. Suddenly, I laugh out loud, and co-workers stare at me to be quiet. I think about how some statistics weenie working for the health insurance higher-ups figured out a while ago that vigorous exercise had gone from being something that predicted good health to being the primary risk factor for injuries and accidents. A genuine health risk that had to be mitigated. And more importantly, something that would impact everybody’s profit margin. Of course, what’s funny to me is that the only reason my ankle got strained in t
he first place was because one of their very own Helmet Heads was chasing me. That’s OK. Everything will be fine once I get some ice on it and take some of those anti-inflammatories I scored last month. If I were a good little boy instead of flushing my daily Omega Pill down the toilet, I wouldn’t have to worry about things like inflamed tissue, but I refuse to swallow canned health that makes me disease-free, but which leaves me incapable of performing my basic human animal tasks like running, jumping, climbing, and living.
I ring another poor sap and start in on the same pitch I give repeatedly every day, but in my head, I’m going over all the things that have to get done over the next two weeks before the race. Number 1. Recuperate while training. Number 2. Find a new course for the race and clear it. That’s going to be the hard part. I’d like to have a full five miles cleared like the trail we just lost, but that’s a lot of area to take care of so quickly. Since the race is only a 5k, I figure we make it an out-and-back and only have to clear a little over a mile and a half in total. That’s still a lot, but more doable than the full distance. I allow myself to daydream for a second more, remembering the stories my father used to tell me about all the running trails and how corporations and individuals would actually sponsor sections and keep them clean. I think they still do that in some cities, but the trails are for walkers and aren’t more than a couple of miles long at the most. They’re also the first place a healthcare cop would look for newbie runners at night. Back to reality. I hope my machete is sharp, because I’m probably going to need it.
After I’m done with the next customer, I call two of the club’s officers, Jay and then Stephanie. Just a quick hello and a prearranged, off-topic phrase, and each one of them is off to call two more people. Within the hour, everyone will know to meet tonight at our alternate spot.
Then, I call the Norwegian. I’d like to just send the guy an e-mail, but voice is a little safer and harder to bring up as evidence later. I dial some number that either is his cell phone or some other number that forwards to it. After a couple of rings, a click, and another ring, he answers.
“It’s Runner,” I say. I never give out my real name outside my small circle of close friends whom I really trust. I certainly don’t give my name to the president of a rival club.
Silence.
“Speak,” he finally says, like he’s a little pissed off or maybe even surprised that I’m calling.
Asshole. Of course, I’m going to speak. I just called.
“Turns out Mary can’t host the surprise party for Ann after all, so we’re looking for a new location. Will let you know when I know.”
Silence.
“The party’s moved? Why are you moving it?”
He’s not making it easy for me to stay on script.
“I told you. Mary can’t have the party at her house anymore. Her big brother came into town, and she doesn’t want to have the party while he’s visiting.”
I can’t get much clearer than that while still playing this stupid game just in case one of our lines is being tapped.
“I don’t like that, Runner. We’ve been training for that course, and now you want to move it at the last second?”
So much for being discreet. I just wasted a perfectly good metaphor on him, and it makes me more than a little irritated.
“Listen, man. The authorities busted it. The course is compromised, but be my guest if you wanna still use it.”
“But, where is the new course. Is it close by? I don’t like this.”
“I. Don’t. Know. Yet. I got a place in mind, but I gotta call back and let you know. We’re not trying to screw you guys. Shit just happens. And I gotta go.”
And then I hang up, just as I hear him starting to respond. I look at the phone for a second and think that the Norwegian, as weird as he is, still sounded kind of odd.
The end of the day can’t come quickly enough, and with almost a dozen new customers to add to my score this week, I get to my car and park it on the blind spot of the indoor garage where I change into my jeans. No need for running clothes tonight. Standard procedure. No running the day after any kind of interaction with authorities. It’s just not safe. So, I leave out of the garage on foot, attempting to walk slowly so it doesn’t look like I’m trying to get any exercise. Within minutes, I’m at the edge of a patch of woods. Looking from side to side, I make sure no one is watching as I duck into the brush. I pick up a narrow deer trail and take that to a clearing where lots of familiar faces look up at me, relived that I’m someone they know.
“Hi everyone. Let me tell you about last night.”