Without Air

Without Air

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Jeremy J. Jones

  Copyright © 2012 by Jeremy J. Jones

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or deceased, business establishments, events, locales, are entirely coincidental.

  Need to contact the author? You may contact the author by one of the following ways.

  Email: [email protected]

  Website: Without Air

  Without Air

  "I will be back shortly!" I shouted as I ran out the front door for an early morning run. My legs creaked as the hinges did on the door that shut behind me. My running shoes were tight and I couldn't walk for but a few steps without already realizing that they must be a half, maybe a whole size too small; since it had been decades since my last workout. My joints ached from lack of movement and activity. Not that I was a lazy man, no way. I consider myself a hard worker. I had always packed my lunch, shown up early to work each day and was always the last to leave. After work I would get home and help with the kids homework and chores around the house. The only exercise that I got was the monotony of getting up to go to the copier at work, which is hardly an excuse for a workout.

  The ground was firm. I could smell the dew swell from the pavement as the soles of my confined feet hit the ground. It had rained the night before, making the air feel cool and moist. The only thing making my morning desirable was that refreshing air, pressing gently against my face. I debated in my head how far I wanted my body to excerpt the excruciating pain that was required to "stay in shape;" whatever that meant. The continual endurance that was required went way beyond what my body was able to handle. No matter the distance or the time that I was out running it would only mean that I was impeding life span by a day, maybe two, if that. Then I thought, is it really worth it? Will it have a long term effect? If I ran an hour everyday for 20 years, that adds up to be 7,300 hours of my life, that is more than 300 days pounding the pavement. Having thought this, I almost immediately turned back to those eternally squeaky, grave stricken hinges that were mounted to the door. I continued in my thoughts a bit further, but surely running just shy of a year’s worth, over a period of time, would place me in the best shape of my life, tacking on a few years, if not more to my life? Life is such a tricky thing, I could spend 300 days running and on the three-hundredth day at the end of my daily run a car could strike me out of nowhere, leaving me dead in the street without air. How could that stand up to my complacent calculations?

  I continued my run, if for nothing else but sure statistics. As I left the front porch and the surrounding neighborhood, I began at a constant pace, allowing my breathing to stay consistent with my body's movement, not to push one or the other beyond capacity. For some reason though, I felt that my body had been able to more steadily endure the exercise then my lungs were able. Making sure that I was out of site of any of my fellow neighbors I stopped to allow my lungs to contract; bending over with my hands on my knees supporting my upper body. This happened several times throughout the run. I had to stop my body from running my lungs into the ground. I may have pushed myself a little far at times, probably doing more damage to by body than good.

  I trip over my thoughts every time; I look back to see the trail behind. Not that looking ahead is much better; I looked to the horizon to see where I could be. The distance that I have traveled has been short, leaving feelings of recoil. My thoughts consume my attention, distracting me from the physical endurance and pain.

  Being out doors reminded me of home; I grew up in Rothbury, a small town in Northern England close to the boarders of Scotland. I was an adventurous child and explored the nearby forests and rivers frequently. I was no stranger to the outdoors; my father was a woodsman and I would often help gather wood for his various projects. Many hours were spent with my father teaching me principles of the Presbyterian faith. “Faith without works is dead, my son” he would always mutter as we worked in his chilled workshop gripping his hand crafted corncob pipe with his teeth. Our Presbyterian roots were strong, dating back to my great, great, great grandfather in the late eighteen hundreds. We are of Scottish decent which did not bow well with the locals, I would often feel that we were on the wrong side of the fence; I didn't have very many friends because of that factor. Although I didn't mind when my father would spend hours talking about Calvinistic theology and the reformation of the Church of Scotland, although I was not a strong believer, I cherished the time with my father.

  Because I was an adventurous child, it often lead to trouble; On one such occasion, my curiosity got the best of me, as I investigated a far-off, alienated forest. It became dark and I lost my way through the thickness of the leaves. No effort of thought is vague to my recollection, as the darkness and forest tops swiftly covered my body as if I were sitting on the depths of the ocean floor. Shortly after the darkness settled, rain began to drench my clothes dropping my core body temperature. At night in Northern England temperatures can drop to below zero making conditions dangerous, combined with a moist environment. I knew I was in trouble, I knew that my father would be angry with my carelessness, I worried about what he would say, how he would react. He was always forthright about using his belt if he felt so inclined and situations required.

  Acknowledging that I was in a bit of a predicament, I knew exactly what to do; stay where I was of course, at least that is what my father taught me. Now thinking about it, parents have a vital role in a child's development. I would hate to think what would have happen if I ignored his council. The funny part about it, I was never afraid of the darkness or the vast woodland area, because I knew he would come to my rescue. I am surprised that his protecting instinct wasn't more of a hindrance throughout my childhood and most of my teenage years. In fact, because I knew he would always be there to catch me when I fell, I took more chances. I am often surprised by my eagerness to hear his resonating voice transpire, in the most challenging periods of my adult life, but to my disappointment, nothing. A few hours after night fall, my father found me quivering under a tall Douglas Fur. His reaction was somewhat surprising when he stooped down and wrapped his bear-like arms around me and carried me home.

  Suddenly I had the realization, my father may not be here to council my daily actions now, but he carries me, carries my spirit more often than I perceived. As I look behind me, my travels have been long and accomplished. Suddenly the road traveled has been done and that ahead is soon to be; I owe that to him.

  Once again the pain in my feet shot up to my legs, reminding me of my confined feet, but reassured me that my daily run was close to half way over. While strewed about in my thoughts, I set a goal to run to a nearby coffee shop and back. Why was I thinking of such serious topics on my run? Surely not everyone takes such deep consideration of life's views as they attempt to set a running time to the local coffee shop and back. My wife, Julie, says I need to open up and share these types of things, my childhood, my father, family, and such. I guess that is what you get when you marry a psychologist. She received her Masters here in the city, at Seattle University of Theology, graduated at the top of her class. I completed my business undergraduate studies at a small community college in Massachusetts. To be honest I don’t know why business, it seemed like the most sensible thing to do. I don't quite get the whole busines
s world, if you ask me it is filled with self-loathing dictators that have an imaginary vision of how life is supposed to be. I suppose I have such a difficult time at my job because I lack the devotion. Fortunately my consideration of business settings never reflects in my performance. I never settle for less than perfect work, as should anyone else that takes his career serious.

  Finally, just over a stout hill where the road advanced, the top of the small but humble coffee shop slowly came into view. A short breath of relief escaped my lungs as if my body had a mind of its own, begging for alleviation. Upon arrival to the coffee shop instead of immediately turning around to head back home, I figured I'd stay and order a small drink, or something refreshing.

  I have driven by this coffee shop many times before, taking my son to soccer practice; the soccer field is just a few blocks down the road from here. Jason, reminds me a lot of me when I was a kid, now pondering about it, I yearn to mirror more of my fathers parenting habits. Sadly, I lack the relation that Jason and I should have as father and son. I frequently justify that he is still young, approaching 13 years old this coming June.

  The quaint coffee shop lay at the corner of Burbank and 2nd street where a few meager boutiques press gently against the shop, as if they relied on the hustle and bustle of customers streaming in and out sipping their warmed coffee. Indeed, having the mind of a business man, I thought it would only be just that if the coffee shop were to stop selling their precious merchandise than the traffic of window shoppers would be obsolete. Destitution and barrenness would fill the empty sidewalks that were once heavy laden with patron's foot steps.

  An aged wooden deck surrounded an excessive portion of the front and reverse side of the depressed boutiques, the deck was filled with tables and chairs for customers to sit outside during pleasant weather, such as today. Elongated, wooden trellises, equally aged, hung over the deck providing minimal ultra violet protection. As I stepped onto the deck a familiar creaking and aching sound penetrated from under my feet. After the first step I quickly jumped over two and then three steps with a burst of energy temporarily suppressing the aching. I weaved my way through the white faded chairs and tables towards the front door.

  As I opened the door, familiar bells chimed above my head, these bells I had heard many times before at the local hardware store back home. My father and I always bought the usual nuts and bolts, while my father was doing his shopping, from time to time I would sneak over to look at a green fishing rod in the corner of the store. I knew we couldn't afford it so I always kept it to myself. One morning my father suggested we get a few items from the hardware store, I thought it strange due to the fact that we were working on a project that didn't require any additional fittings. When we arrived my father walked straight to the corner and picked up the green fishing rod and said nothing more then “Is this the one?” I nodded slowly with a large smile. He then walked up to the counter and purchased the rod. Satisfaction flooded my face as I again heard the esteemed ringing of bells.

  Opening the door I gazed up at the vast menu that spread from one side of the room to the other. Although, I was surprised by the plainness as I evaluated my surroundings, being such a popular joint, it wasn't much to look at. This was something I wouldn’t have noticed otherwise, had I not recently been forced to take over a new project at work, supervising closely the marketing and advertising department, expanding into a new genre of consumers. I would speculate the success of this small cafe arrives through a common saying that is often mentioned in the real estate market, “Location, location, location.” Interestingly enough, the shop is fixed just outside the busy business strips of the city while surrounded by moderate to high income housing.

  “Sir... Sir, I can help the next person over here” My attention turned to the attendant, as she was agitated at my lack of response. “Umm, aye, I will take the, uh, small Iced Mocha Loca, no crème please.” I then realized how counterproductive exercising and ordering a cup of chocolate-filled iced mocha might seem. After a few minutes of waiting for my iced mocha I was trapped in my thoughts going back and fourth justifying my eagerness for a cup of coffee. Following that realization came the comfort of my illusive intentions of running that much harder and burning that much more on the way home; foolishly, that was enough to suffice “One Iced Mocha Loca!” I quickly stood and snatched the mocha from off the counter.

  As I bumped the door with my hip to leave, just outside the door a familiar face begged my attention, “Brian… hey!” I managed to studder quickly. Brian is one of Jason's friend's father, who is also on the soccer team with Jason. Somewhat of an irritating guy, always bugging the coach to put his son in the game, meanwhile, most often his son is off stepping on ants that are desperately seeking refuge between two slabs of asphalt. He was one of those parents who were blinded by their pride, never realizing, what kind of effect it had on the child. Never really cared to talk to the guy, especially now.

  “Hey, how's that kid of yours? Working on his A game, I hope.” He bellowed out a forceful laugh, causing a few people on the rustic deck to turn and glare. Before I could studder a response, he continued.

  “So, I am having a barbecue this weekend at my house, you in?” I was distracted by his awful breath that reeked of residual coffee that harbored between his teeth.

  “Barbecue? Well, I...”

  “Com'on pal, I am sure Jason would love to hang out with the other kids”

  “I'll have to see what my schedules like, what time does it start?” I hoped that he couldn't sense my desperate excuses.

  “Two. Two o'clock on Saturday!”

  “Yeah, I will let you know then”

  Brian slightly tilted his head and grinned making the situation a bit awkward. I grinned back and quickly changed the subject.

  “You come here often?” I could have suspended the superficial conversation, but I had grown use to talking to him on the field as we watched our sons kick the ball around. However, I would often try to avoid such conversations by arriving on the opposite side of the field as the rest, to my surprise, Brian always seemed to make it around the field without me noticing, until it was too late.

  “Me, oh yeah, all the time, I have been coming here for years, I stop by here on my way to work every day” I should have guessed by the stench of his mouth alone. At least when we are on the field we are facing toward the game and not staring straight into each other.

  He continued. “I saw that you are doing some yard work?” I wasn't to surprised that he had noticed what I was doing with my yard because he lived a few blocks from ours, but it did bother me that there is no easy way to just drive by because we live on a cul-de-sac.

  “Yeah, Julie doesn't like that our front yard is so plain and dull, so I am planting some perennials and a few peddling trees.”

  “Isn't that the wife’s job?” He snickered slamming his hand on my back vigorously, almost sending me off balance. Surely he could notice my lack of empathy towards his ridiculous remark.

  “Well, I'd better get going, I still have the run home after I finish my mocha, catch'a later” As I lifted my drink quickly in the air signaling my escape and taking a step forward.

  He laughed and blurted something, catching me off guard, “ah, yeah, good luck with that. See ya later.” He patted me on the back again as I walked away.

  “See ya!” I mumbled off into the distance.

  Twisting and weaving my way back through the tables and chairs I found myself sitting at the far corner of the deck pegged between the street and a high arched tree that provided an allotment of shade just for me. Protected by the arched tree from the high morning sun, a breeze of air rushed across my body giving me a slight refreshing chill. On most mornings the sky would be full of drifting clouds casting a grayish darkness until mid-afternoon when the clouds would scatter, fade, and burn off; today was an exception.

  Pacing my sips of iced mocha, I briefly slipped back into my childhood, contemplating only one event. One s
uch event that would alter my very being; an event that brought despair, grief, and confusion, during my early teenage years, my father became ill. Promptly after he fell sick we packed and left for the United States where some of our family lived in the outskirts of Boston. My aunt lived there with her husband and two sons who would help tend to my father. My first conclusion to the diagnosis, being the medically intellectual being that I am, hardly having the knowledge to treat a simple abrasion, was that my father’s condition had to be without a doubt environmental. Boston was a total transformation compared to the small town of Rothbury, dense smog filled the air comparable to the tobacco smoke that filled the local pub back home. Thinking we would need to return to our home country, a quick visit to the hospital proved otherwise. Cancer. Lung cancer to be exact. He never left home without his pipe, I had never seen anyone else carry a corncob pipe, much less use one. I once asked why he used it, all he had to say was, “Call me ol' fashioned, son.”

  I will never forget when the doctors told him about the cancer, I sat in the corner of the room on a stiff chair that had worn old, the doctor standing at the foot of the bed and the nurse to one side. When the clinicians initially entered the room my father jerked quickly up in his bed, his back straight without slouching, almost as if he were proving his manhood, interluding the pain briefly. He stared directly into the doctors eyes as the doctor spoke. Succeeding the doctors discouraging message my father’s void facial expression. His eyes glazed and hollowed with no response. He sat for but a few seconds in his emptiness and responded quickly with a strong deep voice, “Thank you doctor.” As the grim-reaper and his assistant turned to retreat, his tree-like stature drop abruptly for relief just as a swimmer swims desperately to the surface for a breath of air to liberate his compressed chest.

  There is always a consequence, often times the punishment is disguised, hidden through the thickets of satisfaction. I don't want to say that my father deserved it, if at all possible I would strive to negate the cycle of cause and effect, in his case. Discouragingly, I knew that my father was not perfect or immortal.

  My train of thought was interrupted by an abrupt car horn that went zooming by. My attention drew toward the busy intersection that sat just below me. I was intrigued as I observed the drivers attitudes that portrayed intensity and fervency that flooded the corner traffic. Within a few minutes I had already witnessed several tail-gators, rolling stops, and even a harsh hand gesture directed towards another driver. Perplexity overwhelmed my thoughts; the world in general has become inpatient, careless, and angry. An internet advertisement across the street also caught my eye, promoting faster internet service, proving my theory. Companies are constantly finding faster ways to do things. Internet, Iphones, Ipods, satellite consume the public’s time and energy. What would the world do without these amenities? How would they spend their time? What would they get mad at? Hypocritically, I have learned to live this very same life. I have to be honest with myself, I could not make it a day without my own personal electronic devices.

  Ironically my attention was forced to a burst of music coming from my hip, my Iphone of course...

  “Hello?” I answered mechanically.

  “Dad, are you coming home soon? You said you would take me to the mall today?” My daughter was at the stage of friends and fashion, one could only hope she would grow out of soon.

  “Umm, did I say that?”

  “Yeah remember, Christy and Jody are going to meet me there”

  “Alright Rebecca, I will be home shortly then” I muttered with a short sigh.

  “Thanks Dad!”

  “Love you Becca.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I love you too Dad.”

  I sat for a few minutes more pondering my life; something was missing, something was wrong. Nothing that I was going to write home about, especially to my wife; wouldn’t want her over-analyzing my life with a fine tooth comb. No, this feeling was subtle almost too subtle to recognize, unfortunately, not enough to disregard entirely, but not enough to do anything about it. I am sure everyone at some point in their life feels incomplete. What could I complain about though? I have what most would say as having “the American dream.” Maybe I am more insatiable than most Americans. Perhaps, I will always want more.

  I could have sat at that old white table for days, weeks, maybe even years, until someone came along and peeled me off of the chair just like the paint that was curling from off of the wood. Sitting and watching the angry world go by listening to their Ipods and talking on their phones. I was not rummaging through my thoughts for an answer, at least I didn't think I was. I sat only to feel that emptiness, that void expression that crowded my fathers face that day at the hospital. My life is usually too chaotic to sit and meditate, even if I had time, I am not a patient person, but again, today is an exception.

  I thought back to my teenage daughter, she will get upset if I don't make it back. I stood up and almost immediately felt the stiffness impale my lower back. I took a few steps to stretch it out. Avoiding the scattered crowds of people and roaming individuals both throughout the deck and bordering street. I focused intently on working out the kinks. I was ready to go, briefly thinking of my father again, sitting in his bed his back hunched over coughing into a small bowl that had soon been painted with blood. The last few days were the hardest to bear, even after that first visit to the hospital my father had changed; a part of my father died that day. He no longer was that protective father, the one that would spend hours looking for his son in the thickened forest, those days faded just as quickly as the doctor rambled about his diagnosis.

  Unexpectedly, before throttling into a promising sprint to jump start my excursion back home, once again I heard the joyous bells above the door ring behind. My gallop slowed steadily, my right outer foot slid softly against the graveled pavement briefly, before my left back heal concluded my stop, while twisting my entire body to face those bells. Temporarily disappointed as I gazed back at Brian's figure standing in the frame of the door way. Quickly I noticed his facial expression accented his framed body. His eyes widened and eye brows soared, immediately lifting his hand pointing just over my right shoulder yelling to me “William!” I rapidly turned my head back just in time to see a man in his late thirties walking in front of a crazed driver speeding down the stout hill, a few yards from where I was standing. The blow was sudden but played slowly in my mind as the man's right cheek bone adsorbed the impact of the vehicles hood, then his body unlatching from the grill sending him to the pavement. His whole body mimicked windshield wipers as if both feet were chained to the ground. The second head strike was more brutal than the first. I twisted my head quickly but gently to one side, my eyes closed tightly to avoid any stomach weakness. I opened my eyes, head still turned but now towards the sky, hesitating to recognize the sky had dulled its brightness by the disconnected clouds that were slowly adjoining.

  My heart was throbbing just below my Adam’s Apple which also stressed my breathing. I sprinted towards the man lying helplessly on the ground. The man was dressed nicely, khaki colored slacks with a light blue button up shirt, a perfect combination for a Saturday. His skin was fair his hand free from grease or grim, definitely a businessman like myself. His hair was light brown and wavy, mixed with a staining red blood. Thoughts were racing in my head, remembering back to a company CPR class I had taken a few years ago that was mandatory for all employees to attend. Once I had picked the few vague and relevant memories out of my mind I dropped to my knees along side of the dying man. I remembered the words “Look, listen, and feel.” Bending over quickly to look, listen, and feel for a breath, I witnessed nothing. “Watch out!” I yelled as the swarm of people crowded in. I knew if I didn't feel a pulse then I needed to push on his chest for rotations of ten times each set. I started to doubt myself briefly, but that did not hinder, I knew that this man needed my help. My energy level was through the roof. I expected to be woozy or light headed from the mass amounts of blood that
plastered his clothing and the street. The blood traveled and linked from all directions imitating the adjoining clouds above. As I pressed zealously on his chest the crowd continued to agitate. I was relieved to hear sirens in the far off distance. I remembered the fire house was across the street from the soccer field. The kids would always stop playing when the fire trucks and ambulances pulled out of the stalls. Their eyes and ears were fixed on the lights and sirens until they rounded the far street corner of the field. I was disappointed with myself for not remembering to send somebody to call 911; that was a crucial part of my training, how could I have forgotten? I was back and forth from chest to mouth until the ambulance and other emergency vehicles arrived and took over.

  I was fixated on every move and action that was unfolding before my eyes. The EMT's had determination in their eyes, as I watched intently and coveted this determination that they radiated. They continued CPR on him while they loaded him up in the ambulance. I was so intrigued that I felt compelled to follow and jump in the back with the stretcher. I was certain they would not allow me to.

  The doors of the truck slammed followed by a firefighter pounding on the door, signaling the driver to go. Sirens howled in the distance as I turned to start home. On the way home I didn't stop, I didn't hesitate, I didn't even acknowledge the pain of my feet, legs, or back. I had never ran so fast in my life, without pausing or breaking. I tasted the salty air that was accompanied by small drops of sweat dripping into my mouth. Time was so swift that I hardly thought of anything, in fact I don't remember much of it either. One thing that did stupefy my attention was the sudden onset of cloud cover, wishing for a lighter day. Other than that I focused on running and nothing else. Facing the last stretch I gave all my strength and energy pushing my lungs and heart rate to their total capacities. Over-worked, my heart continued to beat steadily for hours after the event. At least I could feel it, I thought to myself selfishly.