The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records (6 page)

They chatted all the way to the university, while Mr. Crotchety Pants fumed and cussed in the back seat. When Lee rang the bell to get off the bus, the driver said, “What's your name, kid?”

“Lee,” he said, “Lee Sonny Daddy Beanpole McGillicuddy.”

“It was a pleasure, Beanpole,” she said. Lee turned around on the bottom step. “Hey, what's yours?”

“Ernestine,” she said, “Ernestine Martha Margaret Mary Heming.”

“The pleasure was all mine, Ernestine,” said Lee. Santiago seconded it.

Lee got out his tent pole and tapped his way down the sidewalk for the benefit of the old grump glaring from the back window of the number 29 bus. As he passed a sunny storefront, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the window as if projected onto a movie screen. Oh yeah, Lee often found himself standing on the outside of his life looking in—as if the scenes he saw flashing by made up some low-budget B movie with himself as the main actor. Half the time he wasn't even sure if he was starring in a tragedy or comedy. He only knew there were days when he could just about hear the stage director's voice booming from a bullhorn:

LEE'S CRAPPY LIFE: TAKE 334

CAMERA THREE, LET'S GET A CLOSE-UP OF THE KID LOOKING INTO THE STORE WINDOW. SOMEONE MOVE HIS WHITE CANE SO IT'S MORE VISIBLE. AND STOP THE MUTT FROM TAKIN' A LEAK AGAINST THE BUILDING, FER CRYIN' OUT …

Lee took a look at his reflection in the store window and shook his head. Comedy. Definitely. Am I loony-toons or
what
?

A question that sometimes drives me hazy:
am I or are the others crazy?

– Albert Einstein

CAMERAS FADE
AAAAND, CUT!

CHAPTER EIGHT

There was never yet an uninteresting life. Such a thing is an impossibility. Inside of the dullest exterior there is a drama, a comedy, and a tragedy.

Mark Twain

McGILLICUDDY HOUSE INTERIOR
10:17 AM

ROLL CAMERAS

Gertrude McGillicuddy ran her red lipstick across her mouth, and pressed her lips together in front of the mirror. She was more than satisfied with the way she looked. Not everyone could weigh a hundred and ninety-five pounds and come off looking so … what, regal? impressive? elegantly monumental? All of the above, decided Gertrude, who considered herself a white Queen Latifah, of sorts. She sucked in her tummy and admired her reflection. Gertie knew she could have been a star if she'd wanted. Fact is, she
was
a star, in a way.

She tied her red neckerchief in a knot, donned her cowboy hat, and left the house. It wasn't her day to work at the Country and Western Club, but she was headed in that direction anyway.

“Hey!” she hollered as she burst through the front doors, letting a shaft of sunlight sneak into the dimly lit bar. She stood in the doorway, grandly silhouetted for a second. Gertrude was partial to big entrances.

Voices came at her from every direction, rising above the twangy strains of country and western pouring from the jukebox.

“Hey, Gertie!”

“Good to see you, Gert!”

“Thought it was your day off, Trude!” (Gertrude had almost as many names as her son.)

“Does a gal have to be working to enjoy the company of her friends?” she said. Gertrude playfully tipped a cowboy's hat over his eyes as she passed by, swiped someone else's beer bottle and pretended to guzzle it, handing it back with a belch that had them wondering if the bottle really was empty. Someone affectionately threw a balled-up napkin at her, and she took the smiling culprit by the collar and faked a punch to his gut. Everybody laughed. Although it was her job to play the heavy and keep peace in the club when things got a little too rowdy, and even though it had been necessary over the years to show more than a few people the door, that didn't stop them from loving Gert. Everyone did. That's just the way it was.

“Joe!” she said, walking over to the bar. No matter how many years she'd worked there, Gertrude never tired of the sound of peanut shells crunching between her cowboy boots and the hardwood floor. “How's it going, my friend?” she said.

The bartender smiled back. “You first,” he said. “How's life treating
you
, Gert?” Joe knew that when Gertrude came to sit at his bar on her day off, it usually meant she had something on her mind. Listening was as much a part of his job as pouring drinks.

“The usual?” he asked.

Gertrude nodded. “Better make 'er a double.”

“One double swamp water comin' up,” he said, lifting a glass first to the Coke fountain, then the Seven Up, then the Orange Crush. Gertrude didn't drink alcohol, but she was a woman who fiercely enjoyed her swamp water.

“A double, eh?” said Joe, taking a closer look at her. “What's up?”

Gertrude looked back at him, silent for a second, then she spoke. “Joe, you have a boy or two at home, right?”

“Four,” said Joe.

“Any of them young teenagers?”

“Yep.”

Gertrude took a slug of her soda. “Any of them give you trouble?”

“Gertie, I'll ask you again,” said Joe, with a patient smile. “What's up?”

Gertrude sighed. “Paid a visit to the school earlier. Lee forgot his lunch so I dropped it off for him.” She looked up at Joe. “He wasn't there.”

“Hmm,” said Joe.

“Forged my name on a sick note,” she said.

“Oooh, boy,” cringed Joe.

“I don't know, Joe,” said Gertrude. She took a peanut from a basket, cracked it, and tossed the empty shell onto the floor (shell-tossing was compulsory at the Country and Western). “He's a good kid. A
really
good kid, but sometimes I worry about him. He seems happy enough most of the time, I suppose, but he hangs around by himself too much. Boy of his age should be out with his buddies. I'd almost be happy if I thought he'd skipped school today if it was to be with some other flesh-and-blood kids. It'd make a nice change from hangin' with his dead buddies all the time.”

Joe furrowed his brows at Gertrude. “Come again?”

Gertrude smiled. “Don't worry. It's just that he's constantly memorizing quotes from people long dead and gone.” Gertrude took a slug of swamp water, leaving a red lipstick kiss on the rim of her glass. “Mind, I suppose he does come up with some wise sayings, but it's unnatural for a kid his age, you ask me.”

“Does Lee have any other hobbies to keep himself occupied?” asked Joe.

“That's the problem,” she sighed.

CUT TO UNIVERSITY OF MANITOBA CAMPUS
9:18 AM

ZOOM IN ON FIGURE OF BOY AND DOG WALKING

Without ambition one starts nothing. Without work one finishes nothing. The prize will not be sent to you.

You have to win it.

– Ralph Waldo Emerson

Lee looked around the campus at the hustle and bustle of hardworking (judging by the stacks of books they were lugging) summer students rushing from building to building. Made him think he could easily take up people-watching as a hobby. They were different in so many ways from one another, yet they all had that
student
look on their faces. They seemed to have a purpose, and to know exactly what it was, and for that reason, it was more than a little bizarre that he felt as if he fit in perfectly. But purpose was seeping from his very pores this morning.

Lee untied the margarine container from his belt, put it on the ground, and filled it with water from one of his bottles.

“Have a good long drink,” he said to Santiago. “You're in for a workout.” Lee took a swig from the bottle himself, put it back in one pocket, and pulled his cap gun from the other. They were standing outside the Max Bell Sports Center at the very spot where thousands of runners had only yesterday crammed in at the starting line of the Manitoba Marathon. Lee was a day late, and he'd be walking the course instead of running, but right now that mattered little to Lee. When Santiago was finished drinking, Lee tied the margarine container back onto his belt. He set his digital watch, raised the cap gun / starting pistol above his head, and looked down at his dog. “Ready, girl?”

CUT BACK TO JOE'S BAR

ZOOM IN ON GERTRUDE'S FINGERS CRACKING PEANUTS

“Thing is, the kid's
nuts
about setting his own records,” said Gertrude to Joe. “Obsessive, almost. When he was eight, he saved his allowance for months so he could buy enough dominoes to set up the length of a full city block.”

“Dominoes?”

“
You
know,” said Gertrude, “the way they line 'em up and then set the whole thing in motion with a nudge.”

“A full city block,” whistled Joe. “That must have been impressive.”

“Not really,” said Gertrude. “He'd get just so far before a chipmunk or a neighborhood cat would come along and knock a domino over, and then, well, you know. He must have started over fifteen times before he finally gave up and moved the whole shebang into the house. I was tiptoeing for days.”

“Sounds like a kid with determination,” said Joe, “and that's a good thing, don't you think, Gertie?”

“Determination and patience he has by the truckload,” said Gertrude, “but it seems to me he could get more bang for his buck if he'd invest it in something a little more important than dominoes. Ah, shoot,” sighed Gertrude.

CUT TO UNIVERSITY CAMPUS

CATCH SUN GLINTING OFF BARREL OF CAP GUN

ROLL SOUND

BANG!
Lee's cap gun fired, and an insanely startled Santiago took off faster than a bullet. Even though Lee intended to walk the marathon, he was forced to run the first fifty meters. “Hold your horses, Santi,” he panted, afraid the leash would pull his arm right out of its socket. “It was just a starting gun. Haven't you ever heard of a starting gun?”

CUT TO JOE'S BAR

“Haven't you ever heard of passion?” said Joe to Gertrude. “Sounds to me like the kid's got it in spades. And that's gotta come in mighty handy one day when he finds out where his talents lie. He'll probably grow up to be a van Gogh, or an Einstein, or something.”

“Maybe you're right,” said Gertrude, downing her glass and standing up.

“Now don't be too hard on him,” said Joe. “You going out looking for him?”

“Hell, no,” said Gertrude. “I'm certain he's not up to anything dangerous. He's got a good head on his shoulders.” She scooped up a handful of peanuts from the bar for the road. “It was the marathon yesterday. That always seems to fan his fire.” She smiled at Joe. “Or should I say, his
passion
. If I know Lee, he's probably gone out to run forty-two kilometers backwards on a pogo stick or some crazy thing.” She lifted her hat. “Thanks for the wise words, Joe. You're a prince among bartenders.”

FADE TO A HEADSHOT OF LEE, TALKING INTO INVISIBLE MICROPHONE

“Note to self: Next year, think about training to be the first person to walk the marathon backwards.” Lee looked down at Santiago, who had calmed down enough by now to enjoy the walk. “If I did that,” he said to Santi, “you really
could
be my seeing-eye dog.”

CHAPTER NINE

Some men give up their designs when they have almost reached the goal, while others, on the contrary, obtain a victory by exerting, at the last moment, more vigorous efforts than ever before.

Herodotus

By thirty-seven kilometers, Lee was going through his predictable “Am I nuts?” phase. If his life
was
some kind of crappy movie, it definitely wasn't a comedy anymore. He slowed down, bent over, and took Santiago's jowls in his hands. He looked her straight in the eyes. “Am I nuts, girl? What are we doing? Why are we
doing
this, Santi?”

Santiago licked Lee's face and gave a questioning whine. Lee sighed, glanced at his watch, and kept walking. Seven and a quarter hours they'd been trudging. His “bring-it-
on
-bro” enthusiasm had left him at sixteen kilometers. It hit him hard when he realized that, aside from the red spot on his white ankle sock from a busted blister, there'd be no blood and guts for him here today. It's only the sweating, give-it-all-you've-got runners who hit that heart-breaking, soul-sucking “wall,” thought Lee. Walkers? Oh yeah, they ache, they hurt, but they'll never have the kind of agony
or
the ecstasy of a true hero.

Instead of bricks, Lee imagined his “wall” made of a thin, unbreakable membrane—strong enough to bounce him back every time he tried to break through, but thin enough (like the over-stretched wall of a chewing gum bubble) to be able to see vague shadows of something better on the other side.

“What the heck are we doing, Santi?”

As if in answer, Santiago stopped to take a whiz near an apparently interesting-smelling tree. Lee sat on the curb. He tried to remember the word that had leapt out at him from this morning's Einstein quote, the one he'd read when he was still chipper and undaunted and certain that he was not a nutcase. What was it, anyway? Something about … oh yeah,
Mastery
.

Lee absentmindedly pulled up his sock, which unfortunately took the stuck-on top of his weepy blister along with it.
Shoot
. He wondered if he'd ever really be “master” material at anything, or (and this felt much more likely) remain forever “mediocre.” Mediocre at everything.

Mastery. Mediocrity. What's it gonna be, Lee?

He tossed Santiago a dried passion fruit from his trail mix. “Know what Einstein said, Santi?” He took her yip as a yes. “Only one who devotes himself to a cause with his whole strength and soul can be a true master … mastery demands
all
of a person.”

Einstein, thought Lee, I sure hope to heck you know what you're talking about. “Okay then, girl,” he said, “Time to give it our all.”