The McGillicuddy Book of Personal Records (7 page)

As they passed the thirty-seven kilometer marker, Lee began a slow jog. Santiago, for her part, was ecstatic. She galloped ahead until the leash was taut and soon she had him picking up speed. Lee suddenly remembered why he'd decided to walk this marathon instead of running it. He could feel his lungs protesting. He was about to tell Santiago to give him a break, to “slow
down
, ya maniac, you've obviously never suffered with asthma,” but when he opened his mouth, something entirely different flew out: “Frig it.” Lee was suddenly overtaken by an overwhelming urge to let the pain grow and intensify until he exploded into a million mediocre bits, blowing through his mediocre universe. He caught up with Santiago and started running at a punishing speed. The more it hurt, the faster he ran. His heart became a pair of boxing gloves, pounding the inside of his chest: left-
right
, left-
right
—thump-
thump
. He could even feel the pounding in his temples, like the top of his head was about to blow off. Yep, here it comes. Self-combustion. Lee McGillicuddy up in smoke.
POOF
! Nothing left but a smoldering heap of cinders. He was waiting for it, expecting it. But it didn't come.

Instead came the miraculous: Without warning, without explanation … jeez … he started to feel good. Absurdly, ridiculously good. And
strong
. Strong enough to spin the planet on the tip of his finger like a basketball. And then he did it— the impossible. He maxed his speed, screwed his eyes shut, spread his arms wide, and took a suicidal leap at his “wall”— that rubbery membrane of mediocrity that stood between him and mastery—and instead of rebounding into space … holy crud …
HE … BROKE …
THROUGH
. As Lee stepped onto the track at the university stadium—the same track that thousands of marathoners had stepped onto only yesterday as they took their last steps toward the finish line—he knew he'd broken through.

It was like putting on perfect prescription glasses when you didn't even know your eyesight was crappy. It was like having a huge plug of wax removed from an ear that you didn't know had been blocked up for years. The volume was up and everything seemed vibrant and sharp and full of possibility. He'd done it. Lee Sonny Daddy Beanpole McGillicuddy, if only for a tiny, infinitesimal fraction of his life, had entered Mastery.

Only those who will risk going too far can possibly find out how far one can go.

– T. S. Eliot

You can become a winner only if you are willing to walk over the edge.

– Damon Runyon

CHAPTER TEN

Slang Kischuk looked up from his soccer practice inside the university stadium and did a double take. He saw a boy and a dog coming through the gates onto the track. The dog was bounding, and the kid had his arms raised high in the air. He was running sideways, facing the empty stands as if they held thousands of cheering fans. He was staggering; Slang could see he was exhausted, but the kid nodded toward the stands and croaked, “Thank you! Thank you very much.” Must be hallucinating, thought Slang—unfortunately he knew a thing or two about “Hallucination City” from recent personal experience. (Slang cringed at the sudden memory of a talking sesame seed bum.)

“Kischuk!” yelled the coach. “We don't have time for daydreaming here. Get with the program or get off the field!”

But Coach Thorwaldson lost the attention of more than one of his players as they stopped to stare at the strange spectacle coming around the track.

“Someone should tell that kid the marathon was yesterday,” joked one of them.

“Maybe he's been running
since
yesterday,” called another. “Maybe he's going for a world record.” He held an invisible microphone in front of a teammate's face: “Tell me, son, how does it feel to hold the world record for the slowest marathon ever run?” Some of them laughed. But Slang was too fresh from his own marathon experience to find it funny—he still had the aching muscles to remind him. He began walking toward the boy and his dog, and a small crowd followed. The coach blew a sigh of frustration, but his curiosity was as strong as anyone's. He trailed behind them.

Slang reached the finish line just in time to catch Lee as his knees gave way. He took Lee by the armpits and laid him out on the track. The kid was mumbling, trying to say something.

“What?” said Slang, lowering his ear.

“Puffer,” choked Lee. “Left pocket.”

Slang dug around in Lee's pocket until he found his asthma inhaler. He put it to Lee's lips and pressed the nozzle. It took a few minutes, but Lee started to breathe easily again, and the whole time the smile never left his face. “
I broke through
,” he whispered.

Far better is it to dare mighty things … than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy much nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.

– Theodore Roosevelt

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Be not forgetful to entertain strangers for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Hebrews 13:2

“Take him up to his front door and make sure his parents are home, Kischuk,” called Coach, as Slang helped Lee toward the parking lot. “And make sure you show up for the game good and early tomorrow!”

The coach, being a devoted dog lover
and
the devoted husband of a woman with dog allergies, roughhoused with Santiago another second or two before reluctantly letting her go. “Beauty,” he whispered as she loped off to catch up with Lee.

“You didn't have to volunteer to take me home,” said Lee on the way to Slang's car. “Really, we don't mind taking the bus.”

“Are you kidding?” said Slang, “you're my ticket outta here today, kid.” He grimaced from the pain in his calves. “No person should be subjected to a soccer practice the day after running a forty-two-kilometer marathon.” He playfully elbowed Lee. “Consider yourself my angel of mercy.”

Never mind an angel, Lee felt like a pipsqueak beside this muscular athlete. Even so, he realized with some pride that he also felt a certain kinship. After all, they'd both recently experienced “the agony and the ecstasy” firsthand, right?

Slang unlocked the car door for Lee. “Ignore the mess,” he said, clearing a pile of books and hamburger wrappers from the front seat. “Now, you're sure you're okay? I don't mind taking you to emerg,” he said. “Asthma's a serious thing. I had it myself as a kid.”

An
other
similarity, thought Lee.

“Never been better,” said Lee, putting on his seatbelt, and he meant it. He reached an arm over to calm Santiago in the back seat. Lee wasn't exactly great at small talk, but at least there was the marathon. “So … how'd you do in the race yesterday?”

“Pretty good in the first half,” said Slang, who seemed so comfortable inside his own skin that Lee wondered if he'd ever suffered an awkward moment in his life. “But I ran into a little difficulty near the end.” Lee couldn't imagine this guy having difficulty with
any
thing. Slang took the sweatband from his forehead and tossed it in the back seat. As he shook his wild hair loose, Lee had a feeling he'd met this guy somewhere before.

“Yeah,” continued Slang, “it got kind of surreal there for a while. I started getting tired and crazy-
hungry
, and at thirty- seven kilometers I had a major meltdown.” He looked over at Lee. “Keep that to yourself, though, eh kid? I've got a rep to maintain, if ya know what I mean.” Slang chuckled. “Honestly. I thought I was gonna die.” He glanced over at Lee, who had the amazed face of someone putting two and two together. Slang must have seen the stunned disbelief on Lee's face. “Really!” insisted Slang. “Got all delirious and everything. Thank God some guy on the sidelines stuffed a candy bar in my hand.” Slang shook his head. “I don't think I'd have finished without it.”

Lee was
bursting
to yell out, “It was
me
!! I was the guy who gave you the Mars Bar!!
I'm
the one who helped you finish the race!” He could barely stop himself from leaping about like Santiago did when she was happy.

Instead he checked his instinct to blabber like an excited six-year-old. He smiled to himself and said, as cool as he could, “Run into any sesame seed bums lately?”

“Huh?” said Slang.

“You know,” said Lee, “two all-beef patties, special sauce …”

Slang pulled the car to the curb and stopped. He looked at Lee in amazement. “No way!” Lee just smiled back at him. “No
way
!” repeated Slang. “You're the magic candy man?!”

In answer, Lee gave what he hoped was a mature smile.

“No way!” said Slang. “You saved my
life,
dude! That chocolate gave me the last ounce of energy I needed!”

For half a nanosecond, Lee thought about mentioning Rhonda, considering it
was
her precious Mars Bar. Then he told himself to get over it and claimed one hundred percent of Slang's shining approval.

“It was nothing,” insisted Lee.

“No, it was something,” said Slang. “It was definitely something, and I owe you, my friend.” He pulled the peak of Lee's baseball cap down over his eyes, and then he popped Lee on the shoulder a couple more times. “No
way
, man! That's perfect!”

As Slang pulled up to Lee's house twenty minutes later, he turned to Lee, who hoped there wasn't another playful punch coming. Instead, Slang bopped Lee on top of the head. Then he took off Lee's baseball cap and mussed up his hair. “Here's my number. So you'll be there, right?”

“Wouldn't miss it,” said Lee, taking a scrap of scribbled numbers from Slang.

“Need me to pick you up?”

Lee could see his mom standing at the front screen door with her arms crossed. “No, I'll see you there. Can I bring Santiago?”

“'Course!” Then Slang spotted Lee's mom as well. “Hey, maybe I should come and talk to your mom or some—”

“See you tomorrow,” said Lee, pulling Santiago from the car. He pretty much floated up his front steps and into the house. Not even the word “grounded” could bring him down.

i thank You God for most this amazing day: for the leaping greenly spirits of trees and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything which is natural which is infinite which is yes
– e. e. cummings

CHAPTER TWELVE

There are only two ways to live your life.

One is as though nothing is a miracle.

The other is as though everything is a miracle.

Albert Einstein

What a day, eh, Milhouse? The sun is out, birds are singing, bees are trying to have sex with them—as is my understanding …”

– Bart Simpson

Lee was still high when he opened his eyes the next morning. He woke before his alarm and got out of bed just because he felt like it. That in itself was miracle enough. More than once his mother had been forced to pour cold water on his forehead or pop ice cubes down his pajamas to stir him from his catatonic sleep states.

This morning it wasn't necessary. Lee looked out his window and had to touch his eyes to make certain he wasn't actually wearing those prescription glasses he'd imagined yesterday. It was true. Everything seemed hyper-focused and double-dipped in Technicolor. He wondered if this is what it felt like to look through the eyes of a winner.

Lee grabbed a shirt from his closet and did up the buttons.
Buttons
, marveled Lee; what a simple, yet ingenious invention. He thought about the history of mankind, and wondered how many centuries they'd been forced to struggle along without buttons before some inspired genius came up with the idea. Eureka! And how many more centuries till some brilliant dude dreamed up “denim,” he thought, pulling on his ragged and superbly comfortable jeans.
Mr. Blue-Jean, whoever you are, I salute you!
And then he started to do up his zipper, and, well, that whole concept just about blew his mind.

In the bathroom, he stopped to notice how the shade of toothpaste on his toothbrush matched the color of his shirt exactly. It nearly made him want to skip brushing his teeth and just carry around the toothbrush all day. Look! he'd say to people on the street, My shirt is a perfect toothpaste blue. Did you ever wonder who was exceptional enough to invent toothpaste? Did you ever wonder why the stuff doesn't taste like Tub 'n' Tile Cleaner? What other cleanser in the world tastes that good?

Jeez-Louise
, thought Lee, I'd better be careful not to run too
Jeez-
many marathons; I'm starting to sound like some love-struck dope in a gag-me-with-two-fingers chick flick. He didn't care, though. Not even about the blister on his ankle that was starting to bleed again. Or about the fact that he had to shuffle down the stairs on his bum because his calves were aching so badly. Minor details.

Nothing could bring him down today. Not the fact that there were only two Cheerios left in the bottom of the cereal box. Not the big black mess he had to clean up after scraping his burnt toast (Gertrude considered herself a “Mrs. Fix It,” but Lee could have told her to stay away from that malfunctioning toaster). Not even the fact that he had math today, and Mr. Wood would be handing their exams back. Shoot, that
exam
, thought Lee. Nope, nope, nope, he told himself a second later, not even a failing math mark could bring him down today.

“What did you burn?” asked Gertrude, fanning the air with her morning paper as she came into the kitchen.

“Hate to tell you, but the toaster worked better before you fixed it, Mom,” said Lee. Then he pulled out a kitchen chair and motioned her to sit down. “Your breakfast is served, Madame.” Lee plunked the plate of murdered toast in front of her.