01-21-10: Friends and Family

Jared tends to coordinate his outfits whenever he goes to the gym. He has an orange, blue, and white Knicks-themed ensemble as well as a dark blue, green, and black Timberwolves combination. For this particular gym session he wore his white and crimson St. John’s uniform.*1 He prepares himself the way a popular girl might primp herself for the homecoming dance, spending time in front of the mirror to make sure everything is just right; the legs are clean-shaven, his shoulder-bicep tattoo sleeve*2 is visibly unobstructed.

It’s been sort of difficult for us to relate to each other, me and my brother. Our only commonality is the gym and although we usually head there together, we conduct our workouts independently. I’ve found it increasingly difficult to interact with him. For the most part, I’ve put the emotional baggage behind me and forgiven him for the things he’s done to me in the past, but now even talking to him is challenging. Maybe it’s all the drugs, illegal and prescriptive, that have fried his brain or numbed his senses, but he can’t seem to handle a regular conversation with me. If he doesn’t contribute, he goes off on tangents or rambles incoherently, usually resulting in something that offends a normal person’s sensibility.*3

Jared and I split off when we arrived at Planet Fitness. He headed to the locker room while I found a vacant treadmill at the front of the cardio section. Running inside doesn’t invigorate me the way a trip outside does. The idea of tracking your distance and pace is appealing, but it devolves into an act of hubris. I find that I make furtive glances at the calorie count, as if that was the way to measure a ‘good run.’

Things started off well. I began at a fast pace, steadily increasing the rate to a 7 minute mile. But I felt like I was going to hit a wall. I was winded and my lunch from earlier seemed to be gurgling in my throat. I tried distracting myself from my body. My eyes glossed over the eight televisions hovering just out of reach. I looked at the other runners in my proximity and caught glimpses of that cute girl.*4 The technique seemed to work.

As my mind wandered from my body, I thought about the phone I had just before leaving for the gym. It was an old friend I knew during high school. Though we hadn’t spoken together in years, the conversation was casual. I caught him up on my story*5 before he told me what he had been up to: living in Providence, working for an insurance company, collaborating on some writing projects.

For the most part, our conversation was pleasant, like the way conversation on a date seems to cover everything and nothing, from our hopes and dreams to the everyday banalities. We talked about movies, writing, and old friends. And then he warned me that he was about to drop something heavy on me, which made sense as to why he called me, though I was still anxious as to what he was going to tell me. Apparently he thought that I thought he wasn’t good enough to be my friend, and the call was a sort of test to verify if his assessment was accurate. But after our talk, he concluded that he had misinterpreted something from the past, and he was glad that we spoke. The feeling was mutual.

A cramp pierced my left side near my kidney. It had been awhile since I felt something like that during a run. I wondered if it was because of the time I ate or if I wasn’t breathing right and not getting enough air. It never occurred to me to research some things about running, considering how much time I’ve invested in it. I winced as I raised my head. My brother was pulling a set of weights, making a similar face to mine. With the cute girl gone and less people around me, I felt like Jared and I were the only two people left.

“Sometimes friends drift apart,” I had told my friend. But I felt like his call had somehow proven me wrong. After all, he was trying to keep us connected. The call might have been for his benefit, a way to gain a sense of closure, but I was the one that was moved. Because there was nothing at stake, both of us still living our lives, and yet he pursued the thing he felt compelled to do. I guess I was touched by his effort, a determination I wish I had for connecting with my brother.

After wards, Jared asked me how things went. ‘Good,’ was my one word response, but I asked him how his workout went.

“Good. I’m figuring out how to work the different muscle groups I’m learning about in school,” he said.

“Maybe you can teach me some of the exercises the next time we go,” I requested.

“Sure,” he said. And for the time being, that was enough for me. I know that we’ll probably continue to fight, that I’ll never quite be able to understand what goes on his head, but I can continue trying to figure it out.

-------------------------------------------------------

*1 I will never be able to accept St. John’s University as anything but my brother’s favorite college basketball team, mainly due to his arbitrary and unwavering love for them. For over a decade, he has used their “Red Storm” team name for various online aliases.

*2 A demon with a samurai sword through its head, a dragon, and a black sunset (I think).

*3 i.e., “I know more about gums than a dentist”; “A raped pregnant woman only has to deal with psychological pain”; “Sticking this pen in any of her orifices can get it wet”; etc.

*4 A tall, slender brunette, her hair invariably pulled in a ponytail, sporting either a red t-shirt or baby blue tank top, always the tiny, black shorts.

*5 Please refer to paragraph two of blog entry "1-20-10 / An Introduction."