Harlan's Race

Angel.
    My office was as spartan as any coach digs — a view of the Paramount parking lot, an earthquake crack down the wall, and my old black Remington typewriter parked on the desk. As I pounded out a memo on th e Angel script, Paul was wrestling the same script on one of those new-fangled personal computers coming into American life — a VIC 20 that put typescript on a TV screen.
    At Paul’s, unpacking some gear in my guest room, I happened on my old pair of track shoes. The black Tigers that I’d worn in the masters’ mile in early 1978. They looked as worn-out and antiquated as a World War II bomber jacket.
    In fact, everything I’d used in Billy’s training felt behind the times. In just a few years, a lot had changed in shoes, sports medicine and training technology.
    Before turning off the light, I read the current issue of Runner’s World, to start catching up.
    Vince and I lasted one week without “rushing things”. Next Sunday, we went to Griffith Park and met three dozen other Front Runners. The club president accepted my membership cooly, as if not believing that I was finally going to get involved. Vince and I did the Memorial course. Now and then, his eyes met mine. I reached over and smacked him on his hard butt. He smacked me on my hard butt.
    As we were warming down, I told him between breaths, “When the AAU threw you out, they thought they’d rob you of your chance. Well, you’re only 29. So aim high.”
    He nodded, his eyes still holding mine. As we stood there in the smell of each other’s wet hair and hot sweat, the first hint of blue lightning was licking the air between us.
    “First we get a good foundation under you again,” I added. “And John says he will tackle the AAU—get your card back.”
    We were at the Jeep, pulling out our sweats.
    “The Mr. Brown pep talk. I remember it well.” He flashed his sexiest grin at me, pulling on his sweat pants.
    His hard frame looked so filled out, so mature and defined. No kid blurriness any more. Why had I ever thought kids were so attractive?
    “Some good runners don’t mature till late.” I was still trying to be serious. “So we’ll take it a step at a time.”
    “That’s me... the late bloomer,” he laughed, giving my arm a slow, warm squeeze.
    The Front Runners gathered around us, panting, laughing, sharing war stories of their training and psych problems. Gay boys and lesbians of assorted ages and skin colors. Struggling actors, students, professional people fleeing stresses of desk jobs. This was my team now. They’d asked me if I could design programs for them. Of course I could.
    For the rest of the day, Vince and I had a good time doing nothing. We ate brunch with the other Front Runners at a Silver Lake restaurant. We went on a slight shopping spree, to get me a few decent clothes. Finally we sat in an outdoor cafe on Sunset Boulevard — the kind of thing I hadn’t done since the European track tour in ’75. We stretched out our legs and talked. I was getting to like my hellion. It was fun to argue with him — made me figure out what I really thought.
    An urge to do the unexpected was there. I made a phone call.
    That evening, after Vince left me at Paul’s door, I went to my guest room wishing I could see his face when he found the surprise.
    In five minutes, the phone rang beside my bed.
    “Rhett Brown,” said his voice, “get your ass over here.”
    When I walked in his door, I wondered if I’d blundered into some pagan shrine. The darkened room was a magic cave, ablaze with votive candles. He’d lit candles everywhere
    — on his cluttered desk, on the bedside table by his fold-out sofa bed, in the galley kitchen, even the tiny bathroom. Candles blazed on his dresser, around the Mercury and the bouquet of long-stemmed American Beauty red roses. He’d found the florist box at the door, with a note that said: “Hey, late bloomer... call me if you’re ready to be carried up the stairs.”
    Vince was just sticking the last rose in a vase. His eyes met mine with that wondrous flash of sensuality, sinew, mischief, mayhem and macho vulnerability that was who he was.
    ‘What’s up, Scarlett O’Matti?” I asked.
    His voice went hoarse and serious. “Are you sure you want to do this? I mean —■”
    I touched his cheek, rubbing his five-o’clock shadow.
    “Whatever I’m going to get from you,” I said, “I’ve got already. Is that a reckless statement?”
    “Doctor Jacobs would have a