The Sun is the Same

And you run, and you run to catch up with the sun The sun racin' round, to come up behind you again

Alongside the other top ten placers of the men’s aged 45 to 49 marathon-bracket, Tim Maudlin scowled during the entire group photo session. He was a popular teacher that taught astronomy at a local high school. And noticed three past students approaching from afar with large helium balloons. All chanting something on the approach. Was it, “Happy birthday to you?”

He acted like he didn't notice them and was about to start jogging away in the opposite direction. But made accidental eye-contact with one of them still approaching. So he stayed put. Thinking, Why? How? -

He forced himself to smile, “Wow guys. Jennifer? Tim? And Ian? Right? I didn’t even. What’s it been? Two? Wait. One and a half years? How’d? How are you all doing? Wow. This is. How’d you even know I’m here? Or it’s my birthday? “

Jennifer, Ian, and Jason all answered with the same enthusiasm, “Facebook.”

Tim could kick himself for posting about his participation in this marathon while it was still upcoming. He’d been looking so forward to today. Getting back from the marathon and relaxing. Alone. Peace. His wife and kid were both out of town. By kid, their young-adult kid that should be moved out by now. Or at the very least have a job and not be rotting away in their room all day long doing god knows what. His goal was to crush it in that morning’s marathon, check. And then total decompression for the rest of the week, whenever he’s not at work or running.

His New Year’s resolution four days prior was to gain strict control of his drinking once and for all. This year, no more unearned drinking. His self-rules were always time and quantity based. Like – only six drinks allowed per weeknight, but twelve allowed each Friday and Saturday. Or – weeknight drinking not permitted, but as much wanted on Fridays and Saturdays. No. This year’s moderation strategy was to be earn-it based. During runs, even during the very marathon that he just completed - he’d catch himself chanting his New Year’s resolution. Repeating three lines inside his head. Each syllable matching the beat of his alternating landing feet, One – drink – at – a – time. One – my – ole – at – a – time. One – day – at – a – time.

The deal was, one drink per mile-ran, each day. As in, zero miles equals zero drinks. Or twelve miles-ran equals a twelve-pack earned. No carryover. The day of. So, because of today’s marathon, Tim had twenty-six hard-won cold delicious brews waiting for him in his fridge. But thanks to this birthday surprise, it all had to wait. Triggered. His thoughts bitched, Facebook. Gone. Deleting. Done. I swear-

Water splashed getting his shoes wet. He'd already slammed his water bottle super hard down onto the ground before he had a chance to stop himself.

Startled by his own outburst. His embarrassment reflex was a sarcastic grin, with which he said, "Whoops. Nah. Lemme-

His grin gave up and voice became hard to hear, -Actually lemme just."

He picked his dead bottle up from the ground. Bolted about ten feet over to one of the million marathon-day temporary recycling bins. Put it in and returned, “Guys I am so sorry for that. Ian. You used to smoke back in high school. Right? Might you have a cigarette on you? I was heading to my car to get one the moment you all found me. I’m parked like a mile away. All I could think of was a cigarette for the last thirteen miles. From the moment I hit the halfway mark. I hardly smoke anymore but do allow myself one on days I run. And only after my run is done. So like Pavlov’s dogs salivating for food when they hear the bell go ding, I am having the strongest nicotine fit. And guys. Again. That wasn’t me. Slamming my water down-

Ian to the rescue. Interrupting to hand him a cigarette and lighter, “Here you go.“

Jennifer set a gift bag with balloons tied to its handles next to his feet, “You’re obviously cooling down from a fresh marathon so I’m going to set this right here. Sorry about this. But since we’re all here. We wanted to not just say happy birthday but also thank you.”

Tim lit his cigarette. Ignored them for a few drags with his eyes closed. He opened his eyes, his agitation towards them and Facebook relaxed, “Thank me? For what?”

Jennifer was trying to untangle a balloon’s ribbon from her arm, “I know we just ambushed you. Sorry again. And you can call me Jen now. But yeah, I just want to thank you for everything. For being my teacher. Everything. I literally decided to major in physics because of you. Why in the hell can I not get this thing untangled from my arm?-

She lost her balance towards Tim, bear-hugging him around his torso just in time to prevent a full tumble. The whole front of her t-shirt now stamped with a marathon’s-worth of sweat. She let the tangled balloon around her arm be, and smiled, "Okay let me try that again. I literally decided to major in physics because even though I had straight A's, I hated school before taking your class, which you taught like a stand-up comedian meets Ted Talker, which - this may sound corny but - you literally started my love of science, which literally gave me purpose. So, thank you for that."

Tim was dabbing drenching sweat off his forehead and eyes with a towel, “Nah. I mean.  That’s. That’s. So how's it going? I’m guessing you're in your 2nd-year? Starting towards your bachelor's next year?”

She smiled, “It’s going great. I’m psyched and impressed you remembered all three of our names. And. You know it’s been way more than one and half years right? Almost quadruple. It's been five and a half. Five and half freakin' years. Feels like a lifetime. I just finished my masters in astrophysics from MIT right before Christmas break, one semester early.``

Tim himself had been enrolled to start work on his master's back when he was about the age that Jennifer is right now. Right after completing his bachelor's an unplanned pregnancy made him decide to take a one-year break from school, but he never made it back. He felt a ping of needles on the palms of his hands and bottoms of his feet, as though electrocuted by a hundred of megawatts of could-a-been's. Like a method actor preparing to hide an unexpected sudden shocking case of regret, he tuned into how excited he himself felt when he himself still thought possible the full realization of his own true god-given potential, “Are you serious? A master's? In astrophysics? And from MIT?  Wow. Holy shit. I've had. Probably now hundreds of students pass through my classroom not pull that off. Very impress. I mean. Damn-

Jim cleared his throat, "Congrat-

Jason had to interrupt, “Don’t be downplaying it Mr. Maudlin. You played a huge role with me too.”

Tim was still dabbing his towel all over his face even though it was now dry, compliments made him awkward, “Guys. This is really nice. I mean. But. Look-

Ian to the rescue again, “Hold that thought -

Ian reached into the gift bag next to Tim’s feet and pulled out the gift, “Two bottles of Macallan 15 Year Double Cask Scotch. Can we open one up and have a happy-birthday slash marathon toast together?”

Tim’s face lit up with its first honest smile of the day, “No way guys thank you so much. This Scotch here is the real deal. Above and beyond. And yes. Gladly. I’ll go find some cups. They’ve got tables everywhere with water, cups, all types of marathon shit.”

Ian reached into the gift bag again and pulled out a package of shot-sized red SOLO cups, presenting them with a proud smile, “No need.”

***

Eighteen hours later Tim woke up to a splitting headache, the torture of which was only outgunned by his bladder that was begging him to get up out of bed and go to the bathroom. But the idea of getting up sounded worse than the excruciating piss that he had to take. He spent twenty minutes trying to fall back asleep but could only concentrate on resisting his dire need to urinate. The sheer pain of his exploding bladder just wouldn’t go away. He cracked one eye open just enough to look at his clock and saw it was 5:04 AM. One minute before his alarm was set to go off. Triggered. He clinched his pillow with his fist, stood up on his bed, raised it over his head, and flung it super hard down onto the floor yelling at top of his lungs, “Fine-

And then right on cue, as though to rub his nose in it, his alarm rang. He turned it off.

Like how students fall asleep at school, with their face planted into their folded arm on top of their desk. Jim stood leaning-over his toilet, arm folded on the wall in front of him, his face planted on his folded arm - relieving himself of the gallons of whatever all he drank last night. Flushed, exited his bathroom, returned, vomited, flushed again, went to the sink, splashed his face, swished a mouthful of water, gargled, spit it out, dried his face with a towel, tore off a nice thread of toilet paper and blew his nose.

He returned to his room, sat on the edge of his bed, grabbed his phone off his nightstand, scrolled to the contact of his relevant school administrator, hit the call button, and put it on speaker. Tim waited for the automated attendant to finish and left the following message, “Good morning Jan. This is Tim Maudlin. Sorry for the last-minute notification. It is 5:19 on Monday morning, January 5th, and I can’t make it in to work today. I ran the marathon yesterday, and I just woke up, hardly able to use my feet or legs. I will echo this message in an email.”

Without getting up, he pulled his laptop out from the bottom of his nightstand, opened it, wrote his absence letter, hit send, closed it, and placed it back under its nightstand. Still sitting at the edge of his bed, he reached one of his legs out as far as he could, leaning back to get leverage hoping to reach his earlier-thrown pillow with his foot, got it by pinching a corner of the pillowcase between his big toe and its neighbor, pulled it up from the floor close enough to grab it, hugged it, and closed his eyes.

He failed to disarm his alarm, having snoozed it instead, so it went off again. He tore off his cocoon, got out of bed, went to the kitchen, opened his fridge, and investigated. He was pleased to see that he still had fifteen of his twenty-six marathon-earned beers left. He pulled one out, cracked it open and took a long refreshing sip with his eyes closed. Leaning against the counter he scanned his kitchen for more clues and noticed the two bottles of scotch that he had forgotten about until this moment. One was empty and the other almost empty. Next to the bottles were a torn-off wristband labeled “Wop’s Hops Brewing Sanford’s 1st Microbrewery” -

And a rather long-looking crumbled up receipt. He checked the notifications on his phone and found that Jason had tagged him in a picture from yesterday. The four of them each holding up their miniature red SOLO cup right before their first shot. The caption read, "Mr. Maudlin placed 3rd in his bracket in today. On his birthday! #Sanfording #SanfordMarathon."

Tim smiled and hit the like and share buttons.

He walked into his TV room and saw Jennifer on his couch lying on her stomach. Fast asleep. Her back rising and falling in tandem with the sound of her slow breathing. Almost a snore but not quite. Butt naked. No blanket. No sheet. He thought, Holy shit -

He hurried to his room and got a fresh blanket out of his closet, returned unfolding it, draped it over her covering her from neck to foot, backed away about ten feet, and yell-whispered, “Jennifer. Jen? Are you awake? Wake up.” 

Nothing.

He escaped to his bathroom. Turned on his sink and splashed his face a few times with cold water. Gripped the edge of his countertop on either side of his sink with each of his hands and leaned forward towards the mirror making confrontational eye contact with himself. Face dripping with sink water. Dried his face and sat down on top of his closed toilet. He bargained with himself, Five and a half? Years? How? Feels like five and half minutes. If I learn that nothing happened. Please. I will never drink again. Done. I swear -

After building up enough courage to try to wake her again, he stood up and realized that he had a pounding erection. He sat back down and started practicing his standard method of managing these cases whenever they happen to him. Which was to focus on any actual stressful or negative things that might be looming or unresolved. Like this morning. He called in sick last-minute due to a tremendous hangover. A lie. Blaming his sick day on soreness due to yesterday’s marathon. And the fact that he's been getting warned at work about recent tardiness. And the start of an almost once-a-month trend of last-minute sick days. But his case here was stubborn. It would not go away. He needed to invoke the nuclear option. He needed to imagine his wife and kid arriving home early. Like. Right now. Which brought his unyielding involuntary swelling problem to an immediate end. He charged back into his TV room commanding, “Jennifer. Please. You are to please wake up right now -

She didn’t move. But her voice came from the depths of where her mouth was planted between a throw pillow and the couch cushion, “What?”

Tim moved a little closer to repeat his wake-up call but found a handwritten note on his coffee table. A large hand-drawn shape of a heart, inside of which read, “Jen. I’ve missed you. I've missed us. Ian.”

Tim blew out an audible exhale of relief and rejoice. He sat down on the coffee table. Stood back up. Made a quiet Tiger Woods styled celebratory fist pump. Returned to his kitchen. Grabbed his open bottle of beer. Took a very nice swig. Noticed out the window. The sun's about to come up. Smiled. Yawned so big it turned into a full body stretch. Then lit a cigarette.