Running to Something Larger

This is a flash story about a woman who realizes that impressive size might not be all that should be taken into consideration. Is there a road back to what she left behind?

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"How was your lunch, Emily?" There was something not quite right about his voice, about the smile frozen on his face. With a few exceptions, I had been with this man almost every day for the past ten years. I could tell when things were fine, and this wasn't one of those times.

"Fine, Charley. What about you? Did you have a good lunch today?"

His expression didn't change. "I did, but let's stick with your lunch. Did you eat alone?"

"Uhhmm, no. I ate with a friend."

"A friend. Just a friend. And would that friend be named Terrance Pallilo?"

Panicking, I just sat there staring at him. How the hell did he know?

"Emily, do you have anything you want to tell me? Is there a reason you didn't want me to know who you were having lunch with? How many of these lunches have you had? It was just the two of you, wasn't it? Alone."

Why wouldn't my mind work? Why couldn't I think of what to say?

"No, Charles, it... it was just lunch, there was nothing..."

"Emily, don't. At least give me credit enough to realize that I'm not going to fall for 'it was just lunch'. It was a hell of a lot more than that. How long have you been having 'just lunch' with this, this predator?"

"A, uhhh, a few times. Five? Six? But it doesn't mean anything. He's just a friend."

"A friend. Sure. He wants you, Em. You see that, right?"

"Look, you're being ridiculous, Charles. If I want to have lunch with a friend, I'm entitled."

"Yes, you are. I just hope you know what your decisions may cost you. But you're an adult. Have lunch with whoever you'd like."

A week went by before Terrance called me again. Charley couldn't see me from where he was, so I slumped down a bit in my seat and spoke softly. "I really shouldn't be talking to you. Charley knows we've been having lunch. You know how I feel. I can't do anything to endanger my relationship with him. We can't keep doing this."

"Em, one last time. That's it. Let me buy you lunch today, we'll talk, and I'll leave. I'll head down to New York and you'll be here. A goodbye lunch between friends. He can't begrudge you that, right?"

"Okay, but it has to be someplace new. And I need to be back here within 90 minutes, tops."

Maybe I shouldn't have had the wine with and before our meal, but I was showing a lot more interest than I should have.

Terrance looked my way and I could tell he wanted me. "You should really rethink this. How many times does a chance like this come around?"

"All right, Terry. You have me interested. Let me see what you've got."

"Right here? Okay."

He reached down, grabbed it and put it on the table. My hand wavered for a moment before I plucked up the courage to grab it. I stared, not quite believing what I was looking at. "Damn. That... it's huge. I don't know if I can handle something like that."

"Sure you can. I'll help. You'll love it. Think of it as a challenge."

"It's just so... so large."

"Well, Em, it's not just the size, it's how it moves. Look here." He leaned forward and turned the page on the promotion booklet. "The NYC marathon goes through every borough and the race runs as smooth as silk. Here's the map. It's the best marathon in the world and we want you to be a part of the team. A vital part."

He saw the look in my eyes and continued.

"I'm saying that with all due respect to Charley and the Boston Marathon. You guys do a terrific job up here. I'm not taking anything away from that. But we had 57,241 registered last year and 52,994 actually in the race. What did Boston get? Under 30,000? I love Charley. I've worked with him and he's a great guy. Those are good numbers, but he can't compete with our size. You know what they say, 'Once you run in the City that Never Sleeps, you're there for keeps.'"

I looked up from the map and stats to Terry and then back down again. "Terry, you don't know how tempted I am, but I've been with Charley and the Boston Marathon for a long time. We have something good here. I don't want to hurt him. Let me think about this."

"Of course. You have my number. Call anytime."

He paid and left. Both of us knew I'd be calling.

When I returned to the office, I spoke to a colleague. "Donald, is Charley in? I'd sort of like to just slip into my office without being seen and close the door."

His look was a mixture of surprise and concern. No one called him Donald. We had a new executive join us a few years ago and on the first day he called Donald 'Chief'. Don's proud of his native American heritage and immediately told the jackass that he was to be referred to as Donald or Mr. Walker.

The rest of us gave the guy the cold shoulder and he was gone within a month. We were a tightknit group. Now no one calls him Don or Donald. It's always something that starts with 'Ch'. Chester, Chuck, Chet, Charley, Charles. Always 'Ch', but never 'Chief'. It was our way of making light of the idiot and telling Donald we love him.

"I think he's out of the office. Want me to check?"

"No, it's fine. Thanks."

I relaxed in my office, got some work done, returned some calls from the media and found my thoughts drifting to New York. Hopping on LinkedIn, I went over the profiles of some of the people I'd be working with. Schlomo Goldstein was their Director of Marketing. A good-looking man with a full beard and traditional payot, he was relatively famous in sports marketing circles. He worked with Michael Jordan and Nike years ago, was instrumental in the shaping and marketing of Muhammad Ali's likeness and phrases and had brought unprecedented attention to the NYC Marathon.

Javel Montgomery was a legendary former competitor who now splits time between his native Jamaica and New York, where he acts as a spokesman and Athletes Advocate for the marathon. Reporters are often distracted by the huge array of medals he wears at media events. It's impressive the way they sort of hang there, swaying freely, mesmerizing as he talks up the event.

Martha Tsao was their CFO. Year after year she found ways to do more with less. It was astonishing what she was able to do and how much their event was able to give to related charities. If there was one person that was considered the brains behind their organization, it was Martha.

Then there was Terrance. He was born and raised in Samoa and had only come to the US to attend college at NYU. He fell in love with New York and made his life there. No one was immune to his charms. Terrance was the sort of person that everyone liked. He was friendly, outgoing and when he spoke to you, it felt like the two of you were the only people on Earth.

Terrance could sell glue to a horse and ice to an Eskimo, which leads us to Jared Yazzi. An Inuit native, Jared was a nuts and bolts guy. Hyper detail-oriented, if anyone ever had a question about any facet of the marathon, the clarion call of "Where's Jared?" would ring out. It didn't matter whose purview the question fell under or who should know, Jared's breadth of knowledge seemed to inexhaustible.

These were the sort of A-list colleagues I wanted to be associated with. They weren't better than the people I worked with, it was just that they were so different and exciting. The appeal was undeniable. I had a hard decision to make.

I knocked on Charley's door at 4:30. "Got a minute, boss?"

"Of course. Come in, Emily. Sit down. You can always talk to me."

I hoped that he couldn't see the guilt in my eyes as I sat. "Charley, you know how much I love working here. It's something I'll always treasure, but... I, oh Charley, this is so hard. I need something else. Something you can't give me. I... Charley, I'm leaving. I'm going to take a position with the NY Marathon."

Looking away, he stared at the wall and I felt a knot in my throat. He had been my mentor and now I was leaving. Charley coughed before speaking. "I guess I should have expected this when you started meeting with Terrance. How could you resist him? They are almost double our size."

"Charley, it... it's not just size and it's not just Terrance. It's, I don't know, it's Martha and..."

"Oh, I'm sure. Good old Martha Tsao. She'll give you whatever you want. She's actually eager to do anything. Need extra water stations? Not a problem. Free tee-shirts for VIP's? You got it. All with no extra costs. How the hell can I compete with that?"

"Charley, I'm so sorry. I just feel that if I don't take this opportunity to explore new possibilities, I'd regret it for the rest of my life."

"And what about what you have here, Em? All of a sudden, we're not good enough? No, don't answer. Your minds made up. Just tell me one thing before you leave, did you already start working for them? Have you been doing work for their marathon while you were still with us?"

"What? How can you even ask that? Of course not. I'd never work with them until I was done here. Look, I'll stay here until the fifteenth of next month. That'll give you plenty of time to..."

"No, just pack your stuff and go. We don't need your pity work. Go to your precious New York, Emily."

Stepping out of the building with my cardboard box of personal belongings was one of the most difficult journeys I've ever made. It felt like my car was in the last row of an endless parking lot, the box growing heavier with every step I took.

Less than a week later I was driving south to Manhattan. I constantly had to brush the tears from my eyes until I hit the Massachusetts/Connecticut border. It got easier from that point forward, but I had this nagging feeling that I was losing something I couldn't replace. It was a pleasant drive on I-84 for once and I eventually began to enjoy myself and the mounting feeling of excitement that peaked when I saw the "Now Entering New York" sign.

My first day was spent arranging everything that the movers had left in my new apartment. I had no idea how bad it would be driving through Manhattan to get to the Bronx and had lost some hours there. Exhausted by the time I was finished, I had some real NY pizza delivered, continued my familiarization with Terrance's plans for this year's race, took some notes and went to bed.

Martha Tsao wanted to buy lunch to welcome me to New York. We arranged to meet at the patio of Tom Collicchio's Wichcraft in Tribeca. A stunning, tall, early-thirties, thin, pale, Asian woman stood by the entrance. She wore a beautiful, shimmering, ankle length, red dress with a slit up the side. Next to her was Martha, offering directions in her friendly manner.

"Exactly! Just three more blocks, make a left and you'll see it dead ahead, under the yellow awning. Love your dress, by the way!"

Having no other role in the story, the woman thanked Martha graciously and slinked off, drawing the eye of every man in the vicinity. She haughtily ignored them, being a cliched cold, unfeeling dragon lady.

Martha and I enjoyed our sandwiches and did some people-watching as we discussed inconsequential and harmless office gossip. Who's getting married, who was having a baby, how members of the office's team did at last week's trivia competition at the local bar all helped to familiarize me with the people I'd be working with. She was a sweet woman and our time slipped by too quickly.

I must have spent an hour in front of the mirror the next morning, trying on outfit after outfit. My palms were sweaty and my heart beat faster than normal, but I eventually made a choice and got to the office fifteen minutes early. Terry came out to greet me and I tailed him for the first few days. He introduced me to everyone, even on phone calls which he kept on speaker. There wasn't a person there that wasn't as nice as could be. It turned out that New Yorkers were friendly, respectful people.

Weeks went by and I found my groove. My coworkers were great. They welcomed me with open arms and we had a wonderful synergy. Everything I did seemed to help someone else at their job and every day I found someone else bolstering my efforts and helping me fulfill my responsibilities. Everything was clicking, and it looked like this would be a banner year for the NY Marathon.

They took me to Yankee Stadium and I tried to appear enthusiastic, but it just seemed sterile. There was no history or life to it. I kept looking at the outfield and the short porch in right. It simply looked odd. My eyes expected to see the Green Monster. More time went by and I'd feel a little sad when people talked about how they had to park their car and I'd wonder where the 'h' was in 'park' and 'car'.

They didn't have to take me to CitiField, we were all taken to a Mets game by the Queens Borough President, Octavia Dotero. I had done my research and knew what they wanted. Queens always wanted the largest. Whatever it was, if it was the biggest, Queens had to have it. JFK International Airport wasn't enough, so Queens also built LaGuardia. They had the World's Fair after Seattle's was so well attended. The Mets didn't outdraw the Yankees, so they built Arthur Ashe Stadium and had the US Open. It was embarrassing.

Queens was obsessed with size and the NYC Marathon was the largest, so Queens had to have it. They wanted us to move the finish line from Central Park to the old fair grounds. We enjoyed the courting, but stayed with what worked.

Manhattan was huge, alluring and exciting. Everything was right there, as if I could extend my hand and feel the hot melting-pot that was throbbing with life and vitality. The energy filled me like nothing before, reaching parts of me I hadn't known existed.

Towards the middle of October, my life became a blur of intense experiences. I had trouble remembering what happened the previous day as we pushed forward towards the marathon. Over and over again, relentless in pressure, the heated meetings, the glad-handings and pressing of the flesh as we schmoozed, cajoling and promoting kept my days full and satisfying.

The big day finally came, and it was everything I thought it would be. I managed to get on a helicopter for about an hour during the morning and was stunned. The snake of humanity making its way through the streets and thoroughfares of NY was larger than any I had ever seen before.

Terrance had a command center on a raised platform near the finish line and I climbed that peak many times that day. Certainly more times than I had expected to. This day was a hell of an accomplishment and the culmination of a lot of work. At the end of the day, I was fully sated and felt justifiably proud when Terrance put his arm around me.

"You seem really happy that you came, Emily. You made the right decision."

Of course, there was a bit of a letdown about a month later. You can't sustain that level of excitement year-round. I was a little maudlin as we entered the holiday season, but that cleared up as we started to get into in-depth plans for the next marathon. Spring was upon us before I started slipping into melancholy.

It was the middle of April and I took a few days of personal time. I sat wrapped up in a blanket on my couch, a box of tissues beside me as I watched the Boston Marathon. I caught glimpses of old friends and saw Charley. Some bitch was next to him every time he was on camera. Carrying a clipboard and with an earpiece plugged into her iPhone, she would lean over, hand on his shoulder, whispering in his ear.

I cried during the national anthem. I cried during the opening ceremonies. I cried when the first person crossed the finish line and I cried at the closing ceremonies.

Months sped by and we were again knee deep in preparations for the event. I had learned a lot the previous year and was able to contribute more this time around. People were looking to me for answers and suggestions and I was happy to step up. I had the feeling that Terry, much like Charley had, was grooming me as his possible replacement.

Meetings were held with CEO's, celebrities and the heads of charities that I fully supported, but I'd often go home wondering if this was all there was. There was size, excitement and some novelty, but there was no underlying depth.

On the day of the race, I shook the right hands, spoke to the right people and said the right words but it all felt forced and wrong. Even more people participated than last year, but the size now meant little.

I found myself crying in the limo that Terry got me for the ride home after our fourteen-hour day.

A large bag of donuts was in my gloved hand when I walked through the door on January fifth. Charley always closed the office from Christmas until January fourth. No one noticed me as I slipped into the break room and dropped off the pastries. Some people stood, mouth open as I made my way from there to Charley's office.

On my way, I spotted the bitch. She was a cute, petite, young, blonde, who was likely from Vassar and served as Charley's assistant.

I extended my hand. "Hi, I'm Emily. Nice to meet you."

She reluctantly shook it and then released quickly. "Beverly Whitetail. I've heard so much about you."

I'm sure you have, bitch. Get busy prepping your resume.

I kept the 'butter wouldn't melt in my mouth' smile in place, regardless of my thoughts.

"Wonderful to meet you, Beverly." I turned and walked to Charley's office. Knocking on the open door, I entered.

"Well, as I live in breathe. Nice to see you Em. Slumming? Stopping by our provincial little offices on your way to something bigger and more exciting?"

"Okay, I deserved that." I closed the door behind me. "What if I told you that I made a huge mistake and I'd like to come back?"

I incorporated much of what I had learned in NY into our operations. There was nothing major, just something new and different here and there. None of it was proprietary and I felt no guilt. We stepped up like we never had before. There were more meetings and longer days, all of which I spent at Charley's side, wearing shorter skirts and emphasizing my décolletage, drawing his eyesight a bit further south.

We drew ten percent more runners that year than the previous and the marathon was a huge success. He gave the rest of the staff the next day off. The two of us met in his office for a few hours to handle any high priority post-event emergencies. Charley pulled a bottle of Glenfiddich and two glasses from his desk, poured us each a couple of fingers and put his feet up on the desk.

He raised his glass. "Here's to you, Em. You're amazing. Welcome back."

I raised mine. "And to you. If I'm any good at this, it's because of you." We both drank.

"So, what now, Emily?"

"Now? Now I'd like you to catch one of those clues I've been throwing your way for four months and bend me over this desk."

"Yeet!"

It wasn't five minutes later that my panties were around my ankles, his hands on my hips and he was pounding into me. I'd never been more wet, and ready. I reached down between my legs and ran my index finger over and around my clit after it came out of hiding. I hoped that the walls were insulated. Our staff was off, but there was an excellent chance that I could be heard by people two or three suites away.

We came in the following morning and started planning the next event. It involved me wearing white, Charley wearing a tux and us living happily ever after.

*****

Thanks for reading! I'm grateful to the fine people at Sports Illustrated for their support. I'd also like to thank Mr. Graham Earl Lee and Mr. Brooks for their editing assistance. I received a wonderful suggestion from Steve M. that greatly improved the story.

This story is dedicated to Pauline French, the one who got away.