Well, I was told it would take about three hours and now it is one and a half hours passed that. But, I decided that I was gonna be politely lied too anyway, so I may as well make the best of it…
Which I did.
After a stint, a cup of coffee at Starbucks and a few voicemail conversations, I took myself under a grand oak tree to pay bills. I know, I know, what a way to waste time on Lakeshore Drive. While making some phone calls, I noticed this one woman gracefully negotiating the sea wall as she ran atop it. She passed by the car, twice as I negotiated a late fee with our disposal company.
I got the fee cancelled.
Finishing my bills, I took one more bite of the apple fritter and a last swig of the now cold coffee, then commenced to walk it all off… All of it!
I decided to walk closest to the water, but not atop the seawall. I figured my walk from Girod Street to the turnaround to be about a half mile or so. Before I got too far, I noticed that someone had scribbled on the sidewalk the inspirational words to ponder. It said, “You’ve Just Begun.” And, so I was.
It didn’t take long to figure out why that woman was running the 20”x20” seawall. Many of the four foot slabs of sidewalk along side of the wall were listing toward the lake. After a quarter mile, my back was letting me know hard it is to walk a crippled mile.
Somewhere between “Keep Moving Forward” and “Begin Anywhere, Anytime,” that same woman was working her way back to the marina, I guess. With her brown hair pulled back, her earphones plugged in and her blue mylar, “go to hell sunglasses” on, she glided pass me. Wearing a pair of gym shorts and a tank top with trim that matched her yellow ASICS, allowed her athleticism to show. She never lost a step skipping around the guard rails which lead to the concrete steps into the water. A brisk breeze from the south buffered the sun that glistened off her every part of her body that wasn’t covered. I was intrigued.
“She’s got everything she needs, she’s an artist, she don’t look back!”
When I got to the turnaround, for some reason I thought that I could continue on to the fishing pier which was about another 500 yards away. But, since the sidewalk dead ended into the driveway of someone’s home, I was no longer interested in pursuing that goal any further. Besides, I left my cellphone in the car, and I’m wondering if the vets had yet called. I sat down and sipped what was left of a bottle of Gatorade. I had a laugh reflecting on my running days.
Reminds me of a time when a friend of mine and I would run early in the morning at Hollywood High School’s quarter mile track. Both of us figured that it was the best time to get in some miles before the day’s crazies set in. As we were starting the day with some miles, some women were ending their day with a few miles. My friend was always suspicious about people who were a bit different, but I thought anyone who could run a good pace in makeup and a pink tutu had to have my respect.
There were, for the many times we’d run the track, four or five of the women would be there. If I got there early, I’d talk to them as they changed their stiletto healed weapons into a pair of brightly colored cross trainers. One of these days, I’ll pursue those thoughts in paint… One of these days!
As it always happens, after about a year, my friend and I had to adjust our running times and more often, then not, had to run when our school schedules worked for us. I don’t believe we ever returned to that track.
On the way back to the car, I noticed four preteen boys had parked their bikes along side of the sea wall brown bagging it. I wondered if their mothers made them their lunch, or if they took it upon themselves to do so. One of the boys had a toy fishing pole that he was planning to use. The other friends gave him a hard time about it.
Walking a bit further, I looked for more positive sidewalk statements that I might have missed on the way up. I also wondered about that female runner. What was she doing pushing herself so. Did she have the day off? Was she training for some competition, or was she sharpening her executive prowess by staying hungry? Was she an executive assistant? Was she in the arts… a dancer, a physical therapist? An advertising account exec?
That thought brings a chuckle to me. “Run Like Carol Baskin is chasing you with oil of sardines” it read on the concrete walkway. Well now, that’s pretty cosmic… Who the hell is Carol Baskin?
Advertising exec?
There was an ad exec at this agency that particularly pops in my head. Impeccably dressed with all the accoutrement befitting a woman of that status, she asked me to stay late after my work at the agency was completed. She seemed to wait until everyone was gone and then called me into her office.
“Bring a sketchpad,” she said.
When I arrived at her office door, she invited me to take a seat. As the exec was fumbling into her Gucci styled purse, looking for some noted concepts, I noticed a holster holding what seemed like a small snub nosed twenty two, fell out with her notes.
“I’m sorry about that,” she said. I need my protection. Are you okay with that?”
A bit startled but playing it cool, I said,”Well, I’m not the one that feels threatened!”
There was a thoughtful pause on her part.
We spent about an hour working out the details of a few layouts. Although she appeared satisfied, I asked her if she wanted me to take these home to clean up, knowing quite well, that back then, it was really hip to have one’s ideas scribbled on cocktail napkins. It gives the client the feeling of one who is a 24/7 kinda person.
“No, this will do fine,” she whispered, as she paced rather elegantly around her desk.
“Well, um… Susan, will I bill the agency, you, or Paramount?”
“No, don’t send it to Paramount. That “dyke” will have a shit fit!”
“Bill me, okay?
I gathered up all the sketches and handed them over to her. I remember always enjoying working with strong, determined women… especially in advertising. I always felt that they had a hard time proving themselves to that male dominated institution. It felt good, usually.
“It’s rather late,” I said. “Can I walk you to your car?”
“No. Thanks, Ben… I’ll be fine!”
Although I occasionally worked for that agency, I never saw Susan again. Rumors had it that she left the agency to work at Paramount. I wondered if it was working for “that dyke” or replacing her?
Having overshot my parking spot, reminiscing, I headed for the van and found one more “pep talk” scribbled on the sidewalk slab. It read,” Carpe Diem.”
Indeed.
Hopping into the car, I grabbed a handful of napkins and as I wiped the sweat from my face, I could’ve sworn I saw that nimble, light-footed woman running atop the seawall gracefully taunting the precipice of a dream.
There was a thoughtful pause on my part.
Finally, the phone rang. It was the vet. It was now time to go. And, as I drove off, I looked at the half eaten apple fritter with such disgust, but I didn’t throw it away!
First cup…
Copyright 2020/Ben Bensen III
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