Teen Angst? Naaah ... (11 page)

I slid under the soapy water, smiling.

“Y
ou're going to run in
those?
” The white-guy lawyer pointed at my feet. He had on blue running shorts, the kind that reveal way too much, and expensive sneakers—I couldn't determine the brand. He wore a corporate-logo T-shirt that read “J & H Marsh & McLennan,” with the number 3786 pinned on it.

“Yeah, I'm gonna run in these.” I was wearing sandals. Big flip-floppy Tevas. About a size too large.
^*

“Well, good
luck
,” he snickered. He stepped away to stretch and warm up.

I was at the Chase Corporate Challenge, this thrice-annual race sponsored by Chase Manhattan Bank, which springs corporate cogs from their offices and gets them to run around Central Park for an hour. It's a 5K race, from Strawberry Fields up around the top of the park to the boathouse. There would be no official winners (or losers) except Chase, which got to publicize its healthy, caring image.

The race wasn't free; to register, you had to pay Chase twelve dollars. You then got a number and
a company T-shirt, which you wore to “support your corporate team.” That mentality prevailed at the Challenge—that we're-all-in-it-together company brotherhood that men fall back on when they have only their jobs and their TVs. I saw guys slapping each other's backs, saying, “Let's win one for Citibank,” and women stretching intensely, chatting up their coworkers. A high school varsity atmosphere.

I was there because earlier that day Erin had asked me to go. I was interning in my parents' office,
^*
carrying around computer printouts, when she approached. Red hair. Glasses. Blindingly pretty. She was far too old for me—in her late twenties—but talking to her was a thrill.

“Hey, Ned!” Erin smiled, as if just hit by a wonderful idea. “Do you want to run today?”

“Sure!” I nodded. I predicted some office thing, like the annual softball game or running around the block a few times. “Ah,
where
do I run?”

“In Central Park.”

Oh, boy. “Uh, how
far
do I run?” I asked.

“Three miles.”

Okay, that sounded easy enough. Erin got my
T-shirt and number (4112), and then told me where to go.

“The race starts after work, at Strawberry Fields by the Daniel Webster statue. And bring a raincoat. It's coming down hard.”

“Oh, it's raining?” I stuck out my neck, peering through a nearby office window. Thick, nasty-looking drops spattered the glass. Later that night, on the Weather Channel, they'd call it a tropical storm.

Erin tilted her head. “Do you mind running in the rain?”

“No, no, ah, it's just some rain,” I said, looking down, wondering why I love punishment.

Erin smiled. “You know, Ned—” Oh no, she was going to make eye contact; I could feel it. “I'm really glad you decided to do this.” There it was, open-eye staring. I looked away. “I'm in charge of getting people involved in this race every year. A lot of them quit on me today because of the weather. So, thanks.”

“Anytime, Erin.”

I left the office at 5:00
P.M.
, carrying an inordinate amount of junk. First, I had the clothes: the T-shirt I was going to wear home, the
new
T-shirt with the company logo, and my jacket. Then I had an umbrella, an eighties-era Walkman, and
The Fellowship of the Ring
, a book I'd been reading on and off for two
years. It never occurred to me that this stuff might impede my running ability.

When I arrived at the race, a few hundred amateur athletes were already there, their ankles propped up on park benches, stretching. I tried talking to a few, but they brushed me off; I wasn't from their
company
. I stood with my coworkers.

“So, Ned, why are you wearing sandals and socks?” one of them asked.

Everyone thought that was funny. I didn't see what was wrong with sandals and socks. I'd worn them to work because I'd lost my shoes.
^*
“Uh, I just happened to wear 'em today. I didn't even know about the race until this afternoon.”

“Where's your number?”

That was another problem. I had forgotten to ask for a pin at work, so I had no way to attach my racing number to my shirt. I figured I'd just tie it on with my extra clothes.

“You better put that number on soon. The race is starting.”

I took my two T-shirts and jacket and tied them around my waist—it almost looked like an inner tube. I slid my running number under this ring of
clothing, put the Walkman and book in an oversized pants pocket, and stuck the umbrella in the front of my pants.

Some announcer I couldn't see was saying, “From the Chase family and from everybody who helped organize this race, we want to thank you for coming out in the rain!” People clapped. “We're ready to begin, so stay safe and have a great time! On your marks … get set … go!”

“Nonserious runners should stay to the side!” someone yelled as I started jogging. My Tevas flip-flopped all over the place, making loud smacking noises; people gave looks. The umbrella in my pants began to chafe my thigh almost immediately. For a while, the only noises I heard were the huffing of breath and slapping of sandals.

“How far are we into the race?” I asked a kindly looking gentleman after what I thought was a long time.

“Oh, a quarter mile.”

“A quarter mile?!” This was going to be much harder than I thought. The Walkman in my pocket was getting heavy; it hit my leg with every stride. My pants were soaked; I used one hand to keep them from falling down.

I started walking fast instead of running. I wanted to give up and just sit down, but three things kept me
going. First, those fifty-something balding guys who were in better shape than me, making better time than me. Second, those damn Nike commercials, where the big athlete at the end says, “Believe in yourself.” They always emphasize the
self
, and I figured, hey, I can do this. And third, more than anything else, there was Erin. Was she somewhere in the race? She'd helped organize it; she must be somewhere nearby. Maybe she was waiting at the finish line, and if she was, I didn't want to look like a tired, wet, sweaty idiot. I wanted to hold my head high and be a real man.

So I kept running. When I got tired, I hawked up a loogie and smeared it all over my face, which really grossed out the other runners but kept me refreshed. Every time I got my hands on a cup of water, I poured it on my head. I stomped in every puddle. Halfway through the race, I was an orgy of spit, snot, and rainwater.

To pass time, I sang the Doors'
^*
“L.A. Woman” as I ran. That song has the perfect runner's beat; it was in sync with my slapping sandals. I found myself belting out the lyrics as I rounded corners, “L.A. woman! / You're my woman!” I cut the volume occasionally, never sure when I'd run into Erin.

Then, suddenly, I was at the finish line. It was a
sorry scene. Chase volunteer cheerleader-types patted me on the back, said “Good job,” gave me
another
T-shirt, and doled out generic soda and Power Bars. (If you can imagine a candy bar with all the good stuff—chocolate, caramel, peanuts—replaced by carob, you've got your Power Bar right there.)

I looked around. Erin was nowhere in sight.

I tried to convince myself that the Chase Corporate Challenge had been a good deal. I factored in the free T-shirts, running number, water, soda, Power Bars, and exercise, which was the best I'd received since routinely getting beaten up at Pure Energy Martial Arts. But who was I kidding? After leaving the park, I checked myself out in the mirror of a local Burger King: I was a soppy teenage Frankenstein—snot all over my face, sweat and rain mixed in the armpits of my shirt, socks and sandals covered in mud.

The next day, of course, Erin was at work, all smiles. “So, Ned, how'd you do in the race?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“Great, great! Did you hear how good Jack did?”

Jack was Erin's boyfriend, who also worked in the office. I tried not to think about him.

“Come, look!” She led me over to the coffee machine, where she had posted a chart with the participants' names and running times. The other runners
had kept track of how long they'd taken and reported to Erin. I guessed this chart was something she did every year.

“There's Jack!” She pointed. Next to his name was, “27 minutes! WOW!”

“How long did you take, Ned?” Erin asked. “So I can put you on the chart.”

I had probably run for an hour. “Forty minutes,” I said.

“Oh, great. Great job, and I hope you do it if you work here next summer, too.” She put my name on the chart, poured herself a cup of coffee, and sipped, leaving lipstick all over the rim.

T
eenage boys are (1) many in number; (2) bored out of their minds. And they get tired of pornography. So, when I was twelve, a California mathematician named Richard Garfield began selling a game called Magic: The Gathering.

You remember Dungeons and Dragons, the fantasy role-playing game, where you spend hours pretending you're an elf or a dwarf on an adventure? Or Pokémon, which is a descendant of the game? Magic's like that, but it uses cards. Each player has a sixty-card deck, and each card depicts a troll, gnome, or some other Dungeons and Dragons–ish creature.
^*
The players draw seven of these cards to make a hand; then they use this hand to attack each other, taking away life points with successful hits. Each player starts out with twenty life points; when someone hits zero, he dies. Game over.

The rules get a lot more complicated. Just know that when you win a game of Magic, you get a sharp,
semisexual thrill that makes you forget, briefly, that you're a card-obsessed loser.

I love the game, as do a lot of people—Magic is a global industry with tens of thousands of cards.
^*

It takes money to play Magic. The cards are sold in packs, like cigarettes, about three dollars and fifty cents for fifteen.
^**
Those fifteen cards, however, aren't random. Just as baseball cards have “rookies” and “all-stars,” Magic packs contain eleven “commons” (virtually worthless cards), three “uncommons” (might be worth a buck or two), and one “rare” (the real goodies; some have double-digit price tags). Every few months an “expansion set” is released, containing a new group of cards with dozens of fresh rares for players to collect. Each expansion set has its own name and packaging so that a Magic player making a purchase sounds like a smoker, “Yeah, I'll have a pack of ‘Legacy.' ” I'm down to a pack a day.

Magic also offers a chance to make money. Certain ultrarare cards are worth more than three hundred bucks, and if you get your hands on them, there's a world of collectors who will buy. Also, Magic tournaments
sponsored by the Duelists' Convocation offer cash prizes. Real cash. I know a kid who won twenty-five thousand dollars in the Magic Grand Prix in Japan.

For years, the New York Magic “scene” has been dominated by a single gaming hall: an oversized room full of tables called Neutral Ground. Occupying the entire fourth floor of 122 West Twenty-sixth Street, Neutral Ground is nerd heaven. At all hours of the day and night, you can pay seven dollars to enter the place and play Magic with people as addicted as you are.

I used to attend Neutral Ground's Friday tournaments about once a month. Fridays at the Ground were a trip. Hardcore gamers sat in stained T-shirts methodically opening packs of cards, while businessmen perused glass display cases, picking out seventy-five-dollar rares. The businessmen wore stylish coats and carried attaché cases, but as soon as they entered Neutral Ground, they were like little kids, gibbering about this and that card. The patrons ranged in age from twelve to fifty, but most were in their twenties, and everyone acted like teenagers. Occasionally, a girl would join the tournament, but the women who play Magic are a wild and woolly lot: they either look and smell like train-hopping hoboes, or they're with male Magic players, who value them more than anything on earth.