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description: The shock of seeing him again after so many years – nearly three quarters of a century – sent him reeling. Damn him! he thought, he kept his hair! Slipping his teeth back in his mouth, Karl said, “I thought you’d be long dead by now.” Karl sat at his usual place, gumming the rubbery green beans in his mouth. He had methodically sliced them into tiny bits, small enough to be swallowed without chewing. He watched Bob Seward with envy as he gnawed on his meat across the table. Karl had given up trying to eat with dentures. It was more trouble than it was worth. “Good evening, Karl.” Seymour, the night assistant, pulled out the chair beside him, making the wooden arms look like matchsticks in his giant hands. He had often wanted to ask Seymour if he had been a linebacker in high school, but being a huge black man, he must be asked that question all the time. Karl knew it was tiresome to always be reminded of what was or could have been. “This here is Fritz Messner, everyone. Why don’t you have a seat right here, Mr. Messner, and we’ll see about getting you some dinner.” Karl’s head jerked up at the name. Standing beside him was a frail looking, white-haired man, holding onto a walker. The years had shortened him by a few inches and his back arched forward in a perpetual lean. But his were the same bright blue eyes, now sunken and lined, twinkling back in recognition. Spitz Messner – What were the odds? The shock of seeing him again after so many years – nearly three quarters of a century – sent him reeling. Damn him! he thought, he kept his hair! Slipping his teeth back in his mouth, Karl said, “I thought you’d be long dead by now.” “Sorry to disappoint you,” Spitz laughed and shuffled from his walker to the chair. “I see you all know each other. You two from the same town?” asked Seymour. “We went to Franklin High together a few years back,” Spitz answered. “He might not look it now, but this guy was fast.” “Faster than you, Spitz, that’s for sure.” “Spitz! There’s a name I haven’t heard for a while!” he said, shaking his head. He gestured at Karl. “So if you were so fast, Olsen, what’s your track name?” A rush of heat went through Karl, unsettling his half eaten dinner. After all this time, Spitz still knew how to hit him where it hurt. Spitz had been a natural twist on Fritz, summoning the image of watermelon seeds being spat over the line. That was what it was like to watch Spitz run. He’d stay on his opponent’s tail until the last fraction of a second, then catapult ahead like a shooting seed. Karl’s race - fast, but steady and predictable – never earned him a nickname. Although Spitz’s performance was flashy, it was not always reliable. He and Karl would be two and one, or one and two, with Karl taking more of the 200 meters and Spitz getting most of the 100’s. They had both dreamed of competing in the Olympics, if it hadn’t been called off by the war. “My track name is You Can Kiss My Ass As It Goes Past,” Karl answered. “Sort of a long name. It’s no wonder it didn’t take,” Spitz said as Seymour set a plate in front of him.“Plus it’s a bit inaccurate. I recall it was my ass passing yours. Your memory is failing you, my friend.” To add insult to injury, he cut into his steak and began chewing vigorously. Karl felt the heat flare up again, stronger this time. “There’s nothing wrong with my memory,” he said quietly. “I remember everything.” Spitz looked up from his plate and they both knew they were talking about more than high school track. Karl pushed his dinner away. “If you think you’re faster than me, prove it. Right now.” He knew how ridiculous he sounded even as he said it. Spitz made a choking sound. “I don’t think there’s a need for that. It wouldn’t be quite… uh…” He gestured at Karl’s wheelchair. “Hey, if you think you would be at a disadvantage with your walker, we can find you a wheelchair. There’s plenty of those around here.” Spitz stared at him a moment, then set his fork down. “You’re serious,” he said. “Afraid you’ll lose?” Karl said and rolled back from the table. He saw Spitz eye where his left leg should have been then look away. “I… uh…” Karl waved away whatever stupid thing he was about to say. “War injury,” he said. “Never was right after that. Finally had to take it off. Been about fifteen years now. Lots had it worse than me.” Spitz nodded with that look in his eyes that men have when they’ve seen war. Karl had thought about Spitz during those years. Had he been sent to Europe, as he had? Karl’s people had come from Norway two generations back, but he knew Spitz’s parents were German immigrants. Had he been forced to fight against his own cousins? But then the years tumbled back, and like a wave, surged forward again, bearing with them his old grievance. “Seymour!” he called. “Can we get a wheelchair over here?” Seymour looked over and gave the okay sign before going off to find one. Spitz shook his head. “Alright, I’m game. Where’s this race gonna be?” “Down that hallway.” Karl said, gesturing outside the dining area. “It’s plenty wide enough.” “Here you go.” Seymour rolled the chair up to Spitz. “Want me to take you to your room?” “Just bring him right there to the start of the A wing. Then you can come back for me.” Like in high school, Karl didn’t want to reveal his technique before the proper time. He was pretty skilled with a wheelchair, but Spitz didn’t have to know that just yet. “All right. Is that what you want Mr. Messner?” “We’ll do as the man says. And you can call me Fritz.” He shifted over to the chair. “See you at the starting line,” he said as Seymour rolled him away. A moment later, Seymour pushed Karl up beside him. “So what you two planning?” Seymour asked. “We’re having a race,” Karl told him. Seymour’s eyebrows shot up. “Well alright! I’ll stay ahead and keep the hall cleared.” This is why Karl liked Seymour. The other assistants would have discouraged this sort of thing. Just then, he saw Edna step out of her room. “Edna,” he called. “Give us the start!” “What?” “Start us off!” “What?” “Just say Ready, Set, Go!” Edna looked at him suspiciously. “Why?” He knew this was not making the right impression on Spitz. As one of the few men in this place, the women should be vying for a chance to please him. He had lived with women most of his life, and still he didn’t understand them. “I’ll say it,” Seymour said. “Ready. Set. GO!” Karl gave a hard push, sending himself forward. Glancing back, he saw Spitz fumble and lose his hold on the wheels. Karl smiled. The tables were turned now. The memory felt as fresh as yesterday, not a life time ago: the 100 meter state championship. He knew he could win, but Spitz, two lanes over, had a slight advantage. Then he looked at the sidelines and saw her – Gilda – and everything was right. She was here – his girl. He didn’t know why she’d been giving him the cold shoulder the past couple weeks, but none of that mattered now. He lowered to starting position before stealing a last glance in her direction. Her face was lit in that spell-binding smile she reserved for the lucky few. But this time, he could tell, it wasn’t for him. To his left, he saw Spitz smiling back. When the gun went off, Karl missed the start. Up ahead, Karl saw Rudy’s slippered feet scuffle out into the hallway. “Watch out, Rudy!” Seymour called. “We got a race in progress.” “Huh?” Rudy looked at Seymour and then back at the two wheelchairs coming toward him. “Huh.” Moving much faster than anyone thought possible, Rudy teetered down the hallway, alerting everyone.“Race!” he shouted as he banged on each door. “Thought you could get away from me, Olsen? Not so fast!” Somehow Spitz was beside Karl. He looked down and saw he was walking his chair forward with his feet. “Wohoo! Who is that? I’m rooting for him!” Charlene took a step out of her room, planting her cane right in Karl’s path. It was so typical of the women around here. The minute a guy shows up with a semi-full head of hair, you’re forgotten. Now Spitz had gotten in front and was one door ahead of him. “Get your cane outta the way!” Karl shouted. Charlene scowled at him. “Well okay. You don’t have to yell.” Charlene lifted her cane and Karl gave a thrust on his wheels that sent him gliding back into range. Up and down the hall, grey heads leaned out from open doorways. At the end he saw Seymour, his arms stretched to show the finish. Seventy four years ago, it had been this same view, the finish line just ahead and Spitz so close he could touch him. More often it had been Karl ahead, steeling for that final push from Spitz. But when Karl had missed the start, he’d had to be faster than ever before. The final push had to come from him. “Hah!” Karl gave a triumphant cry as he rolled past Spitz again. Somebody shouted Go Karl! Someone else yelled Go Roger! even though there was no one named Roger at Serenity Villa. Karl felt the excitement all around him. He knew he could win. But he also knew Spitz had two good legs, and he was using them both to his advantage. As they neared the final door, Spitz pedaled steadily forward, passing him once more. On the track, all those decades ago, he knew he had only one shot. He had to be the one to surge forward for the win. Spitz had won Gilda. He wouldn’t let him have this too. The gap between them grew smaller then vanished. As he stepped over the finish he heard the roar of the crowd. Now Seymour was waving his arms and Karl reached back for the final push that would win him the race. But at that moment, Betsy McAllister, oblivious that the first ever Serenity Villa wheelchair race was happening outside her door, rolled herself into the hallway and straight into Spitz. Karl saw the last fraction of a second like a slow-motion replay. The collision pitched Spitz forward and he landed, sprawled over the finish line, just before Karl rolled through. It was a dive finish, like that runner from the Bahamas who took the gold in the 400. A sham, really. There had been no controversy in their last race. Karl had won, proving once and for all who was the better runner. He didn’t stay to receive his medal. He didn’t even stay for the 200 meter he was likely to win. He won the race, but he had lost Gilda. There would be no Olympics for anyone, only war. What was the point? Seymour was checking Spitz for any broken bones. “How’s this feel? How ‘bout this? You think you can get up? Alright, let me help you.” Seymour lifted Spitz and settled him back in the chair. Betsy, who had caused the whole catastrophe, was unharmed and watched the scene with mild confusion. “You guys put on quite a race!” laughed Seymour. “I’m gonna take Fritz here over to medical and just make sure he’s good. Then maybe you two athletes can have a little celebration over some tea. How’s that sound?” “Whiskey would be better,” Spitz said. Half an hour later, the new aide knocked on Karl’s door and brought some tea into his room. “Heard you caused some excitement around here. Everybody’s talking about the big race,” she said. “You’ll be happy to know your friend’s okay. Seymour’s bringing him down right now.” Karl grunted a reply as she poured the tea. “Here we are!” Seymour announced their arrival, pushing Spitz in front of him. “I see your tea is here, so I’ll just leave you two to catch up.” He rolled the chair up to the table and left with the other aide. Karl looked at Spitz but said nothing. Spitz looked down at his wheel chair and worked the wheels back and forth. “These vehicles are pretty nifty. I could get use to this. Seems I’m a champion already!” Karl thought to argue but decided against it. He looked down at his tea. “Did you love her?” he asked, raising his eyes to Spitz. The smile dropped from Spitz’s face. After a pause he said, “You mean Gilda?” Karl didn’t answer. “Course I loved her.” He didn’t know what to ask next. Was she still alive? He knew it wasn’t likely. Had she ever mentioned him? “Unfortunately, she didn’t feel the same about me. She left me, you know.” Spitz looked around the small room. Karl hadn’t known. He had spent all these years imagining them together. And hating Spitz. “Remarried. Took my son with her. He was only three. She’s been gone twenty-two years now. It was cancer.” Spitz got up and took a few slow steps to the bookshelf. “Who’s this?” Karl didn’t know how to react to this news. It was too much to process. He saw Spitz was holding the photo from their trip to Hawaii in ’96. “That’s my wife, Elaine. She died six years ago.” Six years and he still missed her every day. “These your daughters?” Karl nodded. “I have three.” “And a bunch of grandkids I see. Do they visit?” “Oh yes! Every Sunday one of my girls comes by. And another one during the week. They often bring one of the grandkids. And great grandkids – I got four.” Spitz sighed. “I didn’t get the chance to raise my son. I know he has a couple of kids, but I never see them.” He shuffled back to the wheelchair and sat down. “You’re a lucky man, Karl Olsen. In the big game, you’re the winner.” He picked up his tea and held it up. Karl lifted his cup to toast his enemy. Before his enemy, he’d been his rival. But before his rival, Fritz Messner had been his first friend. He looked down to hide the tears that sprung into his eyes. When he looked up again, he saw Spitz staring suspiciously into his cup. “Did you spit in this?” Karl snorted. “No, I didn’t spit in your tea.” Spitz chuckled and took sip. “I pissed in it.” He gagged and spit the tea back into his cup. Both men started to laugh. When Spitz recovered, he shook his head and grinned at Karl. “I have missed you, you son of a bitch.”
url: http://vignetteshortstories.com/stories/the-race/
title: The Race

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