Running on the Treadmill

Evan Lavender-Smith

I was running on the treadmill when she entered the room and asked, “What’s the Amazon password?”
            I knew the Amazon password by heart and could have spoken it right away, but instead I chose to exaggerate the labor of my breathing and the slapping of my footfalls against the treadmill for several seconds before turning and scowling at her.
            “Rainbow77,” I muttered. “With a capital R.”
            “Thanks!” she said, exiting the room.
            For the next minute I ran on the treadmill while periodically scowling and scoffing. With my hands I gesticulated weirdly above the treadmill’s display. For the following two minutes I ran on the treadmill while alternately scowling, scoffing, and gesticulating weirdly.
            As I continued running on the treadmill, I began to consider how I might go about deliberately tripping and falling while running, how I might deliberately injure myself, how I might best maim myself in order to get back at her for disturbing me, for asking for the Amazon password while I was running on the treadmill. I considered how I might go about tripping in order to fall on the treadmill in such a way to be hurled across the room against the far wall and break my ankle, break my leg, or crack my spine. Would the treadmill belt hurl me across the room, I wondered, with enough force for me to crack my spine against the far wall?
            I heard myself weakly calling out to her, I saw her astonished face as she entered the room and scrambled toward my body lying crumpled on the floor. I heard myself admit to her, through trembling lips and bleeding teeth, that my rhythm on the treadmill had been thrown off when she’d asked for the Amazon password, that I hadn’t able to recover, that I’d tripped and fallen and been hurled across the room against the far wall.
            “‘You threw off my rhythm when asking for the Amazon password,’” I thought. “‘And now I’ve cracked my spine. Now I’m paralyzed from the neck down. We’ll have to tap the kids’ college savings to pay the hospital bills,’” I thought, running. “‘Too bad, smart kids, they deserved a little college,’” I thought, running on the treadmill.
            “She really shouldn’t bother me while I’m running on the treadmill,” I thought, running on the treadmill. “Because look what could happen. The kids’ futures ruined, just like that,” I thought. “All because she asked for the Amazon password, which threw off my breathing while I was running on the treadmill,” I thought, running.
            “Poor kids, my poor sweeties, having to grow up without a father, having to grow up with only a mother, having to grow up with only her for a parent. With only her, who’s such a workaholic, who never has time for the kids even now. Imagine what it will be like then,” I thought, running. “They’ll be bathed once a week at most,” I thought, running. “What a fiasco,” I thought, running.
            “But had it seemed I was suddenly on the mend while at the hospital, had it seemed I was somehow miraculously going to survive, in that case I’d need to find a way to kill myself without anyone knowing. Maybe I could smother myself with a hospital pillow,” I thought, running. “Because I’d need to die in order to get back at her for asking for the Amazon password, for throwing off my steady breathing pattern while I was running on the treadmill,” I thought, running. “Why couldn’t she have simply waited until I was finished running on the treadmill to ask for the Amazon password?” I thought, running.
            “‘Dad told us, at the hospital,’” I thought, “‘that his breathing had gotten thrown off while he was running on the treadmill. He told us you asked for the Amazon password while he was trying to concentrate on his workout and that’s what made him trip and fall. He said it wasn’t your fault, that we should never blame you. But it was your fault. It was you who killed Dad by asking for the Amazon password. We’ll never forgive you. We’re going to make your life a living hell from here on out. To get back at you for screwing up Dad’s steady breathing pattern while he was running on the treadmill,’” I thought, running on the treadmill. 
            “I bet it takes me the remainder of my run on the treadmill to reestablish the steady breathing pattern I worked so hard to establish during the first half of my run on the treadmill,” I thought, running.
            “She’s so insensitive,” I thought. “So insensitive. Little does she know it requires of me my every last ounce, my every last iota, no, my every last ounce. What should it be, do you think, ‘my every last iota’ or ‘my every last ounce?’” I thought, running. “‘Little do you know it requires of me my every last ounce of energy to keep running on the treadmill at this speed, for this length of time,’” I thought. “‘It requires every last iota of my energy not to yank out this magnetic emergency stop key cord thing and give up forever,’” I thought.
            “What’s this thing called, anyway?” I thought. “This red rope thing with all these knots in it? All the knots she puts in it. I never put knots in it. I always take great care to ensure it doesn’t get knotted when I’m running on the treadmill,” I thought. “‘It requires my every last ounce to not pull this red magnetic stop cord thing out and give up once and for all, never exercise again,’” I thought, running. “‘How could you possibly fathom, how could you even possibly fathom, how you could you ever even possibly fathom that I might have a single iota of mental energy left to waste on conjuring up the Amazon password for you, at your whim, at your fancy, at your caprice?’” I thought. “That’s good, ‘caprice’ is good,” I thought, running. “‘At your caprice? For instance, when I’m on the treadmill concentrating with my every last iota of available mental energy? It’s beyond me, it’s well beyond me, it’s far beyond me. It’s far, far beyond me,’” I thought.
            “Goddamn it,” I thought, running. “‘I mean, I love you, you know I love you very much, but,’” I thought, running. “‘Very much, of course I do, of course I do,’” I thought, running. “You love her, you love her very much, it’s true, you love her very much. Don’t you? Yes, of course you do,” I thought. “But goddamn it. But of course you do, you love her, you love her more than anything, you love her so much, it’s true, but goddamn it. But you do, you love her so very much. ‘I love you so much, I really do. I really do, I love you, so much,” I thought. “But goddamn it,’” I thought, running.
            “She needed the Amazon password. She didn’t mean anything by it. She wasn’t deliberately trying to disturb you,” I thought. “Don’t be ridiculous, stop being insane, let it go. That’s not how she is. She doesn’t have a cruel bone in her body. You’re being so ridiculous,” I thought, running.
            “Do you want to know why she asked for the Amazon password? She probably asked for the Amazon password because she wanted to take the opportunity presented by you being on the treadmill to order you a special gift from Amazon. She probably wanted the password so she could order you a special gift while you were occupied on the treadmill, so you wouldn’t see what she was ordering, a special gift just for you, because she loves you. She’s ordering you a special gift because she loves you very much,” I thought, running on the treadmill. 
            “You’re so disrespectful to her in your head,” I thought. “What in the world gives you the right to treat her this way, even if only in your head?” I thought, running. “You’re such a total dick to her in your head, especially when you’re running on the treadmill. Whenever you’re running on the treadmill, why do you always have to be such a complete and total dick to her, primarily in your head?” I thought.
            “Hopefully she’ll get me one of those Boards of Canada vinyl reissues,” I thought. “Hopefully The Campfire Headphase,” I thought. “Wait a minute,” I thought, running. “Hopefully The Campfire Headphase? What are you saying, ‘Hopefully The Campfire Headphase?’” I thought, running. “Hopefully Music Has the Right to Children. What in the world is wrong with you?” I thought. “The Campfire Headphase?” I thought, running. “That’s Boards of Canada’s worst album. How could you have come up with something so preposterous as that? The Campfire Headphase? Think about what you’re saying,” I thought. “Think about what you’re saying for once in your life,” I thought, running on the treadmill.
            “Because she’s always thinking about you, she’s always thinking about how much she loves you, because she loves you, and she’s always thinking about you, about how much she loves you. That’s how she is. That’s just how she is, unlike you. Unlike you, who’s always thinking about what’s wrong with her. Unlike you, who’s always thinking about what’s wrong with the people who love you. The people ‘whom’ you love, rather. Unlike you, who always focuses on the negative rather than positive, unlike you, who must be the most negative person in the history of the world,” I thought, running. “And I’m not talking about just this world, just this planet. On this planet, of course you take the cake as the most negative person. I’m talking about on any planet, on every planet, the most negative person on any planet in the history of the universe,” I thought, running. “It’s necessary to include that ‘in the history of the universe’ to account for alien species, both alive and extinct. For if there are aliens out there, which there surely are, then you would easily take the cake as the most negative person among them, as well,” I thought, running.
            “Turn your shitty attitude around,” I thought. “Turn your life around,” I thought. “She comes in here, asks for the Amazon password, and all of a sudden you’re thinking about divorce,” I thought, running.
            “‘Will you please state the grounds for divorce?’” I thought.
            “‘It’s quite simple, your honor. She came in, asked for the Amazon password while I was running on the treadmill, screwed up my breathing. I nearly fell off and broke my neck, nearly died. The kids’ futures ruined, just like that. And since she’s such a workaholic, she’d barely have any time for them,’” I thought.
            “‘But just so we’re clear,’” I thought, “‘You only imagined the possibility of falling off the treadmill? You didn’t actually fall and injure yourself, correct?’”
            “It’s time to turn your life around,” I thought, running. “You can’t be such a miserable dick all the time,” I thought. “You used to be so happy. You used to be so happy just being alive. Being alive, that’s all it took to put a smile on your face. Remember how you used to walk around the neighborhood and look up at the clouds and the trees, smiling? Whatever happened to that? And remember how scared of death you used to be? You were so scared of death all the time,” I thought, running. “Those were the good old days, back when you were always worrying about dying. Those were such good, such productive times for you,” I thought. “And why were you scared of death all the time?” I thought, running. “I’ll tell you why,” I thought. “Because you loved being alive, you loved life, you loved walking around the neighborhood, you loved looking at the clouds and the trees, you loved smiling, you were so scared of death. Now you’re not scared of death, and why is that? It’s because you’re so busy being such a miserable dick all the time, so busy making life a miserable experience for everyone around you, that’s why. Death’s not a big deal now,” I thought. “Because being dead would be better than being such a miserable dick all the time,” I thought, running on the treadmill.
            “Maybe I should apologize to her,” I thought.
            “No, don’t apologize, it’ll set a bad precedent,” I thought, running.
            “Of course you have to apologize, it’s not a big deal,” I thought, running on the treadmill.
            “‘I just wanted to apologize for being such a miserable dick all the time,’” I thought, running. “‘Don’t know what’s wrong with me, maybe I should go back on Zoloft,’” I thought, running. “No, you can’t say that. That’s the last thing you want, that feeling in your teeth,” I thought. “‘Hey, just wanted to apologize for being such a nonstop dick all the time, don’t know what’s wrong with me. I’m having a mid-life crisis, of sorts. An attitudinal mid-life crisis,’” I thought, running. “That’s good. ‘Attitudinal’ is good,” I thought, running. “Although now you’re back to pathologizing your dickishness. Be honest. Try being honest, for once in your life,” I thought. “‘Hey, I want to apologize to you. I’m a dick all the time, I know it. Don’t have an explanation for it, not going to try to rationalize it, not going to try to pathologize it like I always do. Kind of want to go back on Zoloft, kind of don’t, the side effects make me cray, especially the teeth thing and the not-being-able-to-come thing,’” I thought. “That’s good, use ‘cray.’ ‘Cray’ always makes her smile,” I thought, running. “‘I’m not going to ask you to accept my miserable dickishness as status quo around here. It’s time for me to change my life. And if that requires Zoloft, so be it. I’m going to change. I’m going to try to change. I don’t deserve you. No, I deserve you, just like you deserve me. But you don’t deserve this, this nonstop miserable dickishness. I’m talking primarily about my dickishness to you in my head, the nonstop dickish prattle that goes on in my head, which you can’t hear, thank God, because you wouldn’t believe what an incredible dick I can be to you in my head,’” I thought. “That’s good. Self-deprecation is critical,” I thought. “‘Although I might not act like it all the time, although I might often treat you as if I hate you, I actually love you, I love you very much, and I swear to God I’m going to work on my nonstop miserable dickishness. I’m going to change. I’m going to try to change,’” I thought, running. “Be direct, but also be honest. Don’t talk about trying to change, it’ll set a bad precedent,” I thought, running. “‘Look, my love, I implore you, don’t bother me while I’m running on the treadmill. You wouldn’t believe the nonstop dickish prattle it sets off in my head. It sets off like this monograph of pure miserable dickishness in my head. So, sweetie, I implore you, stay away from me when I’m running on the treadmill. I’m sorry for how poorly I treat you in my head. In real life, I love you very much, but I don’t have any control over my feelings for you in my head, especially when I’m running on the treadmill. So please, my love, I implore you, don’t bother me when you see me in here. Don’t talk to me. Don’t even look at me. A single misinterpreted look is likely to set off a cascade, an avalanche, an avalanchine cascade of nonstop dickish prattle in my head,’” I thought. “That’s good. Be sure to use that exact phrasing, always combining an ‘I implore you’ with a ‘my sweetie’ or a ‘my love.’ They foil each other in an endearing way,” I thought, running. “‘I implore you, my sweetie, don’t come anywhere near me, don’t come anywhere the fuck near me when I’m running on the treadmill. You’ve got to stay back, I implore you, my love, my sweetie, if ever you walk in here while I’m running on the treadmill, turn around and walk away. Don’t look at me, don’t even look in my direction, and don’t speak a single word, my sweetie, or make a single sound, my love,’” I thought. “So good,” I thought. “So good. Be considerate, but also firm,” I thought, running. “‘Keep away, I implore you, my sweetie, my love, you’ve got to keep the fuck away when I’m running on the treadmill,’” I thought, running on the treadmill.