The Runner
Connor Jackson
I’d run past it probably a thousand times.
An especially windy thunderstorm had covered my regular paved running trail with slippery leaves, twigs, and a few larger limbs on a late August afternoon. As I was running the trail, avoiding the more slippery sections, a door that I’d never noticed before was ever-so-slightly crooked, leaving it ajar. Mind you, I was running when I caught this dark shadow next to the door in the corner of my eye, and I almost tripped. Instead of hitting the ground, I sidestepped and took that moment to stop, pretend to tie my shoe and adjust my socks, and push my sweaty brown hair out of my eyes. I refused to be one of those guys with a man bun, but maybe I just needed to get a new haircut.
As I was messing with my shoes, I looked up at the building. It was small, probably only ten feet long by ten feet wide, a red-brick structure with a huge pole an inch away from it that was taller and thicker than any nearby telephone poles. At the tip of the pole was a piece of metal, strapped on and reaching even farther into the sky. There was a rusted chain-link fence around the building, with a few small trees and weeds within it. You could tell at one point that green plastic had been wrapped around the links, but it was long gone. The building was about fifty feet away from the trail, with plenty of trees between it and me, including a huge tulip poplar that I often noticed while running, and a bunch of maples. Breaking up the brick on the west side of the building, facing up the trail, was a wooden door with no window, adorned only by a worn doorknob. And now the hinges seemed to have broken a bit, the wood warped and pulling away from the frame about half an inch.
I was kneeling and staring for too long. A woman wearing blue sunglasses and walking a dog that looked like Lassie gave me a bit of a sideways look. I adjusted my shorts and stood up to continue running, with a lot more on my mind.
· * *
After I got home from my three-miler, I plopped down on my couch with some water. My feline roommate, Pumpkin Muffin, plopped down next to me. We’re definitely both ploppers. He’s a fat orange tabby who doesn't like to sit on laps. My niece named him during a stint when she ate pumpkin muffins for breakfast every day. I couldn’t argue: he’s totally pumpkin color. We lived in a condo with a walking path right from my patio to the Park District trail I was just running on. The two-bedroom condos in the same development were cheaper, but this was the only one for sale with the path, so I went for the three bedroom. I guess I was also optimistic five years ago that my relationship status would change more rapidly. It’s only ever been Pumpkin and me living here, other than a few houseguests and sleepovers with my nieces.
“Pumpkin, I can’t stop thinking about this building.” He looked at me, asking with his eyes for me to continue. He was massaging both the afghan my cousin Stephanie had knitted for me and the blue microfiber of my couch with his front paws. Pumpkin was still fixing me with his kitty stare, and I knew not to pet him while he was doing his massaging thing.
“I mean, I go past it every time I run the trail, but this time the door was open,” I told him. He looked interested, which made me want to blurt out everything. “It’s an old, abandoned building that has always been really run-down. And now even more. I have no idea what it was or why it’s still standing.” By this time, Pumpkin had found a new spot on the couch and was curling up, ready for a nap, his attention no longer on my story.
“I really want to know what’s inside,” I said. “I don’t know that I’m the breaking-and-entering kind of guy, though.” I ran my hand down his back and tail and stood up. I poured the rest of my water into my wilting snake plant in the hallway as I made my way into the bathroom to take a shower. “Not that kind of guy,” I repeated to myself.
