Saint of Whales - Chapter IV
The walk to the gym from Saint’s office wasn’t an overly long one—only three blocks or so—though distance felt irrelevant with the temperature nearing -30C. On the prairies, there was a lot of bullshitting about dealing with the weather, how there was no cold, there was only unprepared, about how it was a dry cold, as though that the truthfulness of the statement made a lick of difference. At a certain temperature, cold simply became cold and any modifier only served to try and make one feel better about one’s circumstance.
Saint pulled his jacket closer around him, trying to burrow his face more deeply into his scarf. He only had another block or so to go until he got to 8th Avenue where he’d turn left and then it was one more block east and he was at the gym. He desperately needed to go for a run after living through a hangover, working all day dealing with Dempster floating in and out of his space, and then the failed escape that ended up seeing him leave forty-five minutes after his shift ended while his manager left fifteen minutes early. All Saint needed was to get on the treadmill and get a good five kilometres under his belt, maybe ten depending on how he felt. He needed to burn out the frustration in his guts. Once he was done with the run, he could stop at the pub on the way home to grab a bite to eat and a beer or two, take a taxi, and he’d be home before too late. Saint knew his life wasn’t overly exciting, but it also was what it was. He pulled his jacket closer again and turned left at the intersection of 8th Avenue and 2nd Street.
His vision and hearing were slow to catch up as a strong pair of arms shoved him to the ground. The world spun and Saint crashed to the sidewalk, taking the brunt of the fall with his right elbow. The pain shot from his wrist to his neck. Rolling to his stomach, he tried to centre his vision on the person bolting down 8th Avenue, shrieking wildly and hobbling along, trying to dodge everyone else in his way. Saint rubbed at his right wrist before pushing himself to his knees and then to his feet. Of course, his day had to include getting thrown to the ground by someone screaming down the street, though it didn’t surprise him, not in this weather and not in this climate of the city. A lot of people were out of work and hurting, and people in pain did funny things. Saint rubbed more at his throbbing elbow and shook his head as he turned around to head to the gym. Hopefully the crash wouldn’t interfere with his run too much.
In some ways, he didn’t care too much about the run or how his arm would interfere with it, because he didn’t really want to exercise in the first place. He needed to get the distance in because as much as he hated running, the exercise was worth it. For a little more than an hour a day, he was able to leave everything else behind. He preferred running outside, obviously, but he didn’t run on slippery surfaces. If he took a serious spill, he knew from the middle of his forearm up a regular recovery would be do-able, but his hand? He didn’t want to think about what recovery would look like for his already problematic right hand. He only had two grips with his fingers and, at close to forty years old, he’d figured out how to get by with what he had. The thought of injury and rehabilitation made his skin crawl. So, he ran indoors in the winter and outdoors in the summer though, truly, the dramatic weather in Calgary sometimes saw him running outside in February and inside in August.
Another shiver ran down Saint’s back as he stopped at the next curb, watching traffic pass by. With the temperature as it was, there weren’t many pedestrians out and about. Exposure was no joke. His eyes came into focus and settled on his gym’s neon sign attached to the side of a former bank. There were probably other gyms with better machines and more supportive staff, but he just wanted somewhere he could always go, and he wanted somewhere he could access any time. If he were more social, maybe a smaller gym would have been better. However, Saint craved solitude, craved being alone. He didn’t want anyone knowing his name or knowing about him and the big club where everyone went was perfect for that. On a good day, his name stood out, and it always made him uncomfortable. Exactly what his parents had been thinking when they named him Saint, he didn’t know. He’d never really asked them and they’d never mentioned it to him. Even if he wanted to know, the ship had sailed. His mother’s tenth death anniversary had been just a few months ago, and he hadn’t spoken to his father in years. He had one brother, younger by a few years, who’d always seemed to be the golden child—a constant reminder of everything he wasn’t, everything he hadn’t been or couldn’t be—and they’d seen each other briefly at their mother’s funeral. No sisters, no cousins, no aunts, no uncles, no grandmothers, no grandfathers. For better or for worse, he was alone in the world.
The crosswalk lit up, signalling to cross, and across he went, born a saint and forever wondering why.
