FICTION
The Jogger

By Raff Ellis

Ken loved to jog. I mean he LOVED to jog. I’d see him out on the road when I ran, which was every other day. I ran for health purposes only, and I hated it. I didn’t hate being healthy, you understand, but having to run to achieve it always rankled me. The biggest advantage to jogging, I thought, was how good I felt on the days I didn’t have to do it.

But Ken was different. He ran every day and he smiled as he ran, shouting hello to everyone on both sides of the street. You’d think he was running for office instead of his health. He’d go by me in a breeze, always with a hearty “Good morning!” He might as well have said, “Ha, ha, I beat you again!” Even the back of his head grinned as he went by.

One time I was determined to keep up with him after he passed me. I dogged his heels for a full block, and just when I was going to have to give it up, he turned the corner. I kept going straight, easing up considerably after he was out of sight.

The only other times I saw Ken was at his sumptuous neighborhood cocktail parties. Ken had an attractive wife and two handsome kids, not unlike the other yuppies in the neighborhood. Elaine, his wife, looked like the consummate socialite, or at least what I imagined a socialite should look like. She was pretty in her designer frocks, and an extremely gracious hostess as well. At her catered parties she always kept a sharp eye on the bartenders and waiters, making sure everyone had a drink in hand, canapé trays were replenished and dirty dishes were regularly picked up. The food was always top-drawer with caviar, crab claws, shrimp, smoked salmon and a large variety of chocolate desserts. I especially liked the chocolate-covered strawberries and usually consumed more than my share. Ken and Elaine’s affairs, as you might imagine, were very popular.

As a neighbor, I was always invited and usually hung out on the fringe of Ken’s loud conversations. He’d be in the center of the room, that toothy grin splashed across his tanned face, a drink in one hand and a ready, bone crushing handshake in the other. He was on a first name basis with everybody. New acquaintances were quickly added to his list.

Ken would always regale his audiences with stories of dinners with this or that celebrity at this or that posh restaurant. Somebody would always ask what kind of person this or that luminary was or how the food was at this or that restaurant, and Ken would always say they were both swell. He made you feel he was really tight with all those famous people. The descriptions all sounded the same to me, but then I didn’t know any of these people and they could have all really been alike.

I never knew what Ken did for a living. Whenever asked, he would say he was in “investments.” I know he didn’t keep regular hours because I saw him driving in or out of the neighborhood in his bright red Ferrari at different hours of the day and night; cell phone always in hand. I figured investments must be a good business because the car was one of those European limited edition models that had to cost over 100K.

On the occasions I conversed with Ken alone, always after he stopped me on his jog, he would deftly ease the conversation towards my personal finances--something that I was not wont to discuss. (I just didn’t want to give him something else to have bettered me at.) I did, however, get the feeling that he was zeroing in on making a sales pitch about some investment that I needed to make. We would always agree to talk at a future date but never seemed to get around to it.
On a Sunday morning, after one of Ken and Elaine’s famous parties, and too many chocolate-covered strawberries, I went out for my obligatory exercise. It was then that I heard the screaming siren of an ambulance whizzing by. I could see a small crowd gathered in the distance where it had stopped. By the time I jogged up there they had already loaded somebody into the vehicle and were speeding off to the hospital. One of the bystanders said they saw a guy lying in the road and called 911 from their house across the street. They didn’t know what had happened but they thought that the man had a heart attack.

The next time I saw Ken was at the funeral home. There was a large crowd of friends and neighbors gathered in the foyer. They all agreed it was sad, and that Ken had seemed in the pink of health. The poor chap had a myocardial infarct while out for his daily jog. I went by the bier and gave my condolences to Elaine.

As I looked down at the body I couldn’t help thinking that the undertaker forgot to put a smile on Ken’s face.

Raff Ellis can be reached at: raff426@yahoo.com.

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