Erich Segal: Oliver's Story

I was pretty tired too, and so I slowly jogged to get my own breath back. Nonetheless, I trotted by some of the many athletes who appear at eventide in multicolored, multiformed and multipaced variety. Of course the New York club guys would go by me like a shot. And all the high school studs could dust me off. But even when I jogged I did my share of passing: senior citizens, fat ladies and most children under twelve.

Now I was flagging and my vision slightly blurred. Sweat got in my eyes and all I vaguely could perceive of those I passed was shape and size and color of their plumage. Hence I can't accurately say just who was running to and fro. Until the incident I now relate.

A form was visible some eighty yards ahead of me, the sweatsuit blue Adidas (i.e., quite expensive) and the pace respectable. I'll groove along and gradually pick off this … girl? Or else a slender boy with long blond hair.

I didn't gain, so I accelerated toward the blue Adidas. It took twenty seconds to get close. Indeed, it was a girl. Or else a guy with a fantastic ass — and I would have another issue to discuss with Dr London. But no, as I drew nearer still, I definitely saw a slender lady whose blond tresses were a-blowing in the wind. Okay, Barrett, make like you're Bob Hayes and pass this runner with panache.

I revved up, shifted gears and gracefully gunned by. Now on to newer challenges. Up ahead I recognized that burly opera singer whom I regularly took in stride. Mr Baritone, you're Oliver's next victim.

Then a figure passed me in a flash of blue. It had to be a sprinter from the Millrose Club. But no.

The azure form was that same nylon-packaged female whom I'd calculated to be twenty yards behind me. But now she was ahead again. Perhaps it was some new phenom I should have read about. I shifted gears again to get another look. It wasn't easy. I was tired, she was going pretty well. I caught up at last. Her front was even nicer than her back.

'Hey — are you some champion?' I inquired.

'Why do you ask?' she said, not very out of breath.

'You went right by me like a shot … '

'You weren't going all that fast,' she answered.

Hey, was that supposed to be an insult? Who the hell was she?

'Hey, was that supposed to be an insult?'

'Only if you've got a fragile ego,' she replied.

Although my confidence is shatterproof, I nonetheless was pissed.

'You're pretty cocky,' I replied.

'Was that supposed to be an insult?' she inquired.

'It was,' I said. Not masking it, as she did.

'Would you rather run alone?' she asked.

'I would,' I said.

'Okay,' she said. And sprinted suddenly ahead. Now she was smoking — obviously just a ploy — but I was damned if I'd be bluffed. Acceleration now took total effort. But I caught her.

'Hi.'

'I thought you wanted solitude,' she said.

Breath was short and hence the dialogue was likewise.

'What team do you run for?'

'None,' she said. 'I only run to help my tennis.'

'Ah, the total jock,' I said, deliberately to slight her femininity.

'Yes,' she said demurely. 'And yourself, are you the total prick?'

How to deal with this, especially when straining to keep running at her pace?

'Yes,' I managed. Which in retrospect was just about the wisest thing I could have said. 'How's your tennis, anyway?'

'You wouldn't want to play me.'

'Yes I would.'

'You would?' she said. And slowed — thank God — to walk.

'Tomorrow?'

'Sure,' I puffed.

'At six? The Gotham Tennis Club on Ninety-fourth and First.'

'I work till six,' I said. 'How's seven?'

'No, I meant the morning,' she replied.

'Six a.m.? Who plays at six a.m.?' I said.

'We do — unless you chicken out,' she answered.

'Oh, not at all,' I said, regaining breath and wit near simultaneously.

She smiled at that. She had a lot of teeth.

'That's fine. The court's reserved for Marcie Nash — who, by the way, is me.'

And then she offered me her hand. To shake, not to kiss, of course. Unlike what I had readied for, she didn't have a jock-like, crushing grip. It was normal. Even delicate.

'And may I know your name?' she said.

I thought I'd be a trifle jocular.

'Gonzales, madam. Pancho B. Gonzales.'

'Oh,' she said, 'I knew it wasn't Speedy Gonzales.'

'No,' I said, surprised she'd heard about the legendary Speedy, the protagonist of many filthy jokes in many filthy locker rooms.

'Okay, Pancho, six a.m. But don't forget to bring your ass.'

'Why?' I queried.

'Naturally,' she said, 'so I can whip it.'

I could counter that.

'Of course. And naturally, you'll bring the balls?'

'Of course,' she said. 'A lady in New York is lost without them.'

With that she ran off at a sprint that Jesse Owens would have envied.

At 5 a.m. New York is dark both physically and metaphorically. From down the block, its second floor illuminated, the tennis club seemed like a baby's night light for the sleeping city. I entered, signed the register, and was directed to the locker rooms. Yawning constantly, I changed and strolled cut to the playing area. Lights from all those: tennis courts near blinded me. And every one was in full use. These go-go Gothamites about to start their frantic day all seemed to need a frantic tennis session to prepare them for the Game Out There.

Anticipating that Miss Marcie Nash would wear the chicest tennis togs available, I clad myself as shabbily as possible. My uniform was what the fashion page might call 'off white'. In truth, it was the end result of accidentally mixing many colored garments in the laundromat. Further, I selected what I called my Stan Kowalski shirt. Although it actually was grungier than anything that Marlon Brando ever wore. I was sartorially subtle. Or in other words, a slob.

And just as I expected, she had neon balls. The yellow and fluorescent kind the pros all use.

'Good morning, Merry Sunshine.'

She was there already, practicing her serves into the net.

'Hey, you know it's absolutely dark outside?' I said.

'That's precisely why we're playing inside , Sancho.'

'Pancho,' I corrected her, 'Miss Narcie Mash … '

For I could josh with nomenclature too.

'Sticks and stones may break my bones, but nothing ever breaks my serve,' she said, still slamming. Marcie's hair, which on the track had floated in the breeze, was now tied back into a horse's tail. (I'd have to make a pun on that.) And, typical pretentious tennis player, she had sweatbands on both wrists.

'Call me what you wish, dear Pancho. Can we start to play?'

'What for?' I asked.

'I beg your pardon?' Marcie said.

'The stakes,' I said. 'What are we playing for?'

'Oh, isn't fun enough?' said Marcie Nash demurely and ingenuously.

'Nothing's fun at six a.m.,' I said. 'I need a tangible incentive.'

'Half a buck,' she said.

'Was that a reference to my personality?' I asked.

'Hey, you're a wit. No, I meant fifty cents.'

'Uhn-uhn.' I shook my head and indicated that it had to be substantial. If she played at Gotham she could not be impecunious. Unless she'd joined on spec. That is, in hope the bread she'd cast on membership would soon return as wedding cake.

'Are you rich?' she said to me.

'How is that relevant?' I answered, ever on the defense, since the fates have forced me to be linked to Barret money bags.

'Just to know how much you can afford to lose,' she said.

Tricky question, that. My problem was to find out how much she could part with. And so I figured something that would save our mutually smirking faces.