Chasing Victoria

Chapter 1

Chapter 1A Month Earlier

No one can predict where life will carry them. The most well-thought-out plan can go awry. I ponder persistent solemnness, daily rituals, and countless tasks, which take me nowhere but circles, never-ending, mind-numbing circles. When did it all become so mundane? I want to shake things up, create disorder in my well-constructed life. Do away with rituals and transform into something different. But fear of losing control, fear of the unknown, holds me in that mundane place bleeding for change.

Often, I've wondered if mom, Judith Powell, named me Victoria to signal a triumphant birth. At the age of forty, and after several attempts, she finally succeeded victoriously. Mainly, I believe she gave me this name to triumph the ordinary and live as remarkably as she had. Victoria is an impossible name to emulate, especially when you fail right out of the gate. But, as I see it, there will always be challenges to conquer. So, I decided to run. To train my body, prepare for life's challenges, and be physically and mentally ready when the time comes.

Although I'm just like Judith, I try not to be. Judith Powell a celebrated opera singer, achieved great success, great victories in a life that resembled a stage. My childhood was magical with singers, actors, and dancers, who entertained me at home and onstage. For hours, I'd watched Judith's rehearsals and memorize scenes and music pieces. From Judith's living room to the theater was a continuous act—entertainment on demand by her thespian friends. Sometimes I wondered if there was a division between reality and her stage life. If so, I couldn't tell. Onstage, she played the heroine well, but did she offstage? Would she have survived the real world, a job where vocal and acting abilities aren't measures of success? I assumed not.

Judith's second stage, her home in Martha's Vineyard, is filled with magical artifacts. She decorated my room like a castle with drawings of a forest, moon, and magical creatures guarding me as I slept. That seemed so long ago. A child no more, I've chosen a traditional life offstage, a life different from Judith's, my father's path, a career in finance. My father, Aiden Powell, loved Judith more than life. He showered her with love and a life of luxury. But dad always says, “Judith was a free spirit.” He understood and accepted her ways, but at what cost. His pain, I can't imagine.

In my mind, I hear Judith say, “You should have had a career on stage, your first defeat.” Maybe she was right. If I had a magic ball, would my life be different? Truthfully, I lost focus, my direction twisted, or am I rebelling against a life planned by Judith. Determined to lead a life different than mom's, I chose a career shocking to both my parents. Eager to conquer Wall Street, I donned the typical attire of the financial world, filled my closet with power suits, black leather pumps, and accessories alluding to wealth. I subscribed to the tools of the trade, Wall Street Journal, BusinessWeek, and Forbes, and became another Wall Street drone clad in designer clothing.

The rituals of hard work consumed me and even felt worthwhile. But Wall Street success comes quickly for those with good connections, family status, and sometimes sleazy improprieties my ethics can't stomach. However, I've determined with diligence and hard work I'd be victorious. Or would I? Soon, making it through mind-numbing days of numbers, market trends, and research left me questioning my purpose. At twenty-five, I assume I'm way too young to experience an existential crisis. Or am I?

Eventually, getting out of bed and going to a soul-draining job felt challenging. So, I decided to run. Running became compulsory, an endorphin-laced addiction, bolstering and melting mundaneness, and it would save my life.

* * *

It's morning again, and the alarm jolts me from the bed. I perform ritual one, two, and three, fumbling in the dark. Slightly awake, I dress for my morning run and exit the condo, ready to witness another sunrise. It's one of those foggy New York City mornings caused by early autumn's fluctuating temperatures. Five o'clock hum of early risers serenades me across the avenues. On the narrow streets between Lexington and Park Avenues, newspaper boys hurriedly toss papers inside building lobbies. At the corner, a taxi stops eager for a fare. I smirk at his disregard for my running outfit and shake my head. On Madison, I say a polite, ”Good morning,” to a sluggish dog walker.

“Good morning,” he mumbles and yawns as the dog yanks him forward.

In front of the Episcopal Church of Heavenly Rest, a homeless man packs up his makeshift bed. Ahead, teenagers exit the park trailed by m*******a fumes. I feign disinterest, clutching steel keys in my hand. As I grow closer, the group part politely, allowing me to pass. With languid strides and glassy eyes, a tall, thin boy dressed in sagging jeans, takes a long drag on the waning joint, exhaling fumes through his thin nostrils. Narrowing his eyes, he intones in a strained voice, “Holy s**t, you're out early.”

“Not as early as you,” I say.

His eyes follow, and his head bobs up and down with an approving smile. “s**t, she's got some balls. I like that. Can I join you,” he asks, rubbing his hands in his masculine parts.

I keep walking, dismayed by his ignorance. An opera of comedies, I think as I turn my head, noticing the group disperse to different addresses along the street. The lingering, pungent scent grazes my nose, and I juxtapose a grassy high and endorphin-induced runner's high. Addictions, mine's not so different.

Skies turn indigo blue as I make my way inside the park's entrance on Fifth Avenue. I begin my run around Central Park's running loop and finish with an orange-magenta sunrise coloring the horizon. I head toward a bench to stretch at the entrance when footsteps approach from behind. Quickly, I turn my head toward a striking man nearing the bench. He stops and stretches beside me.

“How was your run,” he asks, catching his breath.

His athletic built and sculpted calf muscles tell me he's a seasoned runner. A drop of sweat, commingle with morning mist, rolls from my chin, and I reply, “Wet,” embarrassed by my profuse sweating.

“I watched you from a distance. You're a good runner, good pace. I had a hard time catching up with you. Do you get out every morning?”

His voice is so unguarded as if he's been speaking to me forever, not the typical wavering of strangers. However, I'm a little perturbed he'd been trailing and watching me from behind. Cautiously, I reply, “Sometimes.”

Lifting his leg on the bench, he stretches more limber than any man I've met. Silence pursues as we each continue a ritual I perform alone after each morning run. It's unusual stretching in silence with a stranger. I catch the smooth, dark hairs and muscles etching his calf. An earthy musk grips my nostrils, and it's pleasing. He catches my eye. Embarrassed; I stretch deeper.

“My name is Chase,” he says, standing straight with an outstretched palm.

I straighten and shake his hand, noticing his angled jaw, full lips, and intense, brown eyes staring at mine. It's odd, but shaking this stranger's hand is calming. I release my grip from his smooth hand's firm grip. He smiles, and I grin awkwardly. “Chase, that's a good name for a runner. My name is Vicky.”

“Is that short for Victoria?”

“Yes, but I've always preferred Vicky, less formal. Victoria is so regal. That I'm not,” I say, shaking my head.

“You should let someone else decide that. You're impressive when you're running. You have the form of a dancer and the spirit of a gazelle.”

Laughter bursts from my mouth. “A gazelle. Hmm, I've never pictured myself running like a gazelle, but they are fast.”

“I like your pace. You would be great to run with.”

Wiping the sweat from my brow; I stand akimbo, uncertain how to reply.

“Will you be in the park tomorrow,” he asks.

He seems harmless, but so did Jeffrey Dahmer. I start to worry and stumble, forcing a lie, which sounds obvious. “I'm not sure. I never know whether I'll make it to the park, depends on my morning.” Of course, I'll be in the park as I am every day. It's the only way I survive a long workday.

“Well, it was a pleasure running behind you. Maybe one morning we can run together.”

I flinch at his words, which seem intimate—together—I've always run alone. I can't imagine running and talking with a stranger. Occasionally, I'll run with friends, but find myself pulling ahead, leaving them struggling behind. My run is meditative, a time when the world outside the park doesn't exist. Nothing matters except my air-filled lungs, pounding heart, and sensation of flight as the wind rushes past. “Well, I run alone, but if you can keep up, perhaps one day,” I reply with an emphasis on one, hoping he understands I prefer running solo.

“Well, Victoria, I hope I'll see you soon.”

“Likewise,” I say with a smile. He turns to leave, and my eyes follow his long, muscular legs toward the exit until he disappears around the corner.

Finishing my stretch, I head back across the avenues, recalling Chase's earthy scent arousing dormant desires. Quickly, I dismiss thoughts of a stranger I'll probably never see again and assume a jog home.