You have to get up, he told himself. You have to get up in time to eat, change, comb, pay, walk, ride, and seat. You have to get up because that's what they all expect of. You have to get up because you have responsibility. You have to get up because you just won the gold medal in the 400 meter dash. You have to get up because you're Brain Rubb. The blanket was too warm, he told himself. It was all too comforting and familiar to even leave; to even think about leaving. But, the thought kept coming back to him; the itch from his pesky mosquito conscious to do something and fulfill his duty.
The first day after it hadn't been tough; it was very easy. The moment had been everything he had dreamed of and had swept all of the hard work, early mornings, and sacrifice under the rug that had been his whole life; since he had first stepped onto the track in the hot Arizona sun; in the afternoon where his terms were taken away and consumed by the fame and fifteen minutes that he had told himself with each sweat and breath he deserved. The fame that each person had told him that he wanted, that the world cherished and that had taken his youth away was all around him in the form of women, national media, endorsements, materials and glee of family members. The first two weeks blurred into his persona offering him a glimpse into a larger life, into what he had thought was a larger meaning. As if you could define meaning by how many people knew your name or how many times you were searched for on Google. He had thought you could.
The pinnacle was always that way, always a rush of pats on the back and glory to sustain the glory of the moment; the glory of the podium; the flashes of the camera and the parties that made you never want to party again and at the same time party ever night. Nobody wanted to know what you were doing next in the first two weeks. Everyone was content with replying the glory and letting you replay it more and more. They commented on how you seemed to appreciate the glory and knew what it was all about. No one ever said it was a shock thing or that you just couldn't believe what had happened to yourself. Because, even if Brain didn't want to tell himself, the work never seems to pay. You always seem to think it will all never come together; that each failure will lead to more and more failures. But, you realize the failures produced the little successes that got you there. Everyone always had told him that the hard work paid off eventually and those first two weeks it seemed evident. But, what he had needed to to be told; what he needed to get out of bed was some advice on what to do when your dreams were your reality.
How do you keep going when everything society had dictated you to do, when everything that you had grown up wanting and working for had no come to fruition? It was as if he was still in the dream and he would wake up and go back to the track again; ready for the days' workout. He hadn't even been to any other events or at least he thought he hadn't. The interviewers had said he had supported his teammates but it didn't seem the same whenever he went back to the track. The track was different now that it didn't matter; that it had come to reality and given him everything. The track wasn't the cruel girlfriend who didn't return his calls, the father who never congratulated enough, or the friend who didn't talk to him; it wasn't there for him to please. It was the alarm clock next to the bed, the faucet in the restroom, the light in the kitchen; it was the constant that he didn't notice until it was gone. Unlike the light, faucet, or alarm clock he felt like, now, he could go days without it, possibly even years.
For it was a thing, an object that no longer defined him because he had defied it; stood up to the challenge of it and spit in its face. It was no longer a goal of his, no longer a contractual obligation or a appointment on the calender. He was done with it but as soon as he had gotten rid of it and thrown it all up his life was blank and ready to be written on his own terms. He was empty though, laying in his bed starving for meaning that he didn't know how to define because his whole life he hadn't had to worry about defining anything. Where was his new race or his new medal to chase? He didn't know what to do and it had paralyzed him in this bed. The people he had worked his whole life to please; the people that he had brought so much joy and pleasure to with his victory were proud of him but didn't say anything about the future. They wanted more than he did to live in the moment and know of him his whole life as the gold medal winner; the man who they had seen through the rough times to the podium. They were completely content with having him never do anything more; they were content with knowing that they knew him.
He laid in bed more and more not knowing what to do. Content with the medal, done with the track, and lost in the stands.
