Fight Song A Novel - By Joshua Mohr Page 0,12

the reason I cramped up the last time I went for the record is that my mind was too heavy. I was literally weighed down by my mind.”

“Your mind literally weighed more?”

“We were thinking that this time my mind needs to be free. Totally lithe. It has to weigh less than a single scale from a fish.”

“How does one diet her brain weight?” Bob asks, feeling the threat of laughter. This is classic Gotthorm. He talks about treading water in a new age way that makes Coffen want to puke. Her brain is literally too heavy with thoughts, weighs her down, drags her to the bottom. Yup, that’s obviously the problem.

“We’re not sure you should be there this time. I psychically weigh more with you around.”

“Thanks.”

“That’s not meant as a criticism.”

“Sucker punch is more like it.”

“Bob, you know how much this record means to me. Please. Don’t blow this out of proportion. I want to set myself up to succeed. I’m asking for you to help me in a different way this time out. Help me by not being there. I really want the record.”

“I mean, there’s nothing I can really say. The kids and I will keep our distance.”

“Oh, the kids can be there,” says Jane. “We think it’s best if I see them through the travails of treading for so many hours, so I remember why I’m working so hard. They bring out the best in me. Gotthorm says motherhood is very primal and I’ll push myself even harder if I see my children present.”

“Is there anyone else besides me who has to stay away?”

“Don’t turn this into a ‘poor me’ thing, Mister Grumbles. Don’t do that thing where you feel sorry for yourself and I have to comfort you.”

“I will cheer from a distance,” Coffen says, simply because there’s nothing else he can say. Going over the top with some fuming tirade won’t change her mind. He needs to be mature. He knows—or thinks he knows—that she’s not trying to hurt his feelings. If this is what gives her the best chance to break the world record, so be it.

Bob had stood by the pool the whole time during her last attempt, only breaking away to use the bathroom. The kids were there for some of the time, too, cheering her on. But it’s hard for children to understand the immense achievement of treading water for so long. To them, it’s boring. It’s hard to watch. But Coffen understood Jane’s dedication. He knew how hard she’d worked at it, how she had cramped up, her head spending more and more time under the water, until finally the record attempt had to be called off in the name of safety—it was Bob, not Gotthorm, who held her as she cried that night.

“The world record is eighty-five hours,” Jane says. “That’s three and a half days. It doesn’t sound like such a long time to tread until you’re the one bobbing in the pool. Then it feels like your whole life.”

“Tell Gotthorm how I used to train with you, treading water as long as I could last. I’ve always been supportive. He doesn’t like me.”

“He doesn’t understand guys like you. He’s like Schumann. They are built to use their bodies. You’re not.”

Coffen needs to change the subject before, like Kong, he takes one bullet too many and falls to his death. He tries to get it out of his head that Jane wants Gotthorm, tries but it’s not working. Why would she choose Bob over a modern-day Viking? He goes with, “Are you excited for Björn the Bereft’s magic show on Friday?”

“I hear he’s a miracle worker,” she says. “But it’s more marriage counseling than magic show.”

“What made you want to do this in the first place?” Bob asks.

“We made me want to do this,” she says.

Coffen retreats to his coffee. He was lying earlier to the barista—he can’t smell or taste any grapefruit in the brew. Nirvana’s dirge is over. A new song he doesn’t recognize starts up. King Kong is frozen for all time. And Bob is covered in fluorescent orange, like a crop duster had targeted him and spackled him in the artificial film. A visual marker for all that he’s done wrong, so many mistakes that Jane doesn’t want him to cheer her on as she goes for the record. Everybody else on planet earth is welcome, just not Bob.

The Muzak feels like it’s getting louder as they sit there in silence.

Looking like a neutered