Run. Pant. Sweat. Saul Freeman’s life is built on routine. This is one of his latest.
     Jogging early in the morning, to catch the superb sunrise views over the city. Perth is small enough that the footpaths are never crowded before 7am. He likes to be left alone. Especially when he’s wearing shorts and smelling of body odor. Of course, when he’s dressed in his workman-like finest, he adores the gaze of onlookers. Everything about him is engineered to attract others. A way of making up for low self-esteem and loss of childhood affection. Not that he’ll ever admit that.

He started this ritual seven months ago, shortly after moving in to his new apartment on Wellington Street. It is a U-shaped run that takes him back to his house before the buses bringing the mass of city workers clog the roads. He always begins by limbering up indoors. (He’d hate to be seen doing unflattering leg stretches.) Then, building his momentum across Hay Street, as the vans deliver fish, veggies and baked goods, he heads towards Albany Highway. This is the Highway that takes you to almost every suburb in W.A. First, however, he takes the slight detour down Riverside Drive. This is where Perth is spilt in two by the forever-still Swan River. A beautiful place, with quaint pubs and park benches. A place for the loved and the contemplative. Not that he does much of either. He’s a single, young lawyer.  Love is unrealistic. Insignificant. But maybe he's just convinced himself of this to avoid the fact that he’s a 31-year-old man who has never had a meaningful relationship in his life. His never-available, always-too-busy life. But it’s not difficult to remain isolated in the city that defines it.

A perky young woman runs in the opposite direction, pushing a new three-wheeled pram. Wearing her hair in a rough pony tail, she runs with an iPod as entertainment.

She nods. He smiles and casually turns his head to check her out. Even his
perversions are dignified.

He turns right on to the footbridge that runs parallel to the highway, and over the river.

More joggers, more nods. He likes to check out what the other early risers are wearing. Old men in track pants. Groups of women talking loudly through their panting who wear whatever conceals their unflattering bulges. Twenty-somethings who remind him of himself a decade ago, wearing a confident smirk and basketball shoes. Saul wears a tiny pedometer strapped to his left ankle and a black sports watch on his right wrist. His clean shoes cost an average man’s weekly wages.

Frequent visits to Runner’s World and discussions with the salesman netted
him his footwear at a discount. Since taking up running, he has shaved three minutes twelve off his best time. Saul never did anything half-hearted. And he always avoided any task that meant he’d have to rely on others. Even dying.

His doctor’s words echoed within him, “Isn’t there anyone you can talk to?” It’s a question he has yet to answer ; a master of self-sufficiency.

Reaching the other side of the River, he jogs on the spot briefly to glance at the skyline. Perth’s skyline is barely a dozen hig- rise buildings, but it does look peaceful.

It should, being the most isolated city on the planet. It is a small pond, to be sure. And he is one of very few big fish. He could live anywhere in the world, but at least here, the rich get noticed. Saul knows it is a city built for the dollar of the tourist, rather than the convenience of the locals. But he remains here anyway. He was one of the first to take advantage of the inner-city living projects that erupted throughout the city five years ago. Selling his Claremont home for a tidy profit and moving in as soon as the paint dried, he knew he found a solid investment. Now there are no travel costs. No parking fees. His car only remains for obligatory visits to his old doctor, and family. Efficient expenditure.

Returning home in a slightly slower jog, he crosses Hay Street once more and grabs a medium Mocha Caramelatte from Gloria Jean's, almost the only shop ever open at this time. Saul always carries the exact change. He hands it to the cashier with another smile, takes his beverage and makes his way home. Never waiting for green lights to give him the okay, he runs across the last few roads. The stairs to the fourth floor are his cool-down. Dropping his keys and coffee on the kitchen table, he showers and selects today’s suit, placing it on his bed. His last morning ritual before leaving is to look at himself in the bathroom mirror. Saul uses it as a time of meditation and inspiration, preparing for another hectic day at the office, dealing with clients' money and egos. Today, he touches the back of his head with his right hand, expecting his tumour to pop up and say hello, so he can grab it and flush it. His little secret. Neither his colleagues nor his family are any wiser. Saul sees it as an inconvenience, rather than a threat. He changes his life for no one, not even himself. Like most rich people, Saul knows that with money comes power. A distorted sense of self and belief in immortality soon follow.

Standing tall, he reminds himself that he is imposing. The finest suits and shoes, but always on sale, hang gallery-like in his walk in closet. The dark suit is his favourite. It’s almost black, like his hair. White shirt and bold red tie complete the ensemble. Putting on his flashy sunglasses, he takes one last gaze at the hallway mirror. He is handsome, hiding his age well. Lean, tall, tanned. He often gets mistaken for an Italian, but his family couldn’t be more Aussie. His name doesn’t help. It makes him sound like he’s in the Mafia. “Saul.” Or maybe a Jewish dentist. He blames his father.

The youngest, and the only boy, Saul’s name had to start with “S.” His sisters are Susan, Samantha and Sarah. Saul’s uncles are Simon and Steven. His Dad hates them, so chose the only other “S” he liked. He still doesn’t know why he didn’t just choose Stewart, but his father was never the creative type. Saul puts his keys in his pocket, grabs his Mocha and places his lightweight glasses in his left breast pocket.

He hates wearing them, but knows contacts are worse.

Eleven minutes and twelve seconds later he arrives at the office on the fortieth floor.

“Melanie,” he says to his secretary.

“Hiya Saul.”

Melanie rarely asks him about his weekend, or anything else that isn't work
related. She knows she’ll never get a sociable response. Besides, Saul secretly despises her ever-present bubbliness and dimply female charm.

The leather chair welcomes him with a sigh. He turns on his computer, finishes his lukewarm Mocha and glances at the Perth view from his massive window. Whenever he feels down, the window reminds him of his king-like stature, peering down his nose at the paupers. Fourteen new e-mails. All work related. Just as he likes it.

Eleven messages in his junk folder, which he detests. He checks them all for deletion, bar one.

The header taunts him - “Feeling Lonely?” Letting his guard down he opens it and is told about a new speed dating service in the city. He hesitates, staring at the screen, expecting an answer. Then deletes it with the rest. It’s 8am. Time to think with his mind now, not his heart.

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©2007 by Kris Bather

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