Bugs by John Sladek

cutbacks all around. Sorry. Been great working with you.’
    Fred could think of nothing to say.
    The Lincoln face seemed seized with boredom for a moment. Then it twitched and said: ‘You can come in tomorrow and pick up your stuff, once we get everything moved.’
    Lake Calhoun had two faces. From the wealthier west, a wide boulevard swept in towards the lake, passing between two insurance companies that seemed to divide the world: American Hardware Mutual faced Ministers’ Life across the traffic lanes. Beyond them was a region of high-priced high-rise condos, golf-courses, fine old houses and finer lakes.
    Fred saw this side only when he drove to work. His basement bedsitter was located on the east side of the lake, the side where the stores took food stamps and (according to their signs) kept only $30 in the till after dark.
    Now he decided that it was time to try running around Lake Calhoun. Running around any lake seemed the thing to do, and Lake Calhoun was a great favourite. Every day, at all hours, people in brilliant costumes trotted around Calhoun, as people once cantered up and down Rotten Row, announcing their presence to the world.
    At 2 or 3 A.M., only a few hardy souls would be pounding along the special asphalt path. But in the daytime, and especially at weekends, the traffic jam of thumping feet and flapping elbows was formidable. Whatever the original purpose of running, it now had become an established part of daily life, like newspapers.
    Fred could not afford an elaborate costume; he limited himself to a pair of cheap running shoes with Velcro tabs on them, an undervest and his ordinary trousers. The change jingled in his pocket like bells on trotting horses. Soon he began to find aches within his lungs, down his legs, everywhere. It was necessary to invent reasons to continue:
 
(1) Running was democratic. Unlike school sports, which in America could only be played by highly trained child professionals wearing special helmets, running was something almost anyone could do. It could be done competitively or not, by both sexes together, socially or alone. The ultimate democratic sport, it required (like voting) no skill, training or intellect. But Fred did not have a lot of sympathy with democracy.
(2) Doctors approved. They solemnly told Americans that running was very good for them. Film stars confirmed the value of wild exercise. Of course, doctors and film stars had at one time recommended smoking cigarettes, too. Maybe they were not always to be trusted. Not many seemed deterred by knowing that one well-known popularizer of running (as good for the heart) had died, of a heart-attack, following a nice run.
(3) Everyone does it. A powerful argument: run because all your friends are running. Fred noticed packs of friends loping along, no doubt under control of a hive mind. He did not want any friends of this sort.
(4) Run competitively. For some, running opened new vistas of competition – buying and displaying lots of expensive running clothes. Fred did not have enough money for real clothes, never mind ostentation.
(5) It’s painful. People in Minneapolis were Scandinavians, who like pain. One had only to think of Scandinavian inventions: saunas, birching for pleasure (rather than capital punishment), and furniture that tortured the human frame (a chair that forces you to kneel before your computer, for example). Presumably Scandinavians enjoyed sitting (or kneeling) all the way through Ingmar Bergman films.
    He paused for breath. Immediately, a cloud of gnats found him and went for the mouth and eyes. He flapped and fought, and started to run again, but they stuck with him.
    ‘Vait, darlink! Vait a moment!’ called a pleasant, rather rich contralto voice. As he was now gagging, coughing and blinded, he had no choice but to wait. A panting presence approached. A cool hand rubbed over his face, leaving some sour-smelling substance. ‘There. You can look.’
    He looked into a pair of wide-set