Celerity, p.10
CELERITY, page 10
Bolt sat there watching the rats. He looked at me with that face. Mom, it would be fun to chase one of these around the house, whatta think?
No Bolty, these are lab rats doing their lab experiments. If they keel over, bark.
C rat was a bit fidgety. Interesting.
I went to bed.
Couldn’t sleep.
Kept checking my track stars. C now on the wheel at 2 a.m. A and B still zipping along. Their food was gone. They’re burning calories. I gave them more rat food. Is the extract like speed or meth?
I woke up before dawn. All the rats off the wheel. Seem to be fine, resting comfortably. Half their new food eaten. No dead ratties. So far, so good.
Over the next three days, I kept on a close eye on them. Did not spike their water. They seemed fine. I had started to train again. I’m soooo out of shape. Still beat-up from Panama. I have weeks of training ahead of me to get back in shape. I will spike the ratties every three days. Log the results. Before I become a lab rat.
A preliminary conclusion: NepCel extract no short term toxicity. A half-ass conclusion for sure. I’m supposed to repeat the experiment, probably on another species…but so far, so good.
* * *
I pulled money off of credit cards to bring the delinquent first mortgage house payments current. I left the HELOC alone since they had not filed a foreclosure proceeding yet. I didn’t make any new payments, and I knew the process would soon start all over again. I was just buying time. My student loan was due, and soon my credit would take more hits. I put all of this out of my mind and focused on getting back into track-worthy shape. I was in flow, letting the turbulent winds just be. That’s what Tony says.
I did jumping jacks. I can do this. I can do this. I can do this. I am a racer. I am a winner.
I used the Ventura High School exercise room for my strengthening regime: Squats, deadlifts, bench presses. Some distance running to loosen up. Second day; Hang pulls, push jerks. Third day: training on the track; skips, high knees, backward runs. Rest.
Back to weights and more track work. 8 times 200 meters, walk back to the start. Rest two minutes. Move on to the 100 meters, train at 250 and 150 meters. Repeat.
The typical lean protein, lots of fruit and vegetables, low fat, cut back on the wine, that part a bummer. Lots of water. Hydrate like hell.
I told myself thirty days of legitimate training.
My first microdose. Drum rolls, please. Rats still going. I so want this stuff to be harmless and powerful.
Before I dosed, I checked my blood pressure and resting heart rate. I doubled the rat’s dosage, thinking that to be conservative.
Took my first dose at 7 a.m., chased it with a kale shake and granola. Didn’t feel a thing.
After an hour, ditto. So far, so good. No headache, no nausea. Nothing.
Went on with my daily workout.
Second day. Second microdose. Workout went fine. Sensed nothing unusual.
After a week of this, and feeling nothing, I doubled the dose at 7 a.m. By 9 a.m. I was into my two hundred meter training runs. I felt a slight burst of new energy. A couple of high school boys had set up blocks. They were about to run a few hundreds.
Mind if I join you? I asked them.
Hell, no, the tall one said. You a senior?
No, graduated a couple of years ago, just training.
I remember seeing your picture. In the hall case. You ran track here.
Yeah, I did.
We’re not doing all-outs. Just getting loose.
No problem. You call it.
K, the other guy said.
We set into the blocks.
I’ll do mark, wait a beat, set, then go.
Sure, I said.
Mark…Set…go.
I got out of the blocks and had them by five yards in the first twenty-five, then pulled up. Let them catch me.
Jesus, what kind of start was that? the boy on my left said. Let’s do that again.
Sure, but can I ask you guys a favor?
Course.
In a couple of weeks, would you guys mind using your phone to time me? I mean, if you’re around. The stopwatch thing on the clock app.
Celerity File 11
I called the kid back a week later. Moved my microdose up to three times the original rat dose. I could not even tell the volume of sample had reduced in the specimen container. If I see results on the clock, I have a lot of this stuff. Unless I build up an immunity.
I had been warming up at the track for an hour when he showed up along with his buddy, plus one of the wide receivers from the Cougars football team. The testosterone trio.
After the usual chitchat, I set up in the blocks. One guy went down the track and stopped parallel with the one hundred meter mark. Removed his phone from his pocket. The football player was gonna clap his hands for a start.
Set.
Mark.
Clap
I burst out of my block. Head down, hands like knives. I pumped, pushed the breath out. Pump, pump, pump. Leaned into the finish.
The kid clicked the watch.
I felt quick. You know when you’re quick and when you’ve missed a fraction of a beat, just slightly out of rhythm. It was a good run. Not balls-to-the-wall, but solid.
I jogged back to him and thought I still have something more in me.
I screwed up, the kid said.
No problem. Let’s do it again, I said.
I jogged back to the start.
He said he screwed it up, I said to the two guys at the blocks. We’re going again.
The football player was looking at the kid at the end, who was shaking his head. I didn’t know what that meant.
Okay, get ready.
Got set in my blocks. Stretched my legs. Did some deep breaths. Big exhales. Inhale. Calmed down. Closed my eyes to focus. Opened my eyes.
Ready, I said.
Ok, here we go. Get set.
Mark.
* * *
I asked my new Ventura Cougar friends if we could try again in a week. They said sure. I guess word got around. The visitors increased at every workout.
On the fifth day, I saw my old high school coach on the other side of the track. He walked over.
Looking good, Celerity. How are you? Running track at UCLA still, or what?
Took a break from school. Planning to reenter next semester. How are you?
Same deal. So I heard you were laying down some amazing times. Unofficial with just the kids and a phone, of course.
Course. Just getting back into shape.
He put his hands on his hips. Stared me up and down. You look good. Look good. What happened to your skin?
Uh… bug bites from my backyard, I guess. Or maybe the lawn fertilizer got on me.
Jesus. You want a timer today?
Uh… sure. Need to warm up some more.
Sure, no problem. Just wave me over when you’re ready.
Got it.
He walked back to his team. I had to think. Was I ready for this? What if I repeat those times? Won’t that get out? I’m not ready to be noticed yet. I did my stretches. Took some water. Watched my old coach. He kept on eye on me. I waived, went back to stretching.
Should I push it? I thought about Carmelita Jeter, the great U.S. sprinter. She closed like a banshee. As did Usain. Usain… Nobody in the history of track and field closed like Bolt. He didn’t have the best starts. He did not have the best mid-race. But hit that two-thirds mark, and his long gait and unprecedented power kicked in. Record after record. The fastest man in history. Channel Bolt, I thought. Let’s see what I got. Let’s see my green machine kick into gear. What the hell?
I waved the coach over.
He brought over a couple of sprinters from the men’s track team.
Mind if they run with ya?
I’m a guest here. Your track. Sure.
I chose a set of blocks. Drifted into my meet mindset.
Remember what I taught you, Celerity. You’re a racer, not a runner, the coach said, my first loser coach.
I nodded. Yes, a racer. I’m a racer. I’m going to kick into max gear at sixty meters. See if I have a new Usain power move. Show this asshole how wrong he was.
The boys straddled me, one on each side.
The coach walked down to the finish line. Pulled out his phone.
A boy held his arm up.
Set…
Mark…
Clap
I got out fast.
Leveled out.
I had a two-meter lead at twenty. Let that lead sit.
Fifty meter… Sixty… I kicked Usain into gear.
A burst of speed I have never felt before.
I was ten meters ahead at the finish.
Jesus Christ, coach said. I’ve never seen…
* * *
I went home to regroup and think. Went to greenhouse two. Opened the refrigerator and picked up the extract. Examined it closely. My ratties were fine. Kicking back in their cage. Probably should let them go, or give them away. Now I’m prime lab rat.
Visited my NepCel plant in greenhouse three. My little buddy looked healthy, growing steadily, now four feet tall. Its trunk starting to widen. My transplants from the Darién did not take hold and were dead.
I took Bolt for a walk. Ended up all the way to the beach. I let him run in the surf. Other dogs on the beach today, frolicking. Bolt was loving it.
I sat on the beach, took my shoes and socks off, felt the sand between my toes. The melodic surf, massive power every time the wave breaks. Natural power, nature’s power. Power from the sun, its energy. Power from gravity, the moon, and the tides. The weight of the water, pushing and pulling without effort. Without intervention from humankind. Nothing synthetic. Nothing enhanced, pure performance.
I am nature’s power.
Cheating? No, I’m embracing nature’s gifts, right?
Part of me knew I was just sitting on the beach, rationalizing and justifying my actions. Maybe if I stare at the ocean a while longer it will enhance my all-natural nature’s power deal.
Bolt was playing with another dog. Its owner, a couple, waved. I waved back.
Your dog? she said. Beautiful.
Thanks. Yeah. His name’s Bolt.
I noticed they were smoking a joint. She offered.
I looked at the ocean again. I need more rationalization, more change my state mind manipulation. Sure, I said.
They sat down.
A few minutes later, I got a new level of the nature’s power thing going.
Fuck your doubting mind, I said aloud. I’m creating my new vision using nature. I am my new vision. It is me.
Fuckin’ A, the dude said.
Later, at home, after pigging out on junk food, the nagging feeling popped up again. Maybe enhanced paranoia from the weed? It was the nagging questions that I have been avoiding. The voice below the regular voice. Sooner or later, I had to answer the questions. Answer them like ice in my veins, extract ice.
Now that my speed is becoming the talk of Ventura High School track, word is gonna get out. Will be on social media soon. I need a plan. I need a public relations strategy, at least a mini one. To be able to answer some basic questions correctly. Prying questions. Probing.
The NCAA doping task force, and their urinalysis tests. Add in a blood test, and extra lab scrutiny if I get media coverage. Was my friend’s test thorough enough, up to date?
If I test positive for something, it’s all over. No UCLA scholarship. Back to square one. A dead-broke square one.
Fly to Fate? How about Dive to Disaster. Or Meltdown to Mediocrity.
What’s the NCAA task force looking for? Stimulants, anabolic agents, beta-blockers, diuretics and masking agents, hormones, narcotics.
Stimulants. That’s what worried me.
The next day I met my friend in Westwood again. I gave her a sample of my blood. PEDs screen, I told her. Details on the NCAA site.
So, you’re doping with the plant?
It’s not dope. All natural.
So is cannabis. They ban that.
It’s not weed. More like a… flower. This is on the QT, right?
Yeah. Sure.
Oh, one more thing. You might find a bit of weed in there, just ignore that.
Cool. Did you bring any?
* * *
I checked social media. Facebook. Twitter. Instagram. Searched for my name. Dozens of messages on Facebook I had not seen or responded to. The usual stuff, other students at college. A couple of friends from Ventura. Condolences about my father. Nothing yet about my recent workouts at Ventura High School.
I forgot about YouTube, checked there, while I petted Bolt.
Nothing. All quiet so far, Bolty boy.
I didn’t work out the next morning. For some reason, I wanted to wait for the lab results. I got them in the afternoon. She works fast. I need to buy her something. Or bring her to the beach.
No PEDs. A clean panel.
I was surprised. Whatever the active ingredient was, which I did not even know, a blood test was not picking it up. Would the professional leagues run a more thorough test? I did not know.
I’m clean. Except for the weed.
Another question in my head. Is it immoral? Do I care? Should I keep going?
I checked the registration website for UCLA, logged into my student account. I need to register before I call my college track coach. See if he’ll take me back on the team. I had that down, if he wavers, I’ll tell him to give me a tryout. Lay it all out.
When I was backstage with Tony, and he learned that I was an athlete, he gave me a copy of a speech given by some old Hockey coach about the real math of winning and losing. It was a bunch of puns. What’s the difference between tenth place and second place? Losers say eight. Winners say zero. They are both equal losers. More shit like that. Maybe the coach was Canadian or something, using the metric system. I’m not sure, but Tony said he carries a shrunk-down version of the speech in his wallet.
A knock on the door.
It was another real estate agent. Have I considered selling the house, he asked.
Why you asking?
Just meeting the neighbors, he said.
Uh-huh, I said.
Then he asks can he give me a free market analysis.
Been there, done that.
He stood there waiting for more information, which I did not give him. Then he reached into his case and removed a notepad with his name and picture on the top. With his dog. He handed it to me.
Does your dog have a real estate license? I asked.
No, but if the buyer’s offer is too low, he bites.
You had that line ready, huh?. Why did you pick this house?
He touched his face, shifted his weight back and forth. Looked away. Uh… he said.
Because my father died? Because the house was in foreclosure and you guys troll that stuff.
Troll? he said.
You know what I fucking mean.
Well, yeah. Usually the NOD’s get refiled on. Sometime. Again. Plus, the family loss.
You mean death. NOD?
Notice of default.
Ahh. I get it now. I’m an NOD with a death bonus. Must have rocketed up to your hot lead list.
Prospect we call it. I’m mean you. I mean, you’re a person, I mean…
Great. You had me worried for a moment.
He started back-peddling on one foot. The other stuck in his mouth. He pulled it out for a moment.
Sorry. If you want a market analysis, please give me a call. Have a blessed day.
God damn, hallelujah blessed it will be.
If another real-a-tor real estate magnet person knocks on my door, he will be N-O-D, I thought—Next One Dead.
* * *
The next morning I took another hit, went to the track. My coach was there, ran right up to me.
Hey, there. Those times were amazing. Unofficial, of course. Wanna try again?
Uh…sure. Could I use your gym again? First, I mean.
He nodded.
I did my weight training. Then came back on the track, changed into my track shoes, began my pre-meet warmup. All this took about an hour. I waved to the coach.
This time, he had two boys on each side, me in the middle lane, so five runners in the blocks.
Clap
I charged out of the block, hit stride, powered up at sixty meters.
Coach spun around. Bent over. God damn, he said.
I jogged over. There was a crowd of students around him looking at his phone.
The phone’s stopwatch stopped at 9.98.
9.98…
9.98.
Flo-Jo’s world record was 10.49.
The coach, hyperventilating, was catching his breath, or trying to.
Celerity, no woman in history has ever, I mean ever, broke the 10 flat barrier in the hundred. Ladies and gentlemen, meet the fastest woman in the frickin’ history of the world. On our little track. Right here on this day. Unofficial, of course.
Don’t tell anyone, I said.
Don’t tell anyone. I looked around at a dozen high school students recording me with their two million billion pixel videophones. Word’s out real-time in 5G 4K better-than-reality res.
And my life will never be the same.
I wondered who knew about my trip to Panama.
I thanked the coach, waved goodbye to the students, and jogged away.
The coach called out, We need to get you a tryout for the Olympic team.
The Agent
The agent downed the last of his cocktail, stopped the audio file, opened a new tab of the laptop and pulled up YouTube.
It was the video recorded on a cell phone at Ventura High School.
The agent watched Celerity talking to the high school coach. He was surrounded by several high school track athletes and onlookers. She moved to the starting blocks, two boys on each side.
Clap.
She was off, leaving the boys behind.
Coach spun around. Bent over. God damn.
The crowd of students gathered around the coach. The POV of the camera moved onto the coach’s cell phone, and the recorded time of 9.98.
