Celerity, p.14
CELERITY, page 14
The team left for Minnesota, and that Saturday night my persaliaicon invited me out to dinner, compliments of the team. My agent flew in and joined us. The attorney too. And a publicist. And a marketing person, the agent called his spin doctor.
She drove me to a place she said serves five-hour meals. Performance culinary art, she called it, some type of event dinner, or dinner event. A place with alabaster walls, pieces of modern art several feet tall and wide hanging from the ceiling, a curved staircase entrance like a time warp.
We sat in the Gallery Room at street level on Halsted Street. First came the iced tumblers containing single elements of truffle, caviar, shrimp, king crab, some type of egg custard thing with sides of brioche toast. It went on from there. Food as art. Art as food. I called it six scraps, colorful albeit, on a plate, when’s dinner? But not out loud. But the taste, like heroin to a junkie that missed his last fix.
I learned that the non-menu in this Michelin lodestar of gourmet-world is the room itself. The Salon menu, the sit-in-another-room menu, and so on. You eat the room. Some of the food had lights in it. Enlightening. You can eat the balloons.
My agent described this time as the on-the-brink time. The brink of world fame. I needed to be coached how to speak to the press. How not to get caught in embarrassing situations. How not to be political on Twitter. How this, how that. He reminded me that it’s not about products, it’s about perception.
My category. My word. I am my word, I said. He smiled.
* * *
I watched the game Sunday on my new flat screen in my new apartment, my old go-juice safely in my new Parmesan in my new refrigerator. The defense played well, but became gassed by mid fourth quarter and gave up two touchdowns, and they lost, again. The Chicago quarterback had a great arm, but was inconsistent. I got a call that they were moving me to the fifty-three-man roster tomorrow, and I will be practicing with the real offense.
The coach told me to memorize twelve routes. It was easy; I had them down. I split time with the other receivers. I only ran eight routes. Then the coach said when I go in, it will probably be one of three routes, depending on coverage. So we practiced those when he put me in at practice.
After I ran a few routes, the coach moved the top defensive back to cover me. I beat him twice. One ball was over my head, the other one, the quarterback laid in nice, I caught it, and the DB could not catch me. Everybody on the field stopped and watched me run back, as they gave the DB shit. The head coach nodded and smiled.
Now they knew.
I am the lioness.
* * *
THE AGENT
The agent skipped ahead on the recording, stopped it, and clicked the play icon.
* * *
CELERITY FILE 15 CONTINUED
It’s game day.
Last game of the season. Bears versus their nemesis, the Green Bay Packers. Their nemesis going back to the beginning of time, right up to the big bang, before light and mass and planets and stars.
Every Bears-Packers game is the big bang. The score of these games is irrelevant. It’s how many of the other team’s guys are hauled off on stretchers, bonus points if they’re not breathing.
The Bears are carnivores, they love meat, but not the meatpackers. They hate their slime green and puke yellow uniforms, they hate their coaching staff—fat, clogged-veined cholesterol coaches. They detest their cheese-head-brain-mold fans, they hate Wisconsin. The entire state. Except Harleys. They forgive Harley Davidson of their Wisconsin sin.
They loathe the decrepit city of Green Bay, the lame Lambeau. Some fitting French faggot name, they say. We play in Soldier Field. The Field of Soldiers and Warriors and Patriots. They play in LameBow field, the field of pillow-biting quiche-eaters.
And most of all they abominate their pussy players. They don’t just hate them, they abominate them. Like rhymes with disembowelnate even though it doesn’t.
Rancor does not exist for one thing related to the rancid meatpackers, their blood. As long as it’s fresh and spilling on Soldier Field.
We leave the locker room, us, the gladiators. I’m surrounded by warriors with painted faces and suits of armor, shoulder guards, their galerus. The men-at-arms stomp and chant and grunt their gladiator growls readying for battle.
For mayhem, loathing, close quarter combat, the death struggle. Our march advances to a gallop, our soldier’s heart pumping blood battalion-brigade strong, feeding our limbs to slash and maim into the fray.
Slash and maim into the fray.
My shoulder pads are smacked, my helmet struck, clack rattles in my rapacious ears, the slaps and taps from hands unknown.
I see daylight at the end of the tunnel, daylight of the Coliseum known as Soldier Field—the field where soldiers fight and die.
I hear the roar of the masses reverberating from outside, the concrete walls and floors vibrating, the drums pounding, echoing throughout the arena.
The daylight shocks my seeing, the burning sun revealing all, obliterating affirmation, denuding primal fear.
Flames and smoke shooting up from the ground like geyzers along the path in front of the tunnel. Uniformed Chicago cops patrol the portal, guarding the mouth, holding back the beast. We are the beast.
The band starts playing. Where’s the band? What pro teams have bands? Then their fight song: Bear down Chicago Bears, push the ball…What pro team has a fight song, like a college? No college song, this is a death march, a battle hymn written by Julius Caesar.
The warrior clan congregates at the gate, my breath short and fast, my heartbeat accelerating, my lids blinking, my eyes rapid side to side, looking for the attack. I try to deaden the unyielding sound in this cavernous passage.
The multitudes summon carnage, and the harbingers run into the amphitheater carrying fifteen-foot lances bearing dark blue and orange flags.
Around me, the hordes storm the gauntlet, their thrusts a vacuum that sucks me forward.
We charge.
I’m on the field, I’m in the field. The battlefield.
The noise white, solid, indiscernible, it transforms, becomes rhythmic.
I see them, the thousands of faces, tens of thousands of eyes, peering out at me. I can hear them. I can hear them now.
CLT, they chant.
CLT.
CLT.
The kick-off occurred, but I never saw it. Did it happen? Did it happen in the fog of war?
The crowd was booing. Chicago’s offense was on the field. What were they booing at?
Run play up the middle. Two yard gain. Second and eight.
Plastic cups, beer cans, litter the field. The zebra man calls time out. Garbage is cleared out of the end zone.
Huddle breaks, the crowd’s booing continued.
Run play. No gain.
Third and eight on our own twenty-seven-yard line.
I start pacing back and forth, back and forth.
The lioness in the cage, one side then the other. While they stare.
I move back and forth, back and forth. In the cage.
My coach turns to me and nods.
I stand motionless, frozen. Caught in the headlights, deer-like.
Caught by surprise at night, from the blinding headlights bearing down on me.
The coach nods again, then waves.
Slaps and taps on my pads and helmet.
I run underwater—the sound drowns—now the quiet—my steps like quicksand—into the huddle.
Into the fray.
The quarterback calling the p-l-a-y—his voice—g-a-r-b-l-e-d. He looks at me, then…
Break!
The quarterback claps his hands, and the players run to their position.
I don’t move. I’m very still.
The quarterback shoves me away.
I run to the wideout position.
I set.
The quarterback gestures me to line up in the slot. Move dumbass.
I move.
My dry mouth salivates. I eye the throat of the defensive back standing five yards in front of me. His jugular vein throbbing. The colors of the grass, the uniforms, their skin are saturated, glowing. My vision keen.
I rake the grass with my fingernails.
I rake the grass with my talons.
My breathing accelerates pumping oxygen to my eyes, my limbs, my legs, my paws.
Blood in my eyes. Red and glowing.
What play is it?
He didn’t call any play.
I look to the head coach.
I look into the stands.
I look at the quarterback.
He’s yelling something. I can’t hear him.
Then time stopped. Nothing is moving. It is dead silent.
Except for my beating heart.
Thump.
Thump.
Thump.
I turn my head in slow motion.
I see the center’s grizzly claw engulfing the ball.
The ball.
The ball.
The ball.
Watch the ball.
It snaps.
It snaps, I explode, my first burst.
I’m on the defensive back. He back peddles. He has to decide which way to turn.
I cut to his left on the outside. He rotates his shoulders.
Ten yards out, I push my outside arm forward, head fake right, I have a step on him.
Then a quick cut left.
Another step on him.
Explosive burst—I cut back towards the center of the field.
The safety is on a dead sprint towards me.
My Usain, a big exhale. He won’t reach me in time.
I have him beat.
I am a racer.
I am the predator.
I am the lioness.
The crowd erupts in my ears, deafening.
A quick glance to the stands, the masses roaring.
A quick glance on the big screen.
My defenders trailing.
I turn back.
I see it.
The ball.
Above me, beyond me, coming back to Earth, a moon shot.
From reserves unknown—an instant rush of adrenaline—
I am alone.
I am alone.
I reach out.
I reach out and it’s mine.
It’s mine.
A second later I’m in the end zone.
* * *
It was the moment when my life split in two.
Celerity File 16
CLT, CLT.
The stadium seventy thousand strong cheered as we ran off the field. Bulbs flashing, my helmet an echo chamber.
I reached the tunnel and waved to them, my adoring fans. Me, the only thing to cheer about for rabid Chicago fans, always cursed, almost always. I took my helmet off, shook my hair loose, I swallowed the moment, ingrained it to memory, never to forget, every detail, every sound.
My teammates smacking my pads, high-fiving. The agent stopped me in the tunnel and handed me a piece of paper.
Sound bytes for your press conference. Stay on script. Once you hit the last point, thank them and leave. Don’t say anything else. Then we play hard to get.
I read the list, mouthing the words. The last point… I’m looking forward to sharing my secret soon, I say.
Killer close, right? the agent says.
What’s my secret?
We’re working on that. The touchdown was the setup. Perfect. It set up the hook.
The hook?
Always has to be a setup and a hook. Marketing wanted to see the game before they locked in the next part of the campaign.
The campaign?
We are setting up spots ESPN, NFL Total Access, Good Morning Football, and 60 Minutes.
Then what?
Then the Tonight Show, Ellen, Oprah. We’re thinking of hosting Saturday Night Live right before the Super Bowl.
Do I need to be funny?
Teleprompters.
About this hook thing?
Yeah, we’re thinking it will set up book two, and a DVD set, the action figure, and the release of your new cosmetic line, Celerity Secret.
The agent looked at my face closely. And my scars.
No worries, we’ll fix it in post.
* * *
I approached my father’s bungalow, the camera trucks were lined up down the street. I turned in, and the paparazzi swarmed. I had to stop at the entrance of my driveway, a mass of over one hundred people. Bodies shoulder to shoulder, blocking the way. Blocking the way to my home.
Then I punched the accelerator. The truck lurched ahead, buckled four people over the hood, catching them at waist level. Others knocked down, the grill and bumper of the truck a blunt force blow. The truck swallowed them, then lifted up as the knobby tires caught and rolled over them.
The screams and cries and moans.
Oh, the horror.
More bodies, the second wave feeling the metal and tire treads spinning on flesh and bone—some bodies better traction than others.
I looked in the rearview mirror—red spraying at my six.
With a rear tire catching asphalt, I fish-tailed, and in a fraction of a second, I cleared the mangle.
Then I opened my eyes and was back at the entrance of my driveway, the paparazzi hordes knocking on my windows. I smiled at them, my left foot hard on the brake, my right foot tapping the accelerator pedal.
I inched the truck forward, and my adoring press cleared my path.
* * *
For the next six days, I either ate what remained in the house or ordered in, rotating Pizza Man Dan’s Toppers delivery. Bolt had to live with the backyard. No runs on the beach.
I had been famous for fifteen minutes. Maybe twenty. Six days and nights. For real. That’s when the writer showed up, winding through the crowds on my front lawn, a sea of camera trucks, crew, and reporters. He showed up with the agent who texted me to open the front door since I stopped answering my door, nailed plywood over the front windows, and disconnected the doorbell.
I put on a long-sleeve sweatshirt and let the agent and the writer in. The agent explained that this guy is my autobiographer. He’s already started writing your life story, book one. It’s part of the master plan, he said.
The master plan, uh-huh. Book one? What chapter’s he on? I say.
The writer smiled and opened his leather and canvas tote and removed three Moleskin notebooks. Bolt stuck his head in the bag. I guess the writer kept his writer-food in there.
The book will be finished in two weeks. We’re about thirty percent done. The agent smiled his stamp of approval on the human Gantt chart of my life story.
Seventy percent of my life in two weeks? I must not be very interesting.
You are a complex and compelling character, the writer said.
You just met me.
One of the world’s most beautiful people, the agent said. He gets essence quick.
Three notebooks?
Yeah, the writer said like I’m stupid. One for the sports story, one for your sex life, and one for all the other.
Sex life?
You have a romantic and exotic sex life. I’ll help you write it, he said.
He doesn’t get carnal access. He means creative license, the agent said, adding more gum to the gum already in his mouth. Breath mint?
I shake my head. I look the writer over, thinking of sex, then I look away thinking how good my standard vegetables, a warm bath, and earbuds are looking. Now and forever.
This was the beginning of the book deal that had already been made before the book was written that I was not going to write after I’d been instafamed for six days and nights.
How much do I get?
Three mil upfront, the agent said. You get eighty-five percent less expenses. Should be in the account next week. How’s it feel being rich?
Feel? Feels fantastic. I’m having dinner with Ryan and Ryan. They’re coming here. Mac and cheese. Then a Lifestyle Lounge threesome.
The writer laughed. Humor, that’s good, we’ll add that to your personality.
Turning to the writer, the agent said, How’s that Ryan and Blake thing going? She’s so hot.
Have no clue, the writer said.
When do I get the money?
The random penguins pay up next week. Money will be transferred to your business manager. Let him know what you need.
Random penguins? What happened to the intentional penguins? How much does the business manager get?
We made the deal with Penguin Random House, one of the big three. Instant bestseller. Ten percent. We need a juicy rumor out right before release.
Being rich is really expensive. I think that.
I read some weird shit about me on the Internet. Already. It’s awful. All lies. I say.
No worries. We will drown them. Using the same algorithms that Pascale used for Trump.
The writer removed a digital recorder from his bag.
Your public relations media schedule starts Sunday, the day after tomorrow, the agent says. Don’t worry, the writer won’t ask anything about juicing.
Juicing what? I say. I passed all the blood tests, and the pee tests and the rest, right?
Of course. No one knows a thing at this point.
The writer stops writing and looks at me, like a revelation may upon us, or them, or something.
The agent and the writer are looking for tells, like a couple of fat Sicilians.
What? I say. You looking for a spoiler alert, guys? None coming, relax.
Moving on, the agent said. We’re getting serious action on fastest pain relief. Thinking a Super Bowl thirty spot. Also the Drano competitor, act fast when the toilet is about…
How do you account for your recent increase in speed? the writer said.
Is this part of the biography? I ask.
All background material, that’s all. We edit out any bad stuff, the writer clarifies.
Like I want to commit rapid mass murder using 30 clip AR-15’s. Killing people I don’t know. Or do know, I say.
