Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  “Marco . . .” I gasp, pointing at Dwayne Johnson, microphone dwarfed in his ginormous hand as he welcomes the huge crowd. I don’t realize tears are streaming down my face until Marco hands me a tissue pulled from the zipped pocket of his Adidas track pants.

  Marco chuckles, his strong, glorious arm around my midsection, and I feel the burn of adrenaline start behind my chest. “Yes, Danielle, he’s a real human being. Not a hologram or a figment of your imagination. Now let’s get in the queue before we’re trampled.”

  Reluctantly, I move my body, though I’d much rather just stand here and listen to Dwayne Johnson as he whips the crowd into a frenzy.

  We hustle around to the area behind the massive stage. “Don’t budge from this spot. I gotta find your division,” Marco says, heading toward another black-shirted volunteer clutching a clipboard.

  “Danielle.” I jump. No, no, no, not here. Slowly, I turn around.

  “Trevor.” I leave off the Shithead part.

  “You look good.” He ogles me from head to toe, despite the female standing next to him. Thick brown braid draped over her shoulder, big brown eyes, makeup heavier than one would expect for an event such as this, a black mouth guard swelling her mouth region so that she looks like she’s heading into the octagon and not an obstacle course, biceps and legs thicker than Trevor’s, although that’s not saying much. Maybe she’s his bodyguard? She sort of reminds me of that scary Russian dude Rocky Balboa had to fight—what was his name again? Oh! Ivan Drago.

  “What do you want? Here to serve me papers?” I know that’s probably not the case even before my mouth says the words, given that both Trevor and his female companion have numbers pinned to their fronts. “Oh. Right. You’re competing. I forgot.”

  “Dani, I want to put the past behind us. Bygones and all that, okay?” He pauses and shifts to his right. “This is Ingrid.”

  Ingrid—Ivan Drago’s long-lost American sister?

  Ingrid smiles but realizes she has the mouth guard in. She spits it into her left hand, a long line of slobber draining from the teeth grooves, and offers her right for a shake. I stare at it, not sure what to do, finally meeting her handshake, but fingertips only.

  “Nice to meet you finally, Danielle. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

  “All terrible, I’m sure.”

  “Actually, no. I read your blog. Got a link through a friend of a friend of Trevor’s—which is how Trevvy and I met.”

  Trevvy? “Awesome.” I look around, desperate for Marco to return. I should be focusing on the task ahead of me, listening to the soothing sounds of DJ’s voice, not exchanging saliva-laden handshakes with Trevor’s new bed buddy.

  “I just wanted to thank you, Dani. I’m not mad anymore,” Trevor says. “The stuff you said in your blog—”

  “No one was supposed to see that. Ever.”

  “Right, and even though I probably could sue you for defamation of character—”

  “On behalf of your penis?”

  Trevor’s face flushes, but Ingrid laughs. “I knew you’d be funny in real life! That is actually what made me want to meet Trevor in the first place.” She steps closer and lowers her voice. “I wondered if the curve would work with the G-spot, ya know?” [jab jab with her elbow] “Let’s just say, luck-y me!”

  Gulp. “Luck-y you.” The nausea returns.

  “Anyway, we should probably get moving to our lines,” Trevor says, his arm around Ingrid’s shoulders as she pushes the mouth guard back into her face. “I just wanted to wish you good luck.”

  “Thanks, Trevor. You too.”

  Ingrid mumbles something that might resemble good luck, but she has to wipe more spit off her chin when she smiles too widely, and then it’s on her right hand and she’s smearing it on her pants and I can’t even deal with so much grossness this early in the day.

  The happy couple hurries off, and I’m stretched on tiptoes to see if I can catch a glimpse of The Rock on the stage, but he’s too far away and there are too many people. When a hand lands on my lower back, I spin around, expecting that Trevor will have actually remembered that he is suing me and—

  “Whoa, careful, slugger,” Marco says, hands up. “Did I just see Trevor?”

  I nod. “He and his penis found love.”

  “I don’t think I want to know what that means.” He smiles quickly but then reasserts his business face. “Put him out of your head. Come, time to line up. Over here,” he says, shuttling me around through the crowd, his hand still on my lower back, my heart beating a little faster given the warmth of his contact. “You’re in the second group.”

  “Second? Is it not by alphabetical order?” I’m used to always going close to last, given Steele is at the tail end of the alphabet.

  “No clue. This is where they put you, though.”

  The crowd is impossibly thick. Marco grabs my hand and steps a little ahead, clearing a path as he pulls me through. A million different smells waft from so many bodies buzzing with adrenaline and nervous excitement and the already impressive swelter of midmorning. I’m trying not to notice how fit and tight and strong all these people look. When I make eye contact with a woman who is wearing a CAN YOU SMELL WHAT THE ROCK IS COOKING T-shirt, I smile; she smiles back, but I see the terror in her eyes. Like looking in a mirror.

  “What did we get ourselves into, huh?” I say as I pass her, offering my hand for a high five. She smiles and slaps me hard on the palm. I don’t even know that woman, but I wish we were in the same group so we could talk about The Rock and not think about all these superhuman specimens.

  “I thought they said this was for amateurs,” I say under my breath as Marco continues to pull me forward.

  When we get to my group, I line up on the competitors’ side of the makeshift border, made by a series of tall pylons with CAUTION tape stretched between. Tape-and-pylon cattle chutes, but for humans.

  Though we can’t see what’s going on in the front stage area, rock ’n’ roll blasts out of the sound system, and the mic is back in the hands of the shrill-voiced event organizer. The competitors assembled in the chute in front of mine start moving forward, led by yet another series of volunteers in the matching black event T-shirts and hats.

  When they’re off and around the east side of the stage, a roar rises from the crowd. “Must be lining up for the course,” I say. Marco nods.

  “Move forward! Group Two, move forward, please!” More Rock the Tots staffers wave their arms to move us into the space just vacated by the first group. Though our clipboard-bearing event volunteer has a bullhorn, it’s very hard to hear her instructions over the din of the crowd.

  “Marco? What is she saying?”

  He scoots forward, closer to the front, but quickly returns once Bullhorn Lady is done. “Just going over the rules. No sharp objects, no water bottles or recording devices of any kind on the course, no phones, no stopping along the course for selfies, and no cheating.”

  “Okay. I can handle those rules.”

  An air horn sounds on the course side—the first competitors are off! The crowd again erupts.

  Marco plants himself next to me, on the noncompetitors’ side of the tape, but he stands so close I can feel the shimmer of heat off his upper arm. He’s sweating already—we all are—the underarm of his black Team Dani T-shirt damp, a sheen of sweat along his stubbled upper lip and under the brown curls along his forehead.

  He turns and cups my face in his hands. I can look only at him. Which is not at all terrible.

  It takes my breath away, and not just because I’m more nervous than I ever have been in my whole life, even more so than the time I had to go to the principal’s office for duct-taping that fifth grader to a chair after he pushed Georgie off the bus and she tripped and chipped her front teeth. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but this fifth grader had a lot of body hair, and when the tape came off, well, suffice it to say, he had less hair.

  “Danielle Steele with an e: Remember what you’re here for. You�
�ve been preparing for this day your entire life, not just for the last four months. You gave up doughnuts and ate broccoli on purpose. The stands are full of people who love you, people who want you to succeed. I will be alongside the course the whole time, cheering you on, and when it’s over you will have accomplished something spectacular today. It’s only a win. Do you hear me?”

  Nervous tears threaten. I’m such a weenie when I’m freaked out.

  “Hardest worker in the room, right?” he says.

  I nod, and he drops his hands, though I don’t want him to. I’d rather like to curl up inside them and vanish.

  Bullhorn Lady waves her arms to get our attention. Marco offers his fist for a final bump.

  Group Two is on the move. Thankfully, neither Trevor nor Ingrid Drago is in this group.

  Focus, Danielle.

  Hardest worker in the room.

  SIXTY

  It’s impossible to hear anything out here—music blaring through speakers the size of my living room, thousands of spectators cheering and hollering for their favorite competitor, terror screaming through my ears like a hell-bound freight train. Good thing the event organizers took this into consideration. Few words are spoken; instead, the volunteers organizing us carry a red flag and a green flag. They herd us into position and line us up ten wide at the starting line, our shoulders bumping into one another as we jostle to put the strongest foot forward.

  In my mind’s eye, I hadn’t imagined the noise and chaos of an event this size. It gives off its own surreal energy—I can see how people might get addicted. You can’t not smile at the person next to you, even as you bump and nudge into position—all of us different sizes, shapes, and colors, and all of us delirious with excitement. A general giddiness permeates the entire realm, like nothing I’ve ever felt before.

  And I really have to pee. I should not have finished that last forty ounces of amino acids.

  An event volunteer, a painfully handsome black man with a smile as wide as the horizon, stands in front of our line of ten. He adjusts his earpiece, red flag in hand, arm stretched to the side. We wait.

  And wait.

  From this position, the course looks impossibly huge. What the hell have I done . . . I keep looking at the event volunteer, back to the course, back to his shiny face, hoping he won’t drop the flag without me noticing and then everyone will run ahead and I will be left in the dust of my fellow competitors.

  God, I wish I could see Marco from here.

  I don’t dare search the huge crowd for my people. I might miss the flag drop.

  The massive obstacle course snakes back and forth, like an S, offering a fifteen-foot scaling wall first, followed by a wire on-your-belly-in-the-dirt army crawl, side-by-side balance beams, eight earth-and-log hurdles, wooden up-and-over stairs made with what look like railroad ties, a sandbag carry of maybe thirty feet, followed by a hundred-meter swim in a shallow man-made five-foot pool that is already tinged with the dirt from the first group. We’re waiting for the last Group One runners to finish their two laps around the edge of the entire course.

  When we were assessing the field upon our earlier arrival, Marco confirmed estimates that it looks to be about a half mile. I can do a half mile, no problem. We’ve been running four-plus miles three times a week over in Forest Park.

  Man, I really should’ve gone to the Porta Potty again.

  Hardest worker in the room Hardest worker in the room Hardest worker in the room.

  The Rock is here, Dani . . .

  A loud buzzer sounds far across the field, and our hottie holding the flag cups a hand over his earpiece. He turns toward the opposite end of the course, to the finish line, and offers a high thumbs-up to the volunteer signaling from a distance.

  He spins back to us and trades his red flag for a green one, arm high above his head.

  “Racers, on your mark . . .”

  Oh god oh god oh god.

  “Get set . . .”

  Don’t barf don’t barf don’t barf.

  “Go!” An air horn blasts our ears and we’re off, shoving and sprinting forward toward the first obstacle. So much for smiles. Now we’re out for blood.

  I’m moving, but my body and mind feel disconnected. Up and over the scaling wall, zoom through the wire crawl (yum, dirt!), fly across the balance beam, no problem with the earth-and-log hurdles, defeat the up-and-over stairs like they were made just for me—

  I hazard a glance back and note that there are more people behind than in front of me, which brings another squirt of adrenaline.

  Sandbag carry, no problem. Done and done.

  I flop into the pool and swim my heart out, though I know I’m losing time here because I’m not an awesome swimmer and I’m out of breath and I gulp a mouthful of the gross water. The coughing fit that follows slows me down, and two swimmers pass me, but I spit hard and slam my body into overdrive, throwing myself onto that dirt track, running as fast as my feet will carry me, passing one, two, then three of the racers so that only one guy and one woman are in front of me, so far away that I don’t think I can catch them.

  I’ve trained so hard for this, and here I am doing it, and the crowd is going wild, and my body is cooperating, and I feel like I have wings.

  Last lap. Running out of steam.

  Hardest worker in the room.

  I push whatever I have left into my legs, ignoring the searing burn of muscles forced to their limits, and I manage to catch up to the woman in front of me and I’m running running running because the finish line is just ahead and I see Marco there waiting for me, jumping up and down in his Team Dani T-shirt, and I have never felt more alive.

  And when the dude in front of me takes the number one spot from our group, I collapse against Marco and I’m swarmed by my people and Minotaur throws me on his bulky shoulder and it’s like I’ve just won the Super Bowl and we’re all goin’ to Disneyland. We hoot and holler our way to the side to make room for the rest of the competitors as they finish.

  “Dani, that was so awesome!” / “You were on fire out there!” / “I cannot believe that was my baby sister!” / “Danielle, you made us so proud!”

  So much love. And so much sweat.

  Minotaur lowers me to the ground, and I give sloppy hugs to everyone within range. Marco shoves an event-provided water bottle into my hand. “Drink!”

  “I did it! I did it!” I hoist my water bottle above my head like I’m raising the Stanley Cup.

  The event organizers shoo us back toward the bleachers as they work to clear the finish zone for the third group.

  Marco and I agree to meet up with our friends once I’ve caught my breath and had a bathroom break.

  “I can’t believe we did it, Marco,” I say, bouncing more than walking toward the row of portable toilets.

  “You did it,” he says.

  “No way. Don’t give me that humble British-gent bullshit. I would not be here today if it weren’t for you. And did you see? I finished second in my group! Can you even believe it? Does that mean I stand a chance? How does this even work?”

  Marco points at the blue box. “Washroom first. Before you explode.”

  My legs are quaking so hard, I can hardly relax long enough to let my bladder do its work as I hover above the germy seat. I can’t stop smiling like a Cheshire cat, even in the humid fog of this most disgusting rectangular shit pot.

  I did it, DJ. I can’t believe I did it. Oh man, I hope you saw.

  When I’m again out in the free air, hands washed and breath caught, Marco explains that we have to watch the times for the competitors still running the track. He has my time in his phone. Even though I came in second in my group, I was the first female in that group of ten.

  But there are many, many groups of ten.

  As I realize this, my exultation dims.

  “Noooo, don’t get discouraged! Your time was very impressive. You were faster than the women in the group ahead of you, so keep your chin up, yes?” He taps under my chin with
the side of his finger, and then hands me his John Cena water bottle. “Drink. Let’s stretch and join your cheering section.”

  As the morning turns into a scorching early afternoon, my skin and clothes dry, but I’m coated in a thin sheen of dirt from the course and pool. Still, I’m so glad I was among the earlier groups. Selfishly, I’m grateful for the sun—heat makes people slower.

  Just around two o’clock, we watch from the bleachers as the last group in the seniors’ division takes the course. The crowd goes absolutely wild when these competitors finish. The emcee lowers the music long enough to tell us that the oldest competitor on the course today is eighty-four-year-old Ennis Dwight from Crescent Beach, California. He waves just before he flops into the murky pool, and by the time he gets to the last stroke in his 100 m, the entire vicinity is chanting, “En-nis! En-nis! En-nis!”

  I’m out of words to describe how awesome it is to watch that old dude cross the line, and not even the last in his group!

  With the final race run, The Rock returns to the stage to great fanfare and asks for fifteen minutes of patience while the judges confirm the final scores and make the winners’ list, at which time the successful contestants will be hauled up and crowned the victors. Dwayne reminds us that there are food vendors throughout the venue, if anyone’s hungry, but no one in the stands moves. We’re too busy basking in the glory of his Royal Samoan Greatness.

  He spends the fifteen minutes sharing a few stories about his two daughters, of the film he’s most recently worked on, of his dreams of playing in the NFL and when those dreams went sideways, he called his dad from Calgary and headed back down south to “join the family business, the wrestling business,” even though his dad said he would ruin his life if he did such a thing.

  “I pushed forward anyway—seems things worked out all right in the end,” he says, met with a roar of applause and cheers from the crowd.

  I know all of his stories. I’ve read about them, watched every available interview and press junket, stalked every website created in his honor—and yet, none of it compares to actually hearing him in real life.