by Lisa Luciano
“Jesus Christ! You almost killed me!” TJ screamed.
“That would’ve solved the problem.”
TJ placed his hands securely on the rungs and made his way to the second floor. He followed close behind Dale as they ascended.
“Are you okay?” Dale asked, not sure TJ was in full control of his faculties.
“It’s cool.”
They continued to climb.
“This isn’t too bad,” TJ said.
“You sound like you’ve done this before.”
“Haven’t you? Wow, look at that,” TJ said, leaning over. “Those people look like freakin’ ants.”
“Careful. You’ll—”
Before Dale could finish his warning, TJ’s feet slipped out from under him as he lurched forward trying to grab something invisible and out of his reach. Dale seized the larger young man’s legs as they flew into the air. He was as stiff as a teeter-totter. Dale grunted, but held on, using all his weight to bring TJ back to a standing position.
“You know, dude, there’s an up side to all of this,” TJ began.
“If you value your life, shut up and climb,” Dale answered as the wind howled around them.
They neared the fourth floor window
“Are we having fun yet?” TJ asked with a goofy grin.
They crawled in. Dale was tempted to drop to his knees and give thanks. TJ slapped his hands together hard, then pumped his fists in the air and howled with satisfaction that he had pulled off another one. Dale wasn’t shocked, but completely disgusted by his attitude that was as outrageous as the short strands of blond hair that stood straight up from black roots, topping a face that always suggested mischief, and a sturdy body that rarely stopped moving.
Dale went to shut off the shower. He was still trembling. Once inside the bathroom, he accidentally slammed the door behind him. TJ watched the knob spin.
“Hey,” Dale called. “I’m stuck in here.”
“It only locks from the inside, asshole,” TJ said.
“Obviously, but it’s broken.”
TJ made a half-hearted attempt to open it.
“Sorry, dude. Nothing to be done. I’ll call a locksmith after the competition tomorrow.”
“You’re just gonna leave me in here?” Dale demanded.
Furious rattling came from inside the bathroom as TJ chuckled.
“Five, four, three, two…”
There was a click and the door swung open. Dale emerged with his curly brown hair sagging in his eyes and his clothes clinging to his small frame as steam rolled out of the room. TJ had to grip his stomach. He was cackling uncontrollably, then began to cough hard and deep. Dale staggered and fell onto his back on the bed. He pressed a water-soaked sleeve against his forehead.
TJ retrieved two towels.
“Think of it this way. You’ve got something great to write in your diary. Probably for the first time,” said TJ, rubbing one across his head and tossing Dale the other.
It landed on his face. Without removing it, he raised one arm and pointed a dripping finger at TJ.
“You are emotionally bankrupt and intellectually barren,” he said with little volume, but considerable intensity.
“Cool, ain’t it? Yeeeeeowwwww!” TJ shouted. “If you don’t hang your nuts out to dry every now and then, why have ‘em?”
TJ squirted gel into his hands and yanked his hair to attention. Dale began to remove his wet clothes. As he took off his shirt, TJ noticed bruise marks on his back.
“Hey,” TJ said, annoyed that the moment had been spoiled by a grim reality. “When are you gonna dump the Wicked Witch of the West?”
“When you stop climbing in windows.”
“Then I guess we’re both doomed to die young.” TJ stared at the ceiling. “Jimmy! Jimmy! Rev up the T-bird. Tell Nat and Sal I’m on my way.”
Brody wandered the Saddledome, watching the pageantry unfold. On the ice was a demonstration of precision skating. Twenty young women wove patterns as the multi-colored flags they were carrying fluttered over their heads. Countless homemade signs swayed in rhythm to the blaring music as the audience began to generate an intensity usually reserved for a World Cup soccer match.
Damn, he thought. They really take skatin’ seriously up here.
“This is it, ladies and gentlemen, gushed a TV commentator, giving his live report from the arena floor. The moment Canada has been waiting for since the inception of the Winter Olympics. A male champion. And it looks like we re finally going to have one.”
He forced his ear piece in a little further as the announcement of the impending start of the men’s competition drew deafening screams from the crowd.
“TJ McNally is leading going into tonight’s long program. Barring an unforeseen accident, he should easily take the national title and with it his first step toward immortality. That’s certainly a road he should be familiar with. It’s one his mother traveled just about two decades ago, bringing glory and pride to anyone whose heart beats a little faster at the sight of the red maple leaf. One can only wonder what’s going through his mind as he stands ready to make Canadian history.”
Inside the locker room, Dale was doing his usual pre-competition deep breathing exercises. TJ stood before the mirror.
“Did you ever do it on the ice?” asked TJ as he emptied a can of hairspray on a few stubborn strands that refused to stick straight up.
“Get out of here,” Dale responded, eyes closed as he pursed his lips and exhaled.
“Oh man. It was awesome! An experience not to be missed. Only problem is now every time I see a girl do a layback spin, I get a hard on.”
“Nursery rhymes make you horny,” Dale complained.
As he spoke, his abdomen expanded and contracted, forcing the tiny crystal beads hand sewn into his otherwise conservative black outfit to shimmer even under the room’s dull lights.
“What’s wrong with that?” TJ asked. “Everybody knows the secret of success is keeping your pecker happy. Any man who can do that can rule the world.”
It was time. Dale followed TJ through the gauntlet of countless onlookers lined up along the corridor. A satisfied smile creased TJ’s face as he spotted several attractive young ladies returning equally inviting looks. He knew they were scanning every inch of his skin-tight metallic purple costume.
“Drink it in, girls,” he said as he passed them.
“Skaters have the greatest asses,” one said.
“You know it, darlin’,” TJ declared, giving his buns a squeeze.
“Is that all you think about?” Dale asked, keeping his eyes on the endless rubber mat leading to the tunnel.
“Yeah, and I’m gonna tell you what your problem is.”
“Oh, okay,” he said, willing to humor TJ.
“We all know you can jump from here to tomorrow, but that ain’t gonna do it. What you have to do is relate to the audience.”
“That’s a real mind-blowing concept.”
“No, I mean relate,” TJ insisted.
Dale looked at him, unconvinced.
“I can tell you’re fascinated, so listen up. You have to put an image in your mind.”
“I’m familiar with the idea of visualization,” Dale said, ready to dismiss him.
“No, not that seeing the perfect jump crapola. It has to be something more interesting. Try this. Picture yourself screwing every woman… or whatever… in the audience.”
“Why?” Dale asked.
“Why not? Screwing makes the world go round. Look at all the people on this planet. For every one of them, two other people had to do it to get them here. Think about it. It’ll make you a winner. And you know the best part of being number one? Fringe benefits. You walk away with the gold medal and those babes’ll be fighting over who gets to wash your jock strap.”
The capacity crowd welcomed the top contenders as they emerged from the tunnel into the warm glow of the banks of lights circling the upper deck of the arena. All eyes turned in their direction.<
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Brody had taken his seat in the fifteenth row right next to the skaters’ entrance courtesy of an old newspaper buddy who against all odds was able to scrounge a ticket for him. Seated beside him was an attractive woman of about thirty, dressed in a conservative plum suit, looking like she’d taken a wrong turn on her way to a board meeting. He would’ve started a conversation, but she was clearly occupied trying to hide the camcorder she was pointing at TJ and Dale.
Look out, now. He might actually scratch his butt. Wouldn’t wanna miss a minute of the action, Brody thought. Man, what a bunch of loony birds.
As the skaters waited for the signal to take the ice for warm up, a group of men and women came up behind them. TJ’s coach, Donald Conway, led the informal procession. He always got first dibs on where he would stand as an unofficial honor accorded him by the others due to his tenure in the sport and the fact that as an American, he had chosen to devote himself to the betterment of the Canadian skating program. His corduroy jacket cloaked a still impressive body, a reminder of his string of ice dance titles earned thirty years earlier.
TJ’s mother hovered nearby, ready to offer suggestions that somehow always sounded like commands. The two rarely saw eye to eye, but tolerated each other. Though Sally Ann Tomasson repeatedly urged her son to drop his coach and let her take charge of his career, he steadfastly refused, not because he preferred one over the other, but because he knew it drove them both crazy. One of his greatest pleasures was watching them go at each other like a pair of tireless woodpeckers.
Andre brought up the rear hoping Conway would acknowledge the look of disdain aimed at him. It infuriated him that the older man never gave him the satisfaction of even so much as eye contact. Conway would never let the viper who stole his favorite student like an unguarded egg in a nest know how he agonized at the sight of Dale working with someone who didn’t care about him.
Why can’t he look at me that way? Andre wondered as Dale offered a smile to his former mentor who returned his silent greeting with a thumbs up.
Seeing TJ and Dale side by side during the warm up reminded Conway of when they were all younger and less driven ten years ago when he was not trying to make them into champions, but just teach them how to harness their unquenchable spirits. He had put them together in the same practice sessions for a reason that seemed good at the time, but quickly lead him to question his sanity. Back then he assumed the role of big brother, wanting to protect Dale, the more diffident of the two, from TJ’s verbal and sometimes physical assaults.
One day in particular stood out in his memory. They all met as they always did for their regular afternoon practice session in the parking lot. They could brave the scorn of thousands and fearlessly face the wrath of judges and journalists alike, but not one of them wanted to walk alone in the part of town that sensible people avoided when possible and hurried through when necessary. Together, the three left a sweltering mid-summer day behind and entered the chilly arena.
About an hour had passed. Conway was watching TJ lazily complete a flying sit spin as Dale stood nearby, looking like a waylaid yuppie in his perfectly coordinated black and white practice outfit. TJ whirled out of control in a ripped t-shirt and faded jeans.
“Is that the best you can do?” Conway asked.
“No,” TJ replied.
“Are you saving it for a special occasion?”
“Yeah. Like when I need it.”
“You’re awfully confident to think it’ll just be there for you. Suppose you’re wrong?”
“So if I blow it, no big deal.”
“That’s ridiculous,” Dale interjected. “Everybody wants to win. They just have different motivations.”
“Yeah?” TJ said, slowly gliding toward him. “Well, motivate this, Einstein. I’m gonna win when I’m good and ready, and I’m gonna do it just cause I want to. Not because somebody tells me to.”
Dale grinned.
“What are you smiling at?” TJ asked.
“Nothing.”
“You’re analyzing me again. I hate it when you stick your fingers in my brain. What are you thinking?”
“Nothing.”
TJ followed him as he slowly stroked away.
“Come on. Tell me.”
“No.”
TJ lunged forward and clasped Dale in a head lock.
“Oh, boys,” Conway called, trying not to attract the attention of onlookers.
TJ easily wrestled Dale to the ice.
“Tell me,” he said, tightening his grip around Dale’s throat.
“It’s private,” the smaller young man yelled through clenched teeth as he fought to break free.
“Everything about you is private. I want an answer.”
“It’s none of your damn business!” Dale shouted as his face grew red.
Unnerved by Dale’s tone, TJ released him. Dale was on his hands and knees, coughing as he tried to catch his breath. TJ leapt to his feet.
“What’s the matter? Hiding something?” TJ asked.
“Everybody’s got something to hide,” Dale said, grimacing as he rolled his head from side to side.
“Not me, pal. My life’s an open book.”
“Yeah, a porno novel.”
“That’s right. Hard core from beginning to end because that’s the way, uh huh uh huh, I like it, uh huh uh huh,” TJ sang while doing an impromptu bump and grind.
“I’m glad this is all one big game to you, because you’ll never be an Olympic champion,” Dale said, finally standing up.
“So what! Will the planet stop turning?”
“You really don’t care?”
“No, I really don’t care,” TJ answered.
“I don’t believe you.”
“I don’t care about that either.”
“Me thinks he doth protest too much,” Dale suggested, retrieving a wool glove that had come loose in the struggle.
“What the hell does that mean?”
Dale couldn’t resist enjoying TJ’s exasperation.
“You spend a lot of time and trouble telling me you don’t care, but if you really didn’t care, you wouldn’t bother telling me about it.”
Dale punctuated his statement with a satisfied smile.
“Dream on, dick wad,” TJ snarled as he stroked away, then exploded into a series of jumps that were so large the rink could barely contain them.
Dale and Conway looked on.
“I have to apologize for that scene,” Dale said. TJ’s just like that. He can’t help himself. I should know better.”
“I wish you’d stop trying to justify his immaturity,” Conway answered.
“I’m not. It’s just that he needs to vent.”
“Mm hm,” said Conway, feeling like he was talking to a tribal elder rather than a fifteen-year-old boy. “And you’re a real cold fish. That’s why even at your age, every time you take the ice you set the audience on fire. Because you’re so aloof, so impersonal, so—”
“Okay. I just mean that I’m different,” Dale insisted, raking his fingers through a mane of chestnut curls.
“Yes. You have depth. You feel more in five minutes than he has in his entire life.”
“That’s not true. You haven’t given him a chance.”
“I’d welcome a suggestion as to how to break through that stone wall,” Conway said with disgust.
“I’m working on it.”
“I know.”
Conway pulled a handful of sunflower seeds from his pocket and popped one in his mouth.
“Never known anyone like him. No. I take that back. I did have a friend. A good friend. So much talent. Put me to shame. I’ve always wondered what he would have done if…”
Dale turned to see a shadow of sorrow cross his coach’s face.
“He was in the ‘61 plane crash,” Conway said almost inaudibly.
“Yes. I read about it. The American team was on their way to the World Championships. I guess since I didn’t know any of them, it seems unreal.”
“It must have been hard,” Dale said, knowing his sincere words were completely inadequate.
Conway’s throat undulated as if he had swallowed a lump of coal.
“The worst part was the guilt. I should’ve been there with them. If I hadn’t gotten the flu… it could have been me. And the thing that eats at me is I’ll never know if they understood how much their friendship meant. When you’re out there performing, you’re totally alive. We were too busy living to worry about dying. I guess that’s what it means to be young. He thought for a moment. Shakespeare was wrong. Better to have loved and lost and all that.”
“It was Tennyson,” Dale said.
Conway wasn’t annoyed at the correction. In fact, it was a source of relief to know there was at least one skater with a life outside the rink.
“Whatever,” he said. “The point is that sometimes it’s better not to know what you missed.”
He deposited the uneaten seeds back in his jacket pocket and blew warm air into his fists.
“I just wish I had told them that I loved them.”
Dale took in his words, and then without looking at him, spoke in a whisper.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
It was then Dale confided to his friend and mentor something he’d never spoken aloud and barely acknowledged even to himself. They talked of confusion and fear and choices. Conway made no pronouncements or suggestions, that day or any day since. He had only one wish for his student. That he would never be ashamed or afraid to speak the truth.
“So, you think you can beat me?” TJ asked Dale, his high-pitched voice yanking Conway back to the present.
Dale tugged at the ends of his sleeves.
“You’d be a lot better skater if you didn’t make winning such a priority,” he answered.
“Excuse me, Mr. Diet Coke. I didn’t know you were doing this just for the fun of it.”
“You’re such a Neanderthal. You think everything can be reduced to simple terms. That’s not what it’s about for me, and if you took a minute to look past your own reflection, you d know that.”
“Okay, professor. Enlighten me.”
Dale wasn’t sure TJ really wanted to know, but he didn’t want to lose the opportunity. They so rarely talked about anything of consequence. He would take the chance that behind the facade was a dedicated athlete or at least the seed of a mature adult who might care to hear his innermost thoughts.