HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout

by Bill Orton

  .

  From a deep sleep, Lori Lewis sat upright in the Lincoln. “Where’s Ed?” Her eyes were still closed.

  Larry also sat upright. The two were shoulder-to-shoulder.

  “He’s at a rib joint,” said Larry.

  “He okay?”

  “He’s okay.”

  “We going back for him?”

  “No.”

  Lori lay back down and melted into December’s body.

  Larry lay down and melted into Gina’s embrace.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  From the Platte to the Thames

  As I settled into the first-class splendor of our return flight from London, I looked at my ex-wife, Lori, surrounded by well-wishers, shaking hands, being hugged, signing autographs and smiling more broadly then I had ever seen her smile, certainly more than at anytime in our marriage.

  Larry sat in the seat beside mine.

  To avoid having to talk with Larry, I dug out my iPod, inserted the buds and flipped to the NPR report from days earlier.

  .

  “T-h-i-s... is London, but unless your name is Gill or you served as a sergeant in the US army, London has been anything but jolly for swimmers. Indeed, the only ways to keep these Summer Games of the London Olympiad from being dominated by freestyler phenoms Baljinder and Jazz Gill involved a flu medicine and curry, or that American in her thirties, that army sergeant, who swam through packs – and pain – to keep up with those fabulous Gill Sisters.”

  .

  Ed’s insistence on a long stay in Vegas did cost us time in getting to Omaha for the Nationals, but Lori’s first match was on Day Two of the meet and her mentor, Pat McCormick, met with officials several days earlier, to register Lori and get credentials in order for her and the coach.

  Music trumpeted and basslines thumped between races in Omaha, and at peak television viewing opportunities, fountains of fire spewed controlled flames in a wall along one edge of the competition pool.

  Far from the pool as our bleacher seating may have been, what stands out from those days in Omaha – even in the storm over the Army ass photo – was seeing my ex-wife as utterly perfect. Certainly, I’m no athlete and I cannot judge an Olympic performance, but each time my eyes recognized in the distance Lori L. Lewis, the woman I saw was this incredibly beautiful, deeply-tanned, long-limbed, muscular blonde, striding like a goddess, drawing huge cheers no matter her finish, huge sustained cheering on her world-record time in both the 400 and 800. Jumbocam shots showed her smile – that rare beast and delicate flower – as she stood on the winner’s stand, or in the pool, or when the crowd broke into chants of “Arm-mee.” Lori carried herself with a sense of lightness that I rarely saw. That was I most remembered about Nebraska, but for most others, it was the photo that I knew clearly was not of her that most stood out from the Nationals.

  .

  “Before that one American could reach those fabulous Gill sisters, she had her own steep climb. Oh, sure, ‘Pat’s Champs,’ and a record-setter in high school, but that was literally decades ago. Californian Lori Lewis caught her first break on the road to London when finalists from regional trials failed a drug sweep. Lewis, a sergeant in the mechanized infantry, advanced to the national trials, where a display of fealty to her beloved Army nearly cost the trip to London.”

  .

  December and Larry, carrying trays laden with food and beverages, made their way to Gina and I, in the “Team Lori” section. Tres and Lena followed them, bringing our number back to six, though with the parents, friends and supporters who Larry had bought tickets for, the overall “Team Lori” section numbered nearly 50, many with hand-lettered signs, to supplement the banner that December and Gina would raise when Lori was in a heat.

  Larry carried four plates, each with sausages, bread, mustard, fried onions and potato salad. December carried a drink caddy and a bag of sides. Larry handed out plates of food. December distributed drinks. “Must have pølse!” said Tres, excitedly smearing mustard and onions onto a bread-wrapped sausage.

  “I’m going to shoot Lori’s heat,” said Lena, wearing a press credential on a lanyard.

  December pulled her cell from the pocket of her oversized hooded sweatshirt. “Damn! Missed my baby’s call,” pouted December. She perked up. “A text... Oh! Oh, hunnies! Do we have any ber-knock-u-lurs?”

  Lena Martin held her press credential still, as two security guards examined her badge and, with a wave, allowed her to the pool area, where she set up in the only spot left open, between an ESPN camera and a team from Univision.

  On the opposite end of the pool, Lori Lewis, in green, and seven other swimmers drew to their marks, while coaches and officials argued, arms waving, with occasional pointing towards Lori, who stood at her mark, shaking first one leg and then the other. Several meet officials stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind Lori. Lena filmed.

  “Dat’s da suit I gave her,” screamed December. “Yeh, ba-BEE!” shouted December, who seemed flushed, her face red.

  “Are you okay?” I asked, as December began to breathe rapidly, chanting softly, “yeh, baby.”

  The big screen showed officials arguing, swimmers at their marks and finally the arm-waving ending and, seconds later, the start of the 400 meter finals.

  Indignant grumbling around us turned instantly into a hush, as thousands of eyes in Nebraska, and across the country, watched Lori Lewis put in a flawless performance of superior strength executed in perfect form.

  “Go, Soldier Girl!” yelled December.

  Larry’s feeble attempt to chant nonetheless got picked up all around us, and much of the bleachers joined in, chanting, “Arm-MEE!”

  .

  There was no “Army ass” photo. The magazine cover and newspapers that picked up an image that was purported to be of my ex-wife had an ass with the word “ARMY” in white against an olive-green bikini bottom, like the suit December bought for Lori from ‘sexysoldier.mil,’ but it wasn’t Lori’s ass. I’d sort of know, having been married to her.

  Ever since the Nationals, photographers have jostled with one another to shoot images of Lori’s ass, because, as the head of FOX Sports said, “viewers like seeing this particular woman’s ass, and we’re going to keep showing it.”

  .

  Lena Martins’ location matched the lane Lori was in, giving her a clear, straight-on shot of Lori’s approach and turn. On each pass, Lena captured frames depicting Lori’s backside, footage that Lena gave a blanket promise she would hold, until Lori had seen the films and given a release.

  Lena looked up, from the camera on her knee, gazing wide-eyed at the thousands of people in the bleachers, at pyrotechnics dancing in the distance, at the giant clock and scoreboard. At Lori.

  .

  “Lori Lewis’ next break was that the offending item that nearly got her kicked off the Olympic team – a definitely non-standard apparel item – did, in fact, display an appropriate logo, as Lewis’ suit had been manufactured by none other then the US army. Lewis dual records in the freestyle earned her a spot on the US team, but would officials look past the non-standard item of apparel? Just another day for a champion who, at 36, grew up being shot at, went to Iraq and returned to taunts of being too old to compete. Lewis proved that if she’s young enough to go back into combat, she is young enough to compete in a pool.”

  .

  I paused my iPod and buckled up. The enormous windows of the Boeing Dreamliner carrying us home from England disoriented me. I looked across first class, to Lori, who was laughing with her mom. The time to think during the Nebraska trip cleared away my nostalgia and longing for my marriage, but nothing had lessened my desire for the woman who remained the most beautiful girl I had ever met.

  .

  “Lawrence, these last couple of months, I’ve had to push aside everything else and focus completely on these trials,” said Lori, one of the few moments I was able to get her alone. “I can’t even give you an answer, cuz what yer talking about is so completely o
ut of my mind that... that... no, I can’t.”

  “I think about you all the time.”

  “I don’t want you to.”

  “I miss what we had,” I said, hearing my own voice and realizing how pathetic it all sounded. “What we could have had.”

  “I don’t, Lawrence. We’re never getting back together. Can you just accept that and let me go?”

  .

  “Of course, the English are cheering on the Gill sisters, but the pair entered competitive swimming just two years ago, and show an odd dislike for all that goes with the life of competition. Jazz Gill smiled when she was stripped of the bronze in the 800 meters, when officials sanctioned her for openly pushing Lewis to put in a medal-winning performance, despite her obvious agony in that race. Gill’s own performance in that match-up with Lewis is the stuff of legends.”

  .

  “I know who you are,” came the voice behind Lori at the Olympic Village sign-in. “Jazz Gill. You’re the ‘army ass’ girl.”

  Lori Lewis stood almost a foot taller than the Indian-looking woman, with the thick English accent. She said nothing.

  “My sister and I don’t care,” said Gill, “Myself, I like it. Bit of fun, really, if you ask me.”

  Lori looked at her coach, and then to Gill. She put out her hand. “Lori Lewis. USA.”

  “Right, yeh, I know. Well, anyway, ta ta.”

  .

  “An incredible final lap and the Gill sisters are one and two; Lewis, closing; the pack, far back; Lewis moving. The three again fighting for gold, silver and bronze… it’s gold for Baljinder Gill; Lewis wins silver; and Jazz Gill, the bronze.”

  .

  Lori Lewis stood in rigid salute as the “Star Spangled Banner” played. Aside from the medal replacement ceremony – where the Queen handed out new medals after the disqualifications in the 800 meter – Lori never shared the winners platform with anyone but Bella and Jazz Gill, who, between them, dominated freestyle at the London Olympics, and never swam competitively again.

  .

  “Hey there, Army Girl,” said Jazz Gill, as she and Lori climbed from the water after an initial 200 meter heat. “Want to pop by my mum’s for curry tonight?”

  Lori laughed, as her coach handed her a towel and then a long, faux-fur lined, calf-length windbreaker.

  “Seriously. We’re Indian. It’s the real deal.”

  .

  “Mum… Dad… Like you to meet an American we met….”

  “Oh my,” said a diminutive dark-skinned woman in a sari. “You are Lori Lewis.”

  “This is my dad,” said Lori, pointing to her father. “And my mom.”

  .

  “George, leave some for everyone else,” said Baljinder, as an older brother, with a long beard and bright tunic, shoveled chicken onto his plate, over a bed of rice.

  “When you said curry, I thought you meant go out,” said Lori, “but this is way better.” Lori finished the last bit on her plate and went for thirds.

  “We better all get back,” said Baljinder, “or we’re going to get in trouble.”

  “So worth it,” said Lori finishing her rice. “So worth it.”

  “Take this,” said the mother, to Bella and Jazz, holding a small bowl of rice.

  “Oh, no, Ma,” said Bella. “They might disqualify us for substances.”

  “It’s not a substance,” said the mother. “It is my flu preparation.”

  “I’m gonna pass on the preparation, but thank you,” said Lori, though her parents each took a small serving, after Bella and Jazz, at the mother’s insistence.

  .

  The illuminated clock in Lori’s room showed 3:40 am, as she sat on the toilet, holding her stomach, and experiencing a trail of fire.

  .

  “Aw, baby, you don’t look so good,” December said, as Lori wandered from the athletes’ area, to the stands. Lori silently opened her arms and stepped into December’s embrace, as people looked on.

  .

  “You’ve got to swim through the burn,” said Jazz Gill, on the next mark over from Lori in the 200 meter finals.

  .

  “The Gills, again, leading; Lewis in third, and moving; the pack far back.”

  .

  Lori Lewis stood erect in salute on the winners platform, a silver medal hung around her neck. After the final bars of the second rendition of “God Save the Queen,” she made her way swiftly to a restroom, her medal bouncing on her chest, impressing upon her its heft.

  .

  December lay against Lori’s chest, idly lifting and examining the three silver and one bronze medal that she insisted Lori put on.

  “My sexy soldier,” cooed December, as Lori closed her eyes.

  .

  “Swimming’s boring,” said Jazz Gill, passing Lori in the cafeteria line, to get to the breakfast cereal selection. Once Lori had caught up, selecting a box of plain corn flakes, Jazz turned to her. “I’m tired of watching Bella win the gold medals and coming in behind you.”

  “You took silver in the 100,” said Lori, choosing plain yoghurt, and zucchini bread. “I mean, c’mon…. Yer complaining about having medals.”

  “Yeh, well, I’m bored,” said Jazz, dropping a Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes box onto her tray and a pint of chocolate milk. “Let’s do something... brilliant... in the 800.”

  “Me, I’m gonna swim,” said Lori, selecting a table.

  .

  Lori looked up from the starting block, as the London crowd chanted, “Arm-MEE!” She smiled and all I could do was watch as her image was projected on an enormous screen and on the hand-held devices all around me. I let loose a tear, hypnotized as I was by her smiling face.

  .

  “Lewis entered the final for the longest freestyle event — the 800 meters — clearly in discomfort. As the final wore on, the pain on Sergeant Lewis’ face was obvious. Minute after torturous minute, it went on. Bella Gill leaving all challengers in her wake as sister Jazz actually slows and her swimming becomes like a protective dolphin or whale, her actions in the water meant to give heart to an injured colleague. Despite the pain, despite the pack, Lewis stays in it, holding herself to a perfect form, executed with such mind-bending discipline that the agony displayed on her face seems almost to belong to another person’s body, for never does Lewis lapse in what may be the greatest swimming performance of the London Games. While the truly fabulous Bella Gill did finish ahead of Lewis, an odd mixture of what the Gills say was their mother’s homemade flu remedy resulted in the Gills finally being washed out of the medals, and Lewis stood for a second medal ceremony, where the Queen herself presented the sergeant with the gold. After eight minutes of agony with the world’s greatest swimmers, all Lewis could muster for her Majesty, was a plucky, “Thanks, Queen.”

  .

  “Just watch me!” yelled Jazz during the third minute, across to Lori, the next lane.

  .

  “Hunny’s hurt!” shouted December, as the image on the big-screen zoomed tightly onto Lori’s face, agony showing in her eyes. “It’s those damn English girls!”

  .

  “What is she doing?” yelled Dave San Jose, as the screen showed Lori swimming and Jazz Gill, one lane over, seeming to lose her form. It almost appeared that she was deliberately slowing to keep pace with Lori.

  .

  “Watch... me!” yelled Jazz, to Lori, as they together came off the wall for the final lap.

  .

  “Seven minutes into that final, the Gill sisters proved how fabulous they are. Ultimately surrendering her own medal hopes by slowing down, Jazz Gill taunted Lori Lewis, staying with her as she swam through what Lewis later called the worst cramp of her life. Gill picked up her pace only to keep Lewis moving ahead of the pack. When the sisters finishes were stripped due to collusion and a flu remedy, Jazz smiled and said Lori Lewis had to come back to swim the Mersey together.”

  .

  Lori Lewis passed out seconds after touching the pool’s edge, beh
ind Baljinder and barely ahead of Jazz Gill and teenaged American teammate, Anna Chops.

  .

  December Carrero ran as fast as one could into a swarm of people. On being recognized by Lori’s coach, she was allowed to be next to where Lori lay, poolside. Moments later, Larry, me and the filmmakers were standing with Pat McCormick, as a nurse cracked a vial of smelling salts under Lori’s nostrils. She shook her head and opened her eyes. She smiled at December. Lori stayed flat on the stretcher, but on looking to the crowd and medical team, she burst into tears. December went to her knees and wrapped her arms around her. Lori’s parents made it to their daughter’s side.

  “Silver!” yelled Lori’s coach.

  “Oh, Baby!” sobbed December, kissing Lori’s face repeatedly, as cameras flashed and the crowd around Lori grew. She stood, grimacing, and walked, with December and Larry helping her, to the winner’s platform.

  “You’re a true champion, just like I knew you could be,” said Pat McCormick, as she walked alongside December, on the way to the platform.

  Lori Lewis hobbled her way to the second tier, as Bella and Jazz Gill each smiled warmly. Lori held her salute through the rendition of the “Star Spangled Banner,” and stood at attention during the anthem she had now heard ten times from while standing on the victor’s platform.