Allison. Really patient. Because he’s one of my favorite people. But sometimes he’s a lot to deal with. Before I can tell him how sorry I am, a bank of cameras light Allison’s head and bust. The media has found us.
Allison blinks into the lights and her image sputters onto the giant screens. I watch her there as she stands next to me, wiping her tears away. She is suddenly luminous, almost together in an instantaneous way, the cracks of her psyche temporarily mended. She mirrors her new role as a GSAW. I think of portraits of Roman noblewomen. Right now that’s Allison.
I am the sliver by her side: the braid of long hair, part of an eyebrow, half an eye. It’s easy to be out of the picture. I can’t move fully into the frame or shift completely out of it, we’re pinned so tight by the crush of people, everyone wanting to get into the shot now, waving to friends, pulling up their T-shirts to show their abdomens, sometimes their breasts.
It’s what we do. We want to be there: on screen.
The sound system issues this alert: Remain seated. Free water will be distributed shortly. Remain seated.
The sprinkler system goes on. Thousands of free bottles of water are handed out.
Like Tommy’s corpse, you can see Allison’s face from any geographic point on the globe now. Even in Katmandu you have only to find an Internet user and see Allison’s splendor. She floats in the Earth’s atmosphere in millions of copies. Allison here and Allison everywhere. She is, for all intents and purposes now, a god.
She grabs my hand. She’s trembling slightly. Turning from the cameras she says, close to my head, —Why are they holding up the blessed ambulance?
Three officials in green-and-white-striped shirts are talking with Uber. They go over and look at Tommy, they get within inches of his body. They point to his wounds with their pens. They measure his body parts with skinny measuring tape that snaps back into their palms.
—I’m surprised they haven’t offered free parking yet, Allison confides in me.
She does a beautiful job with bitter when she’s up for it. Ever since the GSA went through its major restructuring they have frequently offered free parking for anyone who makes it out of the stadium within twenty minutes. They’ve been accused of doing this because it ups the trampling numbers. Caesar’s likes to boast a good trample the way NASCAR likes to have their flameouts. I know how quickly we could get separated and crushed by adulation. She knows this too so she’s keeping Thad as close as possible.
Thad begins to say in a singsong voice, —Lynie’s getting married! Lynie’s getting married!
His words volley against my tight eardrums, against my grief. Then Thad is calm and maybe a little embarrassed. He sits down in his chair and looks out toward the spectacle of moistened people.
—Lyn’s not getting married, dear, Allison says softly.
Thad whispers back, —Uber has her bracelet!
I didn’t even think he knew this rule. How can he know some things so precisely and miss other things entirely? In the confusion, I don’t know how much the media has picked up—if Thad’s pronouncements were detectable. Does the world listen to every word? My brain is a racecourse of thought.
The red PENALTY sign starts to flash. The word blinks on and off like a cursor. PENALTY. TOMMY G.
One of the refs turns on the mic at his hip, makes a gesture with his right hand as if he’s cutting his left arm into sections from his shoulder to his wrist, and says, —Unnecessary small cuts. Provision 187. Loss of rank. Dishonored.
The booing starts.
The crowd throws their plastic water bottles into the arena. Bottles rain down on the officials. The air turns to cylindrical hail. The officials do not look happy, one guy takes a full water bottle right on the nose. They look like ants in a downpour.
I realize this sounds impossible, but the plastic containers form a nearly perfect ring around Tommy, and
Allison blinks into the lights and her image sputters onto the giant screens. I watch her there as she stands next to me, wiping her tears away. She is suddenly luminous, almost together in an instantaneous way, the cracks of her psyche temporarily mended. She mirrors her new role as a GSAW. I think of portraits of Roman noblewomen. Right now that’s Allison.
I am the sliver by her side: the braid of long hair, part of an eyebrow, half an eye. It’s easy to be out of the picture. I can’t move fully into the frame or shift completely out of it, we’re pinned so tight by the crush of people, everyone wanting to get into the shot now, waving to friends, pulling up their T-shirts to show their abdomens, sometimes their breasts.
It’s what we do. We want to be there: on screen.
The sound system issues this alert: Remain seated. Free water will be distributed shortly. Remain seated.
The sprinkler system goes on. Thousands of free bottles of water are handed out.
Like Tommy’s corpse, you can see Allison’s face from any geographic point on the globe now. Even in Katmandu you have only to find an Internet user and see Allison’s splendor. She floats in the Earth’s atmosphere in millions of copies. Allison here and Allison everywhere. She is, for all intents and purposes now, a god.
She grabs my hand. She’s trembling slightly. Turning from the cameras she says, close to my head, —Why are they holding up the blessed ambulance?
Three officials in green-and-white-striped shirts are talking with Uber. They go over and look at Tommy, they get within inches of his body. They point to his wounds with their pens. They measure his body parts with skinny measuring tape that snaps back into their palms.
—I’m surprised they haven’t offered free parking yet, Allison confides in me.
She does a beautiful job with bitter when she’s up for it. Ever since the GSA went through its major restructuring they have frequently offered free parking for anyone who makes it out of the stadium within twenty minutes. They’ve been accused of doing this because it ups the trampling numbers. Caesar’s likes to boast a good trample the way NASCAR likes to have their flameouts. I know how quickly we could get separated and crushed by adulation. She knows this too so she’s keeping Thad as close as possible.
Thad begins to say in a singsong voice, —Lynie’s getting married! Lynie’s getting married!
His words volley against my tight eardrums, against my grief. Then Thad is calm and maybe a little embarrassed. He sits down in his chair and looks out toward the spectacle of moistened people.
—Lyn’s not getting married, dear, Allison says softly.
Thad whispers back, —Uber has her bracelet!
I didn’t even think he knew this rule. How can he know some things so precisely and miss other things entirely? In the confusion, I don’t know how much the media has picked up—if Thad’s pronouncements were detectable. Does the world listen to every word? My brain is a racecourse of thought.
The red PENALTY sign starts to flash. The word blinks on and off like a cursor. PENALTY. TOMMY G.
One of the refs turns on the mic at his hip, makes a gesture with his right hand as if he’s cutting his left arm into sections from his shoulder to his wrist, and says, —Unnecessary small cuts. Provision 187. Loss of rank. Dishonored.
The booing starts.
The crowd throws their plastic water bottles into the arena. Bottles rain down on the officials. The air turns to cylindrical hail. The officials do not look happy, one guy takes a full water bottle right on the nose. They look like ants in a downpour.
I realize this sounds impossible, but the plastic containers form a nearly perfect ring around Tommy, and
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