Copy Book #1, page 2: the Contest

 
   "You can't be self-conscious. You've just gotta open up, breathe, and be natural. It's that kind of thing. If you're self-conscious, you'll choke." That was Mooney-- his real name (last)-- doing his best in-the-moment pep talk. I was staring at my watch, at the folded Tribune on the bench (two days old, making predictions about yesterday's election), at the door, pretty much anywhere but at Django. Ten minutes until showtime and I still hadn't seen the competition. It was making me edgy.
  Not that I wasn't confident about our chances. Nearly six feet tall and thin as a rail, Django didn't look like much. His short blonde hair feathering over his scalp reminded most people of a dandelion about to blow away, and his green eyes were remote at best. The kid was a sleeper, though. He was good: he'd been in ten regional contests in the last ight months, and he'd placed or better in all of them. Whatever our differences in personal philosophy, Mooney and I made a good team: he knew how to pick winners, and I knew how to present them.
  I tuned Mooney out and went back to pacing, flat hard-packed earth familiar under my feet. I'd been in this situation hundreds of times, with scores of different prospects, but it never got any better. Sure, I'd gotten good at looking relaxed, at making sure everything went smoothly, but waiting around has always worn on me. I probably shouldn't have become a promoter, but life isn't always something you plan.
   Django was sitting in the chair, back to me, nodding vacantly as Mooney rambled on. Walking around him, for the first time I saw the bowl-- bucket-- of peanuts the event crew had put out on the table: the talent, I noted with satisfaction, hadn't touched it. Not a shell to be seen. I made a note to talk to someone about that little stupidity and went on waiting. All I knew about our opponent was what the handbill told me: Ben Auyukawa, weighing in at one-thirty, twenty-two years old, six wins under his belt. Not much to plan a strategy around. We'd decided to lean on Django's strengths: he had speed and endurance, which had carried him through often enough. Vague as he was, he could think on his feet if anything unexpected happened.
   The noise outside started to get festive: I heard a megaphoned announcer shouting and checked my watch again. Six minutes, and no sign of Auyukawa. I stopped near the door and leaned forward, trying to keep mostly hidden, and glanced around. There was a good crowd, seats and tables jammed with bodies, all there to watch the match on the platform in front of them. At least we had an audience. I'd only just leaned back in when Billy Archer, the stagehand I'd paid off, shot into the room. looking like he'd run a three-minute mile.
   Mooney broke off his transcendental inspiration, turning and fixing Billy with the styrofoam burden of his attention. I was already looking at the kid like he was an endangered species or a bomb. For a second he didn't say anything, just waved his right arm and gulped air. I nearly shook him-- four minutes until start and he was making drowning fish faces at me.
  "Auyukawa," Billy wheezed again, probably for the effect, "I heard his manager. On the phone. Cell phone. Looks like, like Auyukawa," the foreign name was particularly strange in the boy's Midwestern mouth, "He drank something. It didn't agree with him. Manager said it was sitting in him like, you know, like lead shot."
   Mooney and I looked at each other like kids on Christmas morning, faces splitting into matching grins. This was just what we'd been after: a strong, decisive victory. Something to put our new talent on the map. We looked back at Billy: I grabbed his hand and almost shook his arm off.
   "Thanks, Billy, that's the best news I've had all day." I let him go, turning to Django, "You know what to do. Just do everything you were gonna do, but don't over strain yourself. Make it look good. This one's in the bag."
   Outside, the announcer started shouting for the contestants to take their places. The crowd roared when they came out, Django bobbing along with his usual camel-gait, the Auyukawa kid looking green and heavy. I looked at the trays of hotdogs piled on the table they sat down to and allowed myself to relax. This one was all over but the shouting.

• Posted at Tuesday, March 10, 2009 02:43 PM
• In Short Fiction Category | Permalink