Chapter 13 #3
Alternates? What did that mean? Do Olympic athletes have understudies?
Is there a slip of paper in the Playbill announcing “The Role Of The Sprinter With All The Buzz Will Be Played By Someone Slightly Slower”?
Does the crowd groan, like when Josh Groban has the flu or a concert date in Omaha, after they’d paid a scalper for premium seats?
“I’ve gotten permission for an undercover op.
The alternates are the runners-up from the Olympic trials, who’ll participate if a qualifying entrant is sick or injured, which never happens.
The athletes have too much riding on this.
So we’ve contacted the real alternates and paid them a good sum of money.
They’ll remain in the Village, but wearing street clothes and staying in staff housing.
We’ll be placed with the first-rung athletes, so we’ll have access to all the Games’ participants from every country. ”
I lurched to quiet my brain and other parts of my body.
Of course, I’d watched the Olympics online, by which I mean the events with men showing the most skin.
Brock and I had gossiped about the Romanian gymnasts as if they were supermodels or any Ryan Murphy series with Jessica Lange.
We’d referred to the Peruvian long jumper as “Alejandro” and sent each other photos of his equally good-looking cousin (Luis) in the stands.
As for the swimmers, well—I’d grown up on Michael Phelps, and even though he’s retired, married, and has kids, I still think of him as my gateway drug to desire.
I’m not sure why conservatives get incensed over YA novels with LGBTQ+ characters when there’s officially sanctioned homoerotic filth in prime time every four years.
Gay guys relate to the world from many angles at once.
We can applaud an athlete’s years of training and record-shattering wins, while debating whether he shaves his entire body to increase his speed in the water, or if the teammates shave each other because it’s what bros do.
We commend Jake Gyllenhaal’s forays into scruffy English one-act plays for limited Broadway runs, while also charting the dimensions of his thighs from Prince of Persia through the Road House remake (these are the less elevated movies he makes for his more slavering fans).
And when an especially sturdy serial killer is arrested, with his perp walk in a raggedly sleeveless, tricep-exposing, plaid flannel shirt, we condemn his stabbings while checking his Facebook status to see if he’s “in a relationship” or “deranged but single.” Our responses are morally reprehensible, but as Brock says, “It’s not like we’re stalking any of these people. Yet.”
“Miles,” said Reggie, “you participated in the last Olympics and you’re on this year’s diving team as well. What can we expect?”
Miles had been born in S?o Paulo, but his parents had emigrated when he was a baby, so he swam for the States.
While in his late twenties, he could pass for a college freshman.
Brock had theorized, “Career athletes are raised in a bubble, because they train eighteen hours a day, seven days a week. They’re not really socialized, so they’re nicer and more innocent than the rest of us.
Terry was Miles’s first boyfriend. They’re very Hansel and Hansel. ”
“Well,” said Miles, wearing a T-shirt silk-screened with the face of Diana Nyad, the cantankerous lesbian champion who’d completed a swim between Miami and Cuba in her sixties.
“People think the Olympic Village is this hotbed of horniness, where the most incredibly in-shape, pumped-up athletes from all over the world meet each other without any cameras or press around and just go at it. Which is exactly what happens.”
The Tuxes strove agonizingly to seem unruffled, as if we were far too refined for such smutty conjecture. Brock slumped to the floor, then pulled himself up, murmuring, “Low blood sugar.”
“Of course, everyone’s laser-focused on their events, and the Village gym is always packed.
There’s a huge cafeteria, and masseurs and nutritionists are on call.
And even though competitors have memorized the rankings, people are incredibly friendly.
During my first Olympics, I remember thinking, This is the only place on earth where everyone’s as crazy as I am.
In a weird way, it was comforting. So if you guys are pretending to be athletes, don’t strut around and snub people.
It’s more like summer camp with drug testing.
And sure, people hook up all the time, especially once their events are over.
Whether they’ve won or lost, the athletes stick around for the closing ceremonies. So all bets are off.”
“So if we want to get close to Elki,” asked Reggie, “we should treat him like anyone else?”
“Yes, and I’ve met him, and he seems really nice.
But he was constantly on the phone with his father, who was always down front in the stands.
They were super intense. Four years ago, Elki’s twin brother was still competing, in separate events, before things went south.
And yes, Timothy…” Miles acknowledged that Timothy had been raising his hand frantically.
“Elki and Arne are identical in every way, although there were constant late-night discussions about which one had slightly more developed calves. The jury is still out.”
Timothy lowered his hand, satisfied for the moment.
“Thanks, Miles,” said Reggie. “And we’re all rooting for you. But, people—while we’re behaving normally and cultivating contacts, keep your eyes on Elki. We have to find the ruby before anyone else.”
“From hacking Henrik’s texts,” said Marcus, “he wants the ruby for Elki, to give him an edge. Because Lachesis controls the substance of people’s lives, Henrik thinks the stone will increase Elki’s stamina and precision, as if it’s an anabolic steroid that can’t be detected.”
“But isn’t that nuts?” asked Timothy.
“Athletes and their coaches can be more irrational than anyone,” said Miles. “They’ll use anything for that extra fraction of a second, or eighth-of-an-inch over the high jump, whether it’s a rabbit’s foot or a lucky pair of goggles or a legal vitamin supplement. Trust me on this.”
I keyed into everything Miles had said, from my own refusing to speak the name of Shakespeare’s “Scottish play,” which was a well-known theatrical jinx, to the photo of Meryl in her first off-Broadway play that I’d tape to my dressing room mirror.
Athletes, like actors, fear a head cold, a sprain, or especially the yips, that inexplicable dread that can overtake anyone under pressure.
Even after months of drills on a track, or weeks in a rehearsal room, someone fully prepared can unravel, convinced of imminent failure.
I’d greedily swallow that ruby on a night when there are critics out front.
The lure of the Diadem, whether the stories were provable or not, was potent.
If someone could alter or be assured of their fate, this wasn’t just life-changing; it could affect the record books.
The jewels could be an ultimate self-help guide.
People still swear by The Secret, that perennial bestseller that promises triumph through visualization: if a person can mentally see themselves crossing whatever finish line in first place, and trouncing their rivals, the reality will ensue.
Although no one ever fact-checks this methodology: Why haven’t all The Secret devotees become verifiable winners?
With the diamond, ruby, or emerald, nothing would be left to chance, and with all three, an even more assured dominance would be within reach.
“These are your assignments,” said Reggie, as Marcus posted the list on his screens, as if casting had been finalized for our high school’s senior musical, and there could be only one Evita and one Ché (I’d be happy with either).
“Brock, you’ll be the shot put alternate.
Timothy, you’re gymnastics. And Andrew, we need you in diving. ”
Jesus fuck. Diving was Elki’s event and Miles’s.
I had no idea why Reggie was allotting me this central responsibility, unless my membership had only been renewed on a trial basis, so I could prove myself.
While I almost protested that I wasn’t up to it, I resisted.
Maybe my time-out and my return to the candle shop had been a necessary adjustment, a breather, but not an ending.
Maybe I could do this. I’d faltered in Rome, but I was beginning to see myself as not just an out-of-work actor, but something else.
As someone who might have value, to my country and to Reata (or was this my homegrown application of The Secret?).
Because of my background and Equity card, I was also thinking, Oh my God, I just got cast in the LEAD!
Edwin entered, pushing a wheeled rack of clothing.
“These are your competition uniforms,” he told the group. “We’ve got warm-up suits, sweats, Speedos, unitards, sneakers, shower clogs, and jockstraps, all of which are compliments of Ralph Lauren.”
“You’re welcome,” said Brock, standing and bowing. “Although Ralph does this for every Olympics, because he gets millions in free publicity. And the limited-edition parkas, from the opening ceremony, can make you a fortune on eBay.”
“However,” said Edwin, “I’ve tinkered with the fabrics and zippers. Each piece has filaments that can transmit conversations. You don’t have to raise your voices, or yell into your sleeves, but Marcus will be monitoring everything you say and do.”
As Edwin said this, I’m not positive, but I think he glanced at me.
We’d officially shut down any flirtation, or had things changed?
Now that I was becoming a fake Olympic athlete, was I a different person, had my bogus sportsmanship given Edwin second thoughts, in his pants?
Or was it smarter to hold off and avoid any distraction, with the future of the world in play?
“I’ll be available around the clock, as a sports doctor and physical therapist,” said Reggie. “Good luck, and don’t fuck this up. We’ll be isolated in the Village, but as soon as we’re at any of the stadiums, we’re bait, and the world is watching.”