Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [2]
Human rights organizations tried to stop the match. They brought up Corcoran State Prison, where the guards had pitted one gang against another in gladiator-type combat. But the amendment passed by a narrow margin. Shroedinger chose a short knife and a garbage can lid for a shield, and Galliano, who was quite taken by the drama of Shroedinger’s story, designed his outfit. Shroedinger managed to stay in the game a full fifteen minutes. He was stabbed directly in the heart and appeared to die a happy man.
Other Texas death row inmates followed in his wake, then other states released their dead men walking to fight—all becoming short-term Glads—pitted nicely against one another. This provoked nonstop media attention, with strident views from academics, parent groups, lawmakers, lobbyists, and essayists. But Glad sport had a way of defying gravity, a way of changing essential rules.
Then there was the man, Wes C., who wrote an op-ed piece in the Times. He pointed to the terrible inequity, that a death row inmate could commit a heinous crime and be granted rights that law-abiding, tax-paying citizens were not. He had Hodgkin’s lymphoma and wanted to wrap his life up quickly and to some small glory, to test his mettle once and for all, gladiator style. Several groups supported his efforts, as did a couple of doctors newly released from jail for physician-assisted suicide. There was, of course, strong opposition to letting the op-ed man die in the arena. And yet, over time the rules evolved, were challenged, revised, and superseded by new rules. Eventually Glad sport, though not always a fight to the death, certainly offered this possibility.
Lyn
Daughter of Seven Gladiators
CHAPTER
1
The clerk asks for my autograph.
—Do it right across my face, he says.
Usually when we’re out in public everyone wants Allison’s autograph. My mother’s as famous as the men she’s married. Over the years, she has signed stomachs, tip sheets, shoes, baby carriages, even a sandwich once, and of course thousands of arena souvenir booklets. But until recently, few have asked for my signature.
Before I can stop her, Allison tells the clerk that I’m the daughter of seven gladiators. Allison is on her usual kick. She wants me to open up more.
—Seven? The guy laughs. —I bet I’ve seen you on VH1, right?
—Not really, I say.
—No, no it’s ESPN. I know who you are. We’re talking real Glads, right? Swords, shields, heads flying, arms lopped off? Not that TV show with a bunch of batons and cargo nets, right?
—Mortal combat, Allison confirms with a polite smile, —though not always to the death.
—That’s what I mean, he says. —Mortal combat.
We’re at this store in Cambridge that has an underground operation selling War Tickets. They aren’t actual tickets, they’re just called that. You place bets on which countries we’ll end up going to war with—in other words, which countries we will bomb senseless. The store handles bets on all sorts of standard gambling as well, scratch offs, quick picks. Allison says our chance of winning on War Tickets is a whole lot better than the state lottery and now that I’ve turned eighteen, I can buy my own.
The glass countertop she leans against is part of a cabinet holding an entire display, a miniature Baghdad scene with U.S. and Iraqi troops, soldiers taking cover, heading out on raids, tiny men and women that look like they’ve already blown up. My guess is he got that effect by melting them with a lighter.
The clerk hands me a marker now. He holds his hair off his forehead so I have plenty of room to scrawl over his greasy brow. I admit it’s really the only space—he’s heavily tattooed everywhere else.
I shoot Allison