Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [59]
The district attorney filed a lawsuit against the SoHo guy to get the panels returned—can’t you just see them running around matching panels to subway cars and welding them all back into place?—but then he had to bow out of the case because he found out his sister-in-law had purchased one of the sculptures and there was no way she was having her high-end art dismantled for the cause. And now the city is looking into training a team of homeless citizens as spot welders—which should get the city about five minutes of glorious PR until it’s discovered they don’t give their trainees safety suits, goggles, or ventilation (aka air).
And they think my culture is mad.
The Ring Bearer is staring at me now without break and thank God it’s my stop. It’s not that I take it personally. Allison told me they don’t do anything to Glads other than make intense eye contact with us—hoping we’ll change our violent ways. But it gets kind of freaky after a while.
Allison says she just looks on it—on her need to remain aloof—as performance art. But I’m not in the mood to perform today.
I step onto the platform and his face rushes away into the next tunnel. A woman in a worn raincoat and natty hat puts her hand on my arm and that makes me jump of course. And she says, —My nephew was in the GSA.
That’s the thing a lot of people don’t like to admit, that they know someone, or are connected to someone, in the GSA—we practically all are.
—You’re his daughter, aren’t you? she smiles timidly. —Tommy G.’s daughter?
—I guess we kind of look alike? Some people tell me that anyway.
She assures me we do. I thank her and move on.
Tonight I’m the first to get to the empty storefront where we train. I’ve rigged some car-mechanic lights, since most of the lighting was gutted and the last tenants painted the walls black. There’s a sink with running water and that’s painted black too—thick with house paint. The only thing that isn’t black is the red bathroom door. Lloyd and Mark pull up in the van in the alleyway, carrying cold drinks and bags of sand.
Once inside, Lloyd nails a ten-pound bag of sand to the wall by its edging, so none of the sand spills out.
—Okay, your job, he says, —is to try and slash the bag open, while Mark does everything he can to keep you from getting to it.
Mark gives me this playful look, and Lloyd hands me a long sword. At first, Mark works me into a sweat, pushing me away with his shield each time I make an approach. But when he sees how frustrated I’m getting, he steps aside at the last second and I just rip the hell out of the bag and the sand flies everywhere. The sand simulates the beginning of an arena floor, which is fine. Lloyd wants me training in sand, but he yells at Mark to get serious.
Going over to his athletic bag, Lloyd rubs his stubbled chin and says, —Let’s switch it up.
Now he throws both of us short swords that he’s edged in white adhesive tape at the tips and down the length of the blades. I have one of Tommy’s shields from when he started out and Lloyd tells me to pick it up. Then he puts an arm around my shoulders and leads me away from Mark for a moment, across the length of the room. Lloyd has this funny way of strutting—maybe the pride of a man who wishes he was still heading into the arena. In the bank of mirrors, I wonder at the image I’ve produced. I look fully Glad now, the black leather skirt and cropped top, the armbands and knee-high sandals, the armor and shield.
—Think of someone you really hate, Lloyd says, stopping in front of the mirrors to consider his muscles perhaps, the way they’re articulated in comic book fashion by the lights.