Girl in the Arena - Lise Haines [67]
A generic celebrity fills us in on how the parents have been flown all the way from Norway, where they went into retirement a decade ago. We see clips from a recent interview with them. The father was one of the first underground Glads. So Uber is a Born In.
—He was always a good boy, the father says.
It seems clear to me that he has dementia from the way he talks, the disconnected look in his eyes.
—He was a sweet child. A little awkward sometimes, but bighearted, his mother says. Her discomfort at being interviewed is palpable.
—His father, who was in the GSE at the time, wanted him to have an activity that would give him confidence.
They managed, the celebrity tells us, through long hours of work and setting aside their pennies, to get Uber into a Helmet Wearers group after school . . .
I feel this deep sense of relief that the fighting is done for the night but I guess I’m alone in this as discontentment starts to build in the amphitheater. People jeer and demand a real fight. Uber, face wet with tears, guides his parents toward the door they came through, walking away from his shield and sword—a completely stupid idea—but I can only imagine how seeing his parents this way has screwed him up.
Some people gather their things to beat the rush to the parking lot and the T. They fold their cushions, seal their coolers. We hear a great deal of grumbling, see a lot of disappointed faces. Bad feelings about the Gladiator Sports Association are voiced.
—Let’s get out of here, Mark says.
Just then a second set of doors opens in the arena but no one appears. Uber watches it for a long time, then turns back to his parents. Mark grabs his jacket.
—I’ll have to tell Lloyd, Mark says. —He’s been complaining about the doors. Ever since the layoffs, maintenance has gone to hell.
I stand and start to climb the steps to leave the emperor’s box. But then something compels me to go back to the railing. Uber walks slowly toward his weapons, looking clearly unsettled. Leaning over, I call out.
—Uber. Uber!
What I want him to do is look at that door because I’m certain something is about to spew from its mouth.
—UBER!
The mics pick up my voice now and I’m on every screen in the stadium.
—UBER! my voice booms. —PICK UP YOUR SWORD!
Almost the moment I say this a tiger is sent into the arena. I watch its leg and chest muscles as it moves, the intense fixed look. People fight each other to get back to their seats. There’s a rush of noise and then it quiets.
—Bengal, Indochinese, Malayan? Can we get a feed on the tiger, an announcer says on the overhead speakers.
—One endangered species looks another in the eye.
Glad announcers love to caption. And how many times have we heard that one?
—I understand their large canines are used for tearing meat off the bone. Let’s ask our resident expert.
But I don’t hear the answer of the resident expert because I’m thinking about the fact that Uber’s shield and sword are closer to the tiger than they are to him—it looks like twenty feet or more to his gear. The cat begins to raise one paw, its shoulders elevated, rear legs hunched as Uber starts to make his way toward his sword, appearing to move as if he’s not moving at all. His parents get through their door in time, and it closes behind them with a noise only those giant doors can make and the sound startles the cat. It runs toward Uber.
The technicians turn the strobes on so that when the tiger springs, as it does, it moves in what appears to be slow motion. Uber jumps into the air simultaneously. He kicks the tiger in the chest and they both fall backward, their movements split into ribbons of action. Both flip around quickly to avoid landing on their backs. Uber grabs the scissors before the tiger leaps a second time. He drives them into the tiger’s chest just as the tiger claws his face.
The animal drops, landing on its side. It lifts its head for a moment, and dies. Its tongue hangs from its mouth and