Finding That Special Someone, and Why It Might Be a Bit Naïve to Presume He or She Exists
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Even times when it is empty, the stadium is never completely empty. There is a minimum of three hourly security personnel pacing the intestinal system of hallways and atria, stepping loudly in thick-soled boots, clunk clunk, echoes ringing through vacant halls. Their fingers tap idly against the company-issued small-gauge pistols at their waists. Not to mention the guards who prowl the stadium's exterior, evicting shaggy homeless persons and skateboarders drawn to its long marble ledges, taking their jobs perhaps a tad too seriously. Rest assured: the stadium is never alone.
On game day, layer upon layer of team personnel enter the stadium and begin. What they begin depends on who they are. The service employees arrive first, those callused hands of the operation. They hose down and plug in and roll out. The concession stand vendors unlock and raise wide segments of garage-like doors, revealing the grills, fountains, taps, and wall-mounted menus behind. They decant cheese from buckets into the warming vats, which feed directly to hand-pumps. The nacho chips remain in cellophane bags beneath the counter.
Up in the highest reaches of the place, it takes almost half an hour for the great network of unfathomable wattage to flicker awake.
Visiting team buses unload players into a gaping, gray hanger, where they parade past rows of parked golf carts and scattered members of the media, into the building's smaller, more basic locker room. They flew into town Thursday, and have been in and out of the stadium for practice. They share hotel rooms and competed in video games, taking turns "being" polygon versions of themselves on screen. Home team players arrive more stylishly. Some in low, sleek automobiles that move like sex, others in heavily-wired luxury trucks, boorish rolling theatres with giant chrome wheels that continue spinning even after the car has stopped. Certain players have quirky pre-game ritualistic demands stipulated in their contracts. One defensive lineman requires a slice of flourless chocolate cake on a paper plate. The veteran free safety needs the dust of ground rose petals sprinkled into his helmet. The quarterback keeps his beagle Charlie leashed to his locker all game. It is the rookie, third-string quarterback's job to make sure Charlie always has a full bowl of water nearby. The rookie quarterback secretly loves his job because it is a constant reminder that he's made it to "the show."
1, 1 ---->2 ---->2, 2 ---->4
Approaching the stadium is a task in and of itself. Traffic inches so sluggishly you can almost imagine the cars themselves are bored. Inside one particular car are two couples. Driving the car is the Boyfriend; riding shotgun is his girlfriend, the Girlfriend. The second couple sits in the backseat: the Other boyfriend and Other girlfriend.
Up front, the Boyfriend says, "Really, why shouldn't we get together like this?"
Quickly, the Girlfriend adds, "It's been too long."
"Silliness," the Other girlfriend says. "It's important for us to move on through all that silliness. We continue to be each other's important friends. This is what matters overall. Not that silliness."
The Other boyfriend pats the Other girlfriend's thigh just above her knee. She finds makeup in her purse and begins to powder her cheeks. The Girlfriend watches a blue minivan pass on their right, two door-mounted flags hanging just this side of flaccid, barely blowing in the wind. Flags for the home team, maroon and gold. The boyfriend glances at the reflection of the Other boyfriend in the backseat. Someone behind them honks, then honks again.
"That's not going to help anybody," the Boyfriend says.
"Maybe he finds it therapeutic," the Other boyfriend says.
The Other girlfriend snaps shut her compact. "Lately he's working on being more understanding. He's trying to, wait, what is it, babe? See the world how?"
In the front seat, the Girlfriend is trying to count how many children are inside the blue minivan.
The Other boyfriend says, "Through the eye of the other."
"That's it. Love that phrase."
"Eye of the other?" the Boyfriend says into his rearview mirror. "You make that up?"
"No, he didn't," the Girlfriend says.
"No, I didn't," the Other boyfriend says.
The Girlfriend smiles a smile visible to nobody but the children staring back from inside the minivan.
"Going to the game," the Boyfriend says to the air. "Going gaming. Going gaming with good friends."
2s, 4s -------->10s ------>100s
The fans convene outside before entering the stadium. They amass like restless herds of cattle in poorly paved lots and toss mini footballs back and forth. They talk stats, make predictions, recycle lines they heard on ESPN or talk radio. Other men and women in colored vests stand listlessly among bright orange cones and wave bright orange flags. Park here. This many dollars. These men and women aren't part of the thing itself, but are instead facilitators of the thing, enablers. Behind their parked cars, the fans set up plastic tables with folding legs. There are chairs with built-in cup holders, coolers for footstools. They set out decorated bowls into which they empty bags of ridged chips and pretzels. They remove the plastic tops from bins of creamy dip. The ratio of men to women is roughly six to one. They cook several variations of pork and beef. Mostly pork.
The stadium's focal point, the Astroturf, is a green unlike any other green in the world. Beneath the stadium's lights, it glows unnaturally, like normal green pumped full of vigor or methamphetamines. It is the closest thing the stadium has to a heart.
The teams are filing out of runways onto the field in a slow drip. In their pads but without helmets, their heads look like marbles resting on top of bricks. Linemen sit in circles and stretch it out. They chant. Journalists mingle among the athletes, skinny, small men dwarfed by these giants. One of the secondary coaches has brought his son to the game. He wanders around semi-aimlessly, overly-cautious out of fear of doing something he shouldn't. He has never seen the stadium from this particular angle, and he is currently in absolute awe.
4, 4, 4, 6, 4
The Boyfriend is flagged toward a spot at the end of a long row, next to a minivan painted the maroon and muted gold of the home team. A family of four surrounds a portable grill beneath the awning of the van's open rear gate, each wearing a Viking-style helmet in the same maroon and gold.
He cuts the engine and says, "Great day for a game."
The irony being: the game will be played inside the domed stadium. The Girlfriend laughs delicately out of habit and sympathy, unable anymore to distinguish her own imitation laughter from real thing. In the backseat, the Other girlfriend smiles because she genuinely finds the Boyfriend's sense of humor charming. The Other boyfriend stares at the back of the headrest to make sure he doesn't roll his eyes.
Now the Girlfriend stands in the elbow of the car's open door, bends at the waist, slowly stretching for her toes. The Other boyfriend watches her through the passenger window while he waits for the Boyfriend to pop the trunk, where their beers and bagged ice are in a cooler. Other boyfriend tosses one to the Girlfriend, who says thank you.
In pairs they stand behind the parked car, facing one another, drinking at various times from the cans of domestic low calorie lager. A nearby stereo plays a song that, of the four, only the Other boyfriend recognizes as Bob Seger. They all smell chili in the air. Boyfriend asks Other girlfriend if she's learned yet to like the game.
"I'm less and less offended by it," she says.
The Girlfriend says, "I find it helpful to remind myself that these men have mothers."
1.
In the stadium, just outside the border of the Astroturf, the man in charge of pyrotechnics stands inside The Tunnel, where the home team will congregate before the start of the pre-game show. Then they will sprint onto the field; first in a bundle, then one at a time if they happen to be among the eleven starting offensive players. And of course the head coach, in his nylon jacket and khaki pants and unsoiled cross trainers. The pyrotechnic man takes the time to check each individual fuse and wick, to assure the explosions that will line the runway are properly calibrated. Aside from a grunt here and there to himself, he utters not a word to anyone. He works alone, has always worked alone, enjoys being alone. Since childhood, he has had a thing for fire.
4 ------->200
The three of them wait for the Other girlfriend to finish the last of her beer. Other boyfriend shields a yawn, then rubs his eyes.
The Girlfriend says, "At least somebody was up late last night."
The Boyfriend strategically ignores this remark. He collects empties and looks around for a trashcan, guessing that a recycle bin is out of the question.
"It's the puppy. I feel worse for the neighbors. They don't even get to play with him."
"He hates his kennel," the Other girlfriend says. "He sits in there and cries until we come and play with him. That's why I said we should have gotten a little girl puppy. Because males are attention-starved, no matter what the species."
The Boyfriend says, "This is why we're cat people."
"Are we?" asks the Girlfriend.
"Well, you two do have cats," the Other girlfriend says.
They walk from their own lot to a neighboring parking lot where a local radio station has set up a temporary stage. Girlfriend watches Other girlfriend's hips sway in a way hers simply never have and won't, ever. The twelve-piece band on stage plays a medley of classical rock numbers, sung alternately by a buxom black woman with tall, shiny hair and a stubble-faced, white man with a voice like steel wool. All of those onstage share the same forced smile of the novelty performer. The audience, a couple hundred strong, doesn't so much dance as sway half-heartedly back and forth, as if saving themselves for the game.
1 > 1
A former star running back, now an on-air analyst, wanders one sideline then the other, shaking hands with current players he's met before, and others who know of his legend and who could, if asked, rattle off his career touchdown numbers and rushing yards. He stops to talk with the third year tailback who will most likely eclipse his record later this season, barring injury. It is a prime photo-slash-video opportunity that is torture for the former star running back, who can't help but remember a time when he was bigger than just one person. When he was more.
The catwalks overhead are layered with multiple coats of a rugged, cheap, oil-based paint chosen for its bulk cost and durability. Like the domed roof below which they run, the catwalks are the dull, basic white of hospital flatware. Two World Champion and three Division Champion banners hang from the catwalks. They are white and have maroon and gold helmets sewn onto them. The prevailing thought around town is, 'bout time we get ourselves another one of those banners.
200 ------> 1000 -----> 10,000
The Boyfriend really, really likes to be the person in charge of the tickets. He keeps all four in his pocket until they have made their way to the stadium, have joined the official bottle-neck around the entryways. He enjoys dolling them out like quarters to children at an arcade.
"Now, don't anybody lose their ticket," he says.
The Other girlfriend laughs, because the Boyfriend can sometimes be so charming.
The Girlfriend says, "Thanks, Dad."
"Be good," the Boyfriend says, and hands the last ticket to the Other boyfriend, who nods, but says nothing.
11 + 11
At the head of the runway, where the tunnel ends and the turf begins, stands an immense, inflated archway. The plan is, the network of overhead lights will suddenly go out, and be replaced by computer programmed lasers and spotlights. The goal is to boost the level of crowd energy. Augment expectation. Then there will be parallel rows of sparkling explosions, and the home team will run through the inflated archway, between the enfilade of explosives, out onto the field. On top of the archway will be two larger explosions. For this game, because the home team is hosting their long-time division rivals, the pyrotechnics man has been instructed to go for the gusto, to give it a little more, provide something extra spectacular. This is a big game for the brass upstairs.
10,000 -----> 65,000
Their seats are in the middle of an aisle roughly midway up in the middle section of the stadium's three, above the fifty yard line. They are neither particularly hard to come by nor easy to get seats. From where they sit they can make out the number on the back of each player's jersey, but not his name. They can see the shape and movements of the dancing girls, but not their faces.
Other girlfriend says, "This is the game I get on the Jumbotron. I feel it in my bones."
"We should have made a sign," Boyfriend says. "A sign with an acronym."
"Or painted our faces," she adds.
Other boyfriend knows that even if she somehow gets on the Jumbotron, she won't be able to enjoy it, because her urge will be to watch herself on the screen, see that huge version of herself up there, where everyone else can see it too. She will not be composed; she will not be looking back into the camera, looking back at the crowd. So she'll only see a huge image of herself waving wildly and staring up at some unknown thing in the sky. Thus is the fundamental paradox of the Jumbotron. You can only look good on the Jumbrotron if you don't care about seeing yourself on the Jumbotron.
"What we should have done is stopped for beer," Other boyfriend says.
"Shoot," Girlfriend says.
"Why don't you guys go now. We'll keep the seats warm," Other girlfriend says.
Boyfriend says, "If we go now, we'll miss the player introductions."
The Girlfriend knows this is her boyfriend's favorite part of the game. She even sometimes suspects he likes the pre-game spectacle more than the game itself. Coming to the stadium, seeing how the stadium presents the game—these are where he finds pleasure. Cheering. Being instructed when and how to cheer. But most of all it's the instant when the overhead lights cut off, in that momentary pause before the lasers and strobe and explosions. Because somewhere in the sudden transition between bright and dark, what happens is you lose track of where you are, and even who. He desperately wishes she would share his appreciation of this moment, but she doesn't, and probably won't ever.
Other girlfriend says, "So, you'd rather miss the kickoff than miss all the showbizzy stuff?"
"Let's just wait," Boyfriend says.
1/65,000
When it happens, the effect is not unlike a blanket dropped over a bird's cage. The roof and the catwalk and even the Astroturf disappear. Mouths open and hands rise and wave and clap. A public address announcer, sitting in his cushy booth, says, Ladies and gentleman, yyyyoooouuu''rrrre… then the name of the city and the name of the home team. The recorded dance music artist asks if they're all ready for this. After what always seems longer than it should, the pyrotechnics man finally gets to press his button. A series of sparkling eruptions simultaneously go off, lining the runway across which runs the majority of the home team. It is spectacular. The crowd goes bananas. The two explosions on top of the inflated arch are, as the pyrotechnics man planned, just slightly grander than usual. He is satisfied and ready, now, to go home. Alone.
4 ------> 3
Once the introductions are complete and the crowd is good and worked up, the Boyfriend stands and shoulders his way past the other three. Other boyfriend offers to go with, to help carry, but the Boyfriend tells him no sweat. What they hear, what everyone in the stadium hears, is clapping and whooping and yelling. The PA man suggests that they get ready to rumble. The Girlfriend and the Other boyfriend hear the Other girlfriend screaming like a mad woman. She is between them, arms up and chugging like pistons, her chest shaking from side to side, mouth agape and emitting a sound unlike anything the Other boyfriend has heard from her before.
0
What nobody hears are the aberrant sparks that, spewed from the pyrotechnic canister and caught in the natural draft of the stadium, have survived the float upward all the way to the catwalks. They don't hear the sparks land and burrow into the layers of cheap paint. There is no sound as the inner layers of paint, warmed by spark, suddenly ignite. As if by magic, the few sparks grow into flames which spread outward like a two-headed snake, coiling away from the initial point of impact in either direction. Were the lights out, the flames would be beautiful, green and blue and yellow from the oil-based paint's chemical makeup. But compared to the obscene wattage of the lights, they are virtually invisible.
Below, the referee's coin flips, bounces, flips more, then bounces to rest on the home team's logo at midfield. Heads. The visiting team elects to kick, because their coach reasons it more of an advantage to have the ball at the start of the second half.
The flames spread like disease. They wind and curl and blossom like a whole poppy field at once. The stadium realizes it is burning before the crowd does. Its climate sensors pick up a spike in heat, and instantly initiates its automated response.
65,000!
Within the crowd, there is no way of saying who sees it first. In a sense, nobody sees it first. For all intents and purposes, they all see it at once, as one organism responding to one stimulus. Waves of heat make a kind of cloud beneath the roof. Soon fingers are pointing upward. Necks crane. A few brief seconds of stunned silence quickly changes to shocked loudness. The home team's place kicker waves his arms and pumps his fist. He and the other special teams players misunderstand the crowd's noise—they confuse screaming for cheering.
The public address announcer coughs, sitting comfortably in his private booth, sips a glass of ice water. He leans forward to a microphone and, in what he considers the calmest of his voices, says, Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. We are experiencing.
(1/1/1/1/1/1/1)
Each usher on staff has undergone three hours of emergency procedure training. The stadium has a finely tuned evacuation procedure so that people can safely find their way outside.
Those at field level—players, coaches, trainers, dancers, everyone whose feet touch turf—will exit through the tunnels, back through the hallways running outside locker rooms and coaches' offices. Those in luxury and broadcast boxes upstairs will exit through a private stairway. For everyone else—normal fans, vendors, families, lovers—the only way out is with the crowd. As the crowd.
There is talking, sure, words are tossed back and forth, but against the backdrop of panicked screaming, there is no communication.
1,2,3 ------> 2,1,3
In what will prove to be an important shift, as the Other boyfriend moves toward the aisle, he angles his shoulders so he can wrap one arm around the Other girlfriend. As he does so he recognizes the instinct of it all, the masculine triteness of his drive to protect. Through the jumble of the crowd, she ends up in front of him, with both of his hands on her shoulders. The Girlfriend brings up the rear, pinching the fabric of the Other boyfriend's shirt so they're not separated. The unsaid assumption is that they'll meet up with the Boyfriend either outside, or back at the car.
1
The finely tuned evacuation procedure is roundly ignored. Now, here, there is no longer any use for Other. Instead there is only a series of Boyfriends and Girlfriends, Mothers, Cousins, Friends, Sons, and Sisters. Other no longer matters. They are at once One and No One, these bodies moving outward. Pairings crumble and are replaced by a massive glob of semi-hysterical bodies. Instead, what we have is discharge, the elimination of all boundaries between one person and the next, of any sense of order and self.
One component of the stadium's fire containment system is an alarm that begins at the first detection of a flame. The alarm is a series of intermittent C#s, each a half second in duration, followed by two full seconds of silence. The way the digital system reproduces the note, with a slight lag as each one starts and a sliver of echo as it cuts off, it sounds like nhuhhhhvh… …nhuhhhhvh. At first, those moshing in waves to the stadium's exits think the alarm adds to the frenzy. After enough repetitions, once they are caught up in the exodus and released from their normal fear of being touched, the alarm begins to sound a little like—not a lot, but enough that it's difficult to flat-out dismiss—a digital reproduction of the word love, love, love.
1(1)11111(1)111
Alone but also not, the Boyfriend knows it doesn't make sense to panic. The crowd seems on the verge of turning a bad way, is almost waiting for enough individual panic to build before it harvests and magnifies it into something communal. Then there will be no choice; the crowd will dictate panic, and so they will panic. He is crushed form all sides, so that he can no longer identify any individual physical sensations, just ambient pressure.
Moving at once through the hallways and stairwells, charging down both directional escalators, heaving and sighing as if exhausted, the crowd seems even more formidable than when everyone was seated. There is an antagonism between it and the stadium—its will is its own, and there is little the structure can do to stop it.
Sixteen bodies to the Boyfriend's left, the Other girlfriend is experiencing the same spectrum of pressure. The exact same, as though everything within the mob were happening to one and the same body. The woman pressed against her is the same as herself. And, like the Boyfriend, within this pressure the Other girlfriend finds, along with pain, an odd feeling of relief.
65,000 ----->1000 ----->10 ----->4 ----->2, 2
From above, the people spilling out of the stadium appear not like ants, but liquid: oozing, as it were, from within; the stadium leaking what it was designed to contain. Away from the doors they disperse, spread, their once impossibly dense fluid diluted and weakened by space. Outside, there is a spontaneous return to the values that were overpowered in the crowd. Quickly they separate into smaller groups, then smaller still, until habit divides them back into the atomic units in which they arrived. Clothes are wrinkled, shoes scuffed. But now they go back to being who they were before. Cat people and dog people. Boyfriends, girlfriends; husbands and wives.
1? 1? ----->2'
There is no room to turn and see, but the Other boyfriend has a feeling the hand he holds is hers. All around him bodies are packed like rice. He doesn't recall when the hand got there, but there is a hand, and he's certain it is attached to the rest of her. He sees the exit waiting at the bottom of the stairwell but suddenly finds he has no desire to reach it; is almost relieved by the standstill. Here he has time to wonder, if you go down, would the crowd stop? Who would help you up? He squeezes the hand, and the Girlfriend squeezes back. They are bathing in bodies, at the mercy of the force urging them outward. She tightens her grip and holds on as if for her life, or love, or something in between.
And now is when we must cheer for them. They will need it. Please.
The End
Otium
