— Fiction —

The Olympian

  CAN’T BELIEVE this day is finally here! The Olympics! I’ve been training for this since I was three years old. You know, I thought when I woke up today I’d be nervous. But I was surprised to find out that I wasn’t nervous at all. Just a little drunk.

I laughed when I realized that I was kind of drunk, because wouldn’t I choose the night before my big day to challenge a motorcycle gang to a drinking contest. “Oh, you’re a card,” I said to myself. “You’re a joker.” I laughed a little bit more as I remembered the evening. Then I decided that I better get on with my day, what with practice and all, so I asked Chainsaw to untie me.

Time for breakfast. I was thinking of eating the protein-rich meal that my trainer left outside my hotel room, but I found a half-eaten PayDay in the garbage so I just went with that. “They don’t call it PayDay for nothin’!” I said aloud, for no real reason, just to enjoy the cadence of my voice. “No, sir!” I bellowed. I suddenly felt filled with promise for my big day, so I hopped out of bed, threw on some clothes and went outside to chain-smoke.

“Well, whaddaya know!” I said aloud, again, as I pulled out my menthols and noticed that there wasn’t even one left to start the morning off right with. Luckily, a homeless man was shambling towards me, and I guessed (correctly) that he might have a few wise words about where to find some butts. He was a nice guy. A little reeking-of-whiskey-and-urine for my tastes, but a pretty approachable guy all the same. He said he liked the motorcycle jacket I won off Jack Knife last night. “Thanks,” I said. He was wearing a garbage bag, so I couldn’t exactly repay the compliment.

As I was searching the sidewalk for butts, I noticed a cute little kid in my sight line walking around with his mom. I was distracted by his adorable waddle-walk for a moment, but then I remembered what I was trying to do and got back to scouring the ground. I found a decent butt, lit it and took a long drag. A couple moments later I heard the kid ask his mom, “Why isn’t that lady wearing shoes?”

That’s a great question, I thought. Most people hadn’t noticed my naked feet, or at least they pretended not to. This kid calls it like it is! I thought. A real straight-shooter. Reminds me of myself at that age. I chuckled as I remembered more about myself at age four. I demanded the best trainers, required handlers to follow a long list of rules about how to interact with me, pushed myself past my breaking point time and again. I was still laughing at this cute memory of my childhood self when I realized—Hey! I’ve spent far too long trying to fish this dollar out of the sewer.

“Forget that dollar,” I told myself. I have more serious things to think about! For instance, it was only seven hours until the Olympics, and I still couldn’t decide whether to wear my Lycra-Spandex blend bodysuit with the thousands of sequins hand-stitched on or some old overalls. See, I knew the bodysuit fit me like butter and epitomized beauty and grace, but the overalls would certainly get me some laughs for the big hole in the butt. I keep forgetting to fix it!

I was ambling around downtown Vancouver, weighing the merits of my custom-made 2,000-dollar costume against those ragged farm clothes, when a really unlucky thing happened to me: I stepped on some broken glass. “Oh, shit,” I said, trying to pick the shard out of my foot. “I have to do the Olympics tonight.”

I was in pain. I have to do something about this, but what? I wondered. Call my trainer and probably go to the hospital? Sit in a boring waiting room, then wait around some more for parking validation? Maybe get treated to a snack while I wait—maybe not?

Hell, no. I knew that I didn’t want to go to the hospital, but I was at a loss as to an alternative. Then I remembered the words of a classic Beatles song about letting things be, and I knew just what to do.

I called Kenny, the guy who I used to buy Oxycontin from in college, and he gave me the name of a trustworthy guy that I could go to around here. That guy set me up with horse tranquilizers, and let me tell you, my mood has brightened wonderfully. Searing pain, schmearing pain!

I’ve got about six hours until my event. I have to fit a warm up in there somewhere, but that still leaves me plenty of downtime. I haven’t seen Avatar yet, but the only showing would only leave me about eight minutes to get to the Olympics. I think that if I can grab a taxi right after I got out of the movie then I’d make it. Yeah, I’d probably make it. I’ll go see Avatar.

But who to invite? I could ask one of my friends or family members who came to Vancouver to cheer me on. Then again, I could just as easily go back to that corner and see what the homeless guy’s up to. I bet he hasn’t seen Avatar yet. And if I throw him a few dollars, he might even duck out a little early to get the cab. Hey, now there’s an idea!