Daniel Abraham - Inside Straight

“I’ve been trying hard to forget it for the past two years.”

“Well, no matter what happens, you’ll have serious heat.” The agent’s kiss of death. As if unconsciously literalizing the idea, Dyan gives him a friendly peck on the cheek, and leaves him.

All Jamal can do now is pace. He thinks back on the appearance at the school and has no memory of anything he or Rosa said. Back to the last few challenges—back to that day on the road to Griffith Park Observatory.

Don’t look back, look forward!

Wearing the headset that has by now become a permanent part of her head, Eryka knocks on the door to the locker room. “Show time.”

Feeling like a prizefighter headed for the arena, Jamal emerges. The hallway is still empty, but he can feel vibrations through the floor. Only now does he realize he will be in front of a live audience. Odd to think that in five years as a stuntman, two years as a film and theater major, he has only performed in front of a group larger than a production crew three times—all today.

You’d think he’d be used to it.

Music blasts as Eryka opens the door. The noise has heft, like a strong wind, an effect no doubt heightened by the difference in air pressure between the claustrophobic hallway and the open stage and theater.

With the sharp rise in noise comes a corresponding loss of light: it is dark backstage. Jamal blinks, stumbles, feels a hand grabbing his arm. “Careful!”

It’s Rosa, visible now as Jamal’s eyes adjust. He nods a thank you as he feels the flurry of activity around them—production assistants, grips, stagehands, all in motion, a voice penetrating the curtain that separates them from the set and hundreds of fans.

“God, I hate this,” Rosa says. The simple admission wins her Jamal’s eternal gratitude and affection. They are soldiers in the same foxhole. He actually feels—fleetingly—that it would be okay if she won. “I’d rather be trying to lift Holy Roller.”

“Yeah,” Jamal says, “or trying to get Spasm to shut up.”

The curtain opens. They are blinded by the light.

When Jamal can see again, he finds himself on a platform with Peregrine and Rosa. All around the platform are life-size Jetboy statues. There is a flat-panel television screen the size of Vermont to his right, facing the audience. In front of him, behind Peregrine and Rosa, is a low set of bleachers. And sitting there, wearing what can only be described as shit-eating grins: Pop Tart, Toad Man, Brave Hawk, the Candle—at least ten of the discards. Jamal can’t be sure, because his vision is still being blasted by lights, and Peregrine is talking, commanding him to turn his attention to the audience.

The stands are filled. In the front row, Jamal can see his mother and Big Bill—God only knows what lies Berman had to tell to get his father here.

Peregrine is demanding his attention. He turns, catches Jade Blossom’s eye—and quickly turns away. Their fling turned out to be as mutually unsatisfying as it was brief.

“Our on-line voting is open now. The number is on your screen. Text ‘R-O-S-A’ for Rosa Loteria, ‘S-T-U-N’ for Stuntman.” Jamal is still boggled at knowing that all over America, people are clicking on their computer screens or using their thumbs to send text messages. “But first,” Peregrine says, “we take a look at our fallen friends who have become…true American Heroes.”

On the monitor, a montage of events from the earlier episodes…King Cobalt… Simoon…Hardhat… God only knows how long it took the editors to find footage that made these guys look that good.

They have managed to score the tribute with a tune that recalls the Navy Hymn. Strangely, surprisingly, Jamal finds tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t even like these aces—the ones he knew at all—yet they really did something. They weren’t playing games for the amusement of people living in trailers in Oklahoma or crammed into high-rise boxes in Yokohama, they were risking their lives.

Losing their lives.

The tribute ends. The camera finds Peregrine again, as she says, “Let’s have a moment of silence.”

Jamal bows his head, even as he hears Toad Man—ten feet away—saying just loudly enough to be heard by the finalists, “Great television, isn’t it?” For an instant, Jamal wishes he could slam the Toad. But the impulse passes. Whether it is the sudden tide of good fellowship flowing from the tribute to fallen aces, or an athlete’s Zen state inherited from Big Bill Norwood, Jamal feels confident. The game is in its final minutes.

Then he hears Peregrine announce, “In addition to the votes cast by our viewers around the world, the aces here with us tonight will also have a major say in deciding the real American Hero. Their votes, cast here tonight, will be equal to a thousand viewer votes.”

This news hits Jamal like a blindside tackle. It’s one thing for the contest to be decided by viewers who have only watched the shows. It’s a whole different deal to let the contestants—the same aces who lost the challenges or otherwise screwed up—take out their resentments on the finalists.

American Hero has just become a popularity contest—and Jamal’s big problem is that, while Rosa Loteria annoyed the hell out of the other aces, she never played the race card.

Jamal and Rosa are forced to sit, smile, and react—knowing the damn director will be pulling extreme reactions from the footage—as the Candle arches his eyebrows as they watch the first challenge, aces against flames. (“God,” Rosa mutters, “I’ve heard about people being so gay they’re on fire, but give it a break.”)

He votes for Rosa. No justice.

Then the underwater safe under the lake—and Diver’s throaty laugh. She, too, votes for Rosa.

Then there’s a double whammy: Brave Hawk stands to vote, and the big screen reminds the world how Stuntman turned aside the Apache’s offer of an alliance. Jamal can’t help meeting his father’s eyes, it’s clear that Big Bill never saw this episode. He just shakes his head.

A surprise, though—Brave Hawk votes for Stuntman!

But that bright moment is followed by the darkest of all. Jade Blossom, clearly—if the hoots of the men in the audience are any indication—the most popular American Hero contestant of all—pointedly refuses to look at Jamal as she approaches the ballot box. Even as the big screen shows footage of them kissing (how the hell did Art and his team get this?) Jade Blossom votes for Rosa.

Toad Man votes—Stuntman! Then Pop Tart, Joe Twitch. Who did they go for? “Can you believe this? I’m losing count!” he says to Rosa.

“Don’t worry about what’s happening here,” she says, looking baffled herself. “This is only a few thousand votes. The audience is half a million.”

Jamal doesn’t even see the footage of the hostage challenge, or hear Dragon Girl, or have any idea how she voted. He sees one of the Jetboy statues looking down at him. Now, there was an American Hero —he didn’t ask for it, he just did the job that had to be done.

Jamal tries to look at the scoreboard for the audience votes, but can’t see it. Of course, Berman and his team don’t want the Terrible Two to know what’s coming. Jamal can only look sideways at Rosa, as Peregrine goes into a torturous spiel about how these votes are now being integrated with those of the viewing public, and offers a tortured word: “Congratulations.”