High Performance

The car had been beautiful before Marla had fallen on it. I had always appreciated mustangs, and so seeing the destruction of this one after the plummeting of her body was dreadful. I find myself wondering if the owner's insurance policy has a clause covering damage caused by dead cheerleaders.

It seems a little unfair and cruel to speak of Marla like that. I regret the thought but I can't help it, it's how I've always thought.

She was someone special.

She had a family and friends and she loved music. I will say that she was beautiful, although she didn't see herself as such. Many would have agreed with her opinions. She often said she was too short and a bit flat in the areas society deemed best rounded and firm.

I remember her standing in front of the mirror, cupping her small mounds of flesh and looking sideways at her reflection, wanting to cry. She'd often told me that her previous boyfriend made fun of them a lot. "He was always telling me I should get bigger ones," she said.

I'd always shake my head, thinking she had nice breasts. I never told her, though. She would have called me a liar.

In her mind all men wanted their women to have bigger ones.

Marla was odd in ways. She would worry about her looks and yet she seemed to go out of her way to get noticed. Obscene highlights for her hair, brand name clothes of the most color and flounce. I recall one time when the rest of her squad had planned to get identical haircuts. Marla dissented, making her hair short and boyish. She did it to piss the rest of them off, she hated them so.

I suppose that was what drew us together in the end. She wanted something different and I sort of understood her motives.

That's all there is in life, really. Motives, ambitions.

I could spin this as a romance story, but I'd hate to lie. It was simpler than that.

She and I were at a party the first time we met. I don't know who put it on or for what occasion. I doubt she knew either. It was near the college, I was new in town and didn't care who was supplying or for what reason. I went for the cheap beer and silly college girls. She was in the way.

There's nothing like a girl keg-standing in a mini-skirt to keep you from getting a refill.

I was annoyed; she was half-gone and beer-goggled. But once she'd been set right-side-up again, she smiled at me. She noticed my disenchanted expression, grabbed my cup and filled it for me. We began talking. "How are you?" "I'm fine now." "Where are you from?"

She kept sending me for refills. It was about an hour before dawn when she whispered in my ear and we stumbled through the mess of unintelligent college kids into the night.

It is a common setup. A girl walks into a bar or a party; she wiggles and swishes until she hooks up with a mark. She loads him with booze and then takes him out for a walk. Three blocks later her big and burly accomplice knocks the mark on his ass. They rob and abscond with a wallet full of goodies.

When she stopped walking and stepped off the sidewalk, I turned to see what was holding her up, thinking she'd dropped her keys or lost one of her heals. She seemed to study me from the shadows, pitying me like someone would a lost puppy. Then the hard knock landed at the base of my skull. I landed on my knees and received a steel-toed boot in my solar plexus.

I'm not tough. I didn't fight back. I did what any normal human being would do in that situation; I passed out from the pain and woke up without my wallet.

I wouldn't have minded so much if the whole thing had ended then and there.

There comes a beep, and then a voice squawks through the radio reporting the ambulance driving through the main parking gate. The stadium command post acknowledges them. I see the lights across the gigantic parking lot.

There is a roar from the stadium. Somebody has scored another touchdown.

I press the call button on my radio and direct the ambulance to the scene.

I got the job with stadium security when I got tired of stacking meat on sandwiches for edible take home pay. I was not the only high school drop out working at the college. There are at least 10 home games a season; the stadium's security force and the police department team were up to cover them all. On average there are 50 security officers and 35 policemen walking through the concourse, concession area, and fanfare, another five security guards moved through the press box at a regular rotation.

Typical calls on game day are either lost children or medical emergencies. Sometimes a few old fans have heart attacks after shouting too hard at the referees. Once after about a month working the games, a kid got caught pitching quarters off the edge at the top of the stands. Its seven stories up there, so the kid was charged with reckless endangerment.

One of the occasional perks the supervisor highlighted when I took the job was the pre-game work.

"You show up 4 hours before kick off. After sweeping the stands, you and the rest of the security staff go down to the locker rooms in search of contraband."

He initialed the form and passed it over for me to sign. "You get to meet the coaches and the players," he said, taking a toothpick from a little dispenser on his desk and sticking it between his lips. "And you get to meet the cheerleaders."

The cops at the stadium are actually pretty human. Most of them volunteer for the detail, optioning to spend their Saturday afternoons watching football and getting paid for it. They take long breaks in the command post drinking Pepsi and talking team stats. My first day on the job a few of them punched me in the shoulder and called me "sport." I spent a few minutes talking about Madden football and Dante Hall.

"I'll bet you can't wait to meet the cheerleaders." One of them said, thumping the bill of my orange cap.

"Oh yeah, has anyone warned you about Marla yet?"

The gates had opened and the crowds were swarming through the stadium. I walked through the concourse with a couple of cops. I kept my eyes on the crowd as I'd been trained to do. The cops whispered into their radios that we were on our way down to the locker rooms. The attendants down there would prep everyone for inspection, making sure of there were anything to be found it was gone by the time we got there.

We took the elevators down a level and swept through the lockers looking for contraband. We found nothing, the teams were clean, both coaches were amiable and we were back in the elevator after 20 minutes.

"Okay, Sonny," said one of the cops as he unbuttoned his shirt pocket and unfolded a duty roster. "You'll be on the field in front of sections 8 and 9 today. That puts you right behind the home team, so you'll have your hands full with loaded fans."

"Sounds fine by me," I said. The elevator doors opened onto the concourse level of the stadium. The wave of noise hit us as we stepped out and the two cops nodded to me and walked back toward the command post where they would spend the rest of the game. I checked the numbers over the gate nearest me and walked in the opposite direction. I was on the other side of the field.

The referee's whistle sounded, signaling 5 minutes to kick off. Fans stood up and cheered, the band struck up the fight song and the team mascot ran onto the field leading a long line of cheerleaders.

The second they were lined up my stomach turned. I recognized the short one on the end despite the pom-poms and glitter. Her hair was done back in a ponytail and it bobbed as she jumped and kicked along with the rest, making the little hoots and shouts designed to insight a controlled riot among the spectators.

It's hard to say why I didn't point and shout at her, exposing her in the first moment of recognition. Perhaps I felt that the act of rushing the field and accusing a woman of theft would have seemed ridiculous in the eyes of 70,000 football fans. Some guy in a security vest demanding the arrest of a cheerleader is a poor reason to delay the start of the game.

I watched her shake her ass and shimmy her pom-poms. The sparkle and glitter always accompanied by a smile of excellent teeth. She hailed the home-team as they took the field, the short little cheerleader with all the pep.

The game began and I turned to face the crowd. I tried not to look back over my shoulder. I didn't want her to see me. I didn't want to see her. I just wanted life to go on.

I had a new wallet and I'd grown rather attached to it.

When they pull up, I go to meet the paramedics. One of them takes a glance at the girl atop the totaled Mustang and shakes his head.

They try for a few minutes. I play with my ring while Marla's body jumps from the electricity they surge through it. I know it's hopeless but they try. They have to try.

Finally, the one with the paddles switches off the machine. They bring out a cart with a folded black bag. The one with the paddles shouts to the driver. Marla is officially dead at the scene. I take my first good look at her as they take her out of the twisted metal and broken glass.

There is sadness in her glazed-over eyes. I'm amazed there isn't more blood. I move out of the way as they lay out the bag. A few of the cops walk up and have a look. A few of them shake their heads in that way that implies sorrow. "What a waste," they all seem to say.

My radio beeps and the command post asks me to report. I tell them I'm on my way. I turn and walk, not really wanting to look back. Another massive outcry from the stands signifies the completion of another miraculous play on the field.

***

It was half-time when she spotted me. I pretended not to see her walking over and then I pretended not to feel her hand on my shoulder. "You're new, aren't you?"

I nodded. I guess I was a little hurt that she didn't recognize me. What did I expect? She should remember every drunk she'd ever rolled for easy cash.

She moved in front of me, forcing me to look at her instead of the stands. "Let me guess. The guys in the security room told you about me?"

I grunted and concentrated on a drunken fan with his face painted haphazardly like Mel Gibson in Braveheart.

"They like to make fun of me, I guess. It's because I ask a lot of stupid questions."

I shrugged, "Really."

"I'm Marla. What's your name?" She stuck a hand out and flashed me a familiar smile. "Watts," I said without looking at her. I left her hand alone and she eventually dropped it.

She was getting the idea. I didn't want to talk to her.

"You're a regular charmer, aren't you?"

The half-time buzzer sounded. She gave up pouting at me and looked to the scoreboard. The clock had been reset for the second half.

She shrugged and walked back to the line of cheerleaders, apparently forgetting all about me once again. When she was a good ten feet away I checked my back pocket. My wallet was still safe.

***

I punch the numbers to unlock the security door. Inside are some cops I know and a few I don't. I sit down with my supervisor and a police detective.

They ask me to tell them everything.

I had been assigned to work the press box. That entailed sweeping all the rooms and checking identification.

Once every 20 minutes I had checked the roof.

On the second sweep, I'd found the roof-door ajar. I went up to find the place deserted except for a pair of pom-poms lying on the concrete near the edge. The metallic streamers were fluttering in the breeze.

What useless items are pom-poms.

I looked over the edge and saw her down there, Marla, wrapped in a Mustang.

***

It is really hard to ignore a girl who offers you a ride back to your apartment when it's raining torrents. It was deep into the season. It had started two hours into the pre-game work. The game had been cancelled before kick off and we'd all been told to go home.

I didn't have a car so I began walking toward the bus stop.

She pulled over and opened the passenger door. I considered ignoring her but, I was cold and wet. I hopped into her little Miata and closed the door.

Sitting in the little car, my legs pressed against my chest, I must have looked ridiculous, but she didn't laugh at me. She just pulled away from the curb.

It wasn't even a block before she began talking.

"I know you, don't I?" she said.

I watched a little kid in the back of a gray mini-van staring intently at a balloon tied to his car seat. Why hadn't I just walked to the bus stop?

"Come on, Watts. Tell me where we've met before. Was I evil to you?"

I remained quiet. However, quiet seemed to make her want to talk all the more.

"Watts, the suspense is killing me. I know we've met. Are you related to somebody I knew at college?"

We passed the mini-van and I decided to play a sympathy card.

"I'm not related to anybody. I'm an orphan."

It's funny how different people react to orphans. In Marla's case it was as if I'd confessed to being a pirate or a white whale. She'd only ever read about orphans in old books. She stared for a moment before doing what everyone else ever does.

"I'm sorry," she said, and stopped talking for a minute.

It was a fine minute. Oh, how I wish it had been two.

"How'd they die?"

I put my hands on my knees and took a deep breath to signify my discomfort. "They were shot," I said. "It was a cocked up robbery attempt."

"That's awful.'

I didn't disagree with her.

She took an exit off the parkway and we headed toward the north side of town. We'd gone about three blocks when she suddenly braked and pulled to the curb.

"That's it, isn't it?"

"What?"

"That's where we know each other from. You were one of those guys I baited into…"

Guilty people never seem able to finish sentences. She stopped in the middle of that one and let it get lost somewhere in the floorboards of her car. We sat, staring at one another for a minute.

"You could have told," she said after are a good long pause. "Why haven't you?"

To be honest, I never answered the question. Why hadn't I turned her in? She was guilty. Evidence probably existed and could have been traced down. At the very least she could have been printed and tagged, her record spotted a bit.

I've never had a good reason for not snitching on her, but the one I gave her was apparently fine.

"I lost $30, and an I.D. that was due to expire in another two months, and a credit-card that was already over its limit. You didn't get away with enough to make it worth going after you."

It was mostly true. I neglected to mention how sore I'd been the next morning and how sad I'd been to loose my coffee club card for Starbucks.

"Also," I said. "It was a while ago. If I'd raised a fuss it would have ended up as a case of my word against yours. I think there are better cases the courts could be tied up with."

She looked out the windscreen at nothing in particular. I could see her thinking. Worrying. She finally faced me and began her explanation. She said it had all been the idea of her boyfriend at the time, that she'd only done it once or twice, and she'd felt awful about the whole thing…it was a long-winded apology full of regret and repentance.

I listened to the whole thing and then, like a dope, I asked her out to dinner.

***

When I take the detectives back to the wreck, the body already lies in the black bag on the ground. Yellow tape has gone up and a few fans walking past slow down and stare a bit before moving back into the fanfare and off toward their seats.

On game day nothing is more important than the action on the field.

They unzip the bag and I identify the body. Marla has been a favorite cheerleader at the stadium for a long time. A few of the cops have come by to offer sympathy. She was always nice to them.

Brunswick, an old cop whom everyone calls Joe Joe, lights up a cigarette and cries through the smoke like a true Marlboro man. Joe Joe is funny when he smokes. He seems like the type who goes home, shucks his uniform, grabs a carton and his favorite blue jeans, and heads out to smoke in a rusted out old Cutlass-Supreme. It is a religious practice, done seven times a day while facing east.

He walks over and puts a hand on my shoulder. He apologizes and says something nice about Marla. "She seemed so happy, all the time," he says.

I try not to gag on his exhaust.

***

We'd been on two dates before Marla told me about her second job with the radio station.

Her show was on every other night. I began listening. I'd lie in bed and listen to her voice over the radio. She'd play good music and talk in her quiet whispering tones. It was like a seduction. The shows were always live, so whenever she would make a mistake she'd laugh about it and play something by Lead Belly or Cream.

"This one is for all the lovers out there who know that Clapton is God."

I laughed at her jokes and listened to the men who called her show and proposed to her. Eventually I would drift off to the tunes and wake up when I felt her crawl into bed beside me around 3 o'clock in the morning.

"Did you listen?" she'd always ask.

I would rub her back or kiss her earlobe and smile. I never missed a show. We often fell asleep talking about music.

Despite always being the last in bed she always the first to wake up.

Once, after living together a few months, she told me about the scams and how they'd all started for her.

"This guy I was with, he told me it was fun and an easy way to make a few bucks," she said. "I'd go out and find guys at parties. I'd flirt with them and then invite them back to my place, saying it was just around the corner. Usually I'd managed to get them real drunk before leading them out of the party. He'd jump them a few blocks later and we'd go back to his place."

I learned I was one of at least 20 guys who'd been rolled. She said she'd felt awful after the first one but that she'd been scared. "I mean, it was fun in a dangerous sort of way," she said. "But mostly I kept doing it because I was afraid to say no to him."

The guy, Jonah, was a scary sort according to Marla. They'd dated for a few months when he began to display more and more of his criminal tendencies.

"When I started cheerleading at the stadium he began dealing prescriptions. He wanted me to help him sell Hydrocodine and Demerol to the football teams. I decided that was too much, so I said no and told him to leave me alone."

"And he just let you go?" I asked.

She nodded and gave me a half smile. I noticed she hugged herself little. I had a feeling it hadn't been that easy for her to get away from him.

***

Early this morning, Marla had woken me up by playing a Herbie Hancock album. We shared fruit loops and sex for breakfast. I eventually had to pry myself away and head for the stadium. I had to be at work first. We took some chicken out of the freezer to let it thaw for dinner.

She kissed me and promised she'd see me at the game.

***

It takes 10 minutes for anyone to actually stop and watch them load the body bag into the ambulance. The photographs have been taken. The detective has a few officers sweeping the roof, searching of a note of some sort. They ask me if I want to sit in the ambulance with her. I shrug and look toward the one man crowd. It's a large guy in a vendor's uniform. He leans against the concrete columns of the stadium watching the police putter about.

For some reason I don't like him staring. There's something wrong about him being the first person to take a real interest.

I walk over to Joe Joe, who has decided to stick around in case I need him to drive me home. I point to the guy by the column.

"You know that guy, Joe?"

Joe Joe puffs and shrugs. "He's new. I think they hired him over at the burger place a week or so ago. Name's Joshua… or something like that."

"Jonah, maybe?"