HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout (43 page)

“Are we in Colorado?” asked Lena. “So
different from flat, little Denmark.”

“Our tallest point is less then a thousand
meters,” said Tres, motioning with his hand to the hillsides of
strewn boulders and scattered, solitary trees. “And we are still
climbing.”

“Welcome to Colorful Colorado,” read a large
road sign, set into a stone frame.

“Maybe Ralphie can stop and let us welcome
Colorado in our own way,” said Ed.

“We will stop at Grand Junction,” said
Larry. “Buck it up, Ed.”

.

“Aww, man,” said Ed. “I’m dying here. Can
you please have Ralphie pull over?”

Larry looked directly to Ed. “Lori’s waiting
for us,” he said.

“Even Olympic swimmers go to the
ba-bathroom,” said Ed. “I think she’d understand.”

A road sign announced, “Fruita, 6
miles.”

“In Fruita,” said Larry, as the Lincoln
approached a tunnel, carved into the base of a butte.

“Really amazing,” said Tres.

.

Larry raised his hand and motioned towards
the driver’s compartment. I turned and rapped on the smoked glass.
The glass lowered.

“Stop as soon as you can,” said Ed.

“Fruita,” said Larry.

“Fruita....” The glass raised.

By the time the Lincoln pulled off
Interstate 70, onto CO-340, Ed was shifting in his seat. Larry
whispered to Gina, who held the cloth bag Larry had been sitting
on.

“I won’t be long,” said Ed, as the Lincoln
pulled into a grassy rest area, across from Rib City.

“This is Ed’s stop,” said Larry.

Ed carefully climbed over Lena and Tres,
before he could back out of the cabin. “Ed,” said Larry, motioning
to Gina to hand Ed the bag. “Go to Rib City... Here’s money to buy
a mess of ribs.”

“Ribs? Are you sure? Ribs is messy.”

“And take your phone, so you can call when
they’re ready.”

“Won’t Ralphie get pissed? Ribs in the
Lincoln?”

Gina held the bag out, jiggling it in her
hand. Ed took the bag.

“And you got yer phone?”

“Wouldn’t leave home without it,” he
replied.

As soon as he got out of the car, Ed ran to
Rib City, across the rest area parking lot, alongside a mounted
Vietnam-era military helicopter.

Larry typed on his cell phone. When he
appeared to have finished, I heard a beep behind me, from what
sounded like it was Ralphie’s phone.

The Lincoln glided away from the rest
area.

“Is Ralphie moving the car?” asked
December.

Larry said nothing. Gina leaned into Larry’s
shoulder.

“We are back now on the highway,” said
Lena.

December pulled at Larry’s sleeve. “Hey,
dat’s someone we left, back dere.”

Larry picked up his cell phone from the cup
holder.

“So what’d ya order? Okay, w’ull, bye.”
Larry hung up.

Larry leaned into the leather seat and
closed his eyes. Tres and Lena looked at one another.

“Dat’s it?” said December. “We’re just gonna
leave him?”

“He’s got ten thousand bucks, a pink slip
and a mess of ribs,” said Larry, his eyes closed.

“Dem’s some mean jeans,” said December. “You
better not do dat to me!”

.

“Baby! Baby! Baby!” yelled December,
frantically working her way past me and Larry, so she could break
loose and run to Lori Lewis, standing tall, like a bronzed goddess,
walking from a sidewalk towards the Lincoln. December leapt onto
her body, and Lori caught her at the hips and held her legs for
long seconds as they kissed deeply.

December’s legs unwrapped from around Lori’s
torso, and she slid down, her arms wrapped around Lori’s neck,
pulling her into a deep forward stance, her arms around December’s
back and their lips locked. The two stood kissing, without any
change in position for a quarter-minute before anyone stepped from
the Lincoln. I got out, followed by Gina and Larry, and the two
filmmakers. After ending their kiss, December began groping Lori’s
body. “Oh, yeh baby... oh... look how strong you are, oh yeh.”

“Where’s Ed?” asked Lori. “I thought he
came, too?”

“Hunny ditched him this morning,” said
December, feeling Lori’s ass in her hands. “Cold, if you ask me,
but....”

“C’mon, pumpkin,” said Lori, gently pushing
December’s hands away. “Let’s get out’ta here.”

Two young blondes, each carrying shoulder
bags, trotted past Lori and December. “Good luck, old lady,” said
one.

“Hot, actually,” said the other, as they
passed.

.

Ralphie took the Lincoln through the crests
and passes of the Rockies, and descending into the wide,
desert-like plains of western Nebraska, with its rolling sand
hills. December missed most of the scenery, as her own eyes and
hands were focused on her lover, as me and the filmmakers and Larry
and Gina tried to keep up conversation.

The lovers gave themselves to one another,
as discretely and completely as two rutting people would after
having not seen one another in two months. December’s first orgasms
were almost muted affairs, but the long ride out of Colorado and
entry to Nebraska was marked by December becoming anything but
discrete as she ground and mashed into Lori’s body.

“Oh my God,” said Lena, at one point. “It’s
almost too much.” She didn’t seem intent toward any path of action,
and said her piece, with gasps of her own.

Half-an-hour into Nebraska, December and
Lori were each asleep in one another’s arms, sunshine streaming in
through the tinted windows, illuminating the paleness of December’s
skin, against Lori’s deep, rich bronzed tan. The two bodies,
intertwined, purred as one.

“So will the movie ever be shown?” I
asked,

“The movie?” said Lena, not breaking her
view to the two women.

“Larry’s grandmother? The dancer? That
one.”

“Only for the Royal Troupe,” said Tres, “and
anyone they think will want to attend. Maybe the Royal Family will
be given a copy…. But they don’t display failed projects.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I know you’ve
worked very hard….”

“Right, it was really something,” said
Tres.

“It could have been really something,” said
Lena.

“Do you have… any other… um… projects?” I
asked.

“My industrial holiday is complete this week
and I am done with my vacation money, so I must return to my
medical practice,” said Tres.

“Your… medical practice?” said Larry.

“We are oral surgeons,” said Lena, pointing
to she and Tres.

“What about my investment,” said Larry, as
though waking from a slumber. He sat upright, erect, engaged “I
mean, didn’t I have, like, a million dollars or something in
that?”

“One million and four hundred thousand in
dollars,” said Lena. “Almost ten million kroner which makes you a
leading investor in Danish cinema for the calendar year. You will
have quite a credit next year.”

“What do you mean by credit?” asked
Gina.

“A company that invests in the arts can
claim a credit. It translates to real money,” said Tres.

“You could set up a Danish arts company just
for the credit alone,” said Lena.

“We have lost money each of three years to
create this film, even with Larry’s big investment,” said Lena,
“but the value of the credit keeps us profitable... barely, but we
did not lose money.”

“Only because the Dogme95 film style is
cheap,” said Tres.

“That’s true,” said Lena.

“So I don’t get to attend the opening night,
but artists like me, huh?” asked Larry.

“And your credit,” said Lena, “has a cash
value of maybe half a million dollars, which is probably two years
of patronage residency.”

“Residency?” asked Gina.

“Arts Patronship Residency,” corrected Lena.
“Those who fund the arts, live for three months each season with
the rising artists, together in a colony either in Copenhagen or
Skagen and the artists propose their works. Our film commission
came from Ingeborg’s family, after we met them at a residency event
five years ago.”

.

From a deep sleep, Lori Lewis sat upright in
the Lincoln. “Where’s Ed?” Her eyes were still closed.

Larry also sat upright. The two were
shoulder-to-shoulder.

“He’s at a rib joint,” said Larry.

“He okay?”

“He’s okay.”

“We going back for him?”

“No.”

Lori lay back down and melted into
December’s body.

Larry lay down and melted into Gina’s
embrace.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

From the Platte to the Thames

As I settled into the first-class splendor
of our return flight from London, I looked at my ex-wife, Lori,
surrounded by well-wishers, shaking hands, being hugged, signing
autographs and smiling more broadly then I had ever seen her smile,
certainly more than at anytime in our marriage.

Larry sat in the seat beside mine.

To avoid having to talk with Larry, I dug
out my iPod, inserted the buds and flipped to the NPR report from
days earlier.

.

“
T-h-i-s... is London, but unless your name is
Gill or you served as a sergeant in the US army, London has been
anything but jolly for swimmers. Indeed, the only ways to keep
these Summer Games of the London Olympiad from being dominated by
freestyler phenoms Baljinder and Jazz Gill involved a flu medicine
and curry, or that American in her thirties, that army sergeant,
who swam through packs – and pain – to keep up with those fabulous
Gill Sisters.”

.

Ed’s insistence on a long stay in Vegas did
cost us time in getting to Omaha for the Nationals, but Lori’s
first match was on Day Two of the meet and her mentor, Pat
McCormick, met with officials several days earlier, to register
Lori and get credentials in order for her and the coach.

Music trumpeted and basslines thumped
between races in Omaha, and at peak television viewing
opportunities, fountains of fire spewed controlled flames in a wall
along one edge of the competition pool.

Far from the pool as our bleacher seating
may have been, what stands out from those days in Omaha – even in
the storm over the Army ass photo – was seeing my ex-wife as
utterly perfect. Certainly, I’m no athlete and I cannot judge an
Olympic performance, but each time my eyes recognized in the
distance Lori L. Lewis, the woman I saw was this incredibly
beautiful, deeply-tanned, long-limbed, muscular blonde, striding
like a goddess, drawing huge cheers no matter her finish, huge
sustained cheering on her world-record time in both the 400 and
800. Jumbocam shots showed her smile – that rare beast and delicate
flower – as she stood on the winner’s stand, or in the pool, or
when the crowd broke into chants of “Arm-mee.” Lori carried herself
with a sense of lightness that I rarely saw. That was I most
remembered about Nebraska, but for most others, it was the photo
that I knew clearly was not of her that most stood out from the
Nationals.

.

“
Before that one American could reach those
fabulous Gill sisters, she had her own steep climb. Oh, sure,
‘Pat’s Champs,’ and a record-setter in high school, but that was
literally decades ago. Californian Lori Lewis caught her first
break on the road to London when finalists from regional trials
failed a drug sweep. Lewis, a sergeant in the mechanized infantry,
advanced to the national trials, where a display of fealty to her
beloved Army nearly cost the trip to London.”

.

December and Larry, carrying trays laden
with food and beverages, made their way to Gina and I, in the “Team
Lori” section. Tres and Lena followed them, bringing our number
back to six, though with the parents, friends and supporters who
Larry had bought tickets for, the overall “Team Lori” section
numbered nearly 50, many with hand-lettered signs, to supplement
the banner that December and Gina would raise when Lori was in a
heat.

Larry carried four plates, each with
sausages, bread, mustard, fried onions and potato salad. December
carried a drink caddy and a bag of sides. Larry handed out plates
of food. December distributed drinks. “Must have pølse!” said Tres,
excitedly smearing mustard and onions onto a bread-wrapped
sausage.

“I’m going to shoot Lori’s heat,” said Lena,
wearing a press credential on a lanyard.

December pulled her cell from the pocket of
her oversized hooded sweatshirt. “Damn! Missed my baby’s call,”
pouted December. She perked up. “A text... Oh! Oh, hunnies! Do we
have any ber-knock-u-lurs?”

Lena Martin held her press credential still,
as two security guards examined her badge and, with a wave, allowed
her to the pool area, where she set up in the only spot left open,
between an ESPN camera and a team from Univision.

On the opposite end of the pool, Lori Lewis,
in green, and seven other swimmers drew to their marks, while
coaches and officials argued, arms waving, with occasional pointing
towards Lori, who stood at her mark, shaking first one leg and then
the other. Several meet officials stood shoulder-to-shoulder behind
Lori. Lena filmed.

“Dat’s da suit I gave her,” screamed
December. “Yeh, ba-BEE!” shouted December, who seemed flushed, her
face red.

“Are you okay?” I asked, as December began
to breathe rapidly, chanting softly, “yeh, baby.”

The big screen showed officials arguing,
swimmers at their marks and finally the arm-waving ending and,
seconds later, the start of the 400 meter finals.

Indignant grumbling around us turned
instantly into a hush, as thousands of eyes in Nebraska, and across
the country, watched Lori Lewis put in a flawless performance of
superior strength executed in perfect form.

“Go, Soldier Girl!” yelled December.

Larry’s feeble attempt to chant nonetheless
got picked up all around us, and much of the bleachers joined in,
chanting, “Arm-MEE!”