Going for the Gold

WARNING: Contains substance abuse and violence

I’m walking down a Mexican beach in a gold bikini at sunset. I stop and look at the setting sun, then look at the bottle in my hand.

I squeeze it and a dollop of cream drops in my palm. I raise it to my face and rub it into my skin.

I turn to the camera and say, “Belleza Dorada. Te quita anos de vida!”

“Cut!” the director yells. He jumps down from his chair, storms up to me, and glares. “I not beleef joo! Joo must make me beleef joo!”

I want to remind this Kubrick wannabe I’m an Olympic gold medalist, not an Oscar-winning actress, and then plant my considerably long leg up his ass.

Instead, I smile and say, “Si.”

Violet – my assistant – steps in and speaks some rapid-fire Spanish I can’t follow. As bad as things are, they’d be a lot worse without her.

After a minute, she turns to me and says, “We’ll try again tomorrow morning at sunrise. It’s not like anyone will know the difference. And if they do, they’re paying attention to the wrong thing, right?”

I nod. Thank God for sisters like her.

“Why did I agree to this?” I say as I change out of the bikini back in our so-called “hotel”.

Violet says, “Free weekend in Acapulco?”

I glare at her. It’s hard to pull off when you’re topless, but I try. I then drop the bottoms and dig through my suitcase for some clothes. I find shorts, panties, and a T-shirt okay, but a bra decides to play hide-and-seek.

I catch sight of her in the mirror. She’s biting her lip.

“What?”

“Patsy called last week. She–”

“Can burn in Hell,” as I pull on the clothes.

Fuck the bra.

“Come on, let’s get shit-faced.”

And do we ever. Correction, do I ever. I lose count after the fifth shot of tequila and the third serving of some local drink I can’t pronounce.

I think I flash the bar, just another stop on the general downslope of what has become my life. If I throw up, at least I don’t remember that. 

Got to take the victories where you can get them.

Violet carries/drags me down the hallway back to our room. She almost loses me as she fumbles with the key, an honest-to-goodness key, but she’s a pro at this and keeps me upright – barely.

She gets us inside and drops me on the bed.

“Thanks, sith. You’re the betht.”

“Uh huh.”

As sleep drags me under, I think about Patsy and what she did. My last thought is that I hope her next period comes early and when it does, she’s wearing a white dress.

Bright light yanks me awake.

Too bright, too fucking bright!

Wait a minute…

Shit!

I lurch out of bed and trip over my suitcase.

I don’t remember putting it there.

I stumble towards the bathroom, but it’s on the wrong side.

What the fuck?

Someone knocks on the door.

It’s probably the director, coming to fire me for oversleeping.

Damn it, Violet, why didn’t you wake me up?

Another voice counters, You were probably too hung over.

The door opens and in walks a leggy redhead.

I launch myself at her and pin her to the wall.

“You got some balls coming down here, Patsy. If I pulled down your shorts, would I find a dick?”

“Okay, Tracy, I get it, you’re not a morning person, but this is a bit much even for you.”

I give her an ugly laugh. “After what you did, I’d say I’m the fucking model of restraint.”

Her face twists with confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Yeah sis, what are you talking about?” says Violet from the doorway.

I glare at her. “Did you have a big bowl of amnesia from breakfast? This bitch stole from us eight years ago and we’ve been living hand-to-mouth ever since! It’s why we’re in this Mexican fleabag hotel, shooting this stupid commercial that we probably got fired from!”

“We’re not in Mexico, we’re in L.A.!” Patsy says and pushes against me

She pushes against me, but I shove her back and cock a fist. “I’m going to bash in your lying, thieving face.”

Violet steps in and catches it. “Listen to Patsy. We are in L.A., we are in a five-star hotel, and you didn’t know Patsy eight years ago. What year is it?”

I tell her.

She shakes her head. “No, it’s not. See?”

She holds up her phone, and the date is there.

What the fuck?

I release Patsy. “Sorry. It just felt so real…”

She gives me her lopsided grin. “Maybe next time, don’t hit the tequila so hard, eh? Now come on, the tournament starts in half an hour.”

I frown at her.

“The charity tournament we signed up for. Definitely lay off the tequila.”

Thankfully, we’re in a beachfront hotel and the tournament is across the street, so me and Patsy make it in time. And since it’s for charity, it’s more about sound bites and photo ops, and she handles them with ease.

There’s no real pressure to win – it’s about which team’s charity gets the big prize – but still, you want to; once you’ve done the Olympics, that’s what it’s all about. But I’m too distracted to focus on the game, and we get eliminated in the first round.

As we leave the court, I say to Patsy, “Sorry. That dream still has me messed up. I’m heading back to the hotel.”

“Are you sure more sleep is the answer?”

I return to the hotel room, and Violet is there on her laptop listening to music.

“Whatcha workin’ on?” I say as I tap her shoulder.

She squeals in fright and leaps out of her chair.

What the…?

I glance at her computer. Was she looking at porn?

My eyes widen and I lean in.

Double what the…?

I turn just in time to take a lamp to my face.

I’m on the floor now.

Violet is straddling me. I can see her lips moving, but her words are very faint.

Why?

She raises the lamp, murder in her eyes.

Why?

***

FORMER OLYMPIAN FOUND DEAD

ACAPULCO, Mexico - Tracy Michaelson, co-winner of the gold medal in beach volleyball eight years ago, was found dead in her hotel room on Saturday.

Michaelson, whose post-Olympic career was marked by a series of poor financial decisions, was there to film a commercial.

Police have yet to reveal a cause of death. She is survived by her sister Violet, who was unavailable for comment.