Bad with Names

“I’ve just been dancing in stupid costumes my entire life.” Chelsea wished she had more interesting, more articulate, more refined answers for the journalist lady. She said her name was something with an “I” or an “E,” but Chelsea was always horrible with names. 

“Well, talk about where. And what costumes? I’m curious.”

The journalists’ smirk felt genuine. Chelsea had no idea why someone with years of journalism school would resort to interviewing professional cheerleaders. Weren’t there murderers to stop? Corruptions to expose? Still, the journalist stared into Chelsea’s confused eyes and beamed, starving for an answer. 

The game was about to start. It was the final game–the final chance for Chelsea’s team to reach a place they’d never been. The little room the journalist lady dragged Chelsea to was far away, private, but not immune to the electric hum of tens of thousands of fans, praying that this year would be different than the last one, the last twenty, or the last fifty. Dying to feel the noise of the court, Chelsea rushed through her life. She grew up in a Louisiana town whose residents still thought it was the nineteen twenties. 

“Sorry to interrupt, but–like–an actual vaudeville star?” 

“Yup.” The admission always came with humor and shame for Chelsea. The lady with the microphone and notepad (Chelsea wasn’t sure why both; it made her seem like part journalist, part therapist–and Chelsea hated therapists) wanted more. She wanted much more than what Chelsea cared to give her. She was needed on the court any minute. 

“Can you tell me about that?”

“I mean…it’s literally as simple as my town still had vaudeville shows in little gazebos, and my parents wanted me in little dresses dancin’ around.” Chelsea had been waging a losing war against her thick southern accent. The exposure to others during college should have helped, but her education in Dallas did her vocal cords and dropped “gs” no favors. 

She was completely alone now. No parents, no teachers. Entirely alone in terms of authority, that is. The other cheerleaders were the only real friends she’d ever had. They’ve yet to pass the four-year test, but nobody in Chelsea’s life had set such an impressive precedent. She was glad to be exploring New York City, and the old men sounded close enough to the ones in New Orleans to comfort her. Chelsea would not yet reveal to the journalist lady the solace she took in New Orleans the second her eleven-year-old vaudeville legs knew the way to the train station. She was months away from telling her about how deaf her eleven-year-old vaudeville ears were to the “worried” roars of her pimp–sorry–mother. That woman was more afraid of Chelsea being spotted by a talent agent than a murderer. Hell, a murderer would’ve put the Missus on the news. However, during Chelsea’s first meeting with the journalist, she only told tale of her vaudeville gazebos, a college spent on Dallas dancefloors and some stages, and her cliche trip to New York, where she’s been dancing for basketball fans for the past two years.

“Would you say you like it? 

“I love it.”

Some say home-court advantage is a myth. Chelsea says that those wretched “some” clearly didn’t live in New York. The power of the home court was far more important than merely winning. Chelsea’s team lost quite a bit. Still, she and her girls would dance, smile, and ensure that the most exciting place in the world never lost hope. As the game went on and leather ripped clean through nylon more frequently for the out-of-towners, Chelsea thought of infinitely more things to say to the journalist lady. Chelsea had been so annoyed by the intrepid woman keeping her from feeling the glow she only felt on the cusp of a winner-take-all game that she failed to consider that she–of all twenty-first-century ex-vaudeville stars–was being interviewed. It might have been the first time in her life that someone had taken an actual intellectual interest in her. People had always been interested in the way her body moved, from her parents making sure she ate like a medieval peasant and could twist like a worm to the college boys in Dallas who just said “cool” to whatever she said–their eyes and thoughts either million miles away or tilted down. The journalist had no intention of seeing how Chelsea’s knees would flick or hips would flow. She was–for some ungodly reason–interested in how it made Chelsea feel. 

Chelsea wanted desperately, as the third quarter came to a close and the possibility of her not dancing until the next season became abundantly clear, to tell the journalist that she had been revived in The City. She had dug up the body of a little girl who drifted through New Orleans, sleepwalked starving on gazebos, and was constantly killed by eyes. She dragged this girl behind her through the leering eyes of college halls, and finally, only after placing her under the stadium lights, was the girl struck by lightning. None of the thousands of people cared if Chelsea failed. None knew her name. All she needed to do was get people excited enough to get more excited–and her only means of doing it was with something she, whether she liked it or not, was goddamn incredible at. 

She snuck into the hallway as the fourth, dreary quarter started. She never wanted to give up on the crowd as they sulked and debated leaving, but the legs that danced carried her into the empty hallways. People would give up and buy one last beer soon, but–for now–Chelsea needed to find the journalist. Twenty thousand seats. Music and nearly hopeless chants were pleasantly deafening. While Chelsea was never going to remember the interviewer’s name, she had the hope of recalling pleasantries. This was, of course, a trait drilled into her by her mother when new people were met. Chelsea could always learn from these interactions. Longer eye contact, not extending your hand too fast, making sure you weren’t slouching. Chelsea was running with no real idea why. Ten fourth-quarter minutes were no shorter than twenty. Still, Chelsea started to sweat, trying to remember their interaction as hard as she could. Aside from a potentially revealing memory, there was no other plan. Maybe Chelsea would dash by a door and feel her presence. Which totally isn’t a crazy thing to think. 

Eventually, Chelsea’s glances into the arena yielded results. Sort of. The cameras scanned briefly by the fancy box seats. The journalist had mentioned something about her first time being in a box. Chelsea thought she was hitting on her. Her name was Emory. Or something like that. 

Chelsea and her royal blue top had finally made it to the box seats. She, herself, had only seen one sports game in a box. Her friend’s rich dad in college had allowed a bunch of recently twenty-year-old girls to scream and laugh unsupervised high up in an arena in Dallas. These silly little boxes were bigger than most apartments in the surrounding city. Chelsea wondered if anyone had ever lived in them. Maybe a player’s son or a high-out-of-their-mind musician would sneak up here and see how long it would take for them to get caught. Chelsea was friendly with all of the security guards, in part thanks to how her mother trained her to be pleasant and in part thanks to how rude her mother was to staff of every kind, everywhere. Chelsea quickly found Emory. The journalist was all alone. 

“What do rehearsals look like? I imagine you don’t practice with the team.”

“No, not really. That would be fun, but I think part of it would be kind of depressing. Cheerleading a practice? Come on. But–yeah. It’s something in between cheerleading and a serious dance rehearsal. The floors are incredible. I know that’s such a stupid detail, but the floors are just–ugh–incredible. When I was a kid and watched games–I never really watched games, by the way. This wasn’t a dream of mine in terms of the whole sports thing. I did, actually, watch a game from a box in Dallas with my girlfriends from college–no idea where they are now–but…yeah. What was I talking about? Oh–right. The floors. Jesus, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. This is what I’m here for.”

“Really, the floors?”

“Whatever you have to say.” Maybe she was hitting on her. 

“Okay, well, whenever I saw the people cleaning the floors and stuff, I always thought it was just for show and didn’t actually do anything.”

“It helps the dancing?”

“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Chelsea giggled, clapping to her team making a shot. The few points did nothing for the overall score. Most of the stars were hurt or exhausted. Chelsea would have a long summer. Team pride only snuck into her lungs when she and her boys were winning, as Chelsea never really thought too far ahead. The world could end over the summer.

“I never really liked summer—my whole life. Not just because it’s hot a lot of the time in Louisiana–it’s not really…for most kids; summer means no school. For me, summer meant more dancing shit—the bad ones. And when I got into high school, it–like–meant I would just be with my parents all summer. Gettin’ a job didn’t help none. Money I wanted to spend for myself became the house’s. That’s the way it always was, of course. At sixteen, I could actually get mad at it. Anyway, I decided to stay in Dallas during college a lot, and that–Lord, let me tell ya–that was wonderful. Sure, it was mostly a struggle and a whole hell of a lot of sleepin’ on random couches. And now I’m back to dreadin’ a long summer. First off, summers in New York get real crazy–but so do winters. The way the winter wind slices through the buildings? Phew. But an early summer now means we lost. Means a whole other shitty city somewhere is laughin’ at us. And I ain’t even from here…” Chelsea hadn’t realized she had said this to Emory. Let alone in her vague childhood twang. She apologized and Emory, once again, reassured her. Emory was like a painting. Sitting still, looking gorgeous and lonely.

“What are you doin’ here, if I may?” Chelsea was now completely ignoring the game. They’ll get ‘em next year. 

“This box was won by a friend. An ex–actually. He couldn’t make it last minute and…I wanted to see more sports. I hated them as a kid and teenager. Looking back…it was quite the missed opportunity. I was born and raised here and went to college in Boston. I’ve studied under the biggest sports assholes of all time, and all I did was spend my time rolling my eyes at them. Which hopefully answers the more…broad version of your question.”

“Almost. C’mon–I ran all the way up here. You can tell me somethin’.” 

“Okay. Why am I here in the abstract?”

“Why are you here in the abstract, ma’am?”

“To put it simply…my job has been entirely…death-based. For years. My whole life has been death-based. Of course, all of ours are–but my mother died when I was little. When I was born, actually. It’s alright, you don’t have to look so sad. I’m the only one left in my family. No kids. My dad died a few months ago. On top of that–like I said–my job was writing about dead people. What they did, how they died, where they were born…boring stuff. Morbid stuff. What was more morbid was that it was work.” Emory put away her notepad. She looked at Chelsea and laughed. Not at Chelsea’s face, but perhaps at a bet she had lost to herself. 

“Recently, I wanted to focus on life. I know it’s super cliche and corny, or…whatever words you want to say. But it’s true. I’m a bartender–actually. As a profession. This–me and you–this isn’t technically a job, I mean. I’m…I’m trying to write something. A reverse-obituary column. A…A collection of stories about people who don’t usually make the news. Specifically, I think I need…I’m a very absorbent person, you know? I can be very swayed by people. Intellectually, emotionally, that sort of thing…”

“Lord, you’re one emotionally intelligent fucker.” Chelsea laughed. So did Emory. 

“Thank the therapy. Until recently. This was actually kind of a project from my therapist. She wanted me to…look at people who felt alive. Who were enjoying life. I’ve been interviewing tons and tons of people, chatting with people at the bar–I’m not very conversationally good when it comes to small talk, but I’ve found that people sometimes appreciate random, deep conversation. The drinks help, and I over-pour. Anyway–sorry–I’ve come to be very drawn to sports. I find them…inherently lively.”

“Of course.”

“God, it’s great. I’ve been looking into the histories of everything–”

“--We ain’t doin’ too hot in that regard. Pretty much the only New York team without a legendary history.”

“Yeah. Still, I’ve loved the stories of people, learning about them. I found that I loved how…how connected someone could be to a place. A city, a state, whatever. A group of constantly changing people that they’ll never, ever meet. My dad hated New York. He lived in the suburbs because it was quieter, and he needed to live in the boroughs for work…but he always loved nature. He preferred the buzzing of the forest to the buzzing of a city, I guess. I always discounted that as…him being a grumpy old man, but…but it’s still love. Love of a place that constantly changes. So…yeah. Sorry for–I know I’m supposed to be interviewing you.”

“Please. It’s alright.” Chelsea completely forgot her team was losing. 

“Thanks.” Combine hometown pride with adrenaline and…and I think that’s what I’m looking for. In life. In people.” Emory rolled her eyes at herself. Chelsea almost reached out to touch her hand. “It means a lot that you…you looked for me.”

“Are you kiddin’? Nobody’s been this interested in me since idiot boys in college.”

“Everyone’s interesting. At least that’s what I’m trying to prove.”

“Got any more questions about the game?”

“Not really. There’s a bunch of coffee and snacks if you want to save me from eating them all by myself and having a heart attack in Penn Station.” 

Chelsea got herself two coffee cups–one of coffee and one of pretzels. She tried to avoid carbs and caffeine after four o’clock but was out of a job for the summer. She could do pretty much whatever she wanted until she absolutely needed to get back into shape and into her fluffy skirt. And still, she would have preferred a championship, even if it meant only a week of coffee and pretzels before vegetables and sweat. 

“How does a loss like this make you feel?”

“Shitty.”

“Any elaboration?”

“No, ma’am. Just shitty.” It popped into Chelsea’s head that this was the most she’d used her southern accent with someone since college. Emory probably found it interesting. Hopefully, she would put it in her book or article or whatever it was. Assuming Chelsea was worthy of inclusion in the first place, that is. 

“You know, if you have any more questions–I’m happy to meet outside The Garden,” Jesus, Chelsea was sounding like a half-drunk, desperate college boy. Still, “I feel like all of the personal history stuff I gave you before the game was kinda rushed. If I knew we were gonna lose this bad, I would’ve probably stayed longer.”

“I appreciate it. I’ll reach out. When it comes to next year, would you rather not make the playoffs at all or lose like this again?”

“These are the best months of the year.”

“What’s the plan for after? Do you and the girls sulk?”

“Not really. We start thinking ahead. There’s not much downtime, considering everyone involved, you know?”

“Sure, sure. Holy shit…”

“What?”

Emory was leaning over the glass, scanning the crowd. There were still a few minutes left and dozens of points for New York to come back from. Chelsea immediately followed Emory’s eye line to the screens plastered everywhere. No comeback to speak of. 

“Looks like we didn’t miss all that much.”

“No…”

Emory pointed to the crowd. Chelsea stood up and followed her finger. She had very small hands. Her wrist probably got exhausted from all the writing. Her nails were sleek. Chelsea noticed a few scars near her palm, probably because she, too, knew where to look.

Chelsea looked at the crowd. The celebrities, the kids, everyone. Their season was over, yet they stood. They all clapped. A standing ovation for a losing team. 

“I ain’t never seen this before, Emory…”

The journalist turned, holding in a laugh as the applause filled the massive stadium. 

“‘Emory?’”

Chelsea gulped. So much for her mother’s politeness.