The Dance of the God

Tyrone Booker stared at the mirror as the man in the reflection knotted the tie around his neck. Smooth, lyric-less jazz played in the background. When complete, he studied his image’s appearance: clear rectangular glasses with browline frames, a blue button-down collar, a black bow tie, a black velvet single-button jacket with a notch lapel, silver studded cuff links, and a silver dress watch with a leather band. The remnants of a butterscotch lozenge coated his tongue. The scents of blackcurrants and pineapple still hung in the air. His chocolate hands smoothed out his jacket from chest to waist; the feel matched his short-shaved hair. Denzel ain’t got shit on me. Now that he was dressed, there was one question: What am I dressing for?

Helena was enigmatic about tonight. Two weeks prior, she’d requested a father-daughter date this Friday evening. To ascertain my availability. This morning, she’d stopped in his practice’s lobby during his ten o’clock session, giving Ms. Terwilliger an envelope. Written in marker: a time—“8:00 pm sharp”—a Gary address, and a brief message: “Ticket for my debut.”

He knew, the moment he met Helena, she was born to be a performer. The then two-year-old had dimples, a dazzling smile, and blonde curls, all like her mother—his fiancé. The child reminded him of Shirley Temple. Charisma and presence exuded like sunlight. The only thing left to fate was the medium: music, dance, gymnastics, leadership, theater, or all of the above.

Confirming that his pocket held the crinkled envelope, he drove to the show. It was only a thirty-minute drive. There’d be no drinking, but that was a good thing. Having lost his wife to the evils of her addictions—demons he still berated himself for not seeing—he chose to restrict his imbibing to few and far between. A habit his adopted daughter, with those potentially inherited genes, seemed to espouse.

Once his Model Y was on the interstate, under a darkened sky, he imagined the venue he’d find at the other end of his route. He didn’t look it up in advance, to allow his surprise to be genuine. Despite living mostly in the greater Chicago area, he’d never gone near Gary. He had no idea what arts or culture were found there.

Helena was earning a degree in fine arts at Northwestern. She’d recently taken some sort of evening classes, something she was excited but secretive about. The two shared a condo in Evanston; on Saturday mornings, they took a jujitsu class together. Otherwise, they lived two separate lives.

Perhaps this was a repertory dance group, performing ballet or mixed revues. She’d studied since age three, when Kristin and he married. She loved dance, both performing and watching, staring at the Joffrey Ballet. His first instinct: that was what he’d see this evening.

There was also music. She hadn’t taken a particular liking to instruments but possessed excellent vocal skills. They’d attended several operas and choirs; she even worked a summer backstage for Haymarket, learning the behind-the-scenes of the singers and dancers. It could be an opera.

It might be something different. She enjoyed theater and gymnastics. She’d studied the former since middle school and the latter since kindergarten, after Kristin had abandoned them. Recently, Helena spoke of a friend performing at Lookingglass, Chicago’s own version of Cirque du Soleil. Tonight’s festivities could be along those lines.

The vehicle crossed into Indiana, and another thought crossed his mind: lectures, presentations, and debates. They were the least likely. However, she’d been a cheerleader in high school, one year as captain. It wasn’t Debate Club, but she could whip crowds into a frenzy. He’d taken her to events at both the Humanities Festival and the Institute of Politics. Perhaps she’d joined Indiana’s answer to the Oxford Union.

The car took an off-ramp down into the heart of Gary. Tyrone looked through the windows at the neighborhoods as they passed. The surroundings unnerved him. Streetlights were palm trees in the urban desert, faint circles of light in the distance among unlit sidewalks and city blocks.

Each intersection transitioned to something worse. Neon signs for clubs—“Live Nude Girls!”—stood out. He feared seventeen years of dance classes and fifteen of gymnastics being used in tandem with a pole on a stage. She wouldn’t invite me to a debut at such a place… would she?

Further along, women stood on corners, chatting over cigarettes like travelers over a campfire, calling and even singing to passing vehicles. He prayed he was wrong; then he witnessed, while trapped at a red light, one making her pitch through the window of a dark Buick. Tyrone’s palms were soaked in sweat. What’s Helena doing here? What am I doing here?

Each building held mysteries obscured by the desolate darkness that descended upon the downtown domain. Furtive figures and ubiquitous murals of spray paint drew his attention. Tyrone dared a look at the dash, which informed him the car was approaching its designated destination. He didn’t know if he was more glad or afraid.

A crowded car lot lay next to the building whose address Helena provided. A glance at his watch told him he was two minutes early. Under the awning extending from the edifice, a few people were at the door, one acting as a guardian to the goings-on within.

Tyrone sighed, removed the envelope from his pocket, and stepped out of the car. There’s only one way to find out.

Cerberus at the heavy double doors to the underworld was a giant of a man who played on the offensive line in a previous life. “What’s up, Sterling? Welcome to S-C-Dub.”

“Thanks, I think.” Tyrone showed the envelope to the human blockade. “Will I find Helena Booker here?”

The big guy raised his eyebrows. “Hellcat?” He whistled. “Impressed.” He held out a thick black detection wand. “Need to pat you down. Nothing personal, my brother.”

Tyrone accepted the brief search as a matter of course and was allowed admission through the door. Within sat a small lobby, thick black velvet curtains covering the archway beyond. The room’s walls were ebon, the buzzing overhead light was ultraviolet, and everything else was a panorama of technical neon. The UV turned everything it touched either dull as stone or vivid as a macaw.

Tyrone’s senses were overwhelmed by information. Heavy dubstep overfilled the next room, bleeding through the walls. The air stank of the musk of humanity and tasted of the sweat of others as he breathed. As he gripped his jacket to get a literal hold of himself, a stray thought crossed his mind: This jacket and those curtains are the same material.

A table overloaded with piles of cloth stood to one side, and a Latina with more metal and ink than skin stood at a lectern next to the curtain. She chewed a slice of pizza without closing her mouth; Tyrone could see two studs on her tongue. The taste of his rising gorge tickled the back of his throat.

He presented his precious envelope, unsure of what to say or if he could even be heard over the steady beats. She said nothing, just withdrew a small red ticket—like one that might be acquired at a carnival sideshow—pointed with a thumb, then dismissed him with her eyes. Tyrone shrugged and brushed between the two curtains, birthed into the ballroom beyond.

Floodlights shone down into the middle of the expansive area. Within the spotlights rose a central square stage, carpeted in canvas, framed by three sets of multicolored ropes thicker than Tyrone’s wrist. Boxing matches? Some sort of underground fight club?

Hidden in the shadows, surrounding the ring, was a motley selection of seats. Folding chairs, church pews, and banks of theatrical seating encircled the central region. Individuals occupied about two-thirds, dressed in sundry informal garments, predominately T-shirts with garish illustrations and outrageous advertisements. Tyrone observed a collection of names that vaguely tickled his memory, though he was never one for pop culture. Shirts indicated supporters of C.M. Punk, Colt Cabana, Mustafa Ali, and Skye Blue, among many others.

Tyrone sat on the edge of a pew toward the front of the audience. At the same time, a well-dressed man in a tuxedo climbed into the ring, carrying a microphone, and the heavy blanket of music mercifully eased off.

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, grappling enthusiasts of all ages! Welcome, my friends, to Steel! City! Wrestling!”

The rest of the crowd broke into a chant, identical to what the guard out front had said: “S-C-Dub! S-C-Dub! S-C-Dub!”

The ringmaster—for that’s what Tyrone considered him—paced around the ring, one hand keeping the mic to his mouth while the other extended out toward the darkness. “We have an exciting card for you tonight. First up, we have a fatal four-way between several challengers to our heavyweight title. Our first: Slate Havoc!”

Heavy metal music, distorted to be barely recognizable, started blaring through the speakers, and a man reminiscent of bodybuilders came striding down a ramp that Tyrone hadn’t previously noticed. At the top of the ramp was another heavy curtain, from which Mr. Havoc had appeared. The crowd seemed excited to see him as he circled outside the ring, giving high-fives to his cheering fans. Eventually he climbed in, still evoking roars from the crowd.

The next contender was introduced, called Creed Talon. This man was short and stocky, and the audience did not like him at all, as they relentlessly booed his entry to the ring. He didn’t circle around—there were no fans to interact with in such a way—but he did exchange several rude hand gestures with his detractors.

Two more men were paraded before the masses to take part in the match. However, Tyrone had no investment in the proceedings, so he allowed the rest to wash over him like the incoming tide at the beach. Wrestling? Professional wrestling? He could not comprehend where Helena had gotten the idea. They certainly had never attended or watched any base forms of entertainment such as this.

As the match took place ahead of him, he looked around. Faces projected rage and joy. Cheers and jeers erupted from the crowd. The scents and even tastes of blood and sweat permeated the air. The voice of an unseen announcer blared through the speakers, keeping track of who did what to whom and whether it was good or bad. The whole of it overwhelmed and occupied Tyrone’s mind.

Tyrone recalled a class he’d taken on the classics during his years at Central State University. He remembered Euripides’s Bacchae in particular, the tale of a rational man torn apart by a god’s rabid followers. There was little difference between the Maenads in that ancient play and these wrestling fans here and now. Tyrone feared for his safety. Once again, the thought crossed his mind: What in the hell is Helena doing here?

He hadn’t realized that the first match was over. He may have missed other matches in the interim, during his dissociative processing. He was brought out of his reveries when the ringmaster silenced the crowd once more.

“Ladies and gentlemen—”

“Enough of that, pendejo!” A woman spewed from the back like a boulder from a volcano. The Latina was the size of the security guard out front, carrying a big silver and leather monstrosity in the shape of a cummerbund. “I can handle my own business, payaso.” Her face was hidden by a cloth mask, similar to a balaclava, with Dios de los Muertos iconography all over it. Mournful mariachi music played—Danse Macabre, Tyrone was certain—with an accompaniment of boos from the crowd.

The giant woman took to the center of the ring, picking up the mic from where the ringmaster had abandoned it. “I am la Reina Calavera, the Skull Queen, and I have been champion for two years without serious challenge.” She allowed the audience to jeer her briefly, then continued. “I am bored, having nothing but tontas, mocosas, and perdedoras to challenge my dominance. So I lay out an open challenge to the basura in the back. Beat me here and now, and I will give una opportunidad to win my championship!” She held the title belt over her head, pacing around the ring to a smattering of catcalls.

New music started playing over the sound system. It was unique, a mix of snares and cymbals, with an EDM house beat, and, every few seconds, an electronic shriek as if from some cybertech predator. A figure entered through the curtain. And Tyrone’s questions were, at least partially, answered.

Helena was dressed in red—a vibrant, bright, fire engine red. She wore a unitard, which was supplemented by a metallic bra and bikini set. Torn fishnet stockings adorned her legs, with heavy leather boots and knee pads the same color as the main ensemble. Elbow pads and fingerless gloves featured on her arms. A headband with cat ears held the blonde waterfall of curls back from her face. She posed near the entrance for a few seconds, allowing all to take her in, then made her way along the ramp.

The audience did not know what to make of her—at first. If this was her debut, as the note had indicated, they did not know her. But that lack did not stop her. She engaged each member of the audience as she passed, offering hands for slaps to both sides of the ramp. At the bottom, she circled, offering high-fives and addressing each one. As she approached his seat, Tyrone could hear her. Echoing each screech from her music, she was responding, matching the tones: “Yoo-oy!” Increasingly, they would respond with the same.

She stood before him, smiling from the other side of the barricade. She offered him her fist. She called to him with her chant, awaiting his reaction.

It came to him in a flash. Not “yoo-oy,” but “euoi.” Ritual cry of the Maenads. A cheer, a cry, a call. Meaning nothing and yet everything.

His hand reached out, knuckles bumping against hers in support, and he responded, “Euoi!”

In that moment, the whole of the presentation reflected in his head and reversed. Before him wasn’t a ring but a stage, a theater in the round. Surrounding him weren’t Maenads but khoros, the Greek chorus, the audience participating as a part of the performance, the service’s congregation. These weren’t people seeking blood or violence for themselves, but as a release, reaching back to the earliest of times. Greeks and Romans may be the most famous for wrestling, but it was a worldwide sport long before there were civilizations.

As she took her place in the ring, the sound system spoke. “Introducing Chicago’s own: Hellcat!”

Helena—no, Hellcat circled the ropes, raising an arm toward the audience, her new fans. “Euoi! Euoi! Euoi!” Not all, but a noticeable amount. She granted everyone her glorious smile.

The bell rang. Tyrone watched the recital, not because his daughter was on stage, but because it finally connected within his mind. It wasn’t low-brow brawling and fixed fights. It was an intricate choreography of gymnastics and feats of strength, the epitome of culture.

A lifetime of dance and gymnastics classes worked around the ring, evading and engaging at will. A decade of theater reacted to the Skull Queen’s attacks; years of cheerleading provoked the reactions of the crowd. Her trained voice sang to her chorus as they echoed her battle cry, “Euoi!” She even utilized jujitsu, as she grappled, threw, and rolled throughout the battle.

There were points where he feared for her life, when her body most assuredly had been shattered. There were times when her perseverance fed from the crowd’s energy, their chants of “Euoi!” filling the arena, his loudest among them.

In the end, Hellcat’s left arm was clenched around the neck of Reina Calavera. That hand gripped her other elbow. Her right arm cinched it in, preventing the hold from being broken. The giant threw herself backwards against the posts in an attempt to knock Hellcat loose, but eventually collapsed to her knees and then her face. Hellcat maintained her grip. The referee lifted the champion’s hand three times, let it drop each time, then signaled the bell. The chorus chanted “Euoi!” along with their ovation.

As the man in the striped shirt raised Helena Katrina Booker’s hand toward the ceiling, Tyrone stood and applauded his daughter. He’d asked which talents she would use for tonight’s performance. She used them all. She’d performed ho khoros tou theou, the dance of the god, Dionysus. She was born for this.