Future Games 2050

Future Games: 2050
By
Gary L. Quay

         I first became a pedestrian nightmare when I rigged up a gearbox to my electric wheelchair. The hapless corporate minions in their terminally gray suits scattered as I barreled down the sidewalk on Broad Street. Ever since the hospital spat me, legless, back out into the world of footwear, never again to don a Nike or an Adidas, I have been running over toes.
         To folk that walk upright, I am a cripple--never mind platitudes like "differently-abled." I’m a sad creature to be ignored--invisible to all but the polite, and gawked at by others, especially children (bless their evil little hearts). When I catch their eyes they look away, pretending to count floor tiles. But, I was a football player! I will be visible! Soon. You’ll see.

#

         During the last days when I went about on two legs, I played wide receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles: a division of Mondo Consortium. During the Superbowl, the last game of my final season, I went out for one long bomb too many. My legs were in the End Zone. The rest of me was on the five-yard line. Luckily I had played for three years, just long enough to earn a settlement under the New Rules. I got a card with 1,000,000 dollars, and they threw in a pension. It may seem like a fair trade, but when my Company drafted me I had a beautiful fiancée named Heather. I lost my legs. I lost her. My coach’s Promises of "women in droves" have since then, needless to say, fallen woefully short of the mark.
         But something happened just yesterday. I met someone who almost made me change my plans. She wasn’t as pretty as Heather, but par for what I could get without paying. I couldn’t imagine why she stuck around, except to exact revenge for when I ran over her toes at the bus stop on 105th. Why else would she hang with a cripple?
         I was being a particularly good menace to society all the way up Broad Street despite the lack of targets on the sidewalk. I made two cabs screech to a halt at the intersection of Broad and 99th. I scared the crap out of a stray poodle paying too much attention to a tree, and when I reached the bus stop, I felt a double thump under my chair. I looked up to see this girl rubbing her feet.
         "Hey! Watch where you're going!" She cried out.
         I took an instant liking to her. Most people whose toes I run over are too embarrassed at the sight of me to scream.
         She was kinda pudgy around the middle, but not fat, with a generous butt that probably served her well sitting through long, boring chick-flicks at the multiplex. A well-dressed woman, she carried a purse with cartoon characters on it.
         I apologized.
         "Sure, run over my foot, then say you're sorry," she said with a smile. "Do you have a license to drive that thing?"
         "Yes, I keep it in my shoe." I had fully intended sarcasm, but she didn’t seem to notice.
         Looking at my chair's empty footrests, she said, "Uh… you don't seem to be wearing any shoes."
         "Are you sure?" I said, "Let me check." I lifted the blanket over the stumps of my legs and screamed "AAAGGHH! MY LEGS! WHERE ARE MY LEGS?" The other people at the bus stop stared.
         "You need help." She offered her hand. "Alice Miller. Who are you?"
         I took her hand and kissed it. She smiled. I said, "Ramsey Loomis. You've been eating French fries."
         She pulled her hand away. "Funny. So, did your parents name you after the Egyptian Pharaoh?
         "You mean Ramses," I said. "No, after the brand name of the broken prophylactic."
         “Charmed," She said, and pointed to the tire tracks on her shiny black shoes. "You've got a funny way of meeting women."
         Indeed.
         A SEPTA bus hummed to a stop in front of us. It was one of those electric numbers that came into vogue about the time the streets of Manhattan opened to boat traffic (scientists called it global warming, but Republicans called it a Chinese plot). The driver lowered the wheelchair ramp.

"Big Dave" Boyer: 2025 - 2048. Played for the Philadelphia Eagles as Offensive Gunman. His power armor was damaged by a grenade blitz during a game with the Dallas Cowboys. A Cowboy took advantage and loosed another grenade after the whistle. The Cowboys were penalized 15 yards for "Unnecessary Loss of Life."

         On April 21, 2044, I said goodbye to Heather on her father's front porch. We knew it would be dangerous, but my Company had drafted me, and I had to go. I boarded the bus while tears filled her eyes. I'll never forget it, or her. She was my first true love.
         Heather and I had met in college. I was an average, some would say meek, guy studying business administration, and she was a stunning beauty with a sharp wit. Quite out of my league. She was the kind of woman I would never have the guts to ask out, but by a fluke she fell into my arms. I never wanted to let go.
         The next day I stepped off the bus at Fort Dix, NJ, an old army base that the federal government sold to the Eagles for use as a spring training camp for new recruits. We were marched to the Replacement Detachment barracks for haircuts and final paperwork. I've never signed my name so many times! I imagined myself at the gates of Hell with the Devil handing me paper after paper, a big grin on his face, and "No worries" on his lips.
         Then we gathered in a large room. A Drill Coach stood at the front with the Consortium logo (a shield bearing an eagle with the crossed stock notes in its talons) on the wall behind him.
         "I will be your Drill Coach for the next three months," he bellowed. "You will learn proper methods and strategies for the game of football, including play execution, the wearing and maintenance of body armor, and the use of small arms and grenades. Does everyone understand me?"
         "Yes, Sir!" we cried.
         "Don't call me sir," he boomed, "I train for a living."
         "Yes, Coach!" we cried.
         "I can't hear you!"
         "Yes, Coach!"
         "I CAN'T HEAR YOU!"
         "YES, COACH!"
         "Better," he said. "Now, trainees, your Company has chosen you for a proud mission. Your skill and endurance will be put to the test on the gridiron of our national economy. Representing our consortium, you will do battle for market share and mergers, and enable your Company to function within the global marketplace without the need to resort to the urban warfare of the past. You will be saving the lives of millions of your civilian brethren."
         The Drill Coach went on like that for about an hour, and we all sat on the floor with our feet and butts falling asleep. I actually felt the pride of serving my Company and protecting free enterprise. Best of all, I would get to wear on of those awesome uniforms.
         Made of electromagnetically reinforced Kevlar plates, they sported shoulder pads with titanium-tipped spikes used for creating gaps in the opposing line's armor, which can then be exploited by small arms fire. The battle helmet had a visor display showing technical readouts for the other team, including rounds and grenades expended, injuries, and possible armor flaws.
         The ball was an interesting piece of technology: it armed when thrown and disarmed when caught. If you didn't absolutely think you could catch it, it was best to run in the opposite direction. Fumbles were truly painful experiences. Only fully functional uniforms could take a ball blast.
         Training lasted three months. We were glad to see it end. Soon we would be stars--highly paid celebrities with beautiful women ripe for the picking (though, once again, I had mine already), and the glory, oh, the glory of fighting for our Company.

         My Company, 'tis of thee
         Sweet land of markets free
         Of thee I sing.
         Land where our Welfare died
         Home of the chairman's pride
         From every billboard sign
         Let business reign.

Gregg Hartman: 2021 - 2046. Played for the Denver Broncos as Halfback. During a game with the Philadelphia Eagles, an undetected weak spot in his armor caused a courageous but bungled fumble recovery attempt to go astray. The football exploded, causing his suit to short circuit, welding the plates together and cremating him from the inside. His ashes were scattered on the playing field, as per his wishes, but the custodian vacuumed them up.

         Alice and I had lunch at Victor's: a cheesesteak place in South Philly with big screen HDTVs, pool tables, and VR booths surrounded by soundproof walls. We took a table in the rear, as far from the TVs as possible. The Sunday games blared, and flashes from on-screen explosions lit the room, followed by the sound of gunfire. Intermittently, shrapnel or a stray bullet struck the force field that protected the crowd and cameras, casting wavy tentacles of plasma every which way. I turned my back to the TVs.
         Alice had some wine. I ordered a beer.
         "So, you played for the Eagles?" she asked.
         "Yep."
         "What position?"
         "Wide receiver," I said.
         "Sounds exciting."
         "Actually," I said, "it's rather dangerous. But, you know, it's a thrill that few will ever get." She was looking directly into my eyes. It kind of unnerved me. I wasn't sure if I believed she cared. Why should she? We had a saying on the team: "Freedom is a concept that the protected will never know." We sacrificed weekly to keep lives like hers from becoming entangled in the perils of the global marketplace. We played, suffered, and sometimes died to keep the wheels of commerce turning. I lost my legs for that cause and became an outcast. Did she pity me? Was she trying to be polite?
         "But," I said, "I suppose you don't really care about such things. You probably don't even watch football."
         "No," she said. "I don't."
         "I knew it."
         "But it was important to you," she said. "I suspect it's a large part of your identity. Why shouldn't we talk about it?"
         "Because every time I think about it, I lose my legs all over again."
         "Oh."
         "Because of football, the only thing I have left is this wheelchair and a pension."
         "Is your pension safe?" She looked genuinely concerned. "An awful lot have been raided."
         "My Company is one of the 'Big Five'," I said. "My pension can't be looted. We've got a great team, and, what's more, our conventional army can fight off any armed challenge by any rival firm stupid enough to break the Gridiron Treaty."
         "Some have been raided by their parent Companies."
         "Not mine."
         "What's your Company?" She asked.
         “Time/Warner/Disney/Liberty/AT&T/Microsoft/ViaComm/GM/ Deutchebank. Mondo Consortium for short."
         "Oh," she said, in a way that told me we were entering dangerous waters.
         "Does that bother you?" Unfortunately, I knew the answer.
         "In a way," she said.
         "How?" I probably shouldn't have pushed the matter. My Company stepped on a lot of toes. Running over them in a wheelchair is much better.
         "It's old news. Really, it's OK.” She stared at her napkin momentarily, and then looked up at me again. “It’s in the past, ya know."
         My better judgment finally kicking in, I picked up my menu. "What're you gonna order?"
         "I mean,” she continued, “just because my father's life was destroyed doesn't mean I should hold a grudge."
         "The cheese steaks are very good," I said, aware that sharks circling the conversation.
         "They took over his PR firm." She tossed in the first scoop of chum. Her eyes reflected the bursts of light from the TVs. "They sent in mercenaries. They took our files, our customers, and killed most of the staff. The police managed to protect my family, but they charged us so much that we lost the business and our home."
         "That was what the Gridiron Treaty was written to prevent," I said.
         "My father never recovered," she said, "and I don't know how you can defend them. I mean, they didn't exactly leave you in one piece."
         "I was proud to serve," I told her. "They paid me well, and I have a good pension."
         "And you're not angry about your legs?"
         "Sure I am, but what can I do about it?" I took a sip of water. My mouth was getting dry. The sharks were in a frenzy. "I'm more angry about the way other people treat me. I lost my legs to save their miserable careers, now they stare at me. When I look at them, they look away like I'm some sort of embarrassment. My Company at least kept up its end of the bargain."
         The server arrived like a merciful goddess to rescue us from our histories, and to take our orders. After this, I lapsed into a long silence. The lights and noise from the six big-screen TVs reverberated about the room, surrounding me with images of the game I had left in an ambulance. I felt each explosion, each gunshot, each hail of shrapnel...
         "Hello?"
         "Huh?" I said, startled.
         "Are you OK?"
         "Ummm, sure."
         "You were staring into space," she said.
         "I was?" Our sandwiches arrived. "I do that now and then. My doctor says it's Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. The flashes from the TV set it off. It's like I'm back on the field again."
         "I'm sorry," she said. "You've been through a lot, haven't you?"
         "You don't have to feel sorry for me," I said.
         "You don't have to be tough."
         "Walk a mile in my moccasins, then tell me that."
         "I would if I could," she said.
         I didn't believe her, but that night she sang her breathy song straight into my eyes. Unlike all the prostitutes who tried to smile through their disgust, she loved me like she meant it, and I couldn't understand why. I had given her no reason to. I worked for the wrong Company, I was testy in conversation, and I even ran over her feet.
         I probed her body for answers, running my hands over her thighs and around her breasts. The rhythm of my heart kept time with the squeaking of the bed, faster and faster until I thought I saw the light. But the answers never came. She did. Then I did.
         She cuddled up close to me. Moonlight through the window glistened on her body. Her head rested on my shoulder. The light faded, and a few voyeuristic snowflakes lazed past the window on their way to the street five floors below. I pulled the blankets over us and watched the snow thicken until the rhythm of her breathing slowed as she fell into sleep.
         The snow outside took me back to another time--a memory of my college days. I closed my eyes, and soon I stood on Pollock Avenue back at Penn State, my old alma mater.
         It was a snowy morning when I was younger and still wore shoes. I trudged with cold feet on way to class among a small crowd of other students. A BMW hover car buzzed up to the curb. A well-groomed upperclassman stepped out with his palmtop computer and whizzed by on his hover shoes, parting the snow like Moses parted the Red Sea. In his wake, the rest of us stood with snow caked to our faces and coats.
         It was 2040, the height of the Finance Wars. The Big Five Companies had acquired the last of the publicly traded firms, and they set their sights on the fiercely independent private ones. The graveyards filled up fast. My uncle still gets teary-eyed when he talks about it. The world had suffered badly, and so did my college. It had fallen onto hard times as fewer students could afford to go. Few buildings remained in use. The rest displayed crumbling facades, and broken windows let the snow in to settle on rotting classroom floors. The campus looked serene. Snow brings beauty, even to ruin.
         On my way into the Willard Building, I passed the infamous "Willard Preacher." He was the fifth man to hold the title since the late 1970s. They were loud-mouthed Bible thumpers who chastised every student within earshot about their sins of fornication and drunkenness. Someday it would all end in ruin, hell and damnation. This preacher's tone had changed of late, though. His mantra had become "I told you so."
         "I told you," he warned the crowd, "that your sins would destroy this country! I told you that your depravity would drag us into a mire that would cause the almighty Jesus to turn his back on us! Our cities are burning! Our people are starving! The Apocalypse is here! Our football players are killing each other!"
         The whole thing had started earlier that winter. After a twenty-year losing streak, the Denver Broncos suddenly traded in their shoulder pads for Uzis and set off to win the Superbowl by eliminating the competition. The league immediately saw the marketing possibilities, and the New Rules were adopted.
         I picked up a copy of the school newspaper. The headline read: "DENVER INVADES PITTSBURGH, SLAYS STEELERS." What a shame.
         Rob Rizzo stood at the entrance to room 160, which was unfortunately the same place I was heading. He was a "friend" inasmuch as I let him copy my homework, and he didn't beat me up. Although he was a star player on the football team, he was an anachronism waiting to happen: a large, powerful brute in a game that was rapidly downsizing to lithe, runner-types like myself. We make smaller targets. Since the line of scrimmage had become hovering, moveable trenches, power was no longer necessary.
         "Yo, Ram," he said. I pretended not to see him. "Yo!" he said a little louder.
         "Oh, hi!" I feigned enthusiasm.
         "You, uh, got your homework done?"
         "Sure."
         "Can I copy it?" Like I had a choice.
         "There isn't time," I said. "Class begins in two minutes."
         "Sure there is," he said. "I'll photocopy it."
         He caught a smaller student wearing big, round glasses by the collar, and hauled him into the wall. "Get out your machine," he barked. The frightened young man obeyed. Rob held out his hand. I gave him my homework. He relayed it to the nervous nerd who fed the papers into one side of his laptop. They came out the other in duplicate. Rob snatched the papers and said, "Scram."
         "Thanks," Rod said to me, "I owe you one."
         Not that he ever made good on his debts to me.
         My first class of the day was Necroeconomics 101. Professor Fleece limped up to his desk, plopped down a large leather attaché', and spilled his coffee down the front of his podium. His face contorted like he had seen the train too late to make it out of the tunnel. His horror turned to grief, then to resignation, and he laid his empty cup to rest on the floor.
         Professor Fleece wore Birkenstocks in the winter. He was just that kind of a guy. Gray hair and a snowy beard gripped his head in a middle-aged glacier that carved deep wrinkles into his forehead and around his eyes. On top, like the Arctic Ice Shelf, he was receding. As blunt as a shovel, he spent his class time whacking us over the head with hindsight as to What Went Wrong With America.
         "Well," he said, "I shan't be worth squat this morning. Turn to Chapter Five: "The Sack of Wall Street." I assume that not one of you have read it, so does anyone have a guess about the ramifications?"
         Heather McBride (who sat next to me, but whom I had never spoken to for fear of rejection) raised her hand. "It was the end of non-violent stock trading."
         "I'm looking for something deeper," Fleece said.
         Rob raised his hand.
         "Yes, Mister Rizzo," Fleece said, "our representative from the Roman Empire. What do you have to add?"
         Professor Fleece contended that New-Rules Football was an example of "Roman Empire Syndrome." His premise was: as a society degrades, so does its pastimes.
         "It was a cool movie," Rob said.
         Fleece rolled his eyes. "Shouldn't you be off throwing Christians to the lions, or something?"
         Almost on cue, Rob's beeper went off. "Gotta go," he said, and hurried out the door.
         Five minutes later, Rob was back. This time he was in his Football uniform. The titanium spikes glimmered in he fluorescent lights. His Kevlar plates buzzed with electro-magnetic energy from the force field that sealed him away from most forms of harm. His assault visor was locked in "Battle" position. He raised his Uzi over his head, yelled "DEFENSE!” then ran back down the hallway.
         We all stared at each other in stunned silence. Though we hadn't known it until the smoke cleared, the Broncos had come to take their pick of the next year's crop of rookies before the draft. It was a rout. Our team was decimated. Those who weren't killed were tranquilized and kept sedated until spring training. When the first shots were fired, I leapt from my seat and ran smack into Heather. We fell down in each other's arms and didn't let go until the fighting ended. Alice was right; I have a strange way of meeting women.

Rob Rizzo: 2017 - 2043. Played for the Denver Broncos as Defensive Trench Backer. He forgot to turn on the power to his suit after getting a drink. He intercepted, and then dropped a pass. Soon afterward, among the custodial staff, a particularly nasty mess on the Astroturf was known as a "Rizzo."

         I woke up to bright morning light, the kind that is reflected from a fresh blanket of snow. I was surprised to find Alice’s body still next to mine.
         "Good morning," she chirped.
         "You're awake!"
         "I've been," she said, "for about an hour."
         “Thinking?"
         "Sort of," she said. "My son won't believe me. You're his favorite player."
         "You have a son?" I was suddenly nervous. Children are baggage.
         "He's with his father in Australia," she said.
         "How old?"
         "Ten," she said. "He collected your cards, newspaper clippings, shreds of uniforms. He was really quite obsessed. I know more about you than you think."
         I groaned.
         "It's not all bad," she smiled and pulled herself close again. "I read your biography."
         I was feeling uncomfortable. "I'm not that person anymore."
         "Yes, you are," she said. "I see him in your eyes. You were a gentleman on the field. You were uneasy about the violence of the game you played, but you were one of the best. Now you joke about your disability, but it's become like a penance for all the people who died. You blame your Company for your condition, but you defend it."
         "You find internal conflict sexy?"
         "I find it interesting," she said.
         “Are you a psychologist?"
         "No."
         "Then how do you know all that?" I did not particularly like being psychoanalyzed.
         "It was in your biography," she said.
         "It was ghostwritten," I said. "Ok. I don't..."
         She put a finger over my mouth. "Shhhh. It's okay. I can make you that person again."
         "Right. How?"
         "I work in Prosthetics."

Steven Bouchard: 2020 - 4048. Played for the Oakland Raiders as Kicker. He missed too many field goals, so a teammate allegedly sabotaged his uniform to emit a phased plasma surge when hit by an explosive. No traces of him were ever found.

         Heather and I had lived together for three years. She never came to any of my games. I didn’t blame her. Every time I came home from one, I would find her curled up on the bed as white as a ghost. She became increasingly disinterested in the things my newfound wealth could buy. She still trembled when we touched, but all I saw in her eyes was fear.
         "All I want is you in one piece," she said before I left for the playoffs the last season I played. "Not a pension."
         "But it's just a few more games," I said. "Besides, you know I can't get out of the contract until the end of this season."
         "I don't care." She threw herself into a chair at the table. "Let's run off to Bolivia, or something."
         "They'll come after me."
         "Then we'll run farther," she said. "Oh, God, don't you see it? This 'game' is killing us! I'm so afraid that I can hardly keep food down anymore. You come home smelling like gunpowder and ozone. I can't take it!"
         "I'd leave if I could," I told her, "but it's just a few more games."
         "Just a few more games!" She cried. "A few more games and I'll be in a padded cell."
         "This is no picnic for me, either."
         She came to me and put her arms around my shoulders. "I just don't want to lose you."

Edmond Washington: 2021 - 2049. Played as Quarterback for the new expansion team, the Honolulu Tsunami. Failed to show up for spring training, and was last seen at a rally protesting violence in his sport. At the opening ceremony for his new stadium, the owner denied any knowledge of Washington’s disappearance, but said tearfully that Edmond would always be a cornerstone of the organization.

         "No, no, no, no, no. I won't do it."
         "But," Alice said, "your policy covers it." She poured me another cup of coffee.
         "I can't"
         "Why not?"
         "I don't want to fall down. To wear prosthetics, you have to learn to use them. That means you fall down in public."
         "Is that worse than running over toes in a wheelchair?"
         I thought for a second. "Yes." But I wasn't sure.
         She pulled her robe tighter then ruptured the yolk of her egg with her fork. "Who's that?" She asked, motioning to a photo that hung over the table.
         "My old fiancée," I said.
         "She doesn't look that old.” She smiled.
         "You know what I mean." I couldn't take a joke about her, no matter how small.
         "Touchy," she said.
         "She left me after my injury. She said she couldn't be seen with me."
         "Ouch. She sounds shallow. You're better off without her."
         "But, she was a babe." I immediately regretted the way that sounded.
         "Babes are for boys," she said. "You need a woman now." She batted her eyelashes at me, and gave a nervous laugh.
         "I need legs."
         "And I can get them for you," she said.
         "Real ones," I said. "Heather said I had nice legs."
         "But..."
         "Look!" I cut her off. "Why should you care?"
         "Well, I..."
         "You can't just come in here and rearrange my life." I didn't want to hurt her feelings, but I couldn't stop the words from coming. "I had a good time last night, but we aren't married. You hardly even know me."
         "I was just trying to help."
         "Well, don't!"
         She left the rest of her breakfast to cool on the plate. A few minutes later, I heard the front door close and I was alone again.

George Douglass: 2021 - 2049. Played for the Miami Dolphins as Halfback. He caught a quick lateral pass, but the ball's disarming mechanism was defective. As he leapt over the front lines, part of its explosive charge ignited and rocketed him some five hundred feet into the air where both his suit and the ball exploded. A shower of glowing sparks drifted back to earth. To the embarrassment of promoters, the crowd said, “Ooooooooo."

         It was one of those mythic plays. Fourth and long, with ten seconds left to play in the Superbowl. Eagles vs. Broncos. Our offensive trench backers braced the see-through barrier wall a few feet from the defensive wall. I lined up to the far left of the field. Our Quarterback, Ted Strange, barked out the numbers: "43. 22. 39. Hut, hut Hike!"
         The ball was snapped and the trenches came together with an ear-splitting crash. Grenades flew, and small arms fire erupted along the peripheries. Two bullets bounced off my back, and a grenade exploded to my left, but I hardly noticed them. I was off--down the field with a Bronco hard on my heels. I glanced over my shoulder. Our line was overrun, and Strange was in trouble. He threw the ball just before he was drowned in orange Kevlar.
         That was when I noticed a warning light on my visor display. The bottom half of my suit was de-energized. Apparently, the grenade had some odd effect on my electro-magnetic field. I had caught many passes like it before. Working suit or no, I would catch this one. It was my last play. If I caught it, I would be a hero, and my Company would reap the benefits. If I let it go, we would lose and I would be branded a coward.
         I poured on the speed, and put a move on my pursuer that caused him to trip over his own feet. I was clear in the end zone, and the ball sailed into my arms. The whistles blew. The umpires raised their arms. The crowd cheered.
         The man I had outrun swaggered over to congratulate me, or so I assumed. Instead, he called me an asshole and knocked the ball from my hands.
         His name was Derwin Waters.

Derwin Waters: 2028 - 2048. Played for the Denver Broncos as Tight End. He survived the Superbowl mishap with minor injuries. Found in his Denver home hung, shot, stabbed, and fire bombed.

         Heather stood over my hospital bed when I woke up. She looked ghostly through the morphine haze. She wasn't crying.
         "I know this wasn't your fault, Ram," she said, "and you probably need me more than ever right now, but I'm leaving."
         I stared at the ceiling.
         "Why didn't you run away when you had the chance?" She asked.
         I looked over at her. She sat on a chair by the bed.
         "Now, when I look at you, I see only the fear that I've felt every minute since you were dragged into that fool's game." She rested her head in her hands. I saw the bandages on her wrists.
         "I still love you, Ram," she said, and left.
         I had lied to Alice about her. I lied to save myself.

Albert "Legs" Martin: 2020 - 2050. Played Halfback for the Kansas City Chiefs. Known for his speed on the field, he achieved legend status when he received the ball from the Quarterback and took it into the end zone and, before security could react, continued through the locker rooms, out into the parking lot, and all the way to the freeway before being run over by an east-bound train.

         I turned my wheelchair onto the sidewalk in front of my apartment building, and headed for the bus stop on 105th; making full use of every ounce of speed I had at my command. No more distractions. The sidewalks were full, so I had a good time getting to the bus stop. After ten minutes of trying not to stare at people's butts in line and thinking about meeting Alice here the previous day, the bus arrived and lowered the ramp. Minutes later, I disembarked in front of the new KYW building--a sparkling ten-story glass monstrosity in the heart of downtown Philly. I followed a well-dressed butt and briefcase combo through the double doors. The receptionist saw me and flagged down Ken Ringer: the evening news anchor.
         "Ramsey Loomis," he crooned, shaking my hand profusely. "What a pleasure. Number 32."
         "Number 32," I repeated, trying to seem upbeat.
         "You're looking great," he lied.
         "A little short these days." I said.
         He gave me a nervous grin. "Are you here for an interview?"
         "You might say that."
         A crowd had gathered, and I got to show off my Superbowl ring. After much backslapping and banter, I was able to make it to the service elevator.
         "Do you mind if I take this one?" I asked a rent-a-cop outside the elevator. "I don't feel like getting mobbed again."
         "Sure, Mister Loomis." He stuck a key into the panel next to the door. I signed an autograph for him, and the door closed. Fame sometimes has its privileges. I hit the "R" button. Soon, the elevator hummed to a stop, and the doors opened. A stiff wind hit me squarely in the face. I rolled out, blinking in the sunlight. I looked out across the city. The sky was so clear that I could almost see New Jersey.
         Visibility, that’s the key to this great fiction we call life. And humans are perfect fodder for fiction. The lies we tell ourselves, both individually and collectively, are discernable only by those who turn our pages, and maybe read between our lines. The true danger is that we may someday believe the lies ourselves. Out on the sidewalks, the lies become clear. I played a game of names while our faces were hidden. Like all the veterans of wars and games that went before, the masses of people don't know me from Jack unless they read my biography.
         Alice was an adept reader, or so I would like to think. She got between my covers with astonishing ease, and came too close to the truth. Heather was my binding, and she ran because I didn't have the courage to do the same. I stayed and fought. I believed that victory was worth the risk, but I will be stuck with the consequences long after my story gathers dust in some second-hand store in Hoboken.
         So, there I was, on the roof of the KYW building ready to enhance my visibility. I imagined the interview with my mother on TV. She would say, "He was such a nice boy before the Superbowl incident, but we can't really blame him; he went through so much." My neighbor would say, "He was a quiet man. Yes, that's it, a quiet man."
         The roof was a maze of satellite dishes. I pulled myself out of my chair and onto the ledge, and while waiting for a crowd to gather, I admired the sunshine and the slight feeling of vertigo. Soon, on the street below, a few people pointed my way.
         "I'm gonna jump!" I yelled.
         My heart pounded like it did before games. The crowd thickened. After a few minutes the service elevator opened. The rent-a-cop stepped out followed by Ken Ringer and a TV crew. They douched him with make-up and hair spray while he took a hit from an inhaler.
         "Stay back, or I'll jump!" I called over my shoulder.
         They stopped about ten feet away and set up the camera.
         Ringer grabbed a mike. "Ken Ringer here for KYW News. We are on top of our new downtown building to bring to you, live, the possible suicide of star Wide Receiver Ramsey Loomis who played for the Eagles between 2044 and 2048. He was voted MVP in the Superbowl of 2048 where the Eagles beat the Denver Broncos 21 to 20."
         The director cut away for a film clip. The crew relaxed.
         "Yo, man," the rent-a-cop said, "What you wanna be jumpin' off this building for?"
         "Because it's there."
         "You're famous, man," he said, "you ain't got no problems."
         "Ain't got no legs, either." Nor did I have Heather.
         The red light on the camera came on. Ringer stiffened. "Let's see if we can get a word from Ramsey."
         The mike boom swung over.
         "Mr. Loomis," Ringer said with a look of extreme, practiced concern, "why are going to jump from the roof of the KYW News Radio and TV building?"
         "I'm going to jump unless I hear from Heather McLaughlin within thirty minutes."
         "You heard it right here on KYW News," Ringer emphasized. "He is going to jump unless he hears from his former flame, Heather McLaughlin, within thirty minutes. The questions on everyone's minds are: will he do it? And, how will she contact him?"
         I held up my cell phone and called out the number.
         "Will he really do it?"
         "Yes."
         The crowd below by then was blocking traffic. Cabs honked. Cops swarmed like locusts. A squirrel stared at me from the corner of the roof. The phone rang. My stomach churned as I hit the “Talk” button on my phone. I hoped she would say, “Yes.”
         "Hello,"
         "Is this Ramsey Loomis?" Strange. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but her voice wasn’t quite the same.
         "Yes."
         "The reason I am calling, sir, is to inform you that Northeastern Wireless is offering you fifty free minutes..."
         Click.
         Ring.
         "Hello."
         "Ramsey Loomis."
         "Yes."
         "This is the suicide crisis hotline. Don't do it. You are loved."
         Click.
         A few members of my old team showed up in their uniforms, and chanted my name and "Ea-guls, Ea-guls." The sky filled with photographers suspended in the air by their hoverpacks. They clicked away at digital cameras that sent images directly to their various dot-coms. I like a good media circus.
         "It's been fifteen minutes," Ringer said after interviewing a few of my ex-teammates. "How do you feel?"
         "Like a bird." Like shit, I thought.
         "What will you do if she does not call?"
         "Fly."
         A fire truck pulled in below, and the firemen hustled out with a net.
         Ringer moved in for a tighter shot. "Do you feel that your injury has driven you to this?"
         "Injury!" I screamed at him, Alice's psychoanalysis running through my head. "You call this an injury?" I pointed to the spot where my legs should have been. "This is a catastrophe. My whole life is shot to hell. My teammates give their lives every week for a bunch of fat cats who keep most of the world impoverished and turn entire continents into dust bowls, and I gave my goddam legs for a system that couldn't care less.
         Ringer turned back to the camera. "You heard it right here on KYW News. We'll be right back after these words from our owner."
         Ring.
         "Hello."
         "Ramsey?" It was a female again. My heart pounded.
         "It's me." I said.
         "Look down."
         "Who is this?" I asked, suddenly confused.
         "Just look down."
         I obeyed. Someone had draped a sheet over the firemen’s net. In red letters, it read, "I love you, jump."
         "Alice?" I asked.
         "I know why you chased me off this morning. If I'm not good enough for you, you may as well jump."
         "That's unfair," I said. "You've only known me for a day."
         "I tracked down your Heather," she said. “I'm afraid that you're going to have to settle for me."
         "Why?"
         "She married her psychiatrist," she said. "She's living in Maui."
         "I like you, but, I...I..."
         "Jump."
         "But."
         "JUMP."
         I sensed something from behind. While I hadn’t been paying attention, the rent-a-cop had snuck up behind me. I turned to warn him off, and the world spiraled out from under me.

(To be used in the event of death)
Ramsey Loomis: 2022 - 2050. Played Wide Receiver for the Philadelphia Eagles. He lost his legs in an act of unsportsman-like conduct during his final appearance in the Superbowl, and disappeared from the limelight shortly thereafter. Ramsey fell to his death from the roof of the KYW TV building after a long mental illness.

         My back hurt. I couldn’t move my arms. They were tied down. The world was shaking. I realized I was in an ambulance.
         "He's awake, ma'am," a voice said.
         "Ramsey, it's me, Alice."
         All I could do was groan.
         "I'm sorry," she said, "I didn't really want you to do it."
         "I slipped,” I said weakly.
         "Thank goodness. I thought you made your decision."
         "Why am I alive?"
         "The firemen caught you."
         Some lives end mercifully short. Others linger long after any sense of meaning is lost. It takes courage to step from this life to the next, so we hang onto our moments of glory like they are umbilical cords that nourish us and tie us to the moist, warm wombs of our past, when in actuality they devour us from the inside. My Superbowl ring and Heather were cases in point. It's like the difference between breast milk and infant formula. The first satisfies a deeper need, the latter merely fills the stomach. We long for the breast, but fiction keeps us on the bottle. Mondo Consortium and all its strategies and acquisitions are fiction. The thrill of power I got from playing was fiction. Buying into their absurd pursuits of empire at the expense of life itself, I clung to them beyond my own undoing like a newborn trying to return to the womb. To cut the umbilical cord to my past--to let myself be born into a new life--took a long fall.
         I slid my hand out of the Gurney strap, and offered it to Alice. The Ambulance flew through the city like a bird.

THE END