An Idea with Legs
By Janice P Kehler
Opening Ceremonies
During the few quiet moments of my day, I dwelled on the death of friends, never able to shake the thought that it could have been me. At times, reliving the sounds of the bombings, I fingered the old-fashioned flat hat of my mentor, conjuring his goofy grin and twinkling eyes, trying to replay the exact way he would speak in his broken English. To trust, to hope, it’s right for a healthy body to guide a healthy mind.
Life was hard. There was a deep ache that hovered. Moving hurt. I had been sitting, scripting the opening and closing ceremonies for four solid hours, and now, just standing up was taking a toll. I opened my purse and took out the twice-a-day pills. Drugs, Harper would say, all of them a deadly double-edged sword. She popped them into her mouth. Bless her soul, Harper, a citizen combatant armed with numbers, equations, and sharp words, lost herself in the folly of her quest.
Once upon a time, Harper had been curious about holistic medicine. Her research in 2024 was focused on how mind and body worked together to boost the quality of life. Now, she was caught in the body, its physiology too labyrinthine to fit inside the logic of her mind. She had found a way into a tangled web of exploitation, greed, and now revenge that had become a life-and-death struggle. She had used her talents to trace the chemical footprints to promote well-being, and now her well-being was under attack.
I dared to look at my computer screen. There had been many demands; You must include…the beginning of many conversations…the history of the Games…, and the magic of Coubertin’s poem, Ode to Sport. You must be inclusive of the story of the horse as an athlete. Harper was desperate to highlight that the World Health Organization was to oversee the ‘New Olympics.’ And the athletes, on her phone, daily, demanding that national symbols be abolished, nicely, with artistry. Expectations were high.
Dr. Harper Atherton had eight hours to get comfortable inside the fat lady suit and find her way to the Olympic Stadium. It was a gift from her FBI handlers, who wanted to protect her from the enemies she had made in the world of sport. She was disciplining herself not to complain because this was the only way, wearing this outrageous disguise, she would be safe to attend in person.
She wouldn’t miss the opening even if her life were threatened. It had been a fight that spiraled down into hell; giving up now was never going to happen, although it crossed her mind daily.
“Do you want to die?” her handler had said, shoving into her face a photograph of four dead bodies: two Russian scientists and two former athletes. These were whistleblowers who’d implemented global anti-doping regulations and had nailed the corruption of the Russian sports federations. Not only had their athletes been caught cheating, but government officials had bribed and manipulated the process to ensure the victory of their drug-fueled athletes. Many athletes and coaches had been banned from Olympic competitions, and some in powerful places had been jailed. Who exactly would compete had come into question—it was the main storyline for the media. Money had turned the world of sport into warring cartels, the good guys against the bad guys. She shivered. No justice system could contain the hatred that had been let loose.
“But LA weather is scorching, and you have me wearing pants and a long-sleeved jacket,” Harper said. “Won’t that make me stand out?” The handlers frowned and left her hotel room without a word. Harper amazed herself at her devious spy-worthy instincts. She was a trained physician for crying out loud.
The fact of the matter, the agent had said, is that she had made powerful enemies. Enemies that would stop at nothing to keep her facts and evidence dead and buried, along with her. The dark underworld of sport had paid for the bounty that motivated the unhinged to take her down. The FBI agent said being disguised was the only way she could survive the Games of the New Olympiad.
The tipping point over the story of world records had survived decades of infighting. Athletes had finally defeated the International Olympic Committee, the band of conservative traditionalists who wanted power at all costs. The World Health Organization had won. Between 2024 and 2040, if a world record holder could not prove that they’d been clean (enter the reach of the WHO), the record went to the following best, and so forth. For many records, a pure athlete could not be found. No matter their money, no one was given the benefit of the doubt, not even the superstars. The WHO was a fortress of health and well-being for all.
By 2040, it was commonly accepted if one athlete from a country tested positive for a banned substance, the whole team would be disqualified from the competition. She remembered how this had made her nervous. Rightly so. The new rules were ironclad, but the dark underworld had unfurled a flood of death threats and had decided that she was the target. Attempts on her life had followed. Less now, but we must be forever vigilant, the FBI said. World records were non-existent for ten years, yet hatred and revenge survived.
The FBI handlers returned with a dress, a frilly affair that Harper would never have chosen. It had thick, long sleeves and layers of polyester with ripples to make her arms look fat and jiggly. After squeezing herself into the dress, she picked up Sam the Eagle, the quadrennial mascot for the Americas awarded the Summer Games every eight years. The Americas loved Sam the Eagle.
The elevator descended into the hot, humid weather. It was possible that LA would never reverse the impact of climate change. The hot winds and wildfires tested the landscape’s resilience; It was why the Games had been moved to winter. The Winter Games were canceled due to the lack of predictable cold weather, even in Antarctica. The invisible pads of polyester stuck to the bare skin of her arms, and she noticed nothing about her jiggled. She tucked her grey-brown hair under a wide-brim straw hat that smelled like someone else had worn it despite the medicinal scent that her newly dyed hair gave off.
The Games had arrived. Despite everything, these Olympics were going to happen. And it just might be the last time.
The Drones
Hubert scrambled after the producer as fast as his old legs would carry him.
“There’s such a thing as too much drone, not enough still shots,” he said as they sat across from each other at Hubert’s desk.
“Explain,” said the producer, a man of few words.
“The sounds from the drones’ motors are ever present, always merging with the sounds of the spectators, the ohh and ahh that builds tension. On the screen, the waves of pixels overlap each other. It’s creepy. Can you stop that?”
“You don’t like the drones?”
Hubert realized he had offended the man.
“Don’t get me wrong, it’s fascinating to watch; I can’t take my eyes off it. But it seems out of this world.” No one had doubted the pictures of the Munich massacre in 2023, revenge for the Middle East wars. The drone buffered reality by interpolating pixels using waves of correcting algorithms to render something that looked like reality. The producer stared at him. I walked across the room and slammed the door as he finally left.
“Well, just in case, I have my army of photographers on the field,” Hubert proudly shouted.
Maria’s army, the name he had given the photographers who had volunteered in large numbers. Most were retired athletes determined to honor Maria’s real athletic legacy and erase the never-ending story of her gruesome death at the hands of an abusive coach. They were in position covering every corner of the stadium, dressing rooms, warm-up track, tunnel, and infield. Where possible, they all tried to find an angle to expose each athlete’s unique expression of movement. Creativity and joy married together for a lifetime.
Softly, the hum of cars and people moving about started to build. Within the hour, the stadium began to come alive, each section of seats filled up with brightly colored spectators, each carrying two mascots: a blue checkered stuffed sea serpent that was for the Olympic events as well as a pink companion mascot for the Paralympics. For the first time, the two games were to be held together. In the end, there was not one empty seat. Hubert smiled; the excessive heat, the arid landscape, the destruction of the roadways from the recent earthquakes, and the never-ending smoke from wildfires had only made it more plausible that the Games would go on.
Hubert watched outside the tunnel as Olympic and Paralympic athletes paraded into the stadium. He took side shots of their nations’ flag bearers followed by standard bearers and then shots of the signs that spelled out the names of countries. After every nation was positioned on the infield, the flag bearers, one by one, lowered their national emblems and raised the Olympic flag. A white wave with blue, yellow, black, green, and red rings rippled across the infield. He had positioned the camera crew to catch the movement of every flag. Later, Hubert would compress the image of a fallen nationalism and expand the image of Olympism, its rings rising.
Hubert stepped inside the tunnel and nervously fingered the camera around his neck. He could hear the soft thud of the torchbearer running towards him before he saw the torch. He raised his camera and compressed the shutter. It whirred snapping images: the torch bobbing, the white tracksuit of the runner blurring, and then his face thick with scars and his hands missing fingers—a war veteran.
The torchbearer ran to a spot at the far south side of the stadium and waved at the crowd, handing the torch to a nearby athlete. It was passed from hand to hand up and down the rows of athletes, from nation to nation. The camera crew caught the flames as it lit up the faces of the athletes, but it was the drone that captured the collective impact of a torchlight snaking its way across the infield. It would become a sequence of images that Hubert would play repeatedly throughout his documentary of the New Games.
Finally, the torch came to rest in the hands of a Paralympian in a wheelchair that fit around her body. The chair slowly glided near the stand with a small stainless-steel bowl. Lowering the torch, she tapped the dish, activating the sound of a gong. A beam of light ascended to the top of the stadium walls and split into two. Strands of light slid around the rim in opposite directions, meeting in the middle, an electric jolt captured by the hovering drones. The Olympic flame sprung to life. The drone captured the flight of the light while the camera crew zoomed in on the Olympic flame scorching the night sky.
Hubert stepped outside the tunnel, letting the procession, the Olympic flag, and that of the World Health Organization staffed by soldiers in dress uniform pass by him. For the first time, they would fly together; history marched past in absolute silence. The drones zoomed in on the sacred moments when the flags were secured, then raised, and then on their unfurling and dancing, zooming out to take in the permanence of the poles upon which they flew. Maria’s army used their cameras to capture the indescribable faces of the athletes, including when they all began to sing a long-forgotten song from the twentieth century: I’d like to build the world a home and furnish it with love…Grow apple trees and honeybees and snow-white turtle doves…
“Audio, the audio!” Hubert called over his headset.
“We’re on it,” I said, telling the producer at my side that this was so cheesy and then apologizing because this made me look like an awful person, criticizing this choir of voices having unscripted, spontaneous fun. I swiped at my tears. I rambled on about the song, memories of singing it and believing it when I graduated from high school and college and at world championships. It was a theme song I should have sung at the weddings of my friends and fellow athletes who had died during the decade of the bombings. Wrong place, wrong time,
Hubert tried to lift his camera to compose the next shot. But the sight before him undid him. Singing and dancing like spontaneous combustions, except this time, human energy fueled hope and joy. He began to dance while his finger found the shutter. The click and whir swirled with their dancing, forgetting to compose the shot. Later, he published a collage of his photographs, feet superimposed on arms and legs, impossible orientations; it made people smile. He employed a calligrapher to write beneath the collage the title: September 6th, 2050, LA Coliseum, An Idea, with Legs.
I eyed the Olympic officials from the WHO in their VIP seats. They looked relieved as if they believed the Games were already successful, while I faced a tsunami of doubt and anxiety. The hard truths were about to emerge. I forced myself to breathe and think positively—everyone had loved the horse idea.
The athletes were herded to the side of the infield behind signs that identified their countries. Restless, some stood on chairs, cameras ready, others mingled with their neighboring countries, and some swapped seats so friends could sit beside each other. Russian athletes embraced Americans, Israelis embraced Palestinians, and Canadians embraced Americans. It looked friendly. It looked like they were having fun.
“The performers are in the tunnel,” the voice over my headset chimed. I exhaled slowly. I could hear the horses snorting.
The producer was at the controls of the drone from the roof of the press box.
“We’re all set,” I yelled into my headset.
“Gottcha,” said the producer.
She could see the shadows of his thumbs up. The drones were rising.
The lights of the stadium dimmed. Darkness. A disembodied voice silenced the crowd.
“O Sport, a distillation of the life, a shining messenger, at first just a glimmer of light but then sunbeams reflecting off the forest’s gloomy floor.” A spotlight in the center grew outward. And then another, over and over, until the stadium floor shimmered and glowed.
A loud clash and the stadium was thrown again into darkness.
“O Sport, a distillation of the life, a vessel of joy, a cheerful game, that mirrors how we show up in the world.
In the center of the stadium, the outline of Waldo, the mascot of Munich ‘72 and 2023, appeared dancing with the Star of David. Daring, flowing acrobatic movements were seen only by bands of LEDs that outlined the limbs of each dancer as if the massacres had never found a foothold.
Darkness descended. This time, it was a child’s voice.
“O sport, we shall dream.” And then a choir of children’s voices, swelling to a crescendo. “O sport, distillation of life, the ground we walk is the world we deserve.”
The lights slowly came on as if a curtain was lifting. A crowd of former Olympic mascots entered from one end of the stadium, led by an enormous blue-green sea serpent: Waldo the dachshund, Amik, the beaver, Misha the bear, Sam the bald eagle, and Hidori, the baby amur tiger, platypus, a spiny ant eater, What’s it, and Wenlock’s gradually taking over the infield until they quietly broke ranks. A chocolate brown horse and its rider, dressed in white from head to toe, riding bareback, appeared.
Two juxtaposed Jumbotrons sputtered to life, flickering, teetering, and then gleaming. The rider wore a body camera live streaming to one of the jumbotrons. The overhead drones focused on the horse and rider, sending those images to the second jumbotron.
All at once, the crowd could see the horse lower his head and tuck his chin, getting ready to prance. The rider slowly leaned into the steep descent of the horse’s neck. One jumbotron flashed the exact precise regal stepping of the horse, the other fixed on the rider, his jiggle, sway, and then the bump and grind. The rider’s body began to flow with the faster trot of the horse, his hind muscles shivering with power. The horse rounded the infield repeatedly while the rider’s body melted into the horse’s stride and finally into the swirl of the horse’s mane.
The two jumbotrons in synch, horse and rider, became one. The stadium echoes only the breath, the snort, and the sounds of exertion that mingle with the gaspy gusts of the spectators.
Finally, I leaned back into my chair and took off the headset. The final scene is underway: a wave of children and athletes throwing mascots up into the air accompanied by a roar of laughter. The drone engineer was whooping it up in his press box, and those around her were crying, hugging, and giving each other high fives. It was over.
I overheard spectators speaking: “awesome, fantastic,” followed by enthusiastic foreign words, “fantastico, fantastisk, Yasso, prima, chuffed, zdorovo, macanudo, genial, sugoi, and Niú accompanied by the muffled sounds of arms raised, or a slap on the back, or a swipe of teary faces, or loud whistles and ending with the rapture of “oh my god!”
I took off Mr. G’s hat and laid it on my lap. I fingered the inside flap and finally felt a return of courage; it had been twenty years. I turned the flap inside out. There were two pictures: my two girlfriends and me hugging, and Mr. G and me celebrating my gold medal, and one of Mr. G with me and the stoic and brilliant Domino, my winning horse. The usual wave of grief never materialized, just a warm loving glow, memories that fell into place, the yesterdays and today cohering.
After the crowds had gone, I left the control booth and found my way to the center of the stadium, where only a few athletes remained huddled together in a fog of disbelief—the competitions, their Games, were to begin early in the morning.
I sat at the edge of the infield and watched, then nodded as the athletes walked past, and then spied a fat lady negotiating the stadium steps with unexpected grace. The drones were still flying back and forth, viewing the now-empty stadium. My mind looped back and forth following the soft hum of the drone’s motors that conflated into one image— I replayed how the Olympic flag was carried like a coffin and juxtaposed that against the moment of horse and rider, a celebration of athleticism, spectator and athletes together conspiring to defy the laws of gravity. The Games would continue; surely, the Games must continue.
The fat lady, sweating profusely, grunted as she shuffled alongside me, preparing to sit on the ground. I recognized Harper’s face, but the body was not Harper’s.
“Can you help me?” she muttered, struggling to catch her breath. “I can’t unzip this crazy suit by myself!”
I erupted into a full-body chuckle and chortle that lasted the whole time it took me to locate the zipper cleverly hidden inside the folds of the squishy polyester. I tugged at the zipper that extended from Harper’s neck to her heel. The bodyguards appeared out of the dark shadows, edging closer. When Harper emerged from the polyester pile, her shorts and a white cotton t-shirt hugged her slim, older body. She had no hint of being remotely aligned with athleticism, but she had a defiant posture; gravity would not defeat her, no matter how awkward and spindly she was. She had the fight in her, always had.
The bodyguards halted.
“Let’s run a lap of the track,” Harper said, giving the bodyguards a thumbs up. Several turned and began to scan the stadium, looking for the dark underworld of revenge seekers.
“I want to feel it in my muscles, and not all wrapped up in polyester, a fat-lady suit no less!”
I pulled on Mr. G’s flat hat, and together, we began to jog, walk, and talk, shadows rippling through the night. We passed under floodlights that spotlit track sections and disappeared into unlit areas without fear. Two bodies gliding with arms swinging, feet scuffing and tapping the pebbled track. Sometimes, we stepped quickly; other times, we strolled, drunk with the sweetness of the night air, ignoring the sour taste of darkness.
We passed from dark to light to dark, over and over, and finally, arm-in-arm, exited the stadium, leaving the fat lady suit in the middle of the infield.
The bodyguards closed in behind us. We could hear them chuckling.
Indeed, we all had embraced the wonder of what tomorrow might bring.