Zelda and the Zamboni

 

“We are very proud to support the arts,” Ethan McCrowder explains. He's the head of marketing for the minor league hockey team. I would believe him, but I know that all the middle school students had to pay twelve dollars, just like I did, and I won the competition.

I wave at the crowd, I can't imagine they care about what I'm about to say. I fall. This is where my writing has gotten me, butt on the ice, struggling to stand.

The rules were simple, write a poem on the beauty of sports. My submission, mostly inspired by my misadventures in gymnastics, beat out dozens of entries. Ms. Bugle, my sixth grade English teacher, insisted everyone in the class enter their poem. She was so excited that I won, I couldn't help but accept the offer to read it. That's how I got here, sliding on the ice, bracing myself on McCrowder's hands, at Pucks for Poems.
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At the center of the ice, they have a rectangular rug. Finally, I am able to let go of McCrowder's hands. There's something about the man that downright creeps me out. It could be his thin mustache, or his belly that protrudes out of his white suspenders, or just the way he gets so close to my face when he speaks.

He grabs a microphone, and starts talking to the crowd about pride and support, art and sports, all junk that I just tune out. I'm busy watching the crowd. People walk up and down the aisles, some of them are carrying trays filled with grease. Others have over-sized cups filled to the brim with beer or soda, they spill them with every step. I focus my eyes on Ms. Bugle, some of my classmates sit around her. The look of pride in their eyes, reminds me why I accepted this, so called, honor.
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“…she will now read her inspirational poem.” McCrowder finishes and places the microphone on a stand. He lowers it to my height, and I walk up to it. To my surprise, the crowd is quiet, waiting for me to read. I look at my paper and begin:
 

That Moment
by Zelda Z.
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We run, we fly, we land
We fall, we tumble, we stand
It appears after many tears
It exists by overcoming fears
Years of laughter, years of plenty
Years of loss, years of nothing
A goal made, a landing stuck
Teammates hug, coaches jump
That singular moment
All for that moment
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Utter crap, I know. But apparently, someone in the hockey office really liked it. Or, what I really think happened, they pulled it out randomly from a stack in order satisfy their marketing promotion.

In the polite applause that follows, Ms. Bugle is beaming. That's all I care about. The rock music comes on, the screens encourage the crowd to get rowdy again. McCrowder helps me slide back past the Zamboni machine, which is primed and ready to clean up the ice..

“I have a little extra prize for you, Zelda. It's in the Zamboni room. Follow me please.”

Odd, I thought the whole experience of reading on center ice was the prize. He walks down a wide hallway, turns and slides open a door just wide enough for both of us to fit through.

He leads me into the dark room and flips a light switch. A bulb flashes and burns out. I hear him mumble some curse word. He walks in further and turns another switch. A red neon beer sign turns on. This gives the room a scarlet tinge. In the room, there are shelves in the back, filled with hockey equipment, several filing cabinets, and another Zamboni machine.

“We'll have to fix that light,” he says, mostly to himself. He turns his attention to me. “It's in here, behind the Zamboni. Wait right there.”

I'm standing just to the right of the Zamboni machine. He tucks in behind it, and I see him bend over behind the machine. He's messing with one of the filing cabinets. “Goddamn it, why do they always lock these cabinets.”

I turn and see the light pouring in through the narrow opening of the door. The whole scene irks me. A custodian pokes his head in, his sudden silhouette startling me.

“What happened, did the light go out, again?”
 

McCrowder pokes his head around the Zamboni. “Oh, hi Tony, can you fix that, ASAP?”

“Who's is this?” the custodian motions in my direction.

“This is Zelda, our latest winner.” McCrowder smiles, which only adds to his creepiness. His thin mustache makes a horizontal line across his face.

All I see is a silhouette of his head as the custodian talks. “Another one? You giving her one of your special treats, huh? I think this may be your last fuck.”

He walks away. Did he say fuck? My body is frozen, I don't exactly know what's going on, or what's about to happen. No one would be able to hear me. The crowd noise and the rock music would drown out any screams for help. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up and I'm ready to bolt out the door. Then the door closes.

“Just a minute.” McCrowder tilts his head down and reaches into the pockets of his trousers and starts fumbling around in them. There was something about the shadows formed by the red lighting that made him look like Satan himself. I'm frightened to death.

He pulls out a set of keys and goes back behind the machine. I don't want to wait and find out what he pulls out of that cabinet. I find myself on the Zamboni, turning the key. The machine roars on.

“What the hell are you doing?” Lucifer speaks. I pull a lever and push my foot as far down on the gas pedal as I can. The machine takes off, knocking the sliding door over. I turn the Zamboni down the hall. People are leaping out of the way. The Zamboni bursts through the gate and onto the ice. I turn to see McCrowder, he comes sliding after me. Behind him are two police officers, and several security guards.

I circle around on the ice, avoiding the other machine. I can hear the crowd cheering. The men triangulate my Zamboni's movements. A portly security guard jumps onto my machine, he slams his foot on the brake, and turns the machine off. I jump off and slide on my bottom towards the center of the rink. The audience is ecstatic. The police officers and McCrowder approach me.

I point to McCrowder, my hand shaking. “He tried to rape me!”

“What?…What?! No!” He looks at the officer. “That is not true. She doesn't know what she's talking about.”

“You did, you took me into that back room. The custodian was there, he knows.“

“No, that's not what I was doing,” McCrowder says, addressing the officer, “She's confused.”

“These are serious accusations,” the officer explains, “did he attempt to sexually assault you?”

I nod.

“I need a yes or no.”

“Yes,” I say. The officer motions to his partner, who then takes Mr. McCormick into custody.

“She's crazy,” McCrowder drops a puck on the ice and kicks it towards me, his hands restrained. “There's your prize, you crazy.” The puck slides to my feet, on it, in sliver marker, are the signatures of all the members of the hockey team.

One police officer escorts McCrowder off the ice, the other officer helps me up. I grab the puck off the ice. Did the janitor say puck? I can't remember. The only thing I'm sure of, is that the devil himself appeared to me this day.

 

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