Inside Straight

Michael Cassutt Looking for Jetboy: Epilog

The last day of American Hero begins with the phone chittering in Jamal Norwood’s apartment in Sherman Oaks. It is Eryka, the cute female production assistant who replaced John Fortune—“Hi, Stuntman! We’re picking you up at nine A.M.!”

Jamal blinks, not sure what time it is, where he is. “I’ll be ready,” he mumbles, or something close to that.

Showered, somewhat fed, Jamal finds himself on Moorpark Street, waiting for the American Hero Humvee. Today is to be the last challenge. Today is to be the big live broadcast. What will he be tomorrow? Winner of American Hero? A million dollars richer?

Or the answer to the trivia question, “Whatever happened to the ace who came in second?” At this moment, he wishes the earth would open up and swallow him.

Stuntman has had zero contact with Rosa Loteria since the penultimate vote that named them the Terrible Two. As he follows Eryka into the gym of Carpenter Avenue School, he sees Rosa arriving with her escort at the same time. She actually smiles and offers a toss of the head by way of greeting. In fact, as they find themselves waiting at the entrance, she says, “Do you have any idea what this is all about?”

“None,” Jamal says. “Which means this is no different than any other day on this show.” And she laughs.

Peregrine and a camera crew are in the auditorium, along with three hundred grade-school kids who go wild when the aces enter. Jamal and Rosa look at each other with what the hell? faces. “You’ve seen them for the past couple of months! Now, here they are, the two finalists for American Hero, Stuntman and Rosa Loteria!”

And the applause grows even louder. The kids seem genuinely happy to be in the presence of real, live aces. As they climb up to the stage, Rosa says, “They must have us mixed up with the ones who went to Egypt.”

And what appeared to be a long day looks to be even longer.

While Jamal bounced back from the penultimate challenge, all hell had broken loose in the Middle East with the former Discards from American Hero making actual history, while Stuntman, Gardener, Jetman, Tiffani, Rosa Loteria, and the others were nothing but tabloid fodder.

Then came the visit with Mom and Big Bill Norwood.

His parents still lived in Baldwin Hills; not in the same house Jamal grew up in, rather, in a two-bedroom condo a few miles away. It was another dislocation that made Jamal feel as though he were visiting strangers.

His mother fussed more than usual, proud to have a celebrity in the family. More precisely, a wild card celebrity. “It was so strange to see you … being hurt like that!” Mom had never really accepted Jamal’s wild card. “You didn’t have it as a child!” she had protested the first time he gave his parents a demonstration of Stuntman’s powers. (Okay, maybe he was showing off, leaping from the fourth-floor roof of their condo building and going splat on the parking lot below.) But Jamal’s appearance on television—the sort of thing the neighbors could see—somehow made his condition more real to her. Being an American Hero made it okay for Jamal Norwood to be an ace in his own home.

That was Mom, of course. Big Bill Norwood was a whole different matter. When Jamal entered, Big Bill was in his easy chair, remote in hand, detached. He nodded a response to Jamal’s greeting, then let his eyes flick back toward a basketball game. (It always amazed Jamal that his father could follow four sporting events simultaneously on television, but couldn’t sustain a conversation longer than a few sentences.)

“Mom says you saw the show,” Jamal said, knowing there was no reason to postpone the inevitable conflict.

Big Bill grunted. “Yep.”

“What did you think?”

“Seemed kind of dumb to me.”

Jamal felt stung. He pointed a finger at the TV screen. “Dumber than Division III girls’ volleyball?”

Then Big Bill did a surprising thing. He clicked off the TV and set down the remote. “Yes, your show is dumber than those girls, because no one’s setting up phony challenges to make them look like fools.”

“You think I look like a fool?”

“Bill.” That was Mom, using her warning voice.

“You know what you are, Jamal.”

That hadn’t been the end of the visit, of course. Visits with Mom and Big Bill never had dramatic endings, they always faded out like a song that goes on too long. It was one low point in a season of low points … as Jamal did, indeed, find himself being recognized… as he wished he had never signed up for the program in the first place.

The second phase of the final challenge takes Stuntman and Rosa to the Los Angeles Police Department’s training academy for a challenge that turns out to be a photo op. Peregrine explains that this challenge is designed to show how Stuntman or Rosa—whoever wins—can relate to law enforcement. “After all,” she says, “no matter how easily you crush crime in your new city, you’re going to be dealing with cops.”

Stuntman and Rosa, the two L.A. natives, both laugh out loud at this. “As if either of us would leave L.A.,” Rosa says.

“As if either of us would get anything but shit from the LAPD,” Jamal says. He finds himself liking Rosa for the first time. Well, they are in this thing together.

Here, at the Academy, at least, the aces get to be aces. Their challenge is to simply race through a modified version of the LAPD obstacle course—along with a group of LAPD rookies. Rosa is especially good at this, pulling one card after another out of her sleeve. One second she’s El Valiente, beating the department’s hand-to-hand combat instructor, the next she is La Bandera, leading her squad of rookies up the last hill. Stuntman simply has to hump it, running, climbing, and jumping like the other nats, though he is able to take a beating from the hand-to-hand instructor without breaking a sweat.

The whole event is merely to create footage, not to prove anything. “Where the hell are we going now?” Jamal asks Eryka. He is in low-level bounceback, panting, bent over, cranky.

“Network Center on Beverly. It’s the broadcast.”

The biggest challenge of all.

Jamal and Rosa travel in separate Humvees that are directed to different entrances. Jamal emerges, with Eryka, at the door normally used by the network staff. He sees no cameras, no fans. The parking lot is full, but the stark hallway is empty, as if quarantined. Jamal is quick-marched from a well-tit passage through one turn, then another, to cold, shadowed steps, emerging several floors down, in what would—in any city other than Los Angeles—be called a basement.

He is left in a dressing room used by actors on the network’s soaps, complete with chairs for makeup, the usual mirrors, a decrepit couch. The only sign that anyone has been here for days, possibly weeks, is a basket of fresh goodies—more than six people could consume. Typical for television.

Jamal has barely collapsed on the couch when he hears, “There you are!” His agent, Dyan, is in the doorway to the Green Room. A large, enthusiastic, essentially ineffective woman, she is nevertheless a welcome sight, given the circumstances. “Aren’t you excited?”

“Trying to be.”

Dyan tilts her head, like a schoolteacher with a mischievous student. “Don’t be like that.”

“Where’s Rosa? What’s going on?”

“She’s in another dressing room,” Michael Berman announces as he enters. “We thought it was better to keep you apart.”

“Are we supposed to be fighting?”

“It would help.” Berman’s voice is bitter, even by the standards of a network executive.

“We’ll do what we can, Mike. What is the last challenge, anyway?”

“If I had to give it a title, it would be ‘Facing the Music.’ “ Berman does not hide his juvenile satisfaction at this.

Jamal looks at Dyan: no help there, none expected. “Which tells me nothing.”

“You’ll find out everything you need to know in fifteen minutes.”

“Too bad the challenge isn’t to rescue your ratings.”

Berman’s only response is a microscopic raise of his right eyebrow. “If only your wit had been more apparent on camera. I’d wish you good luck, but why be hypocritical about it?”

The exec is out the door before Jamal can press him. He can only turn to Dyan, who is staring, eyes wide in shock. “Wow. I knew Michael was a tough customer, but …”

“Well, we’ve had our moments.”

“Thank God he can’t control the voting.” The final winner on American Hero will be selected by votes from the global audience—texted calls that, in the best American tradition, will be charged by the call. The ace with the richest fans around the world would win.

“Can’t he?” Jamal says. American Hero was television, not politics. The producers could rig it any way they wanted.

“Just remember,” she says, putting her hands on his shoulders in a very manly, almost coachlike way, “this is nowhere near the worst experience of your career. Remember Riders to Las Cruces?” His only Western, a low-budget nightmare.

“I’ve been trying hard to forget it for the past two years.”

“Well, no matter what happens, you’ll have serious heat.” The agent’s kiss of death. As if unconsciously literalizing the idea, Dyan gives him a friendly peck on the cheek, and leaves him.

All Jamal can do now is pace. He thinks back on the appearance at the school and has no memory of anything he or Rosa said. Back to the last few challenges—back to that day on the road to Griffith Park Observatory.

Don’t look back, look forward!

Wearing the headset that has by now become a permanent part of her head, Eryka knocks on the door to the locker room. “Show time.”

Feeling like a prizefighter headed for the arena, Jamal emerges. The hallway is still empty, but he can feel vibrations through the floor. Only now does he realize he will be in front of a live audience. Odd to think that in five years as a stuntman, two years as a film and theater major, he has only performed in front of a group larger than a production crew three times—all today.

You’d think he’d be used to it.

Music blasts as Eryka opens the door. The noise has heft, like a strong wind, an effect no doubt heightened by the difference in air pressure between the claustrophobic hallway and the open stage and theater.

With the sharp rise in noise comes a corresponding loss of light: it is dark backstage. Jamal blinks, stumbles, feels a hand grabbing his arm. “Careful!”

It’s Rosa, visible now as Jamal’s eyes adjust. He nods a thank you as he feels the flurry of activity around them—production assistants, grips, stagehands, all in motion, a voice penetrating the curtain that separates them from the set and hundreds of fans.

“God, I hate this,” Rosa says. The simple admission wins her Jamal’s eternal gratitude and affection. They are soldiers in the same foxhole. He actually feels—fleetingly—that it would be okay if she won. “I’d rather be trying to lift Holy Roller.”

“Yeah,” Jamal says, “or trying to get Spasm to shut up.”

The curtain opens. They are blinded by the light.

When Jamal can see again, he finds himself on a platform with Peregrine and Rosa. All around the platform are life-size Jetboy statues. There is a flat-panel television screen the size of Vermont to his right, facing the audience. In front of him, behind Peregrine and Rosa, is a low set of bleachers. And sitting there, wearing what can only be described as shit-eating grins: Pop Tart, Toad Man, Brave Hawk, the Candle—at least ten of the discards. Jamal can’t be sure, because his vision is still being blasted by lights, and Peregrine is talking, commanding him to turn his attention to the audience.

The stands are filled. In the front row, Jamal can see his mother and Big Bill—God only knows what lies Berman had to tell to get his father here.

Peregrine is demanding his attention. He turns, catches Jade Blossom’s eye—and quickly turns away. Their fling turned out to be as mutually unsatisfying as it was brief.

“Our on-line voting is open now. The number is on your screen. Text ‘R-O-S-A’ for Rosa Loteria, ‘S-T-U-N’ for Stuntman.” Jamal is still boggled at knowing that all over America, people are clicking on their computer screens or using their thumbs to send text messages. “But first,” Peregrine says, “we take a look at our fallen friends who have become…true American Heroes.”

On the monitor, a montage of events from the earlier episodes…King Cobalt… Simoon…Hardhat… God only knows how long it took the editors to find footage that made these guys look that good.

They have managed to score the tribute with a tune that recalls the Navy Hymn. Strangely, surprisingly, Jamal finds tears forming in his eyes. He didn’t even like these aces—the ones he knew at all—yet they really did something. They weren’t playing games for the amusement of people living in trailers in Oklahoma or crammed into high-rise boxes in Yokohama, they were risking their lives.

Losing their lives.

The tribute ends. The camera finds Peregrine again, as she says, “Let’s have a moment of silence.”

Jamal bows his head, even as he hears Toad Man—ten feet away—saying just loudly enough to be heard by the finalists, “Great television, isn’t it?” For an instant, Jamal wishes he could slam the Toad. But the impulse passes. Whether it is the sudden tide of good fellowship flowing from the tribute to fallen aces, or an athlete’s Zen state inherited from Big Bill Norwood, Jamal feels confident. The game is in its final minutes.

Then he hears Peregrine announce, “In addition to the votes cast by our viewers around the world, the aces here with us tonight will also have a major say in deciding the real American Hero. Their votes, cast here tonight, will be equal to a thousand viewer votes.”

This news hits Jamal like a blindside tackle. It’s one thing for the contest to be decided by viewers who have only watched the shows. It’s a whole different deal to let the contestants—the same aces who lost the challenges or otherwise screwed up—take out their resentments on the finalists.

American Hero has just become a popularity contest—and Jamal’s big problem is that, while Rosa Loteria annoyed the hell out of the other aces, she never played the race card.

Jamal and Rosa are forced to sit, smile, and react—knowing the damn director will be pulling extreme reactions from the footage—as the Candle arches his eyebrows as they watch the first challenge, aces against flames. (“God,” Rosa mutters, “I’ve heard about people being so gay they’re on fire, but give it a break.”)

He votes for Rosa. No justice.

Then the underwater safe under the lake—and Diver’s throaty laugh. She, too, votes for Rosa.

Then there’s a double whammy: Brave Hawk stands to vote, and the big screen reminds the world how Stuntman turned aside the Apache’s offer of an alliance. Jamal can’t help meeting his father’s eyes, it’s clear that Big Bill never saw this episode. He just shakes his head.

A surprise, though—Brave Hawk votes for Stuntman!

But that bright moment is followed by the darkest of all. Jade Blossom, clearly—if the hoots of the men in the audience are any indication—the most popular American Hero contestant of all—pointedly refuses to look at Jamal as she approaches the ballot box. Even as the big screen shows footage of them kissing (how the hell did Art and his team get this?) Jade Blossom votes for Rosa.

Toad Man votes—Stuntman! Then Pop Tart, Joe Twitch. Who did they go for? “Can you believe this? I’m losing count!” he says to Rosa.

“Don’t worry about what’s happening here,” she says, looking baffled herself. “This is only a few thousand votes. The audience is half a million.”

Jamal doesn’t even see the footage of the hostage challenge, or hear Dragon Girl, or have any idea how she voted. He sees one of the Jetboy statues looking down at him. Now, there was an American Hero—he didn’t ask for it, he just did the job that had to be done.

Jamal tries to look at the scoreboard for the audience votes, but can’t see it. Of course, Berman and his team don’t want the Terrible Two to know what’s coming. Jamal can only look sideways at Rosa, as Peregrine goes into a torturous spiel about how these votes are now being integrated with those of the viewing public, and offers a tortured word: “Congratulations.”

Then he hears Peregrine say, “And the winner of American Hero is …” Jamal knows this will be dragged out, as if time weren’t already stretching. It is that endless moment between the football leaving the quarterback’s hand and its descent into the receiver’s—the hour it takes for a curveball to sail, spin, dive.…

Suddenly the studio explodes with sound—clapping, laughing, cheering.

He didn’t hear the name!

But Rosa Loteria has her arm around him. “Congratulations to you, Stuntman. You played the game just right.”

He won! Jamal Norwood, aka Stuntman, is the American Hero!

The others are around him now, hands thumping him on the back (it can’t really hurt, can it?), the women kissing him (even Jade). He only registers a strange, slick, smooth hug from Tiffani before he is with Peregrine at center stage. “Are you surprised?” she’s saying. The crowd is still making noise.

“Yeah.” Feeling more awkward in public than he has since fifth grade, he can only blurt the word. But he remembers being at the school earlier today, talking about being a hero—and he forms a speech that will dedicate this award to the aces lost in Egypt.

But before he can speak, he sees Berman flinging his arms around like a child of six in midtantrum. “What do you fucking mean ‘we’re not on the air’?”

The information strikes Peregrine at the same moment. Frozen smile on her face, still conscious of the cameras on her, she turns to Eryka, the production assistant. “Did I hear that? We’re not on the air?”

“Look,” Rosa says.

On the monitor showing the network feed, the American Hero finale is gone. In its place a middle-of-the-night scene in some European city—the hot, young South African reporter from NBC standing in front of some ornate building.

“What the hell is that?”

“The Hague,” Berman says. He reminds Jamal of a tire deflating.

“What’s the Hague?” Rosa asks.

“Home of the World Court.”

The reporter is saying, “… brought the strong man leader of Egypt, Kamal Farag Aziz, and his whole leadership, here to the Hague.…”

“Who brought them?” Jamal can’t see or hear.

“Your friends,” Berman says. “Our discards.”

“Michael, what are we doing?” Peregrine says. “Do we start over?” Berman shakes his head. “Well, fine,” she says, completely flustered. “This was going live to the East Coast. What about three hours from now?”

“You think that’s going to be over? Look at it!”

On the screen a group of men in chains, with CIA-style hoods, is being marched right to the front door of the Hague. Suddenly the camera finds John Fortune, grinning like…well, to Jamal, like Tom Cruise. Harrison Ford. Jack Nicholson. And there’s Lohengrin, Bugsy.

And Rustbelt, looking more sure of himself now than he ever did during American Hero.

They are the real heroes now.

Rosa turns to leave. “Where are you going?” Jamal asks her.

“Home, baby. Like everyone else.” She nods toward the audience. Those who aren’t staring at the screen, openmouthed in admiration and wonder, are jamming the aisles, talking on cell phones, clearly thinking only about the events at the Hague.

Jamal searches for his parents. They, too, are rising from their seats, shaking their heads. All this work! All this time! And he was ready, not just to accept the money, but to be the American Hero.

He will. It is the role of his lifetime.

But no one will care.