by Brian McGinn, age 17, Palo Alto High
We recently published the first issue of the 826 Valencia Quarterly. Some of the writing was the result of a particular workshop or field trip, but a good deal of work came from Bay Area students who submitted their writing to us through the website. Brian’s is one of many stories that arrived via e-mail.
On December 7, 1988, forty-seven years after Pearl Harbor, injustice once again struck the United States. The setting was a bobsled track just outside Calgary, in the lush country of Canada, where the elk roam free and the people walk as straight as they would if being anally probed (or something). It was, on this day I mentioned earlier, a place where one man (and his small metal sled) almost made history. The man’s name was Dennison Dieu, a Frenchman by name and a redneck by nationality and nature; the sport was the luge. The first question you ask might be: “How close did Dieu come to history?” The answer, of course, is very close. Very, very, very close! After years and years and more months and months of training (and a long night of nervous bingeing and purging), Dennison Dieu finished fourth, missing out on an Olympic metal and lifelong pride by only three one-thousandths of a second.
The next logical question to ask would be: “What the hell is the luge?” That question requires a much more complicated answer because the truth is, no one is exactly sure what the luge is. Not even the lugers themselves, who wear large plastic shields to protect their faces from shards of flying sub-zero ice. The shards, whose main purpose in their short and undignified lives seems to be to venomously attack the eyes of any luger they can get to, also do not know what the luge is. After decades of watching competition, we spectators have only been able to describe the sport this way, from the Obscure Sports Dictionary: the luge is a primitive Olympic sport in which one man, or, in recent years, one woman, rides a small metal sled down a very slick ice surface at speeds in excess of sixty miles per hour, wearing only a latex bodysuit and a small plastic helmet. The object of the luge is to finish this course in the shortest amount of time without dying! This last qualification has led to the disappointment of quite a large number of Calgarian lugers.
When I first contacted Dieu to request an interview on what is now the eleventh anniversary of his defeat, the man who had once been known as the King of Luge was reluctant to recount the days leading up to and following his last competition. Days later, after my secretary had finally harassed the great man into submission, we arranged to meet at a diner outside of Topeka, Kansas, Dieu’s current hometown. In Topeka he lives a reclusive life as a fruit store owner and neighborhood pet psychic. I arrived early and got settled. A quarter-hour later, Dieu ambled through the door and I beckoned him over. As he sat down, I gently laid my pocket tape recorder on the table and unstuck my sweaty forearm from the plastic upholstery to reach up, shake his calloused hand, and then press the play and record buttons. The recorder made a simple click sound and we were off. The conversation occurred as follows:
10:38 AM—Dieu calls the waitress over and orders a large piece of strawberry pie. I am amazed but I do not allow my face to show it. This is because I have a great poker face. Pie in the morning? You have got to be kidding me. More than anything, however, I am surprised that the waitress could understand his gluttonous order over the loud smacking sound she was making with her presumably delicious gum. I clear my throat and ask the first question:
Q: So, it’s been eleven years…
Dieu: [nods, his lower lip covering his upper lip, then releasing back into its limbo state as he makes a small popping sound] Yup, I guess it has.
[I nod. The luger talks with a slight drawl, but it is no more noticeable than the huge chainsaw drawing that is prominent on his chest-hugging shirt. I begin to doubt that Dieu is a good pet psychic.]
10:39 AM—Still nodding. The pie arrives, in my opinion an obvious sign that there is a God. Not only does it set a world record for Kansas diner efficiency, but it also gives me more time to think of a second question. I am intimidated in the presence of the great luger. I am sweating; I normally do not sweat.
10:40 AM—Yes!!!! I’ve got one!
Q: So, Topeka, huh?
A: [another pop] Yeah. [now Dieu is rocking in his seat, the upholstery making unattractive sloshing sounds as if he is rolling in vomit.] I think it was the trees that drew me here. I’m a real tree person.
Q [enthusiastically]: Yeah?
A: Yeah.
[I wonder how he can be a tree person and have a chainsaw on his chest. These two things are contradictory. I look out the window. A man and a dog are urinating in perfect unison.]
10:41 AM—I note that I have not seen a single tree in the entire city of Topeka, including its suburbs. I don’t mention this. I decide that it’s the time that will make or break the story. I cut right to the chase, the entrée of the interview, the filet mignon of the whole thing. The Olympics…
Q: How long is three one-thousandths of a second?
A: Not very long. [pop]
Q: Did you learn anything when you lost?
A: Yes.
Q: What?
A: Three one-thousandths of a second is not a long time.
Q: Uh-huh.
A: Yeah.
Q: Would you do anything differently if you could go back and repeat that
Olympics?
A: Yes. I regret not taking advantage of all of the free towels and toiletries that they gave us. Other than that, it was all God’s fault.
Q: You didn’t take any of the free stuff?
A: [pounding table] No!
Q: You said that besides that, it was all God’s fault. Doesn’t your name mean God in French?
A: Yes.
Q: So it was your fault?
A: [pop]
10:47 AM—I am back out in the dusty parking lot, starting my rental Ford Taurus. Dieu didn’t seem to take too kindly to my last question. The interview has now been over for two minutes. Dieu has gone. I do not think there is much of a chance for a follow-up interview. I get in the car and weep.
Now, looking back on my failure, I cry huge, warm, salty drops; my hopes for a Pulitzer dripped into the soil as my moaning crescendoed and my tears made a puddle in the hard Kansas dirt. Suddenly I understood how Dieu must have felt after he finished fourth; there is a gaping hole in my heart, and I wonder if I will ever recover.
