Firebird

   CONCENTRATION IS THE THING.
   You have to block out everything but the task at hand if you want to succeed. In my mind. I am the Firebird, soaring above the ashes of my own extinction.
   Ignoring the sweat pouring down my face, I stand before the mirrored wall, one hand lightly touching the barre. I bring my knee up steadily and lay it alongside my nose, then ever so slowly extend the calf, arching my toes toward the ceiling.
Technique, line, proportion, balance: these are the classical elements of the dance. Ballet is a celebration of the physical instrument, a ruthless, brutal discipline from which mastery of movement emerges. I try to think only of the dance as I push away from the barre and glissade to the center of the cold, silent studio.
   I want to pretend that it is not nearly 4 a.m., that I am not exausted, that I am not courting injury by pushing myself too hard. Going up on pointe, I turn a dozen mad fourettes, one-legged spins that confuse the mind and challange the spirit. I want to forget what happened last night. I want to fill my empty soul with the dance.
   I keep my balance by means of light and gravity. I focus on the staccato tock-tock-tock of my toeshoes against the hardwood floor. I will myself to forget, but even as my body transends exaustion and pushes into the realm of pure bliss, I remember... I remember...


   The dream is always the same: I'm charging through a long, dim hallway surrounded by shadowy blue figures running ahead and beside me. Blood crashing in my temples all but obliterates the thunder of our heavy boots as we approach a scarred metal door at the end of the hall. Amid angry shouts and confusing clamor, the door suddenly bursts open. (At this point in the dream, I start struggling to awaken myself because I can't bear to see what I know waits in that apartment.) My screams reach out of my dream and into my conciousness. I awaken on my feet, engulfed in a blind panic.


   The dream is a remnant of the other side of my life. Of necessity, most dancers live two-sided lives. Foremost always is the grand passion- the dance- but unless one is a principal dancer in a large company, there is also a full-time job that pays the rent and buts the toeshoes.
   When I'm not dancing, I work for the city. I'm one of a five-member tactical assault team the Detroit Police Department secretly calls "The Nut Squad". We're specifically trained to respond to barricade situations, which are often precipitated by emotionally disturbed persons, hence the nickname.
   My given name is Julianna Christine Larkin. At the dance studio, I'm addressed as Julianna, but inside the police department, I'm often referred to as "Twinkletoes" or "The Sugarplum Fairy" behind my back. At one time, the guys on my squad gave me a hard time, making ballerina jokes and fun of my gendre. Now they just call me Larkin, which suits me just fine.
   Lieutenant Steven Brophy, my squad leader and veteran of two tours of combat in Vietnam, told me, "I want you to stay in back of the team, young lady. Don't want any trouble on this one. We've got our hands full and we don't need to be babysitting you."
   His doubts about my competence did not annoy me- I was having my own misgivings. Everyone in the department was aware that I had recieved my placement in the unit to squelch a rash of sexual discrimination suits filed against the city. I thought I would be able to prove myself when the time came, but right then, I was just plain rabbit scared.
   As I adjusted my radio headset headset, a sharp cry pulled my attention to the third floor apartment window where something dangled beneath the windowsill. Pushing my hair up under my cap I saw that it was a child- a baby!- being held by one ankle, bobbing precariously above the bleak tundra thirty feet below.
   The baby screamed in terror, windmilling it's little arms, arching its back. My head froze. Seconds later, the child was jerked roughly back through the window and disappeared from view. Only its wails echoed in the cold night air.
   "That's right," Brophy said as he motioned for me to follow him toward the equipment truck. "We got us a maniac, little girl."
   After handing me a heavy hydraulic jack, which I would carry during the assault, we joined the rest of the squad for a fast briefing. It was terrifying. Unconfirmed reports indicated that there was a phycho in apartment 302 named Ralph Esposito who had taken his former wife and children hostage. Sporadic gunfire heard earlier in the evening was shortly followed by the ejection of an object from the window which was later identified as his ex-wife's head. Of the six children presumed to be inside the apartment with him, it was unsure how many survived. The situation had been detiorating rapidly for several hours and the unacceptable level of risk.
   Our task: Full-Assualt Scenario/Termination of Suspect Authorized.
   We crept into the building past a dozen uniformed officers and waited for one breathless minute at the end of the third floor hallway until Lieutenant Brophy gave the signal to move. At that point, I was so frightened and everything started moving so fast that the whole sequence of events always comes back to me in blurs and flashes:
   Midnight blue figures hustling down the hallway- the sound of our boots against the linoleum floor- halting outside the door to 302- handing the jack to Fred Zaluta, second in command- dragging my A-2 off my back, throwing the safty- the door buckling and bursting open- gunfire- Zaluta on the floor, writhling- I know he's moaning, but all I can hear is my own blood crashing in my ears- a naked man, clotted with gore, pointing a rifle at me- NO!- the end of the barrel explodes with light and something punches me hard in the shoulder- I start to go down, sure that I'm already dead- automatically, I train the red dot of my laser aiming device on the center of the madman's forehead and squeeze off a fast burst.
   As I go down, I see the top of the suspect's head lift off and explode in hundreds of shards and droplets that fan out in every direction- swiveling my head, I see another spray of dark blood pumping out of the torn meat of my shoulder. I think very clearly, "Where's the baby?" as I hit the floor- there is shouting and commotion- I lay injured and dazed, but not actually registering pain yet- the medical people swarm over me, lift me up onto a stretcher that puts me at eye level with a strange object that looks like raw roast beef pinned to the wall with a big cooking fork.
   Time twists and stretches now, slowing to a crawl.
   How odd, I think, running my eyes over the blue veins marbling the strangly shaped piece of meat. Rivulets of blood trace down the dingy wall beneath. How very, very odd.
   People talk to me as I'm carried toward the door, but all I can hear is the hushed voice of one uniformed policeman addressing another officer.
   "That's the way it goes with these screwballs," he was saying,shaking his head sadly. "The bastard killed everyone of them. Skinned the baby alive and staked it to the wall with a fork right before the rescue unit got in. Five more minutes might have saved it. Ain't that a shame?"
   When I started screaming, the ambulance attendant jabbed me with a needle. Fadeout.

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