Qualify

      He sits in a bathroom stall, breathing into his clasped hands. Noise from his competitors using the facilities keeps him tense. So he waits for them to leave. As soon as he hears the last one of them exit; he quickly empties a bag of crack, onto his thick thigh. He divides the fine powder into 4 lines, instantly with his smallest of fingers. He grabs a pen from his pocket, removes the ballpoint, and ink from the inside. He uses the empty pen casing to snort each line. Ever so slowly, the powder rises from that mirror, travels trough that cylinder and into his nose, and body. All four lines gone in an instant of a single snort.
      He rests his head on the toilet tank, as he leans back. The ceiling is rather old, it's crumbling, and the lights are a disgusting shade of white. They illuminate the entire restroom with some odd color. There is a gentle burn in his nostril. He gives a heavy snort, and continues to sniff, as he still looks on. Staring at the small crevices in the falling plaster that is the ceiling.
      He sits straight. Wiping away anything on his nose, than exits the stall and moves toward the sink. As soon as he begins to wash his hands, and run water over his face, the bathroom door opens wide, and a familiar runner walks in.
      "well, well. If I ain't little ol' Tim, washin' his dirty ol' face."
      "haha, don't worry none. There'll still be 'nough water for you to wash my dust, off your face, after our race."
      "nice to see ya again, Tim." he gave a smile
      "same here, Tray." they embrace, and gave one another a small tap on the back.
      "trust me though, I ain't going to be eating no ones dust today." He dropped his bottom sweats and sat on the nearest toilet.
      "really?" Tim walked into the stall next to him "now why is that?"
      "didn't ya see the qualifying times? I knocked two and half seconds off my best time."
      "that's qualifying times, those don't matter."
      "I heard you almost didn't make it. Mr. Gold medal, coming in fourth in his heat."
      "shut up" Tim felt the disgusting drip falling from the roof of his mouth. A slow moving gel that had the taste of pure salt water. The ocean in a concentrate form.
      "you added nearly 5 seconds to your time, isn't that a shame."
      "qualifiers don't matter," it began to fall onto his tongue, the disturbing taste was too much to allow, he spat it out against the stall wall. "today is what counts."
      "I guess if I was in Lane 1, I'd say that too." Tray pulled his sweats back up, and went to wash his hand. "Anyways, good luck today."
      Tray walked out and Tim remained. What tray had said, stuck in his mind and kept repeating themselves. He began to fell the taste coming again. The slime once again began to drip from his mouth's roof; he took a sip from his bottle of water and spat it in the sink. The taste remained in his mouth, but at least there was no more slime.
      "RUNNERS PLEASE CHECK IN, THE RACE WILL BEGIN IN A FEW MINUTES" Tim took another sip from his bottle, and gargled it in his mouth. He spat out the water in the sink, than threw what remained of his bottle water into the trash.

      The crowd was roaring with anticipation. 8 runners squatted as they worked on their blocks, struggling to find the precise measurements. Tim squatted at lane 1, the lane that hugged the field, the lane where the runner started behind everyone else, the lane where they put the slowest runner. Tray on the other hand was in Lane 5, the center lane, the fast lane, the lane where they put the expected winner.
      "OKAY GENTLEMEN, THIS IS A 400 METER DASH. IN OTHER WORDS ONE LAP AROUND THE TRACK. PLEASE STAY IN YOUR LANES DURING THE ENTIRE RACE. GOOD LUCK TO ALL OF YOU"
      Tim nerves had grown, he was breathing at a tremendous rate, his heart was pumping his blood at such a rapid pace. Tim took hold of his crucifix that hung from his neck, and made the usually jester, as he muttered, "in the name of the father, son, and Holy Spirit, please give me the strength to win, amen" He gave it a kiss, than tucked it under his jersey.
      He shook his entire body a final stretch.
      "GENTLEMEN BEHIND YOUR BLOCKS"
      All the runners stood one foot away from their starting point. One jumped into the air, in order to stretch out his legs. Other brought their knees up to their chest, to get their knee stretched out. Tray just fiddled with his hair, making sure it was tied up in the back. While Tim, took deep breaths, as his heart went rabid.
      "ON YOUR MARKS"
      Instantly the runners took the step forward, and placed their feet into place. They all stared at the rubber track. The audience got their cameras ready. Tim heart stopped. His blood stood still.
      "GET SET"
      All the runners stuck their asses into the air, and their heads rose to see the track. Tim stared at Tray's ass, which was far ahead of him to the right. His blood began to move backwards, fast. He felt his vision get clearer. His eyes opened wide, and his muscles began to ache, in anticipation of the race.
      "BOOOOM"
      A puff of smoke came out from the gun. All the runners jumped out of their blocks. Thousands of camera flashes went off. An immense roar came from those stands.
      Tim jumped into an early lead. His feet hit the ground smoothly and pushed forward with an all mighty strength. His movements were technically sound, perfection to the trained eye.
      So when the first curve was done he led the pack. He was running incredibly fast, and the crowd cheered for him. His ears didn't hear the crowd though; his ears were fixed upon the sound, of footsteps closing in; feet that were hitting the ground with much more frequency than his own. Feet that were getting a much longer stride. Soon from the corner of Tim's eye, Tray emerged. At the 150-meter mark, Tray was fighting to take the lead. Tim's arms and legs moved faster, his breaths become quick and shallow. Little air was being pumped through out his body, but the blood still circulated fast.
      Soon Tray had taken the lead, passing Tim by a couple of yards. Tim stared at Tray's feet, and forced himself to move at that same pace. His arms swinging rapidly coincide with his leg movements.
      When they hit the 200-meter mark, and the start of the second curve, Tim felt an ease come over him. His body no longer needed to be forced, and he began to move with a great ferocity. His feet hit the ground with such a strong impact, and when his feet rose, the rubber track was being torn from the ground. His eyes no longer looked toward Tray's ass; instead they were focused on following the white line toward the finish.
      The curve was quick and both Tim and Tray emerged neck to neck. They were beside one another, in the last 100 meters, and the nearby crowd, rose to their feet with exhilaration. Their roar was deafening. Tray and Tim ran on, toward the ever-nearing finish line.
      Tim shut his eyes. His body pierced trough the air; his ears could only hear the sound of the wind rushing by his ears. No longer, did he have to force himself to run, but he just did it. Not trough some response, but all by reaction, his legs pushed forward, the instant they touched the ground. He no longer thought he just ran.
      The tape was broken. 1 second. 2 seconds. 3 seconds. Tray passed.
      Tim had won, and by a large margin. He reopened his eyes and stopped his feet. He turned to see tray slowing down near him, and the other runners. They were all out of breath. Tim wobbled from his exhaustion, as did tray. Tray stood bent over, he was gasping for air. Tim walked over to him, and gave him a pat on the back.
      "good race"
      Tray took another breath, "yeah, good race."
      Tim helped tray stand up straight, and they both walked around, in order to slow down their hearts.
      "guess you were right, qualifiers don't matter"

Miguel Lopez
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