‘Code Teal’ by J. Archer Avary

Spectators filtered out of the Blaart Intercontinental Arena, singing fight songs and high-fiving each other. Pundits billed it ‘the match of the century’ and it was a spectacle for the ages, decided in double overtime, at the final whistle. An energetic crowd surged down the steps from the main seating bowl, euphoric from the heart-stopping climax.

Malcom held his position on the concourse, earpiece in and monitoring radio transmissions. For a steward he struck a surprisingly zen-like figure in hi-vis tabard and steel-toe safety boots, like a pebble of calm in a whooshing stream. Exiting spectators were well-lubricated from the arena’s two-for-one sangria promotion, eager to continue the party in the anything-goes nightclubs of the Wiretapping District.

If the pushing and shoving escalated into violence, Malcom was ready to defend himself. He carried a collapsible truncheon on his utility belt, pepper spray canisters, and enough plastic handcuffs to send a busload of unruly hooligans to the pokey. A gentle person who preferred discourse to force, Malcom kept to the sidelines of a melee. He preferred to avoid violent confrontations, but they were sometimes part of life as a steward.

Crowds thinned out on the concourse but bottlenecked at the exit gate. Malcom heard first a collective gasp, then the sound. It cut through the din, like the wet slap of a large slime-coated carp onto a flat hard surface. There was another gasp, then chaos.

Malcom’s earpiece buzzed to life.

‘Chili Dog to Tater Tots, over.’

It was Head of Arena Security Chester ‘Chili Dog’ Popenlocke. An actual bigwig in the Blaart Corporation. His radio transmissions were punctuated with blasts of static.

‘Anybody read me?’

Popenlocke was notorious for his ludicrous management style. He implemented senseless protocols and treated his underlings like disposable undergarments, but he had another side. He was a failed improv comic.

Popenlocke insisted on adopting silly code names for security operations. In doing so he created a universe of characters that existed primarily for his own amusement. Naturally, he placed himself at the top of the pyramid, presiding over mid-level managers with asinine code names.  Tater Tots was his generic term for his underlings.

‘Can anybody god damn hear me?’ Popenlocke’s perpetual frustration was reaching new heights amid the confusion.

‘Jesus suffering fuck,’ he cried, through squeals of wailing feedback. ‘Does this thing even work?’

Popenlocke wasted two minutes bumbling through a list of housekeeping items before segueing abruptly to the urgent matter of the ongoing critical incident. One of his doofus lackeys handed him a piece of paper to read from.

‘This is a code teal,’ said Chili Dog. ‘South concourse, the exit gate in sector alpha papa zulu. Code teal, this is not a drill. All units respond, over.’

Malcom flipped down his face shield and mobilised.

Stewards were supposed to know codes of every shape and colour. The licensing exam required a candidate name ten radio codes to earn credit, some of which, for brevity, are listed below: 

Code red: cardiac or medical incidents, blood involved

Code staghorn: gang activity, knife involved

Code lavender: spectator encroachment on field of play

Code blue: paedophile on the grounds, flasher, streaker

Code orange: general heightened awareness, guidance to follow

Code brown: incident related to faeces, human or animal

Code rainbow: spontaneous flash mob, drag queens on premises

Code strawberry: active shooter on premises, shots fired

Code wheelbarrow: lewd activity or orgy in carpark or toilets

Code amber: bachelorette party, scavenger hunt activity

After the exam, lesser-used codes like indigo, magenta, and burnt sienna sluiced through the leaky floorboards of his short-term memory. Did code teal have something to do with a potential suicide jumper, or did it mean someone’s left buttock had become stuck in a folding seat and required WD-40 for extraction?

Malcom bobbed and weaved through sputtering clusters of panic-stricken spectators until he reached the scene of whatever a code teal was. People were covered in blood and what looked like pulpy chunks of tissue, most of them in shock, tears streaming down faces. It was worse than he expected.

Several other stewards were already on scene. One wielded a clipboard. His bushy eyebrows gave off a pungent authority-figure vibe. Malcom had seen him around, but didn’t know him by name. He wore an alternate colour hi-vis tabard, a status symbol of mid-level management.

‘You must be in charge?’

‘Affirmative. Popenlocke designated me Acting Incident Commander.’

He took a moment to hitch up his pants. Malcom guessed haemorrhoids.

‘Ladybird, his prizewinning bison fiche, choked on a hairball at the groomer’s,’ he said, squirming to relieve his itchy bum. ‘Popenlocke ran outta here like a man with a house on fire, which means all Tater Tots are under my command. I’m Mortimer Crenshaw, code name Chopped Onions.’

‘What is the nature of this incident, then, Acting Incident Commander?’

‘We have a code teal on our hands.’

‘I heard that on the radio call, sir, it’s just that I don’t remember what a code teal is.’

‘See that over there?’ Crenshaw pointed a group of stewards on the perimeter of the disaster scene. ‘How about you lift that sheet and find out.’

‘I don’t want to see a dead body!’

‘Are you disobeying a direct order from your Acting Incident Commander?’

Malcom had already survived one disciplinary action for abandoning his post during a match to flirt with a spectator. He was allowed to keep his job, with advice that there would be no more second chances.

Malcom needed this job. The pay was shite but the location was great, two minutes from his flat in the Wiretapping District, with flexible hours. He didn’t love the job, but it was easy, mostly standing around and pretending to pay attention.

‘No sir, I’m just advising you that I will throw up if I see a dead body.’

‘The Blaart Corporation cares about its employees and aims to make suitable accommodations when possible to help them express their full potential within their role in the organisation,’ said Crenshaw, in a gooey Velveeta baritone.

What a set of pipes! Did the bushy-eyed bastard do voice over work on the side?

Crenshaw licked his lips, like a Komodo dragon tasting the air around him. ‘I have a brilliant idea: get me the megaphone!’

As if on cue, a megaphone was produced by one in a swarm of security guards, arriving now at the scene by the dozen. The bottleneck had apparently been cleared. The restless spectators were free to disperse into the night.

‘You, over there,’ Crenshaw bellowed at a cleaner. He was mopping up what looked like blood in the vicinity of the sheet. ‘It is very important you give this man your bucket. It is official security business, a code teal in fact.’

The cleaner surrendered his mop and bucket, but remained unimpressed. Crenshaw turned to Malcom and softened his voice.

‘Listen, as Acting Incident Commander, I am designating you as a secondary responding officer, and as such, will need your signature for whatever paperwork might arise. Chili Dog Popenlocke is a very detail-oriented man and will accept nothing less than two reams for a code teal report, which you have identified by now as…’

‘Suicide jumper.’

‘Spot-on, well done,’ said Crenshaw. He looked genuinely pleased. ‘The code teal incident manual says the Acting Incident Commander plus a secondary responding officer, that’s you, must visually inspect the impact zone.’

Malcom held his breath.

‘Look, all you have to do is lift the sheet, take a mental note of what you see, then write it up. Your statement will be added to the official draft report, so make sure to record in detail to a granular level, understand. Popenlocke gets his rocks off on granular details, okay?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’ll do it, just get me someone to hold the bucket,’ said Malcom. ‘I’m not kidding, I’m probably gonna puke.’

He approached the sheet with dignity and professional determination. If it was his niece or nephew who decided to jump from the upper concourse, he would appreciate the same human decency. In an indirect way, doing his part to speed along the paperwork was helping bring closure to a grieving family, and he took solace in that fact.

Malcom kneeled onto the sticky floor and reverently lifted the sheet.

‘Jesus Christ,’ he whispered.

Malcom’s expectations were completely upended. The concourse erupted in laughter. Other stewards in hi-vis tabards pointed and laughed, some took pictures and videos on their phones to post on social media. He noticed, among those laughing at his expense, Chester ‘Chili Dog’ Popenlocke, slapping his knee with glee at his humiliation.

‘What the fuck is this?’ he said, choking back tears. ‘A fucking watermelon? You staged this elaborate fucking exercise for a god damn watermelon?’

Popenlocke stepped forward, graciously commanding the floor. ‘Exercise is a great word for what’s happening here, and your participation in tonight’s simulation will help deliver a teachable moment for future stewards in their training.’

‘Hold up, what do you mean simulation?’ Malcom was confused, shaking his head. ‘You said “this is not a drill” like twenty times when you announced that fake code teal.’

‘It wasn’t a drill, it was a simulation,’ Popenlocke said, placing a hand on Malcom’s shoulder. ‘Two separate categories of encounter, according to the Blaart Organisation’s official operations handbook. It’s all being documented for a next-generation training video.’

‘I suppose you made up the grooming incident with your bison fiche?’

‘That was all Crenshaw,’ smiled Popenlocke. ‘I don’t even own a fucking dog!’

The concourse erupted again with cheers and laughter.

‘Totally improvisational,’ added Crenshaw, taking a mock bow. ‘That bit about the bison fiche wasn’t even in the script.’

Malcom surveyed the concourse. A lot of people were still milling around. Stewards cheerily mingled with actors hired to smear themselves with fake blood to add an air of urgency to the exercise. People held wine glasses and plates of hors d’oeuvres, having a fine time at his expense. 

Popenlocke turned to Malcom. The concourse quieted.

‘I suppose you really want to know what code teal means?’ he asked, playing to the wine and cheese crowd. ‘Crenshaw, please tell him.’

Malcom bit his lip, hard enough to taste blood.

Bystanders filled the pregnant pause with simulated drum roll, pounding on anything percussive to contribute to the aural manifestation of rising tension.

‘Code teal means mop the god damn floor, you sorry son of a bitch!’

Laughter again, then a slow silent fade to black.

Malcom must’ve collapsed. He was groggy when he came to, looking up at the world from a pinhole on the floor.

Popenlocke and Crenshaw were gallantly reviving him with slaps to the cheek.

‘Wake up, boy,’ smiled Crenshaw. ‘The south concourse isn’t going to mop itself.’

‘Better hustle,’ hissed Popenlocke. ‘I hear watermelon juice is a real bitch to mop up once it’s dried.’

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J. Archer Avary farms cactus in the windowsill where he writes poems and stories. He wants to finish a novel one day but lacks that kind of focus. Sometimes he goes to hot yoga, but most of the time he makes excuses not to. Fun fact: he used to be a TV weatherman. Twitter: @j_archer_avary