Post by Kyle Shane on Nov 6, 2017 18:27:00 GMT -5
On a Tuesday, October 31, to be specific...
"Ha! You are such a lameass."
So snickered the nine year old boy walking next to me, as I was trying to figure out how to maneuver down Granbury St on the way to his public school. I was wobbling, my feet aching from the slicing intensity of 5 inch platform heels, and more than one person did a double take at the sight of a six-foot two man in full Dr. Frank-n-Furter costume try to navigate the fishnet/heel combination. Johnny was still laughing, in the bratty way all nine year olds get when the object of ridicule is meant to be an authority figure. I cut a side look at my son. Kid was growing ever more mouthy as he got comfortable, settling in to his new role of power since I was having to prove myself a stable and healthy growing environment to Boston CPS. Not that I felt particularly stable or healthy, this morning. I was nursing a hangover from last night's Halloween party. There was still a swallow of Kraken rum in the bottle by my bedside, and the blonde from across the hall hadn't stirred from her haze. It was the kind of scene that would have made a social worker shit. And then you add in the nine year old rousing his dear old dad from a bender to tell him that he had missed the bus and he needed to be taken to school. Multiply by said dad being too smashed still to drive. And in last night's costume party ouvre. Factor by both of us trotting down the street in Southie at 8:30 am and maybe you can see why the kid was having a laugh.
Oh, what, you think I, Kyle Shane, care if it takes an imaginary man card away from the manufactured bullshit machismo aura wrestlers are supposed to project at all times? Like I give a fuck. Everyone in this company fakes their lives to seem cool.
"There's no crime in giving yourself over to plEASURE," catcalled a nearby punk in an estimation of Tim Curry, giving a little smooch with his lips as he eyed my gams. "GET BENT," I roared over my shoulder.
"Ugh, why couldn't you have just put me on a bus, dad," Johnny whined at length, the absurdity of our walk of shame. Divorced of the funny incongruity of my cosplay, the loom of embarassment that's a death knell to kids peeked at him from every turned head.
"Because this is what good fathers do, right? I'm providing for your education," I say, in the stern but caring tough love tone I'm pretty sure somebody did on TV. Show that social worker.
"But don't you have work to do? Hit the gym, or - or, go to the recording area and film a promo for that match you have coming up? Remember? The big one on one you have with Justin Stormm Michaels? Winner gets a World Title shot, loser gets a North American Title shot, and - "
"I know, I know, look, you don't have to worry about what I do at work, okay. You're nine years old. You shouldn't be getting invested in this." My parental tone was fringed with more than a little snark.
Truth is, at the beginning of this week's cycle that's supposed to be starting buildup towards Trauma, I couldn't have been feeling it less.
I lost my North American championship at Deadly Intentions and part of me barely cares at all.
Oh, I was angry about the way it went down, sure. Even more than losing, which I hate, or a ding to my credibility, which hurts, it was the message it sent. I bragged about achievement. I talked about stepping my game up. Proving my longevity in PCW by showing I wasn't a flash in the pan. And by comparison Rick Majors was so much weaker than me, because he can't win a match without help. And then he goes ahead and does it with just a punch to the balls. Dodgy, it sucks, but it's there. But the message that's behind it just reinforces my malaise when it comes to getting in the workshop and starting on another promo in that I really don't fucking know what PCW wants from me. I go out of my way to innovate. I even won a fucking award for that, although that feels like fawning a little bit, sort of an "oh, Kyle Shane is great he's a star in this company" without ever being specific about what's great about anything I do. I like the feeling of looking at things different and doing different kinds of promos. But it feels like when all Rick Majors has to do is stand somewhere random that nobody cares about and preach to his followers telling us about how he killed the old him for the third time, and he's looked at as a bigger star than I am, it just gives a feeling of, what's the point?
And to follow that up I have to win back the credibility I lost by engaging in a high stakes main event match against some asshole I have absolutely no probem with. Who, in fact, I barely even know.
I'm woolgathering, I realize, and trying yet failing to concoct even the first sentence of what I can say to or about Justin Michaels.
And I follow Johnny's gaze to the raggedy creature holding out a tin cup as it's warted face sprayed fervored spit all over the sidewalk. It's an old crone of a woman, her ruddy complexion just another layer wrapped over her, next to numerous shawls, head wraps and a formless dress. She's yelling about God. I have to purse my lips. Don't I get enough of this pseudo religious shit at work, man...
"God is good and faithful to all of ye..." She slobbers, eyes rolling at people passing her, "And if ye are kind to his creatures, then he will reward your kind acts tenfold. I know this because I'm awaiting my reward, my helping hand. Pay the good deeds forward, and the Lord will smile on ye!"
It's not easy to shield the kid from her in my heels, but I do so. Johnny is looking back at her, wide-eyed.
"Hey... dad... shouldn't we do something for her? Like... come on, you have the ability to help someone out, shouldn't you try to do it?" And it's at that point that I realize the kid really is a better person than me. Izzy, I marvel, what were you teaching this boy? And why did you get taken away from him where he had a good influence in his life, so that he could get plopped down in my wake.
I look back at miss street preacher, with her rags and her cup, with disdain. "No, John. Look, kid, cold, hard, fact of life, it's the people that put the work in at the highest level they can that go somewhere in life. It's not handed out to people that just believe really hard in a sky fairy." Although a bitter part of me wonders now if that's really true.
"But dad... mom says that being a good person is all about circumstances..." Johnny said, temporarily forgetting his mother was fucking worm food. He spoke with a conviction and youth that hurt me to look at. "She says that if you do good for the universe, the universe will provide for you. And it never takes anything from you without giving something back. When God closes a door, he -"
Bending down to his level in my tights and spats was an uncomfortable nightmare, as I looked him harshly in the eye and prepared to dash his dreams. Because the universe does take, indiscriminately, not caring. It took Karen, my mom, just the same as it took his because it really doesn't give a shit, and the only thing it opened for me was never ceasing opportunities to cause me pain. So I was all set to set him straight on that right now, because for all the happy crap Izzy had filled the boy's head with, this stuff would get him nowhere except stepped on by every single user asshole that wanted to take advantage of a giving soul. Trust me, I knew how that type operated. But instead, mama Tin Cup broke in - "When god closes a door, he opens a window! Ah, wondrous child. From the mouths of babes! If you pass your light on in the world, many doors will be open to you!"
"Yeah, he's a bright boy, alright. Here's your light bulb, old woman. Powerball's 200 million dollars. Go on and buy you a ticket. Come on, Johnny."
I didn't look back, but I felt her softly waving goodbye, and Johnny was looking back, distraught at my heartlessness but not surprised. "Be well, child..." she called.
He yanked his arm away from my grip. "You're a fucking asshole, Kyle," my son said, shoving, his words cutting. I nearly tripped in the damn shoes, cursing Jim Sharman and Tim Curry's wardrobe.
He maintained a gulf of distance between us the three blocks to school. He met up with one of his school chums at the entrance, and he walked briskly and with a purpose away, tuning me out, while his little buddy turned back to look at the grown man dressed in a Halloween costume for a 70's cult movie. Sighing a little bit, I removed the wig.
I trudged back down Main Street sans heels, too. And I got this sudden, intense urge to change my life, the kind that only comes out when you've hit the bottom of a hangover. I walked into a bodega, not far from the alley where a ragged old lady was still holding court. The man behind the counter wasn't looking at me at first, he was turned to a small TV. "Eh, mano, you coming to get a powerball ticket? They just about to do the drawing..." he said, but as he turned, his face went on a journey from incomprehension to consternation to disgust as he looked at the smeared makeup on my face, the fishnets and arm stockings.
"Yeah, one Powerball ticket, please." I said, with absolutely no shame.
I had just filled in the numbers when they came back from commercial. Channel 7 had a new anchor doing the lottery drawings, a vapid blonde thing in a tight red dress. She smiled blandly, but looked as if she couldn't focus on the camera or the cue cards. Those around me waited as she called out the Powerball numbers. And for a few moments, I began to run through my mind what I might do with a fortune. I was already well off from wrestling at a high level and investing well, and residuals from dealing had allowed me to flip a nice bank account. But 200 million... that would open a lot of doors...
"12..." she called out with all the charisma of a potato. "14...26..." She withdrew a plastic ball from the tumbler and set it down again and again. "48"... Oh shit... Oh shit... I looked down at my ticket... Oh shit! I had, somehow, against all the odds, gotten 4 out of 6 numbers. "51..." My jaw dropped. I could not believe my luck was about to change. My luck, and then I would really have something to show Johnny.
The girl picked up a plastic ball, and examined it with a dumb blonde consternation before reading out, "The last number is... 9."
I couldn't restrain the disappointed yell of anger. 9, and not 6. I was so close. "You okay, lady man?" said the swarthy cashier, eyeing me with suspicion. "I'm fine. It's fine. Hey, God shuts a door and opens a window, am I right," I said, smiling and affecting a positivity I could not feel. As I exited the bodega, I passed by the old woman in the shawl. She rolled her eyes hopefully towards me. "You're the one with the boy..."
Consumed by a nihilistic impulse, I threw the cursed Powerball ticket in her cup. "From me to you," is all I could muster, with choked, black intent. I really, really did hate losing. I hate it even more when it feels like you're so close, people pat you on the shoulder, go "Aww, it was nearly there." Fuck you. And fuck the universe.
Sometime later, I flicked the lights back on in my apartment. Let the high heels drop with a thud. The apartment was a forest of red solo cups from the party, and all the neighbors I'd invited had taken a powder. Weary in body and soul, I didn't even bother checking to see if maybe the girl who was in my bed this morning had stuck around.
I wandered down the hall to where I routinely film wrestling stuff. When I want to talk shit to someone, I do so in the old standby of wrestlers going back decades; a simple camera, set up in front of a grey backdrop, became a pulpit from which to espouse my beliefs.
Still wearing the remains of a costume but not bothering to take it off or scrub off the eyeliner because I was consumed by the futility of everything on this Tuesday... I began, testing tone and pitch. "Justin Stormm Michaels. Jus-Tin, STORMM, Michaels. There's a storm coming for you, buddy. No. JUSTIN STORMM MICHAELS. The only storm you are is a light drizzle with some mild southwesterly wind. No. Let me tell you something, Justin. You may be like a cold front moving in from the polar vortex, but I'm a warm current rising from the Gulf of Mexico and God fucking dammit."
I shut the camera off with a final, disappointed slap.
I trudged back out the the penthouse, finally checking my phone. I have a voice mail, unexpectedly. It beeps, and I listen intently, and feel the rest of my soul die. "Mister Shane, this is Erin Tyson from Boston CPS, we have a report from PS 118 about you bringing your child to school this morning dressed very inappropriately in a corset and fishnet stockings... I'm going to have to interview you about that because it raises many questions. Please, call me back at your earliest convenience..."
Thoroughly done with today, and disgruntled with the universe, I plopped down on the couch. If there was a better sign of everything's meaninglessness, I couldn't find it. I'd love for Johnny to test his faith on circumstances such as these. Not seeing the point in trying to put on a big front of successful motivation, I began to pack my bowl so I could get roaring high and end the night well on my own terms.
On a Wednesday...
The God of Game looking into the camera was world different from the one who cut the unfocused, distracted, dejected promo of yesterday. There was fire behind my words, as I stood, chest poked out, pointing into the camera.
"But there's one person in all of this that I have to address... and it's you, black sharpie marker."
I hold up the sharpie. Giving it the scolding of a lifetime.
"What happened to us, sharpie. We used to be brothers. Remember all the times you and I drew a penis on the side of Hiro's face. Or the times we drew that penis in the bathroom stall at Walmart. Or how about the time we drew penises on our PCW contract. Oh, we had some good times, and I never thought you would betray me. But now I see you at ringside, sitting next to Ace Anderson, and your new friend, the announcer's table. Well this betrayal won't stand. I'm coming for you, table! And just to switch things up, I'm going to powerbomb you through Justin "Stormm" Michaels. And then, when it's just you and me, sharpie marker... when it's all said and done! - I'm going to pick you up, and I'm going to force you into position and we are going to draw so many penises on Michaels' face that he'll -"
"Dad?" Johnny broke in, standing at the doorway to the promo room with a bemused squint.
"...Hey, kiddo," I break off, immediately trying to downplay the ridiculousness of my activities like I'm hiding porn from him.
Okay, so my mojo is still feeling truncated when it comes to what I'm trying to say. And while I'm less salty about the universe today, I still have to question it all. What do I ever get for the energy I expend trying to prove myself? A chaotic personal life. A professional life where I never know if the reward matches the output. A lottery ticket that's off by one goddamn number. A kid who looks at me like this.
I lead Johnny down the hall, steering him away from this sight. "So, how was school?"
Johnny didn't want to talk about it, saying only, "You know your little stunt yesterday morning has a lot of kids talking..."
"Oh, what, none of their fathers showed up for Halloween? I can see Timmy Bartman's dad dressing up just like that, only in the bedroom. Am I right?"
Johnny sighs dramatically, as a tween would. "Dad, can we just talk? Can you just talk to me?"
I know we have to come to a certain peace. I lean against the kitchen counter. Over my shoulder, the news is playing a report that, if I had the volume up, would have made me rage. "POWERBALL LOTTERY WINNER FOUND" scrolls across the bottom of the screen. I'm intent on the boy, though.
"Look, I know I'm rough around the edges here. This is still new, this way of doing things for me. And I'm not 100% every time, but I swear to you, I always give you the best of me. I don't do things the way my predecessor did, I know that, but we have to come to that much of an understanding."
"I know, dad."
And then we hugged, and there was a palpable sense of coming together in that moment. That made me think, hell, maybe the universe isn't all taking no giving after all.
That was what I thought that night.
It was only tomorrow that everything would change.
"Ha! You are such a lameass."
So snickered the nine year old boy walking next to me, as I was trying to figure out how to maneuver down Granbury St on the way to his public school. I was wobbling, my feet aching from the slicing intensity of 5 inch platform heels, and more than one person did a double take at the sight of a six-foot two man in full Dr. Frank-n-Furter costume try to navigate the fishnet/heel combination. Johnny was still laughing, in the bratty way all nine year olds get when the object of ridicule is meant to be an authority figure. I cut a side look at my son. Kid was growing ever more mouthy as he got comfortable, settling in to his new role of power since I was having to prove myself a stable and healthy growing environment to Boston CPS. Not that I felt particularly stable or healthy, this morning. I was nursing a hangover from last night's Halloween party. There was still a swallow of Kraken rum in the bottle by my bedside, and the blonde from across the hall hadn't stirred from her haze. It was the kind of scene that would have made a social worker shit. And then you add in the nine year old rousing his dear old dad from a bender to tell him that he had missed the bus and he needed to be taken to school. Multiply by said dad being too smashed still to drive. And in last night's costume party ouvre. Factor by both of us trotting down the street in Southie at 8:30 am and maybe you can see why the kid was having a laugh.
Oh, what, you think I, Kyle Shane, care if it takes an imaginary man card away from the manufactured bullshit machismo aura wrestlers are supposed to project at all times? Like I give a fuck. Everyone in this company fakes their lives to seem cool.
"There's no crime in giving yourself over to plEASURE," catcalled a nearby punk in an estimation of Tim Curry, giving a little smooch with his lips as he eyed my gams. "GET BENT," I roared over my shoulder.
"Ugh, why couldn't you have just put me on a bus, dad," Johnny whined at length, the absurdity of our walk of shame. Divorced of the funny incongruity of my cosplay, the loom of embarassment that's a death knell to kids peeked at him from every turned head.
"Because this is what good fathers do, right? I'm providing for your education," I say, in the stern but caring tough love tone I'm pretty sure somebody did on TV. Show that social worker.
"But don't you have work to do? Hit the gym, or - or, go to the recording area and film a promo for that match you have coming up? Remember? The big one on one you have with Justin Stormm Michaels? Winner gets a World Title shot, loser gets a North American Title shot, and - "
"I know, I know, look, you don't have to worry about what I do at work, okay. You're nine years old. You shouldn't be getting invested in this." My parental tone was fringed with more than a little snark.
Truth is, at the beginning of this week's cycle that's supposed to be starting buildup towards Trauma, I couldn't have been feeling it less.
I lost my North American championship at Deadly Intentions and part of me barely cares at all.
Oh, I was angry about the way it went down, sure. Even more than losing, which I hate, or a ding to my credibility, which hurts, it was the message it sent. I bragged about achievement. I talked about stepping my game up. Proving my longevity in PCW by showing I wasn't a flash in the pan. And by comparison Rick Majors was so much weaker than me, because he can't win a match without help. And then he goes ahead and does it with just a punch to the balls. Dodgy, it sucks, but it's there. But the message that's behind it just reinforces my malaise when it comes to getting in the workshop and starting on another promo in that I really don't fucking know what PCW wants from me. I go out of my way to innovate. I even won a fucking award for that, although that feels like fawning a little bit, sort of an "oh, Kyle Shane is great he's a star in this company" without ever being specific about what's great about anything I do. I like the feeling of looking at things different and doing different kinds of promos. But it feels like when all Rick Majors has to do is stand somewhere random that nobody cares about and preach to his followers telling us about how he killed the old him for the third time, and he's looked at as a bigger star than I am, it just gives a feeling of, what's the point?
And to follow that up I have to win back the credibility I lost by engaging in a high stakes main event match against some asshole I have absolutely no probem with. Who, in fact, I barely even know.
I'm woolgathering, I realize, and trying yet failing to concoct even the first sentence of what I can say to or about Justin Michaels.
And I follow Johnny's gaze to the raggedy creature holding out a tin cup as it's warted face sprayed fervored spit all over the sidewalk. It's an old crone of a woman, her ruddy complexion just another layer wrapped over her, next to numerous shawls, head wraps and a formless dress. She's yelling about God. I have to purse my lips. Don't I get enough of this pseudo religious shit at work, man...
"God is good and faithful to all of ye..." She slobbers, eyes rolling at people passing her, "And if ye are kind to his creatures, then he will reward your kind acts tenfold. I know this because I'm awaiting my reward, my helping hand. Pay the good deeds forward, and the Lord will smile on ye!"
It's not easy to shield the kid from her in my heels, but I do so. Johnny is looking back at her, wide-eyed.
"Hey... dad... shouldn't we do something for her? Like... come on, you have the ability to help someone out, shouldn't you try to do it?" And it's at that point that I realize the kid really is a better person than me. Izzy, I marvel, what were you teaching this boy? And why did you get taken away from him where he had a good influence in his life, so that he could get plopped down in my wake.
I look back at miss street preacher, with her rags and her cup, with disdain. "No, John. Look, kid, cold, hard, fact of life, it's the people that put the work in at the highest level they can that go somewhere in life. It's not handed out to people that just believe really hard in a sky fairy." Although a bitter part of me wonders now if that's really true.
"But dad... mom says that being a good person is all about circumstances..." Johnny said, temporarily forgetting his mother was fucking worm food. He spoke with a conviction and youth that hurt me to look at. "She says that if you do good for the universe, the universe will provide for you. And it never takes anything from you without giving something back. When God closes a door, he -"
Bending down to his level in my tights and spats was an uncomfortable nightmare, as I looked him harshly in the eye and prepared to dash his dreams. Because the universe does take, indiscriminately, not caring. It took Karen, my mom, just the same as it took his because it really doesn't give a shit, and the only thing it opened for me was never ceasing opportunities to cause me pain. So I was all set to set him straight on that right now, because for all the happy crap Izzy had filled the boy's head with, this stuff would get him nowhere except stepped on by every single user asshole that wanted to take advantage of a giving soul. Trust me, I knew how that type operated. But instead, mama Tin Cup broke in - "When god closes a door, he opens a window! Ah, wondrous child. From the mouths of babes! If you pass your light on in the world, many doors will be open to you!"
"Yeah, he's a bright boy, alright. Here's your light bulb, old woman. Powerball's 200 million dollars. Go on and buy you a ticket. Come on, Johnny."
I didn't look back, but I felt her softly waving goodbye, and Johnny was looking back, distraught at my heartlessness but not surprised. "Be well, child..." she called.
He yanked his arm away from my grip. "You're a fucking asshole, Kyle," my son said, shoving, his words cutting. I nearly tripped in the damn shoes, cursing Jim Sharman and Tim Curry's wardrobe.
He maintained a gulf of distance between us the three blocks to school. He met up with one of his school chums at the entrance, and he walked briskly and with a purpose away, tuning me out, while his little buddy turned back to look at the grown man dressed in a Halloween costume for a 70's cult movie. Sighing a little bit, I removed the wig.
I trudged back down Main Street sans heels, too. And I got this sudden, intense urge to change my life, the kind that only comes out when you've hit the bottom of a hangover. I walked into a bodega, not far from the alley where a ragged old lady was still holding court. The man behind the counter wasn't looking at me at first, he was turned to a small TV. "Eh, mano, you coming to get a powerball ticket? They just about to do the drawing..." he said, but as he turned, his face went on a journey from incomprehension to consternation to disgust as he looked at the smeared makeup on my face, the fishnets and arm stockings.
"Yeah, one Powerball ticket, please." I said, with absolutely no shame.
I had just filled in the numbers when they came back from commercial. Channel 7 had a new anchor doing the lottery drawings, a vapid blonde thing in a tight red dress. She smiled blandly, but looked as if she couldn't focus on the camera or the cue cards. Those around me waited as she called out the Powerball numbers. And for a few moments, I began to run through my mind what I might do with a fortune. I was already well off from wrestling at a high level and investing well, and residuals from dealing had allowed me to flip a nice bank account. But 200 million... that would open a lot of doors...
"12..." she called out with all the charisma of a potato. "14...26..." She withdrew a plastic ball from the tumbler and set it down again and again. "48"... Oh shit... Oh shit... I looked down at my ticket... Oh shit! I had, somehow, against all the odds, gotten 4 out of 6 numbers. "51..." My jaw dropped. I could not believe my luck was about to change. My luck, and then I would really have something to show Johnny.
The girl picked up a plastic ball, and examined it with a dumb blonde consternation before reading out, "The last number is... 9."
I couldn't restrain the disappointed yell of anger. 9, and not 6. I was so close. "You okay, lady man?" said the swarthy cashier, eyeing me with suspicion. "I'm fine. It's fine. Hey, God shuts a door and opens a window, am I right," I said, smiling and affecting a positivity I could not feel. As I exited the bodega, I passed by the old woman in the shawl. She rolled her eyes hopefully towards me. "You're the one with the boy..."
Consumed by a nihilistic impulse, I threw the cursed Powerball ticket in her cup. "From me to you," is all I could muster, with choked, black intent. I really, really did hate losing. I hate it even more when it feels like you're so close, people pat you on the shoulder, go "Aww, it was nearly there." Fuck you. And fuck the universe.
Sometime later, I flicked the lights back on in my apartment. Let the high heels drop with a thud. The apartment was a forest of red solo cups from the party, and all the neighbors I'd invited had taken a powder. Weary in body and soul, I didn't even bother checking to see if maybe the girl who was in my bed this morning had stuck around.
I wandered down the hall to where I routinely film wrestling stuff. When I want to talk shit to someone, I do so in the old standby of wrestlers going back decades; a simple camera, set up in front of a grey backdrop, became a pulpit from which to espouse my beliefs.
Still wearing the remains of a costume but not bothering to take it off or scrub off the eyeliner because I was consumed by the futility of everything on this Tuesday... I began, testing tone and pitch. "Justin Stormm Michaels. Jus-Tin, STORMM, Michaels. There's a storm coming for you, buddy. No. JUSTIN STORMM MICHAELS. The only storm you are is a light drizzle with some mild southwesterly wind. No. Let me tell you something, Justin. You may be like a cold front moving in from the polar vortex, but I'm a warm current rising from the Gulf of Mexico and God fucking dammit."
I shut the camera off with a final, disappointed slap.
I trudged back out the the penthouse, finally checking my phone. I have a voice mail, unexpectedly. It beeps, and I listen intently, and feel the rest of my soul die. "Mister Shane, this is Erin Tyson from Boston CPS, we have a report from PS 118 about you bringing your child to school this morning dressed very inappropriately in a corset and fishnet stockings... I'm going to have to interview you about that because it raises many questions. Please, call me back at your earliest convenience..."
Thoroughly done with today, and disgruntled with the universe, I plopped down on the couch. If there was a better sign of everything's meaninglessness, I couldn't find it. I'd love for Johnny to test his faith on circumstances such as these. Not seeing the point in trying to put on a big front of successful motivation, I began to pack my bowl so I could get roaring high and end the night well on my own terms.
On a Wednesday...
The God of Game looking into the camera was world different from the one who cut the unfocused, distracted, dejected promo of yesterday. There was fire behind my words, as I stood, chest poked out, pointing into the camera.
"But there's one person in all of this that I have to address... and it's you, black sharpie marker."
I hold up the sharpie. Giving it the scolding of a lifetime.
"What happened to us, sharpie. We used to be brothers. Remember all the times you and I drew a penis on the side of Hiro's face. Or the times we drew that penis in the bathroom stall at Walmart. Or how about the time we drew penises on our PCW contract. Oh, we had some good times, and I never thought you would betray me. But now I see you at ringside, sitting next to Ace Anderson, and your new friend, the announcer's table. Well this betrayal won't stand. I'm coming for you, table! And just to switch things up, I'm going to powerbomb you through Justin "Stormm" Michaels. And then, when it's just you and me, sharpie marker... when it's all said and done! - I'm going to pick you up, and I'm going to force you into position and we are going to draw so many penises on Michaels' face that he'll -"
"Dad?" Johnny broke in, standing at the doorway to the promo room with a bemused squint.
"...Hey, kiddo," I break off, immediately trying to downplay the ridiculousness of my activities like I'm hiding porn from him.
Okay, so my mojo is still feeling truncated when it comes to what I'm trying to say. And while I'm less salty about the universe today, I still have to question it all. What do I ever get for the energy I expend trying to prove myself? A chaotic personal life. A professional life where I never know if the reward matches the output. A lottery ticket that's off by one goddamn number. A kid who looks at me like this.
I lead Johnny down the hall, steering him away from this sight. "So, how was school?"
Johnny didn't want to talk about it, saying only, "You know your little stunt yesterday morning has a lot of kids talking..."
"Oh, what, none of their fathers showed up for Halloween? I can see Timmy Bartman's dad dressing up just like that, only in the bedroom. Am I right?"
Johnny sighs dramatically, as a tween would. "Dad, can we just talk? Can you just talk to me?"
I know we have to come to a certain peace. I lean against the kitchen counter. Over my shoulder, the news is playing a report that, if I had the volume up, would have made me rage. "POWERBALL LOTTERY WINNER FOUND" scrolls across the bottom of the screen. I'm intent on the boy, though.
"Look, I know I'm rough around the edges here. This is still new, this way of doing things for me. And I'm not 100% every time, but I swear to you, I always give you the best of me. I don't do things the way my predecessor did, I know that, but we have to come to that much of an understanding."
"I know, dad."
And then we hugged, and there was a palpable sense of coming together in that moment. That made me think, hell, maybe the universe isn't all taking no giving after all.
That was what I thought that night.
It was only tomorrow that everything would change.
