Post by Stace Matthews on Mar 11, 2006 17:03:50 GMT -5
I had just wrapped a promotional appearance for Pure Class Wrestling in Charleston for Game Over. I guess the aim here was to attract a larger audience. I saw it as an opportunity to get myself out of the boil with the administration. Seemed they weren’t all that happy with my not showing at Trauma, more so my taunting all week through Jason Azaria and the Gazette. I guess they don’t appreciate the media being turned against them.
They were calling for a stray shower or thunderstorm, the clouds hardly put a damper on the day and I couldn’t smell rain and saw no signs of a storm myself. I think it’s all guesswork anyway, kind of like the doctor back home, but I’m neither a weatherman nor an oncologist; I’m a wrestler.
I’ve only been here a few times, I had no interest in immediately returning to Greenville after scratching the last autograph and mussing the hair atop the little guy’s head. He was so excited that Chrissy and I had come down here. He raved on about how pretty she was and how funny I was. Again, I’m amusing, which is not particularly the direction I was aiming for. She wanted to head back though. There is a press conference tomorrow at the arena and she knew as well as I did that if she stayed, we’d never make it on time.
She was the wildest party girl I’d ever met. Our relationship was strictly business only off screen. I’d seen too many men accompany her elsewhere after we closed down the bars around the state. Besides, I’m married.
“You’ll be there tomorrow, on time, dressed and sober?” She concerned.
I did my best to assure her, but still think she had her doubts. I gave her a hug before she ducked into the taxicab with a wink. I pulled my Reds out of the inner pocket of my suede blazer and lit up as the cab pulled away. She waved through the rear window and I gave a nod. A totally different exchange than the one that we shared a little more than two days ago.
She called Wednesday afternoon furious at me, shouting obscenities and lashing every drop deadbeat name ever conceived on me. It seemed I wasn’t the only one to feel the repercussions of my no show at Trauma. The pay-per-appearance contract that she had agreed to was based on my schedule and when I didn't show she was denied airtime which means, unfortunately, she didn’t get paid. We worked it out of my pocket and I ironed it over with apology and a sweater for her sweet little dog. It was the last pit in my stomach that I needed being this close to a match where she will be the deciding factor if I lose.
“Well, now what?” I mumbled, standing alone in front of the main entrance to Frankie’s.
“You don’t have to go home,” The security officer overheard me and joked, “but you can’t stay here.”
It had been one of the most enjoyable days I’ve had for quite awhile, but the park was closing behind me. The guard had called for another cab and suggested the boardwalk as a good retreat this time of night.
“I go there to watch the passing tail.” He admitted. “Nothing like it.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the corpulent, wrinkled rent a cop. Ornery, as you’d expect from an old fart. Was I looking at myself, minus a couple hundred pounds hopefully, in a few years? He was too likable. I didn’t have those characteristics, did I?
My taxicab zipped up in front of me. I picked my duffel up and tossed it into the back seat before ducking in behind it. I almost tossed my cigarette out onto the concrete, but caught a daring look from the guard and decided against it. With a nod to the old fellow I shut the door.
“The boardwalk.” I requested.
Never once has there been a question; not ever have the chances been doubted as they are at this very moment. If distracted by any of the numerous dubieties, another loss will be notched on the record.
Of which battle am I most worried about losing?
It wasn’t like I couldn’t see it coming. Everyone must have because there was no sign of any tail on the beach or the boardwalk. A lazy cloud rode atop the waves and then consumed the small dock and boathouse, then the beach, the boardwalk. It settled in heavily, a thick gloom, making it near impossible to see the road before the taxi.
This cabbie already had my nerves on end with his prohibiting of smoking in his vehicle. A flash of bouncing his head off of the horn was just as instant as his first protest of my lighting up. I don’t know where these images or urges come from, but to avoid another “not in public” speech and for the safety of anyone on the road that night, I decided to get out here. He wasted no time taking his fare and splitting either, like he could sense the rage that was building within me or something, he had no trouble leaving me there, alone, in this oppressive murk.
“Hey buddy, you got any spare change?”
I turned around to a disheveled, filthy, homely man. Though heavily wrinkled, most likely from the sun turning his skin to leather under the silver bristles, his age was too difficult to guess. He reeked of sweat and grime, making it painfully clear he had been in the elements with little shelter or protection.
I shook my head and through my duffel on my right shoulder before shuffling past him in a hurry. I’m sure he was annoyed, possibly irritated, we’ll settle with vexed with my actions. I couldn’t see myself giving this man money. If you give a stray a scrap, it’s impossible to shake them and I wanted nothing to do with the company of this fellow. Declining his request proved to be no different.
“What?” He asked as loudly as his voice would carry in the fog. “Mr. Nice Suit doesn’t have an extra dollar for a man with less fortune?”
It stopped me in my tracks and I closed my eyes to take a deep breath.
I could here Rhodes, something like a broken record, in the back of my mind. Not so much that the man had angered me, but again, from what my therapist has labeled the results of suppressed emotions I received the mental picture of going Johnny V on this old man.
Exhaling I continued toward the coastline, wading through the haze.
“That’s right, keep walking.” He continued to shout and I did.
You hear the sympathizers say we should help these people forced to live on the streets. We should help what he owned up to being: the less fortunate. I had no care about the man, his story or his fortunes at this point. Even on a different day, in a different mood, I still would’ve declined the poor bastard and moved on.
I walked down a small embankment and then onto the boardwalk. There would be no sneaking up on anyone on this thing, even the soft rubber soles of my loafers echoed against the fog with each step. I could barely see the beach and as for the ocean, that’s a negative. Everything was smothered under the mist including the nearby bench that I whacked my shin into.
“Son of a BITCH!” I shouted in pain.
“Fuck you, you gutless asshole!” The bum shouted back, like I had shouted the name at him.
I had no choice now but to sit down, my whole leg throbbed in pain. Leaning, with my fingers interlocked and elbows resting against my knees; I kept my head hung low. It felt better pressuring the weight of my upper body on it. Besides, I couldn’t face the cloud, but couldn’t escape this overwhelming feeling of doubt.
“Damn.” I muttered, trying to rub the pain from my left shin.
Regardless of where I looked after finally giving in, it was everywhere, hanging around the lamps that lit the promenade and flooding the sandy escape below. A slight grimace as I moved the duffel with my right foot and sent a pain up my spine from my left leg in the process. I could hear the waves lapping the sand and breathed in the humid air, laced with the crisp zest of the ocean. I tried to put the pain in the back of my mind and let the other baffles overcome me as I did so.
“Why in the hell am I bothered by all of this?” I asked allowed of my turbid companion shaking my head. “I’m so used to wanting it, finding it, taking it and having it.” I sat back against the bench in a failed attempt to find comfort. “Now I can’t even see it. Hell, I don’t even know what it is anymore.”
On one hand, the right, I outweighed the cons of one battle. The one I was most sure of victory. I’ve got this one in the bag. I’m going in with two wins over the man already. One in six-man tag team action and the other where I took his precious trinket currently taking up space in the bag at my feet.
“I know my opponent.” I extended my thumb, then the remaining digits starting with my index finger. “I’ve beat him before and taken everything he’s fought so hard to earn.” Then my favorite finger. “I’ve forced him to do something he wasn’t so eager to do.” Then my ring finger. “I have a lot more trust and camaraderie in my corner.” Finally, all five feelers extended. “I’ve used ridicule, embarrassment and assault to get in his head.”
For two months I have tried this man’s patience, pushed him to the edge, got him talking to himself again and forced him to call upon the dependability of another.
“Banks is the only wildcard in this match.” I continued. “He’s the only one I know very little about.”
What did I know about him anyway? What really mattered and what wasn’t all that important?
“Of all the people you could have picked.” I shook my head. “It’s not like I’m lacking in enemies.”
It wasn’t like this Benjamin Banks came off of the streets. No, he’s a PCW loyalist. Something I’m not. I don’t have many loyalties come to think of it. Something else that separates me from my father I guess. He was too easy befriending everyone he ever met. Dad would’ve given that man a dollar, a handful of them most likely.
“Look at the last guy he was at the side of.” There’s a comforting nod. “Yeah, where is he these days?” Not that I was expecting an answer from the fog, it’s rhetoric. “I know where he’s not.” Then it hit me. “I guess that’s not saying much is it?”
I mean, her partner was long gone as well.
Then the shuffling of feet on the planks distracted me from that thought all together as a young couple passed by, hand in hand. I missed her.
Last Sunday I got to see her on another turf, but it wasn’t the same. My terms haven’t been met and quite frankly, I’m reaching the limits of my negotiating. It seems that some don’t understand I am quite satisfied where I am. I am quite satisfied going in every week, putting on a show and then driving home. I don’t care for the travel schedule of a touring promotion. That’s why I left there in the first place.
Whether that constitutes a loyalty to Pure Class Wrestling, I’m not sure.
On the other hand, the left, the losses far outnumbered the gains in losing my battle I wasn’t so sure of. How could I be with no defined enemy or foe? There was no opposition. I had everything to lose and nothing to gain if I lost this one. I sat there for several minutes as that thought processed in my head.
“If I hadn’t showed, she’d still be a skyrocketing star.” I assumed aloud. “The only real reason I went was because of him.” I felt my head sinking again and closed my eyes. “I just don’t trust him with her.”
I hadn’t realized it, but when I opened my eyes I found my hands in my lap, the left over the right. My attention was drawn and locked on the endless golden band; the symbol of a never-ending promise that I hadn’t done so well keeping. Not that there ever were other women. Outside of the show, I’ve been sincerely dedicated and devoted to her.
“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Who was to blame for tearing the two of us apart? I don’t know if we could pin this on anyone but ourselves. We each have big dreams for our careers in this business. She wants that global recognition where I’m quite content under the radar. Not to say I’m not well known and on the A-list wherever I go, but I inherited that. I don’t go in search of it.
“How can she be happy with the way things are?” I shared my pondering with the cloud.
I’m so used to her being my voice of reason in situations like this. Nothing against Chrissy and I would never share this out loud, but I’d much rather my wife be at ringside with the towel in hand. I know in the deepest of my heart that her aspirations would be the same as my own. A sure gut feeling that is but a mere hope with Chrissy Johnson.
It’s time for a change I thought to myself questioning out loud, “but where to start?”
I sat there for an hour, at most, and watched as the fog slowly dissipated. Rising from the bench a swift Atlantic gust blew a newspaper, coincidentally the sports page of local rag, against a post. The headline, “Johnny Vivacious Fined for No-Show”. I guess some things will never change.
They were calling for a stray shower or thunderstorm, the clouds hardly put a damper on the day and I couldn’t smell rain and saw no signs of a storm myself. I think it’s all guesswork anyway, kind of like the doctor back home, but I’m neither a weatherman nor an oncologist; I’m a wrestler.
I’ve only been here a few times, I had no interest in immediately returning to Greenville after scratching the last autograph and mussing the hair atop the little guy’s head. He was so excited that Chrissy and I had come down here. He raved on about how pretty she was and how funny I was. Again, I’m amusing, which is not particularly the direction I was aiming for. She wanted to head back though. There is a press conference tomorrow at the arena and she knew as well as I did that if she stayed, we’d never make it on time.
She was the wildest party girl I’d ever met. Our relationship was strictly business only off screen. I’d seen too many men accompany her elsewhere after we closed down the bars around the state. Besides, I’m married.
“You’ll be there tomorrow, on time, dressed and sober?” She concerned.
I did my best to assure her, but still think she had her doubts. I gave her a hug before she ducked into the taxicab with a wink. I pulled my Reds out of the inner pocket of my suede blazer and lit up as the cab pulled away. She waved through the rear window and I gave a nod. A totally different exchange than the one that we shared a little more than two days ago.
She called Wednesday afternoon furious at me, shouting obscenities and lashing every drop deadbeat name ever conceived on me. It seemed I wasn’t the only one to feel the repercussions of my no show at Trauma. The pay-per-appearance contract that she had agreed to was based on my schedule and when I didn't show she was denied airtime which means, unfortunately, she didn’t get paid. We worked it out of my pocket and I ironed it over with apology and a sweater for her sweet little dog. It was the last pit in my stomach that I needed being this close to a match where she will be the deciding factor if I lose.
“Well, now what?” I mumbled, standing alone in front of the main entrance to Frankie’s.
“You don’t have to go home,” The security officer overheard me and joked, “but you can’t stay here.”
It had been one of the most enjoyable days I’ve had for quite awhile, but the park was closing behind me. The guard had called for another cab and suggested the boardwalk as a good retreat this time of night.
“I go there to watch the passing tail.” He admitted. “Nothing like it.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle at the corpulent, wrinkled rent a cop. Ornery, as you’d expect from an old fart. Was I looking at myself, minus a couple hundred pounds hopefully, in a few years? He was too likable. I didn’t have those characteristics, did I?
My taxicab zipped up in front of me. I picked my duffel up and tossed it into the back seat before ducking in behind it. I almost tossed my cigarette out onto the concrete, but caught a daring look from the guard and decided against it. With a nod to the old fellow I shut the door.
“The boardwalk.” I requested.
Never once has there been a question; not ever have the chances been doubted as they are at this very moment. If distracted by any of the numerous dubieties, another loss will be notched on the record.
Of which battle am I most worried about losing?
It wasn’t like I couldn’t see it coming. Everyone must have because there was no sign of any tail on the beach or the boardwalk. A lazy cloud rode atop the waves and then consumed the small dock and boathouse, then the beach, the boardwalk. It settled in heavily, a thick gloom, making it near impossible to see the road before the taxi.
This cabbie already had my nerves on end with his prohibiting of smoking in his vehicle. A flash of bouncing his head off of the horn was just as instant as his first protest of my lighting up. I don’t know where these images or urges come from, but to avoid another “not in public” speech and for the safety of anyone on the road that night, I decided to get out here. He wasted no time taking his fare and splitting either, like he could sense the rage that was building within me or something, he had no trouble leaving me there, alone, in this oppressive murk.
“Hey buddy, you got any spare change?”
I turned around to a disheveled, filthy, homely man. Though heavily wrinkled, most likely from the sun turning his skin to leather under the silver bristles, his age was too difficult to guess. He reeked of sweat and grime, making it painfully clear he had been in the elements with little shelter or protection.
I shook my head and through my duffel on my right shoulder before shuffling past him in a hurry. I’m sure he was annoyed, possibly irritated, we’ll settle with vexed with my actions. I couldn’t see myself giving this man money. If you give a stray a scrap, it’s impossible to shake them and I wanted nothing to do with the company of this fellow. Declining his request proved to be no different.
“What?” He asked as loudly as his voice would carry in the fog. “Mr. Nice Suit doesn’t have an extra dollar for a man with less fortune?”
It stopped me in my tracks and I closed my eyes to take a deep breath.
I could here Rhodes, something like a broken record, in the back of my mind. Not so much that the man had angered me, but again, from what my therapist has labeled the results of suppressed emotions I received the mental picture of going Johnny V on this old man.
Exhaling I continued toward the coastline, wading through the haze.
“That’s right, keep walking.” He continued to shout and I did.
You hear the sympathizers say we should help these people forced to live on the streets. We should help what he owned up to being: the less fortunate. I had no care about the man, his story or his fortunes at this point. Even on a different day, in a different mood, I still would’ve declined the poor bastard and moved on.
I walked down a small embankment and then onto the boardwalk. There would be no sneaking up on anyone on this thing, even the soft rubber soles of my loafers echoed against the fog with each step. I could barely see the beach and as for the ocean, that’s a negative. Everything was smothered under the mist including the nearby bench that I whacked my shin into.
“Son of a BITCH!” I shouted in pain.
“Fuck you, you gutless asshole!” The bum shouted back, like I had shouted the name at him.
I had no choice now but to sit down, my whole leg throbbed in pain. Leaning, with my fingers interlocked and elbows resting against my knees; I kept my head hung low. It felt better pressuring the weight of my upper body on it. Besides, I couldn’t face the cloud, but couldn’t escape this overwhelming feeling of doubt.
“Damn.” I muttered, trying to rub the pain from my left shin.
Regardless of where I looked after finally giving in, it was everywhere, hanging around the lamps that lit the promenade and flooding the sandy escape below. A slight grimace as I moved the duffel with my right foot and sent a pain up my spine from my left leg in the process. I could hear the waves lapping the sand and breathed in the humid air, laced with the crisp zest of the ocean. I tried to put the pain in the back of my mind and let the other baffles overcome me as I did so.
“Why in the hell am I bothered by all of this?” I asked allowed of my turbid companion shaking my head. “I’m so used to wanting it, finding it, taking it and having it.” I sat back against the bench in a failed attempt to find comfort. “Now I can’t even see it. Hell, I don’t even know what it is anymore.”
On one hand, the right, I outweighed the cons of one battle. The one I was most sure of victory. I’ve got this one in the bag. I’m going in with two wins over the man already. One in six-man tag team action and the other where I took his precious trinket currently taking up space in the bag at my feet.
“I know my opponent.” I extended my thumb, then the remaining digits starting with my index finger. “I’ve beat him before and taken everything he’s fought so hard to earn.” Then my favorite finger. “I’ve forced him to do something he wasn’t so eager to do.” Then my ring finger. “I have a lot more trust and camaraderie in my corner.” Finally, all five feelers extended. “I’ve used ridicule, embarrassment and assault to get in his head.”
For two months I have tried this man’s patience, pushed him to the edge, got him talking to himself again and forced him to call upon the dependability of another.
“Banks is the only wildcard in this match.” I continued. “He’s the only one I know very little about.”
What did I know about him anyway? What really mattered and what wasn’t all that important?
“Of all the people you could have picked.” I shook my head. “It’s not like I’m lacking in enemies.”
It wasn’t like this Benjamin Banks came off of the streets. No, he’s a PCW loyalist. Something I’m not. I don’t have many loyalties come to think of it. Something else that separates me from my father I guess. He was too easy befriending everyone he ever met. Dad would’ve given that man a dollar, a handful of them most likely.
“Look at the last guy he was at the side of.” There’s a comforting nod. “Yeah, where is he these days?” Not that I was expecting an answer from the fog, it’s rhetoric. “I know where he’s not.” Then it hit me. “I guess that’s not saying much is it?”
I mean, her partner was long gone as well.
Then the shuffling of feet on the planks distracted me from that thought all together as a young couple passed by, hand in hand. I missed her.
Last Sunday I got to see her on another turf, but it wasn’t the same. My terms haven’t been met and quite frankly, I’m reaching the limits of my negotiating. It seems that some don’t understand I am quite satisfied where I am. I am quite satisfied going in every week, putting on a show and then driving home. I don’t care for the travel schedule of a touring promotion. That’s why I left there in the first place.
Whether that constitutes a loyalty to Pure Class Wrestling, I’m not sure.
On the other hand, the left, the losses far outnumbered the gains in losing my battle I wasn’t so sure of. How could I be with no defined enemy or foe? There was no opposition. I had everything to lose and nothing to gain if I lost this one. I sat there for several minutes as that thought processed in my head.
“If I hadn’t showed, she’d still be a skyrocketing star.” I assumed aloud. “The only real reason I went was because of him.” I felt my head sinking again and closed my eyes. “I just don’t trust him with her.”
I hadn’t realized it, but when I opened my eyes I found my hands in my lap, the left over the right. My attention was drawn and locked on the endless golden band; the symbol of a never-ending promise that I hadn’t done so well keeping. Not that there ever were other women. Outside of the show, I’ve been sincerely dedicated and devoted to her.
“Those whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.”
Who was to blame for tearing the two of us apart? I don’t know if we could pin this on anyone but ourselves. We each have big dreams for our careers in this business. She wants that global recognition where I’m quite content under the radar. Not to say I’m not well known and on the A-list wherever I go, but I inherited that. I don’t go in search of it.
“How can she be happy with the way things are?” I shared my pondering with the cloud.
I’m so used to her being my voice of reason in situations like this. Nothing against Chrissy and I would never share this out loud, but I’d much rather my wife be at ringside with the towel in hand. I know in the deepest of my heart that her aspirations would be the same as my own. A sure gut feeling that is but a mere hope with Chrissy Johnson.
It’s time for a change I thought to myself questioning out loud, “but where to start?”
I sat there for an hour, at most, and watched as the fog slowly dissipated. Rising from the bench a swift Atlantic gust blew a newspaper, coincidentally the sports page of local rag, against a post. The headline, “Johnny Vivacious Fined for No-Show”. I guess some things will never change.