Return of the Jed

by Scott Craven

  Her face lit up my computer screen like it did my life (which I’d never admit to her, or even say aloud since it was so corny).

  I realized my popularity was extremely limited. It was like being well known in the Scrabble community, or being a cosplay star. You’re cool when with like-minded friends, but everyone else sees a group of nerds with nothing better to do.

  But it felt every bit as good as I’d imagined.

  As the only luchador whose weight rarely exceeded that of the meat platters consumed each night by the wrestlers, my success did shock a lot of people.

  “Jed, I’m just happy he didn’t pop your head off,” Anna said from so far away, yet so close. I resisted the urge to reach out and touch the screen. “Wait, what are you doing?”

  I hadn’t resisted the urge after all. “Sorry, just, you know, stretching.”

  “Just glad you still have arms to stretch,” Anna said. “They go back on OK?”

  “Luke got them back on just fine. We even invested in better duct tape and longer staples, as often as my limbs are coming off.”

  “That doesn’t sound like a good thing, Jed. Like snapping the cap back on toothpaste. By the end of the tube, the cap is barely holding on. Aren’t you afraid there might come a time when your arms come off with a slight tug?”

  I didn’t tell Anna it’d already happened. Three nights a week for the last three weeks, I was either plucking an arm from a socket, or another luchador was doing me the favor. I alternated left and right with each match, but yesterday I had been digging deep through aguas frescas looking for one with a recognizable color, and grasped one at the bottom of the cooler. I straightened, lifting it through many cold layers of vegetable- and candy-flavored waters.

  The bottle came out much easier than I’d anticipated. Until I realized the bottle was still at the bottom, my arm with it, fingers still grasping the plastic.

  Bottle one, right arm zero.

  The proprietor cleared his throat, pointing to a sign above the cooler. It was in Spanish, but with an English translation in fine print at the bottom.

  It said, “Do not leave limbs unattended in cooler.”

  Obviously the owner of our favorite bodega had heard of me.

  If I shared this story with Anna, she’d only worry more. Which would be kind of cool. The anger that came with it, however, would not.

  “No, I’m fine, as fit as ever,” I said. “If zombies were built for one thing, it’s to come apart in comical ways. The pratfall has nothing on the severing of a leg when it comes to physical comedy.”

  “Have to say nothing cracks me up like you going to pieces. If your sarcasm detector just went off, it means it’s working just fine.”

  “Anna, I promise I’m fine. And Luke has gotten really fast at putting me back together. You know the pit crews that can change all four tires in less than ten seconds?”

  “Luke is that fast?”

  “No. Not even close. But when he tapes on a limb, he makes these whirring sounds as if using a pneumatic drill.”

  “Good to know that at least Luke hasn’t changed. But I’m not sure I like this wrestling thing. Villagers aren’t known for being very kind to the undead. Bullets to the head and such.”

  “Two things,” I said. “First, Guadalajara is a sprawling metropolis. They’ve had electricity and indoor plumbing for decades. True story. If your sarcasm detector is going off—”

  “It is.”

  “—then it works. Secondly, we’re downplaying the whole zombie thing. I’m a robot with detachable arms.”

  “Robots don’t have detachable arms. You know what has detachable arms? Dolls.”

  “I doubt many people would want to see, hold on …”

  I plugged a phrase into the translate app on my phone.

  “Jed el Muñeca Muchacho.”

  “I would, I love the sound,” Anna said. “What does it mean?”

  “Jed the Doll Boy.”

  “Instead of a doll, maybe you could be an action figure. G.I. Humpty Dumpty.” Anna giggled.

  “Really? And would all the king’s tanks and all the king’s soldiers put me together again?” I laughed back.

  “Exactly. It makes about as much sense as a robot.” Anna looked down and spoke so softly I could barely hear her. “Jed, promise me you’ll be careful. You’ve worked so hard here to be taken seriously, to be seen as more than just another zombie.”

  That reminded me of my conversation with Marisa, when I’d admitted to seeking glory because of what I was rather than who I was. I pushed the thought aside, knowing Anna would disagree. She cared about the “who,” not the “what,” which was why I cared for her so much.

  I quickly deployed my invincible “humor as a self-defense mechanism” shield and smiled broadly, saying, “The fact I don’t particularly care for brains gives me an edge there.”

  “You also have decent health care coverage, and you know that’s not what I mean by ‘just another zombie.’ You’ve been battling stereotypes all your life, and now you seem to be embracing them. And why? Fame? Fortune?”

  “Both.” I smiled. “And vast amounts of Mexican pastries, which are way better than any donut. And did you know Mexico has an entire day devoted to the dead? I’d want to be the grand marshal of that parade.”

  “Jed, if you keep this up I’m signing off. You need to take this seriously.”

  I wasn’t so sure. Nothing about lucha libre was supposed to be taken seriously. It was a ballet of body slams performed by masked men and women who rarely watched their diets. They worked together, played together, rode buses together. The only argument I ever saw involved the last bottle of gold glitter (they went through an alarming amount of gold glitter).

  The other luchadores respected me and loved Tread. Except for Vampiro, who everyone thought was a burro estupido, whose off-script moves were never appreciated.

  “I’m not being taken advantage of, I’m playing a character,” I said. “And they like what I do. They told me that on a good night, they’d get maybe a hundred people. Now we’re getting twice that. My character’s name is even on the poster. No one’s ever had a canine sidekick before.”

  “So there’s the fame. Great. I suppose fortune is just around the corner.”

  “Hardly, since we charge maybe a hundred pesos, which is about seven bucks. Luke and I get paid a few thousand pesos, which barely covers our duct tape bill. So maybe fame and misfortune.”

  “All that just for getting your arms ripped off,” Anna spit out. “Sounds like a fair deal to me.”

  “I know you may not believe me, but I feel like I fit in here.”

  “With a bunch of costumed adults who should know better than to employ someone not old enough to drive.”

  “They’re not forcing me into anything,” I said, wondering why I suddenly had to defend myself. “I knew what this was all about. I have certain talents, and they want to use them.”

  “A talent? Really? Singing’s a talent. Hitting a baseball’s a talent. Letting someone treat your body as if it were made of LEGOS isn’t a talent. It’s a … I don’t know.”

  “A condition?” I filled in.

  “Don’t you dare, Jed Rivers. Don’t you dare go there.”

  I didn’t know where I was going. Where we were going? How had this conversation gone so wrong so fast?

  I took the kind of deep breath I never needed.

  “Look, this is a temporary thing,” I said. “There are only a few more matches to go. Then they leave town, and Luke and I go back to spending days playing basketball and drinking water with flavors never meant for liquid form.”

  “And what does your dad think? He can’t be crazy about this. Wait, does he even know?”

  “Nope. He’s been so busy I hardly ever see him. He’s putting in around twelve to fourteen hours a day, so we almost never see him for dinner these days.”

  Anna shook her head. “I don’t know abou
t this, Jed. Even one more match is too much if you’re losing limbs each time. Ask yourself, if you didn’t have this talent, would you be wrestling? Because we both know the answer.”

  “It’s not like that, everyone—”

  “I know. Everyone loves you. Did you ever just for one second think that I might … oh, never mind, Jed.”

  Before enough time passed for that to sink in, the computer screen jumped as Anna shifted positions. She leaned close to the camera.

  “You’re in a spotlight now,” she whispered. “What if everyone sees through this whole robot thing? They see you for who you really are? Are you ready for that kind of attention?

  “Or what if one day—” I had to put my ear to the speaker because I could barely hear Anna—“you come apart and don’t go back together? What then, Jed?”

  The screen blipped, and Anna was gone. I stared at the Skype screen.

  I shrugged off her words as easily as my right arm.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  As we prepared to board the bus, I felt the flame-fueled heat of the dreaded slips of paper burning in my right palm.

  “You going to put that out?” Luke asked.

  “In good time,” I said, my eyes not leaving Vampiro’s dead stare.

  As was custom of the last match before the traveling luchadores depart a city, names were drawn from a mask to determine opponents. But the real kicker was no script would be used. The wrestling, and the winner, would be determined by skill—or a coin toss if wrestlers preferred a method that kept injuries to a minimum.

  Mendoza had explained this to me earlier.

  “It’s just a way to blow off some steam,” he said. “Luchadores who think they have something to prove hope to match up with someone who feels the same. The rest of us enjoy the fun of the draw, happy to flip a coin to see who wins. It’s nothing to worry about. Only two of us use this to prove themselves.”

  “Then why even do it?” I asked.

  “Didn’t I say it was our custom? You Americans, always wanting to destroy tradition. Mess with the tried and true, and you wind up with hamburgers made of tofu.”

  Mendoza pulled slips of paper, one by one, reading each name.

  “Dragon Enojado y Diablo Verde. El Tiburon y Aguila Roja. El Mercenario y Eduardo Corrales.”

  More names, but not mine. I’d lost count. How many were left?

  “Deadly Jed Transformar y, un minuto, por favor.”

  Luke leaned toward me. “Who’s this Un Minuto Por Favor guy? Is he new?”

  “No, it means ‘One minute please,’” I said. “Something’s up.”

  Mendoza put his arm around Ernesto—Vampiro—and the two huddled for what looked to be a one sided conversation. Mendoza seemed to speak heatedly as he handed Ernesto a slip of paper, and another. Ernesto simply shook his head, and the two of them returned to the circle.

  Mendoza resumed.

  “Deadly Jed Transformar y Vampiro.”

  Hoots and hollers filled the circle. This would be our first rematch since my victory earlier in our very short wrestling season.

  Vampiro approached with something in each of his hands.

  “Dude,” Luke said, leaning toward me. “You need to learn the word for ‘forfeit,’ because he does not look happy.”

  “Relax, it’s Ernesto, remember?” I said. I bent just enough to pat Tread’s head, which always soothed me.

  But not this time.

  Ernesto—no, it was Vampiro, only without the mask, making him even more menacing—stopped just a few feet in front of me.

  “We … meet … again,” he said.

  “That’s … so … cliché,” I returned, hoping his grasp of English was limited.

  I offered my hand, trying to remember Spanish for “Heads or tails?”

  He gripped my hand firmly, but instead of shaking, twisted it so my palm faced up. Releasing my hand, he motioned me to keep still.

  He dropped into my hand the two slips of paper, which I assumed contained our wrestling names. He pulled a cigar from his right pocket and matches from his left. With the cigar held firmly between yellowing teeth, he lit the end and inhaled deeply, the tip flaring red.

  He touched the tip to the paper in my hand, the two slips curling inward and turning black underneath a dancing flame.

  “Robots feel pain, no?” he asked.

  “No,” I said, meeting his gaze.

  “Good,” he said and turned away.

  I looked at Luke, paper smoldering in my palm.

  “Robots feel pain, yes?” he said.

  “Yes,” I answered.

  “Well,” Luke said, cupping his chin as if in thought. “All for the good. We didn’t have a coin anyway.”

  Chapter Thirty

  “Just add a few more staples,” I told Luke through the haze. It wasn’t so much my recent flight over the ropes as it was the unscheduled and very rough landing in Painsville, Population Me.

  “First I need to get your arm,” Luke said. “Then we’ll worry about staples.”

  Seemed logical. Arm first. Then reattach.

  “Hey, Luke,” I nudged his shoulder with my forehead. “What about that one?”

  I motioned to what appeared to be a limb dangling from the top rope, which I’d flown over not too long ago. The arm looked just about my size.

  Luke pressed my chest, forcing me back on the cold concrete floor. “That just may work,” he said. “Looks grayish, matching your complexion. And it’s a left arm, which you’re missing at this point. Seems to be a good length. Let me get it and check the tag. I’d guess you’re a twenty-two puny.”

  Luke disappeared, only to be replaced by something much smaller. I stared at it, willing my eyes to focus. They did, to a point.

  “Tread, that you, boy?”

  A sandpapery swipe of my cheek confirmed my suspicions.

  “Want a treat?” I didn’t need to see clearly to know his butt wiggled in anticipation.

  I reached into my left pocket. Wait, I needed a corresponding arm to do that. I reached into my right pocket. It had to be here somewhere.

  Wait, was I missing more than a pocket? Did I leave my legs in my other pants?

  I raised my head, braced for the worst. I saw feet. One, two. They were attached to ankles, there were my calves, knees, and thighs. Now the big test. I wriggled my toes checking for viable brain-to-foot connections.

  My toes squished around in my shoes. Thank goodness. It could have been worse. Much worse.

  But just how did I get here?

  “Brain, you awake?” I asked.

  “I just moved our toes, didn’t I?” Brain said.

  “Fine, you don’t have to be so cranky about it.”

  “Do you think it’s easy keeping up with all the dismembered limbs, having to reestablish contact by tracking billions of synapses and nerve endings? Do you really think duct tape and staples do most of the heavy lifting? Because I’ve got news for you, pal. All that adhesive shoulders maybe two percent of the work. The rest is up to yours truly.”

  “Fine, I’m sorry. I didn’t call for a lecture. I was hoping you could fill me in on the last five minutes or so.”

  “Let me see what I can come up with,” Brain said. “Should be around here somewhere. Let’s see, here’s you at five years old, scaring everyone when you went snorkeling without a snorkel. Here’s you at ten, apologizing to Luke when you found out others did not have removable arms. Ah, here we go, under Recent Memories. Should have looked there first.

  “You were in the ring with Vampiro, and very excited because this wasn’t only your last match as a luchador, but you were also the final match of the night. The headliner. You grabbed his leg, he turned you upside down, you flipped him over on his back and had him around the neck, more holds, turned there, twisted there, blah blah blah, he threw you over the top rope. You landed here.”

  “What about my left arm?” I asked.

&n
bsp; “What about it?”

  “How did I lose it?”

  “In mid-flight, you snatched the rope with your left hand. Your arm bailed out. End of story. Can I get back to more important things like restoring full consciousness?”

  “Yeah, thanks for the help.”

  Brain clicked off, and my vision cleared a bit when he reassumed the controls.

  “Got the arm even though I thought I was going to have to remove the fingers.” Luke returned, and my left arm with him. “You had that rope in a kung-fu grip.”

  He shrugged off the backpack, dropped it by my head, and went to work. I had just one question.

  “Did I win?” I said.

  “How in the heck does a guy thrown over the ropes, losing an arm in the process, even consider for a second that he’s won?”

  “Forfeit?” I answered. “Out of pity?”

  “You didn’t win, but you still have a chance. Match isn’t over. Though the rules say you should be disqualified after a minute outside the ring, Vampiro said he’d wait. You want my advice?”

  Luke peeled off about three feet of duct tape and wrapped my shoulder, though I could not feel my left arm.

  “No, I don’t. But I do want you to snap my arm back before taping it.”

  “Jed, your arm is in place. You can’t feel it?”

  I closed my eyes. “Brain, is he telling me the truth? Is my arm back on?”

  “Sensors indicate reattachment,” Brain answered. “But I’m not picking it up on any neural pathways.”

  Oh, crap.

  “To put it mildly,” Brain said.

  “Brain, stop reading my mind.”

  I opened my eyes and dared to look. My arm had indeed returned, and normally I’d feel a tingling as Ooze did its thing.

  All I sensed was the screaming crowd. It was chanting. Words slowly penetrated my thoughts. “Deadly Head! Deadly Head! Deadly Head!”

  Who had a deadly head? And why were they taunting? I asked Luke those very questions.