Short Bus Hero

by Shannon Giglio

  He worms his way to an empty locker near the showers and sets down his bag. Stryker imagines eyes on him from all sides, the other wrestlers ribbing him about having to audition like some common nobody. He brought a mask to wear in the ring, like the Mexicans do. He wants Drake Murray to see his face, to know that he has no intention of staying out of wrestling, but not until it’s all over. He can’t risk showing his face up-front. He only hopes that no one had seen him around town and ratted him out. Murray would never let him in the ring if he knew.

  Stryker claims a locker, grabs his bag, and hits the bathroom. Locked in the handicap stall, he shucks off his jacket and clothing, and struggles into his wrestling costume, mask included. He’d gone on a shopping binge, purchasing all new gear (plus an expensive watch, a pair of designer cowboy boots, and a netbook computer), shortly after he’d checked into his hotel. He’d found a specialty shop that customizes trunks and tights right on the premises (his new trunks say “BITE ME” across the ass). They charged a lot more than other suppliers he’d used in the past, but he still had plenty of cash.

  He stands in front of his locker, looking down at his unlaced flame orange boots. Some unreadable thought tears at the back of his mind like a thorn stuck in a latex balloon. Could he do this? Anxiety seizes his gut and screams he’s insane. The spell is broken when someone speaks his name.

  “Stryker, man.” It’s the guy from his hotel gym, the one he bought the steroids from. He offers his outstretched hand to Stryker, a broad grin hanging on his coyote face.

  “Shhhh,” Stryker hisses.

  The guy’s grin widens. “Oh, sure, yeah,” he puts an index finger to his lips and shifts his eyes side-to-side. “I recognized your scar, man,” he says pointing to a faded line on Stryker’s bicep. “Hey, what number are you, dude? I hope like hell I don’t have to wrestle you.”

  Stryker hopes like hell the guy’s not some kind of WWC spy or anything.

  Stryker busies himself with hanging up his clothing and rummaging in his gym bag. The other guy takes the hint. “Okay, yeah, well, I’ll catch up with you later, man.” He disappears into the forest of bulging humanity. Stryker sets his bag on the floor and sits down on the bench between two other behemoths. The lump in his throat dissolves as he laces up his boots and adjusts his mask.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later, he’s in the ring.

  Some WWC B-stringer slams his elbow into the turnbuckle, missing Stryker’s head by a whole second. Stryker spins around and throws a screaming back fist right into the guy’s ear.

  Talk about poetry in motion.

  I am totally into it.

  The B-stringer freezes, clapping both hands to the side of his head. Have you ever been hit in the ear? Man, that’s the worst. I almost feel sorry for the poor guy. But, while he’s wincing like a little girl, Stryker lands a perfect sidekick to the kid’s backside. Pow! The youngster goes down flat on his perfect washboard stomach and raises a hand.

  I want to jump in the air and give someone a high five.

  B-stringer says no more, he’s done.

  Round one is in the bag.

  * * *

  “Bullshit,” one of the heel wannabes says to the steroid salesman. He looks at the masked man seated next to the ring retying his orange boot. “That’s not Stryker Nash. That dude got canned, man, he wouldn’t be here.” He squints at the man’s broad back. “Would he?”

  The steroid guy looks over at Stryker then back at his colleague. He raises an eyebrow and sticks out his bottom lip in response.

  “Next up,” the referee calls, “number sixty-four.”

  The heel wannabe gets up.

  “Good luck, man,” steroid guy tells him, not really meaning it.

  Wannabe number sixty-four proceeds to get his butt whooped by Nyxxa, and he is outta there. He was a shitty wrestler.

  Trust me, it’s a highly qualified opinion.

  Next.

  It’s Stryker’s turn. He starts to come unhinged, worrying that his old co-worker will recognize him. He tries to walk differently than normal, holds his body in atypical poses. He’d slapped a square of gauze over his one and only tattoo: a gorilla smoking a cigar on his chest. He gimps out to the center of the ring to greet Nyxxa.

  “Hey,” Nyxxa says, bumping Stryker’s fists. He stares into the mask’s eyeholes for a beat too long. Stryker feels the tingle of new sweat springing from his covered scalp. “Do I know you, Mystery Man?”

  Stryker panics. What if Nyxxa recognizes his voice? Should he go for the falsetto or the deep baritone disguise? It doesn’t matter—the bell rings, sending them to their corners.

  Stryker takes a deep breath and beats the crap out of his old buddy. Just like old times.

  He knows every one of Nyxxa’s signature moves—all of which belie the fact that he’s only been a pro for a single year. Stryker dodges weak elbows, jumps over low kicks, absorbs half-assed head butts with his ample gut.

  Then, he doles out some severe punishment.

  Elbow strike to the nose—crunch!

  Spine-popping full Nelson—crack!

  Full out body slam—wham!

  He’s faster and meaner than ever. It’s awesome.

  He wins. Call it a massacre.

  * * *

  “For this round, boys,” Drake Murray booms into the cordless microphone he clenches in his bulky fist, “our friend, Mr. Gemini is going to help you out.” A round of applause flies up to the rafters like a flock of spooked pigeons as Gemini climbs through the ropes and holds up his arms. “And I use the term ‘help’ lightly.” He laughs and gives Gemini a punch to the gut. Gemini pretends to be rocked back on his heels by the playful blow. This is the third and final round of the casting call. Seventy-three started round one. Sixty-three of them got the spit knocked out of them and their dreams demolished.

  Stryker sits alone in the sixth row, rolling athletic tape around his wrist, concealing a fragment of razor blade within. The first two rounds were totally clean—no blading at all. It wasn’t allowed. The blood on the mat was from rookies, juicing the hard way, as they say (psst, that means bleeding from legitimate injuries sustained in the ring, as opposed to cutting themselves). But, with ten guys left, battling for two spots, Stryker will have to pull a proverbial rabbit out of his ass if he wants a job.

  “First up, gentlemen,” Murray shouts, “Number twenty-eight, Wade the Wolverine Johnstone.” Stryker’s buddy from the hotel gym climbs into the ring. He is battered and bruised, barely hanging on. He hops to the middle of the ring to shake Gemini’s hand, but is snubbed at the last second, much to the crowd’s amusement.

  It is most definitely show time.

  Gemini kicks nine asses in record time before Stryker is called.

  It’s ugly, but totally fun.

  24. Hobophobia / hōˈ-bō-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of bums

  It takes a hundred bucks, cash, to get Stryker’s address out of the skeleton lady at the car dealership. After Lois hands her the bill, she coughs out the street name, dripping phlegm, floating on a cloud of smoke. “Thanks,” Lois says. Stryker should be back from Philly, since the wrestling match was last weekend, but they still haven’t heard from him, and he hasn’t been back to work. Lois hopes everything is okay, but she knows it isn’t.

  Earl guides the new Cadillac up the mid-morning Braddock street at a crawl. Empty store fronts with broken windows and For Sale signs leaning out slide past. The siding on some of the houses is pretty much stripped of paint. Those houses are the same color as the mill-stained brick buildings that dot the street. What was once a KFC now appears to be a crack house, tagged appropriately with graffiti that says “Crack House.” Pairs of shoes tied together by the laces hang overhead from ancient telephone wires. Beer cans and brown paper bags with clear glass bottle necks peeping out line the gutters. The burnt shell of an old Ford Mustang sits on concrete blocks obstructing the sidewalk. The smell of piss and industry hangs heavy in the air.

  Why do y
ou people let things get like this? I don’t get it.

  Humans are lazy. It’s a universal truth. I’ll tell you a secret: you will never have to worry about aliens coming to kidnap you and making you their slaves. There are much harder workers in the galaxy.

  “Five forty-three,” Lois says, pointing. “There it is. Earl, pull over.”

  There is no way he wants to park the brand-new car in this neighborhood, even at this time of day. He fought Lois like crazy to shell out their daughter’s money for a new ride. But, scanning the sinister streetscape, he knows he can’t let his wife go up to the door alone. Or even with just Ally. A bum on the other side of the street watches them climb out of the car. He looks hungry. Earl presses the alarm button on his key.

  Twice.

  The three of them climb the rickety wooden steps, paint long worn off, to the door bearing a tarnished number one. Their shoes thump on the wooden slats of the front porch, the sound absorbed by the gray day. Earl hopes they don’t hit a rotted spot and fall through. No one answers the door when they ring the bell. They don’t hear a sound from the inside, so they rightly assume the doorbell does not work. Lois knocks. She’s not sure anyone even lives here. It looks abandoned. She thinks it might even be condemned. At least it should be. Maybe that receptionist gave them the wrong address.

  They wait.

  Nothing happens.

  The bum across the street continues to watch them, lifting a forty ounce Colt 45 to his lips every few seconds. He’s got plenty of empties in his shopping cart, maybe even enough to cash in for another forty.

  Earl pounds on the door.

  Still, nothing happens.

  “Look…look in the…the…the window,” Ally says. She hates being outside in the cold. Her fingers hurt because she forgot her mittens at home. She jams her hands in the pockets of her new North Face parka.

  They can’t see through the transom—it’s too high.

  “Not that one,” Ally says. She points to a window around the corner of the alcove they’re standing in. Many times, she’s a lot smarter than the company she keeps. Ha. Lois steps over to the picture window and peers through a slender gap between the edge of the glass and what appears to be a bed sheet hung inside.

  “I don’t see anything,” she says.

  Which is a lie.

  She sees a broken chair, the back of an ugly plaid sofa, a pizza box on what she assumes is the kitchen floor, an ugly kitchen table, and an old pair of Asics wrestling boots.

  She sees the ghost of Ally’s half-million dollars.

  “We’re calling the police,” she says.

  I whisper to her that I understand.

  I whisper to her that it’s not true.

  I whisper to her that there’s hope.

  Yeah, there’s hope all right. Hope that I’m right.

  25. Amaxophobia / ə-makˈ-sə-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of riding in vehicles

  Jason isn’t in the best shape to travel. But, this trip is essential. Call it pivotal.

  “Where are we going?” he asks from his wheelchair, bumping over a dip in the curb at the intersection. He is thin and ghostly, a vapor of his former self. Every bump in the sidewalk pushes him closer to vomiting in his lap. He’s blindfolded, making it that much more fun. Every bump feels like the edge of a cliff to him. Whee. He feels his heart rate cranking up.

  The hour-long drive in the stretch Navigator had been comfortable for everyone but Jason. Ally kept smiling at him the whole time and singing to her Barbies, but he didn’t have the energy to talk much. He leaned his head against the window and watched the countryside slide past. It was a sight he’d grown used to, everything just sliding past. Ally could see the love of her life slipping away and it was getting harder and harder for both of them to hold on.

  But, oh boy, she thinks, when he sees what I bought for him, he won’t dare die!

  Oh, Ally. If only I could protect her.

  Debra rolls Jason up the ramp to the VNO trailer, where their low-rent offices are located. Ally bends down next to the wheelchair and pulls off his blindfold. His hollow eyes open and first focus on the huge black and silver VNO banner draped across the wall behind what used to be Lee Cashbaugh’s desk. He swivels his head and tries to comprehend what he is looking at.

  Debra wheels him behind the desk and he sits staring around.

  “Well?” Ally is anxious for his response. She keeps snapping her fingers and rocking back and forth, hopping from one foot to the other.

  “Where are we, Ally?” Jason asks her. He wants to go to sleep.

  A shirtless pale hulking figure in black and white make-up crowds into the room holding a VNO baseball cap. His skin is as waxy and ashen-looking as Jason’s, but it’s different in that Raven’s is a tapestry of scar tissue and new scabs. He steps between Lois and Earl and smiles at the boy behind the desk.

  “Hey, boss,” Raven says, handing Jason the hat.

  A small crowd presses in the doorway to get a glimpse of the new boss. There had been rumors that they were getting bought out by retards, but no one had believed it. Surprise! The staff wonders if they’re going to lose their jobs or what. Surely this sick and disabled kid can’t run the place. Not even with the other one’s help. Huh.

  Their selfishness amuses me.

  “I’m not your boss,” Jason says, smiling. “Ally, look, it’s Raven!” He claps his skeletal hands and bounces in his wheelchair with as much exuberance as he can muster. Then he coughs. “What is this place?”

  Ally laughs. “Work.”

  “What?” Jason says, looking at Trish and Jeff.

  “It’s work!” Ally shouts and claps, smiling and spitting everywhere. “This is your office. We own the…the…VNO, Jason!” Ally jumps up and down, rocking the mobile home they’re in, her elbow catching the corner of the gunmetal desk. “Ow.”

  Jason is not getting it.

  “Honey,” Trish says, walking around the desk and squatting next to him, “you’re the new Executive Vice President of the VNO.” She smiles at him through the tears in her eyes.

  Jason gawks at her, mouth agape. His eyes flick to Ally, who is still rubbing her elbow. He looks back at his mother. She nods her head. Trish gets up and hugs Ally.

  “You bought the VNO?”

  “Yeah,” Ally says. “I bought it…it for…for you, fiancé.” She smiles at Jason, a bubble of saliva breaking at the corner of her flaky lips. Ally is actually the owner, per Tony Clifton’s advice, but she gave Jason an executive position. She can’t tell if he’s happy or sad.

  Jason screams like a girl. “No way! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! Dad!” Jason’s eyes roll behind his glasses and his face has the natural tinge of pink that has been missing for months. Jeff high fives him and puts the cap on his bald head. He can’t believe Ally did this for his boy.

  Everyone is smiling and leaking tears and hugging.

  Including me. Well, minus the hugging part.

  Jason touches Heaven for the second time.

  They say the third time’s the charm.

  26. Catagelophobia / kad-ə-jelˈ-ə-fōˈ-bē-ə / fear of ridicule

  Open-mouthed grimaces and grins whirl past in a continuous blur as Stryker rides Gemini’s infamous “death spin.” His mask comes untied, the aglets from the laces poke him in the eyes and are held there by gravity. Then, he feels himself falling fast and hard. The bloodied canvas jumps up to jar his spine and rock his skull. Gemini snatches the mask off of Stryker’s sweaty head, not bothering to look at his face yet. He struts to a distant corner to taunt the wannabes he’s already beaten, holding up the mask like some kind of hunting trophy.

  Stryker doesn’t care that he’s been unmasked. In fact, now is a really good time for that. While Gemini’s back is turned, Stryker slips the blade fragment out of his wrist wrap and draws it quickly across his bare, sweaty forehead. He scrambles to his feet, drawing a surprised smattering of applause from the others.

  Gemini turns around.

  Shock registers
on his face.

  Stryker stands before him, a veil of blood and sweat tinting his defiant vision. “Come on, son,” Stryker yells. He’d never been much of a showman before, which is why Murray didn’t buy his contract, but, now, this guy is on a mission. “Is that all you got? Come on, Gramma! I’ll snap your head off and shit down your fat neck, you lame old sumbitch!”

  Gemini lunges at him, madder than hell.

  Stryker has a clear advantage—he hasn’t just wrestled nine other guys. His arm snakes around Gemini’s neck as he absorbs a head butt to the mid-section. Stryker’s other arm winds around Gemini’s waist and he holds him upside-down over the mat. Every muscle in Stryker’s torso strains and shakes.

  He lets go, dropping Gemini on his head.

  Ka-crunch!

  Stryker rooster-struts to the corner and climbs the turnbuckle.

  He takes a second to savor the expression of incredulity on Drake Murray’s face.

  He yells to the crowd, waving his arms: “Yes, brothers, the old Stryker is dead, but the new one is alive and AWESOME!” The other candidates stand and cheer.

  I cheer, too, but no one hears me (thanks be to God).

  He jumps back into the ring, driving his elbow straight into the back of Gemini’s already injured neck. The point of his elbow connects directly with Gemini’s levator scapulae, compressing the bulging muscle tissue, bruising it. He’ll need to wear one of those marshmallow cervical collars you always see fakers on those TV court shows modeling for eye-rolling juries.

  Stryker walks around the ring screaming: “I’m back and there’s Hell to pay!”