▶Three Things
Gordy awoke with a start.
The same dream, over and over again, haunting him for weeks. A cold slab. An experimental procedure. A doctor, a war, the body of a distant descendant and then…
Nothing.
Not just nothing, though - a change from what had been to what supposedly actually always was. This was the part that really haunted Gordy - the fact that no one, not least of which his closest friend and confidante, seemed to acknowledge that things were different now. He was acting crazy, Ian said. He should speak to someone, Ian implored. This must be a side-effect of the carbon monoxide, Ian insisted. No one was taking that whole 2326 business that seriously anyhow, Ian claimed.
Gordy sat up, beads of sweat forming across his forehead as he worked gradually to calm his breathing before a full-on panic attack bubbled to the surface. He checked around himself, like the psychiatrist that he finally had acquiesced to seeing had recommended, and started to check in with his senses.
Five things he could see. The flashing alarm clock – 3:24 AM. Light from the moon, streaming into the room and dappled with the shadows of the oak leaves just outside of his window. The growing pile of laundry, neglected due to the rigours of a career borne of travel. The dresser, increasingly empty as the laundry pile grew, an ancient piece of pine handcrafted into a functional, if plain, piece of furniture. Then, sitting atop the dresser in pride of place, The CWF Championship belt, glinting in the moonlight.
—
Danny, bud, you’re kinda exhausting, eh?
Like your whole shit, your whole demeanour - it’s truly dour, depressing, dreary and dismal, bud. You act like you’re the baddest, most evil, monstrous man to ever live, but here you are - from fuckin’ Brighton, bud. Like I don’t know the UK that well, but even I know that you’re basically claiming to be the second coming of the most notorious criminal in English history, while coming straight from the happiest place to live in England.
Like, honestly, bud. Exhausting.
You’re a Hot Topic goth wannabe, running around with a letter for a last name, trying to act hard. ‘Course, with how open Brighton is to the LGBTQ+ scene, actin’ hard isn’t necessarily a bad call, I guess, but that’s neither here nor there…and when it comes to LGBTQ+, you’re more like LGBTQ, free with ads, bud.
—
Four things he could feel. The cool air of the heat pump, doing battle against the humid early-August air, and managing, just, to claim victory. The bed frame, holding his weight with no complaint or groaning. The sheets, the one thing he was managing to keep freshly laundered without much difficulty. Finally, his muscles, beginning to lose their tension – it drove Gordy crazy that this bullshit seemed to work – as he began to shift his attention to that he could hear.
—
So, you’re from Brighton, trying to act like you’re straight outta Peaky Blinders. Well, bruv, I guess that explains why you’d wanna get yourself moved out to somewhere with a bit more street cred, right? Move on over to the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, bud! The city so nice that they named it twice, eh?
I’d say the city that never sleeps, but you’re so fuckin’ boring that they probably catch a nap here and there.
New York, New Fuckin’ York, eh? Now since you’re such a fuck up, you can’t even manage to pull that off properly, can you bud? Like for fuck sakes Danny, I’ve seen your fuckin’ condo, bud. You’re in the fuckin’ Upper East Side. That’s where the goddamn money is. You aren’t in Hell’s Kitchen, you’re in Hell’s Kitchen, the Ramsay joint. I mean, shit bud, look at where you’re laying down roots. Look at who your neighbours are. You aren’t exactly in a land of the kind of monster that you claim to be.
I mean, shit Danny, look at the people who come from your neighbourhood, eh? Ricky Gervais. I can see what you two have in common - hanging onto when you were relevant and worthwhile like a decade or more ago. Bernie Madoff…well, another fella you have something in common with - being an absolute phoney, eh? Woody Allen…Michael Jackson…Jeffrey Epstein...
Erm...
On second thought, I’m starting to see why you like the area, bud.
—
Three things he could hear.
Rattle.
Three things. The sound of the air from the heat pump. Was that cheating? He already used that for the things he could feel, after all...
Rattle.
The hell with it, it’ll count. The ticking of the antique clock in the living room. It had been the one thing that his mother had insisted on back in the day, an heirloom from her mother that had sat in their formal dining room for decades, chiming out the hours while tick-tocking through the minutes and seconds.
Rattle. CRASH.
“Ehhh godammit!” came an elderly-sounding voice from outside.
“That’s three, I guess,” said Gordy to himself as he whipped the sheet off himself and rose to see what the commotion was.
—
You seem super concerned about being the golden boy, Danny. Real worried about it. All aflutter about the pressure that’s placed on your head for being the man. Here’s the thing though, bud – you’ve never been the man. Not long-term, anyhow. You’ve always been the guy before the guy, bud. You’re the guy who replaced Jarvis King in the Cyndicate. You’re the guy who was on top when the actual stars stepped away. You’re the guy when the real guy isn’t there, bud.
And like, don’t get me wrong, that’s not a terrible place to be, bud. You’re sometimes the guy, but never The Guy, capitalized and italicized, eh? There’s something noble about that, bud. Like man, Pippen put up some great numbers between 93 and 95. He was definitely the man in those years. But everyone was waiting for Jordan, bud.
And Danny...you’re not Jordan.
—
“Stay back!”
Gordy was fully still 20 feet away from the elderly man as he approached the turned-over shopping cart. Bags of empty cans and beer bottles littered the street as the man, hunched over from the weight of the world’s cruelty, scrambled to pick them up. Other than the initial outburst, there was no word from the old man, who seemed to pay Gordy no further mind as he went about his work.
The cart’s now missing wheel, the culprit of the crash, laid next to Gordy, who, in a t-shirt hanging effortlessly over his boxer briefs, raised his hands in a gesture of surrender as he gingerly stepped on the pebbled roadside barefoot towards the rogue wheel to pick it up. “I think this is your problem, eh?” Gordy said, a little louder than necessary, as if the old man’s hearing had gone the same way as the pinky and ring fingers on his left hand. The man turned, squinting in the dim light, and scowled at Gordy.
“I don’t need no help from you, hockey man.”
Gordy snuffed a laugh through his nose. “Yeah, that’s not me anymore old timer.”
“Oh, but it was,” the old man retorted as he turned back to collecting his lost treasure. Gordy shrugged and made his way towards the turned over cart, shoving the missing wheel back into place before returning it to an upright position. “Threw it all away fer a couple of pay days when your cousin made it big...idjit.”
Gordy froze. This was true, but not the truth anyone else had remembered. This was the reality he knew of.
The reality of before.
—
If I’m being honest, bud, you ain’t even Pippen. You’re Rodman. You play rough, you make a spectacle of yourself, and then you wonder why nobody’s takin’ you seriously.
And here’s the thing, Danny - you’re worth taking seriously, if you just could get out of your own goddamn way. You’re a vicious, violent, nasty son of a bitch, but that anger and that resentment at the world comes from the fact that you’ll never get over the fact that you’re a low-rent version of Jarvis King. You’re a poor photocopy of Chaolin Sahn. Hell, in your own story, you’re a lackey to a fuckin’ would-be god, rather than standing on business on your own two goddamn feet.
Hell, the only thing that you seem to take half-way seriously is your own hard-doneby nature. Like, for fuck sakes, Danny, you won the fuckin’ rumble on the back of being certain that some mysterious “they” didn’t want you to be where you’re at. You’ve got delusions of grandeur, and the worst bit is that they wouldn’t have to be delusions if you just shut up and performed, and stopped looking for excuses for why you aren’t going into this match as champion. As if you fuckin’ deserve to be called a champion.
—
“Who are you?”
The old man paid Gordy no mind, this time not even taking the time to chide him with a flippant remark. The World Champion, frantic, looked at him with wide-eyed, feral fury.\
“Answer me, goddammit!”
The old man laughed to himself. “Funny, isn’t it,” he said, “how no one listens to ya, no matter how much truth you’re speaking.”
“Who the fuck are you?!”
The old man laughed and turned to look at Gordy.
“We’ll meet again, Gordy. Don’t worry. You’re not crazy. At least no crazier than I am.”
—
Champion is a title reserved for folks that fight for their shit, bud. The kind that stands tall and stands on business. The likes of yours truly, sure, but look back on the names that have held this belt and see where you stack up. Sure, you’re a multiple time champ, but you never managed to hold it as many times as Alex Cain. Absolutely, you’re accomplished, but you haven’t managed half of what Jarvis King has in half of the time of your career. Sure, you’re a Hall of Famer, but for fuck sakes, so are the Anderson Boys.
You won Golden Intentions twice. I won the World Title twice, the first time beating a woman who had never lost that title to another person before, the second time beating a killer and a pervert...plus that clown fella.
See, the only thing that’s actually standing in your way is yourself, bud. There ain’t some grand conspiracy holding you down, bud; the reason I know that’s true is that you’ve had success before. You’re a multiple time World Champion. You’re a two-time Golden Intentions winner. You’re a Hall of Fame talent. You’ve done it all, and then some, but the reality of the fact that you’re still not as good as you wish you were gets into your head and eats you up inside.
“They” aren’t holding you back, Danny. You are.
—
Gordy awoke with a start.
The dream this time was not the same, but the sweat beading on his forehead was.
Five things he could see. 3:24 AM. Light and shadows from the moon. The dirty laundry. The dresser. The title.
Four things he could feel. The cool air. The bed. The sheets. His muscles, tensing more and more.
Three things he could hear.
The air.
The clock
Rattle.
—
Fuck, Danny. I’d love to be wrong about you, bud. I’d love it if after all this is said and done, you’re able to rise up to the occasion, because at least at that point I will have been beaten by someone worthwhile. But here’s the thing, bud - I know that isn’t the way it’s gonna go. If you beat me, it won’t be some hard-fought victory where you’ve conquered your demons to overcome your critics or whatever. That’s not the way it’ll be, eh?
It’ll be you, ever the petulant child, weaseling your way into a victory over the Most Canadian Man Alive. And for just one moment, Danny, you’ll think that you’re complete. You’ll feel pride, for just a minute, but then the truth will creep back in and the incomplete feeling will take over once more.
WrestleFest is the spot, bud, where you’re gonna have to come face-to-face with your own Demons of Death, and Hell in a Cell is the place. You’re gonna face off against the Most Canadian Man Alive, bud, and there is simply no fuckin’ where to hide. You’re gonna come face-to-face not just with a wrestler who is twice the man that you are on your best day on his worst, but with the cold, hard facts of the whole fuckin’ dance, bud.
You’re stupid, Danny - almost as stupid as the fact that you’ve got a single consonant as a last name after over a decade and a fucking half - but you’re not dumb. You’re smart enough to realize that win, lose, or draw, you’re going to have that same empty feeling in the bottom of your gut, eh?
Because no matter how much you whine to get your way, you’re still you.
No matter how much you complain that you’re downtrodden, you’re still you.
No matter how you cheat to win and justify it in your confused little head, you’re still you.
And you know, deep down, you’re not good enough.
Keep your stick on the ice, Danny. You’ll need it, bud.