It's been fifty-five days of shows so far, but everything still seems so new to me. After all that time, I should be used to the hustle and bustle of the wrestling biz, but it hasn't gotten easier.
My throat is sore, my eyes hurt and my head is pounding. I think I took about twelve aspirin, but received not an iota of relief. That's way more than the recommended dose, which brings me back to my eyes: they hurt because I've been fighting my sleep. I'm afraid that if I doze off, I won't wake up, and it would truly be sad and pathetic for folks to find out I accidentally overdosed on bargain-brand Tylenol.
I've been on this cramped tour bus for six hours headed to Moribund City. These conditions we travel in are not favorable and have only served to exacerbate my aches and pains. It's muggy and stifling hot, which has made my nostrils dry up like earthworms in the sun. Just the act alone of breathing makes me sweat bullets faster than a belt-fed machine gun. Add to that the fact that most of the wrestlers failed to shower after the last show and just hopped right on the bus.
I have the misfortune of being next to one of the many jobbers, a mammoth-like, middle-eastern man whose real name I didn't catch. However, I am certain that he wrestles under the name of Gibraltar and that he's a newbie. Furthermore, I am aware that he obviously hasn't bathed in a few days. This being made evident by the unidentifiable clutter in his beard, the brownish-black patches on his shoulders, biceps and elbow plus the pungent odor packing the air around us. He smells like a mix between Limburger cheese, sardines and vinegar. Sadly, I believe I'm the only one who can smell it. Extremely stomach-turning.
He's been reading a book this whole time, which surprises me given his hygiene and the deer-in-headlights facial expression he's had since we boarded this deathtrap of a bus.
"Hey, man, I'm rather curious, what's the name of that book you're reading right now?" I inquire. I guess I disturbed him since he sat there huffing and puffing like a spoiled three-year-old before making up his mind on whether he'd answer me or not. It was a simple question though, so I don't know why he's mad.
"It's one of the ‘In Our Midst’ books by EJ Willis," he snarls, his face so heavily flushed that you would've thought there were red spotlights underneath his cheeks. Sweat is beading across his forehead, making it look like an abacus of perspiration. This has left me more uncomfortable than his body odor.
"Yo, are you okay? You seem pretty out of sorts," I nervously start, feeling regretful that I didn't keep my mouth shut to begin with. "You know, I didn't mean to bother you. I was just curious."
He drops the book on top of his big belly which makes it jiggle a bit, then he lowers his head, gently rubbing the bridge of his nose.
"Yeah, I'm fine, dude. I just… I…"
He starts sniffing and snorting, interrupting his speech. It is at this moment that I notice his eyes are red and watery. Before I could even ask what the matter is though, he resumes speaking.
"I have trouble reading. Well, not exactly trouble with reading, but trouble with maintaining focus," he sighs, wiping his eyes with a magenta cloth which matches his ring attire. I don't even remember him pulling that out, but it may be that I was just so laser-focused on his face and the book, I didn't notice much else. He continues, clearing his throat and making a weird scratching noise in the process. "I can start reading a book with no problem, but once I get the least bit disturbed, I lose all track of where I was on the page."
"Ah… damn, dude, that's pretty heavy. I'm really sorry I interrupted you."
"It's cool, bro. You didn't know," he says with a forced smile.
"Are you sure? I don't want you to be mad at me or anything," I say, weakly chuckling.
My voice is even more shaky now and sounds like it's panning in and out. All over, I'm just rife with apprehension and shame. My teeth are chattering and my bones are shuffling. I don't know if that last part is even such a thing, but I'm feeling it. I just know that if they were audible to everyone, they would sound like a bag full of dice and dominoes. However, I'm feeling like we may have shared a moment just now, though anxiety and frustration are weird things to bond over. Yet and still, I'm shaken by the silence from him. He hasn't answered my question and just keeps blankly staring at me like a fish in an aquarium. As with earlier, I go to ask another question, only to be interrupted. This time though, that interruption is hearty laughter and a firm smack on the shoulder. I think I felt my collar bone shift. (The pain…)
"Of course I'm not mad! As I said, you didn't know," Gibraltar remarks, showcasing a huge grin while gently rubbing my shoulder. The action is strange and invasive, but I'll allow it. He's too big to tussle with. "I need you to understand how frustrating this is for me though. I'm flustered as fuck right now because I'm gonna have to start the first chapter over for the sixtieth time."
I breathe a sigh of relief despite my nerves being far from calm.
"Well, that's good. Still, I apologize again. Had I known, I wouldn't have questioned you."
"Please don't apologize anymore. I said it's not a problem," he snarls. His mood switched from even-tempered back to annoyed in an eyeblink. I know they say judge not lest ye be judged first, but this guy has issues that extend way past his inability to remain focused while reading. He's easily irritated. I have no room to talk though as I'm easily frightened. I could piss on myself right now I'm so fucking scared. Regardless, I'm still curious about why he's so testy, but I'll keep my mouth shut. No more questions unless he asks one first.
***
Over two hours have passed since I opened my big mouth and simultaneously opened a can of Mongolian death worms. Gibraltar and me have both been sitting in silence, which is fine by me, but it seems like he's having a rough go of it. He eventually tosses his book to the floor and does so with such force that the bus shakes, prompting a few of the other wrestlers to yell at him. One of them, a wrestler named Pineapple Carello, threw a open, one liter bottle of water. Somehow, none of the water came out until it smacked Gibraltar dead in the nose. He was steaming and partially got up from his seat, but eventually sat back down and cracked his knuckles repeatedly, counting to ten with each repetition. All of this just served to make me more jittery and nauseous, and I knew he could tell once he remarked that I "look a little pekid."
I wanted to tell him that I'm good, but my mind and mouth wouldn't allow it. Hell, even if I did say it, my body language had already betrayed me. Saying I'm okay currently would be the greatest lie ever told, but to me it feels like the gospel. Facts are that I feel tired and wistful, painfully missing my hometown. That's funny as hell to be honest, especially since I was on my head to get away from there. I grew up in Skogwick by the way, but became sick of it before I even hit my teens.
I slacked off a lot in school to tell you the truth because I thought if I flunked out, I could create some kind of situation that would justify running away from home. Just saying I was sick of being there wouldn't do. Not to me anyway. Ugh… look at me, yapping about my early life. Now is not the time to wax nostalgic or look back with disdain and pity. I'm supposed to be regaling you with extravagant tales, right? Giving you all the details on what it's like being an employee in one of the biggest sports entertainment companies around: The Big Bouts Wrestling Corporation, also known as Big Bouts Action Conglomerate.
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