Short Bus Hero (15 page)

21. Arithmophobia /
ə-rith-mə-fōˈ-bē-ə
/
fear of numbers

“A
thousand on red five,”
he shouts to the dealer manning the roulette wheel. Being a Star Wars fan, every time he’s in Vegas, Stryker hits the roulette wheel and puts a hundred dollars on Red Five. But, he is feeling super lucky this time, and it isn’t really his money, anyway, so he thinks what the hell and bets a grand.

Bells and sirens ring out, people laugh, a collective “oh” rises from one of the poker tables, coins clatter out of a couple loose slot machines.

Stryker is the only one at the roulette table.

The ball flashes and clacks along the track. The wheel slows and the ball begins its slow bounce.

Stryker watches with a smirk.

There’s a lot more than a thousand bucks riding on this one.

“Twenty-two black,” the dealer yells.

Stryker hands the dealer a hundred dollar tip, grabs his gym bag, and marches off toward the WWC Resort. He hopes to have better luck there.

Vegas sucks.

22. Dikigorosophobia /
dikˈ
-
ē-gor-ōˈsō-fōˈ-bē-ə
/
fear of lawyers

L
ois stands
next to Ally in the gaping Wesbanco Arena, watching a Zamboni circle the pitted white ice, leaving a shining mirror in its wake. The Wheeling Nailers have a game that night, but that’s not why the Formans came to town.

“Ms. Forman?”

Lois and Ally turn away from the rink to see a heavy man in a battered suit approaching them on the concrete steps.

“Hi, I’m Lee Cashbaugh,” the man says, extending his hand. “Exec veep of the VNO. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Hi, I’m Lois, and this is Ally.” Lois shakes his sweaty hand and puts her arm around Ally’s shoulders. More maternal protection compelled by some spot in her reptilian midbrain.

“Hi,” Ally says, smiling at the floor. Her hair is a mess, and judging by her worn out track suit, you’d never guess she’s a multi-millionaire. Cashbaugh is caught off guard by her sloppy appearance. Lois, he could go either way on her—she’s at least got a Polo pony on her untucked shirt.

“As you can see, they’re setting up for the hockey game in here right now but I wanted you to see the venue we normally wrestle in.” That is true, that he wanted them to see it, but, also, he isn’t ready to show them their crummy corporate offices—a couple of trailers, four blocks away. He gestures for the women to take a seat in the stands. He sits down in the row in front of them, smoothes his black comb-over, sets his bulging messenger bag on the floor, and turns to leer at them. “This is where the magic happens.” Cashbaugh had been expecting Drake Murray to show up any day and offer him millions for his growing vampire league, but, he’ll take a sloppy idiot lottery winner. Her money is just as green.

I do not care for this man. He seems like a scumbag.

Not that I’m judgmental or anything.

“Oh, we’ve been here many times before, Mr. Cashbaugh,” Lois says, noting a gold tooth on the upper deck of the man’s alarming smile. “Ally and her friends are big fans.” Lois smiles at Ally, who has shoved her fingers in her ears and is rocking back and forth. Lois grabs the nearest wrist and gently pulls her hand away from her head. Sometimes that girl picks the worst time to tune out.

“Yeah,” Ally says, “we…we…we love the…the…the VNO. Lestat Graves is…hot.”

Cashbaugh coughs into his fist, anxious to get down to business. “So, what makes you want to buy the whole shebang?” He touches Ally’s knee with the hand he’s just unfurled. Channeling her inner Stryker, Lois cringes at the germs she imagines burrowing into the fabric of Ally’s pants. Cashbaugh just seems dirty to her.

I whisper to Ally and Lois that it’s okay, even though the guy looks like a creep.

“My boyfriend Jay-Jay-Jason is sick and…and…and…” Her eyelids flutter while her tongue pushes at her teeth, stuck. Lois smiles at Cashbaugh, who glances at her. “I want to b-buy it for him. Maybe it-it’ll make him fee-feel better.” She knows it won’t cure him, but she also knows that this might be her last chance to make him smile.

“Hello,” Lois’s lawyer, Tony Clifton, hurries toward them in the empty arena, his red tie flapping as he trots down the shallow steps. “Sorry I’m late. I’m Tony Clifton,” he says to Cashbaugh, shaking his hand. “I represent the Formans and will be handling all the details for them.” Lois watches Tony’s stainless gray eyes go right to Cashbaugh’s gold tooth. She imagines she sees some kind of shield go up behind her lawyer’s whole face. “What did I miss?” Clifton drove down to discuss the finer points of the multi-million dollar transaction Ally is certain she wants to make. This is not just window shopping, from what Lois told him on the phone. Heck, Clifton thinks he might even get to be on TV if this goes through. But, I don’t know about this Cashbaugh guy, he thinks.

Cashbaugh seems both unnerved and relieved by the lawyer’s presence. He hates lawyers, but at least now he knows this deal could be for real.

That’s just my guess.

I can’t read his mind or anything.

Oh, wait. Yes, I can.

I hate lawyers, but at least now I know this deal is for real, Cashbaugh thinks.

Am I good, or what?

Call it a gift. No, wait, a blessing.

23. Atelophobia /
ə -talˈ-oo-fōˈbē-ə
/
fear of imperfection

S
tryker shoulders his way
into the teeming locker room. Over-inflated muscle heads in various states of dress gawk at him, then turn to whisper to their neighbors as he pushes by. “Stryker Nash…?” “Stryker Nash…” “St…k…sh…?” The ripple of whispered syllables that follow him pin his eyes to the floor and tie a knot in his throat to match the one strangling his stomach. The hood of his jacket and his sunglasses hide most of his face, so no one knows for sure if it is really him. The whispering could be in his head. Call it an auditory hallucination.

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.