The most important tool that the human race has at its disposal is the art of conversation. It’s what sets us apart from the animals. It’s the most significant part of our evolutionary process. We, as Homo sapiens, can effectively communicate our ideas easier than an elephant. Easier than an alligator. Even easier than our closest living relative the chimpanzee, and our ancestors Homo erectus. Words have power. To me, they’re the most powerful asset we have. Some find their solace in the visual arts, some express themselves through performance and some have nothing. It’s cold of me to say this, but those belonging to the latter group are the ones usually like to become depressed or dead. For me though, I have my words and I’m not letting go of them. Unfortunately though, I feel that others are. The power of words that I mentioned is slowly fading out of society. A family will sit around a television set like it’s an altar, dazzled by the beautiful images and colours. They sit in silence. The words they hear aren’t their own or each others. They’re spoon fed. And that’s just depressing.
Conversation is an endangered art form. It’s like the didgeridoo in Australia. Don’t you find it sad that one of the fastest growing ways in which people make contact with each other is by sitting on their own at home playing a video game on the internet? The only words you hear there are taunting and mocking which half the time is done to such a poor and laughable level that it barely even qualifies as words. You can walk through a city like Los Angeles, surrounded by a shit load of people yet barely knowing anybody. Imagine how awkward it would make people to feel to walk down a street and just say “Hi, how’s your day?” to absolutely everybody, and then stand there and actually wait for a response to come. Boy would that be a strange sight.
And do you know why that would be so strange?
We don’t listen anymore.
I didn’t refer to conversation as an art form for nothing you know. A conversation involves expressing your ideas the same way as painting does. The ideas need to be weaved through opposing viewpoints and thoughts of others. They need to be sculpted.
The hardest part though is trying to find the balance. And just like a painter; or a weaver; or a sculptor; or any other kind of artist – it’s a delicate process. You’ve got to know when to shut your trap and just listen. You hear that? Of course not, you’d be thinking right now “what the hell is this guy on about?” Well here’s a neat idea to help you out now and if you ever feel this way again.
Just listen.
See how hard that is?
Listen.
One word. Two syllables, unless there’s something seriously wrong with your vocal chords. That’s all it takes to solve the problem. That’s all it takes to save the art I love.
It’s incredible how simple everything sounds when it’s written down on paper though. The mission required to get the six billion people in this world to just shut the fuck up and listen to what somebody else has to say is unfathomable. It cannot be fathomed! But here’s another mission to ease into that one.
Try to fathom it.
I’m doing that right now as these words pass out of my mind.
I’m serious here. Right now I’m taking a page out of another star’s book as I so often do in order to both send a subliminal message to him that I’m coming for him (although it’s no longer very subliminal because I’ve said it) and to aid my story by breaking that little rule called “kayfabe”. These aren’t Lee Stone’s thoughts. They’re mine. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’m not alright, and neither are my thoughts. But I’m going to share them anyway.
And I will show you why.
Friday, 5 January 2007 – Worcester, MA
The familiar scent of bacon and eggs wafts into my nostrils, dragging me by force from my comatose sleep. All week I’ve woken up to this. It’s going to be strange to leave this all behind tomorrow when I wake up in a completely different bed. If the big guy is smiling down on me, then maybe I will be lucky enough to be dealt a Joker that can give me the comfort I feel now, right on back. I may even turn religious if that were to happen. Well… I’d think about it at the very least. But as usual I’d wind up coming up with some excuse to avoid the holy hall like the plague.
I’m no sheep.
Those three words have defined me. I refuse to play follow the leader. I make the rules, and if ever I’m in a position where my self confidence has been sapped away then I become unpredictable and dangerous. In that situation, I abide by no rules. But right now, I couldn’t feel more confident. Just through the door that I stare at from past my feet as I look down my fully clothed body and the bed it lays on, I know that there’s a woman named Karen cooking for me. I don’t even know her last name but this is the fifth day she’ll have cooked for me. It’s the same thing each morning, and I love that. It’s been so long since I’ve had something like that. Something as concrete as that. My usual morning may not even consist of breakfast. My usual morning cannot be described, because it always changes. There is nothing usual about it. But this week I’ve had this one constant to keep me going. I really should thank her for this.
Wait a minute, it’s only just dawned on me that the door I stare at shouldn’t be just to the right of my feet, but it is. There shouldn’t be any door there. Looking around the room I realize the problem: I’m sleeping the wrong way on my bed. There’s not even a pillow under my head, all that covers me is a sheet that I guess Karen must’ve covered me with when I got in last night. Jesus… I don’t even know if she came back with us. I lost track of her during the night. I lost track of Justin too. How much did I drink? Shit, I’m not even going to try remembering, all I know is that I had a good time and after both Justin and I returned in victorious fashion on Anarchy, we needed to celebrate. Judging by my state this morning, I’d say that’s exactly what we did.
Sighing, I reach into my energy reserves to get myself to my feet. Planting my feet firmly on the ground, I resemble a tree as I sway to and fro while looking around the room. It’s actually tidy. That’s amazing. I guess I could credit that to Karen as well. Everything rushes to my head as I make my first step towards the door leading to my meal. Oh shit. Nothing’s rushing to my head, it’s rushing to my mouth! I lurch and then sprint faster than I should ever have to move after just waking up. Busting through the door to the bathroom, I bend over the toilet bowl just in time. The liquid pours from my mouth. I don’t think there is a chunk of solid in there. Dropping to my knees, I try to straighten my back out and just curl my neck over to keep the hose pointed downwards. Not only am I preventing a back injury now, but I’m also narrowly avoiding the splashes resulting from fluid on fluid impact. Now that’s a winning situation.
As the tap appears to stop running, I remain motionless for a few moments. No sign of a second flow. Good. Gingerly I stand, trying not to encourage any more projection. I fail. Slumping back to my knees, I put on a repeat performance that I’m sure completely empties the contents of my stomach. I flush the toilet and make my way to the sink where I wash my hands and face. I stare through the mirror for a while, looking right behind the spot in the glass where my eyes are. I don’t want to focus on the foreground image.
One last splash of water on the face and I think I’m good to go. That breakfast sure would come in handy right now to prevent my stomach acid from eating away at the organ itself. That’s of course if there’s anything at all left in my stomach. Shaking my head in one last attempt to bring my self to my senses, I push out the door and back through my bedroom to the door that leads out into the larger section of my hotel suite. The scent barrages my nostrils. Mmm… food.
“I figured you’d be awake soon.” The now familiar voice of Karen greets me as she hears the door shut behind me. She glances up from the meal long enough to smile softly at me.
“Where’d I put the Aspirin?” I inquire as the pounding in my head reaches a very uncomfortable level. I glance around the open kitchen, hoping that the Aspirin packet is in plain sight, however unlikely the chances of that happening are.
“It seems there’s none left. I was looking for one for myself.” Either I wasn’t the only highly intoxicated one last night or she’s feeling legitimately ill. I’m going to go ahead and assume the first option in an effort to make me feel more at ease with her breathing over my breakfast and with my own actions last night. It’s fine to be drunk when you’re not the only one!
“Damn,” I say, still scanning the counter to find anything that could possibly relieve the pain. No luck. Groaning out loud, I collapse onto the sofa. Flicking on the television, I find the first cartoon that I can and leave it on that channel with the volume turned down considerably. As Wile E. Coyote again fails to capture the Road Runner, my eyes droop. I’ve just woken up and already I want to go back to sleep. Well, my body does, but my mind is wide awake sifting through the vague fragments of memory that I can still grasp.
Eh… it’s a futile attempt and I know it. I’d ask Karen to fill in the gaps for me, but for some reason I think Justin may be of more help. He’s a drinker like me, but not to such an extent. And I think he’d be more aware of all the events that occurred if you catch The Lee’s drift.
Trying to get comfortable, I shuffle in the sofa and accidentally kick a solid object that has me clutch at my bare big toe. It’s my suitcase, still taking up residence on the arm of the sofa. I didn’t even notice it when I dropped into the couch. It appears to be zipped up and judging by the pain that rocketed into my toe, I’d say it’s full as well. Or at least relatively so.
“Did you pack my stuff?” I try my best to haul myself up over the back of the sofa, using it to support my body as I look over towards the kitchen at Karen.
“Yes. You’d be late for your flight otherwise,” she says matter-of-factly. I glance at the clock, 11:30am, Jesus… she’d be right. I believe I have an hour to get to the private runway. The drive from here would be about thirty minutes, so that gives me thirty minutes to eat. I can shower on the plane, that’s just how I roll. Justin should be meeting me at the airfield too, as we both take our first flight on my jet together. It’s the newly christened V.I.P Air. If I really wanted to fork out for the fuel, I could organise V.I.P Air to actually act as host to a party in the same manor as our V.I.P locale clubs will be.
“Thanks I guess,” I show my gratitude in the best way that I can right now. I’ll have to be sure that everything I need has been packed. I trust Karen enough now not to steal from me, but she is only human and humans tend to be forgetful at times. Hopefully this isn’t one of those times, but I use my legs to pick the suitcase up and hurl it back over towards my body. It slams into my chest but I don’t mind as I didn’t have the energy to move away from it anyway.
I unzip the suitcase and dig around inside it, messing up the neat and tidy packing that Karen had done. All shirts that I recall having taken are accounted for, as are my pants, etc. I brought more than one pair of shoes, but I know they’ll all be in my gym bag along with my wrestling gear, and that bag is right next to the door in my bedroom. That I know for a fact because nobody keeps an eye on their shoes like I do. Inside the suitcase, everything seems to be in order save for one thing.
“Where’s that bottle of whisky?” I ask Karen, once again propping myself up over the back of the couch.
“You’re not wanting to drink again already are you?” She laughs.
“Hell no!” I exclaim. “I feel like I’ve drunken enough for more than my own lifetime.”
“You probably have.” There’s a wry smile on her face but we both know that there’s a hint of truth to it as well.
“I brought a bottle with me though. It’s true Scotch. Straight from Scotland. You don’t get much more authentic Scotch than that.” Wow, I’d have to be in the running for the ever prestigious title of Captain Obvious now.
“Did it have a white label?” she asks, now looking up from her cooking once again.
“Yeah,” I reply. A slight giggle shoots out of her.
“You drank it all last night.”
“What? That bottle was full!” I’m shocked. Surely this can’t be true.
“And now it’s empty,” she laughs again. I don’t even know what to say. That’s some hard liquor right there. I mean, sure it’s no Absinthe, but drinking an entire bottle of Scotch is bound to fuck anybody up, and I don’t even remember touching it so I must’ve already been wasted from beer beforehand. That’s just incredible.
“Wow,” is all I can muster in response as I drop back down to lying full stretch on the sofa. No wonder I have a fucking headache that could cause Hercules to consider just ending it all. I’m a trooper though, I’ll fight through it. I’m actually a little impressed at myself right now. That kind of confidence will definitely inspire me to fight on.
“There is good news though,” Karen says, her voice sounding closer than before.
“And what’s that?” I ask, as I turn to see her standing at the edge of the sofa with two plates of bacon and eggs. One for me and one for her. I’m guessing mine is the one that is substantially smaller than the other.
“Breakfast is ready.” Her closed lip smile resurfaces. I swear this woman could smile at the devil himself as he brought the Apocalypse to the world. It’s admirable, but ultimately a little frightening.
“Thank you,” I mumble as she places my plate of food on the table in front of me. Nudging me with her hip, she indicates that she wants me to slide over to give her room on the couch. In a rare moment of compassion, I oblige to her request and shuffle towards the left, giving her plenty of room to plonk her heart-shaped buttocks.
“Eat up,” she encourages as I stare at the food wondering if this is a good idea. After all, it wasn’t too long ago that I threw up. Taking up the knife and fork that accompanied the plate, I slice part of a strip of bacon and begin to eat. Easy does it. Chew. Swallow. Wait for it… nothing. Good. No regurgitation. Inspired, I begin to eat with a little more enthusiasm.
“It’s good.” I nod my head to further my point, in the same manner that I’ve done for the past five mornings. She takes a tiny mouthful of egg as she watches me eat, smiling. Always smiling.
“I want to thank you Lee.” I look up her with a puzzled look on my face as bacon hangs out of my mouth. Sucking it in as if it’s a noodle, I lick my lips and keep the confused expression.
“For what?” I ask, as if the look on my face didn’t ask that question for me.
“When we were talking the first night we met…” I immediately try to tune my memory back to the night of New Year’s Eve. It’s a hazy blur, but I do remember initializing the first conversation with Karen by buying her an Appletini through the use of a little trick I’ve picked up over the years, and listening to her problems. I had made a smartass comment to Justin before speaking to her about how Karen has probably just broken up with her boyfriend after a long-term relationship and been dragged out to the club by a well-meaning but ultimately promiscuous friend. Guess what? I was right. “… I was in a pretty bad place.”
“Yeah, I know…” I say solemnly. “I could tell.”
“I kind of felt guilty though.” She spins some bacon around on the end of her fork and locks it in an intense stare down, not actually devouring it.
“For what?” I ask her, sounding like a broken record.
“I was piling all my problems onto you, and you just sat there and listened to it all”
“And…?” I was expecting more to cause her this feeling than just me listening to her. Shouldn’t gratitude be the appropriate emotion at that time? What the hell would I know though? I’m not exactly an expert on reading people.
“I’ve always been a believer that if I have a problem, then it’s my problem and not anybody else’s. It would be my burden to carry.” She finally eats the piece of bacon that she was dangling in front of herself.
“You’re preaching to the choir about that, sugar. Nobody knows more about being the solitary soldier than I do.”
“But you don’t seem to let it get to you.” Her voice goes a little higher pitched than usual. Annoyance I think. Annoyance that she can’t cope as well as I supposedly do. I frown and move in closer to her, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. She tries to lower her face towards my hand, but I don’t remove it from her shoulder. Instead, I lock her into my gaze, straightening her head up to look at me. My eyes don’t waver.
“Look, everyone has their issues and as we both apparently know, it’s up to them to deal with them however they can.” Her eyes move away from mine, but by squeezing her shoulder a little bit she moves back into her prison. “If you see a superman walking around with his chest out, chances are they’re probably dealing with their problems worse than the scrawny nerd who keeps going back to school even though he knows he’s just going to spend the day in a locker again. The kid is brave because everybody knows what he goes through.” I rub her shoulder gently and then remove my hand. “You’ll be fine sweetheart. You have no reason to feel guilty. I sat down to talk to you and I could’ve left at anytime but I didn’t.”
“Okay,” she whispers to herself.
“You’ll be fine,” I repeat. “I should get going, I’ll pay for a taxi to take you home.”
“Thank you.” I reply with a warm smile. She kisses me softly. “I mean it. If I never see you again, thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s been quite a while since somebody has been this nice to me.”
“Never see me again? Just keep your eyes on the TV okay? If you see that the XWF will be in the same place as you, get in touch with me.” I stand up, leaving my empty plate on the table. Her plate isn’t quite empty, yet she still stands up with me. Grabbing by suitcase in one hand and gym bag in the other, I head for the door. “Come on, let’s go.”
Just under an hour later…
Exiting my white stretch limousine, the driver takes the suitcase from my hands and carries it towards the plane on the tarmac in front of me. Now painted a sleek black colour, the first thing that stands out is three letters painted in red and black on the tail of the jet.
V.I.P
The side of the jet has the same font writing out V.I.P Air on it. I like the new look. Previously I had this baby the standard white colour, with my own logo on the tail and sides bare. This seems so much… cooler, for lack of a better word.
Grabbing my gym bag myself, I follow the limo driver’s steps towards the entrance to my jet. I step into the golden glow that the interior lights produce. I notice the increase in temperature right away. Good, the air conditioning is under full control. I hate this fucking cold weather. The entire Northern Hemisphere should get with the picture. It’s called summer people! It’s what’s supposed to happen around December to February!
The driver places my suitcase in a wardrobe that I then place my gym bag in. He shuts it and locks it for me, before handing me the key. It’s nice to have people do things for you, but I’ve always found it to be a little annoying. When you’re paying them the amount that I am, they want to do everything for you. It gets to the point when you’re tripping over them at every point. There’s only one thing I want from this clown right now though.
“Where’s Justin at?” My partner in crime is noticeably absent. I’d have expected him to be sprawled out in the lounge set that’s fastened to the floor on my left.
“He’s in the cockpit, sir,” the driver replies formally.
“Cheers homie.” I thank him and brush past him to the right to head towards the cockpit.
“Have a good flight, sir!” I hear the driver call to me, his voice slowly fading away as I disappear into the next room. Barely even taking the time to register what modifications had been made to the plane at the request of Justin and me, I make my way to the door that I know leads to the cockpit. Deciding on the best course of action to get the attention of Justin inside, I take a running jump at the door and deliver a powerful dropkick that forces the currently unlocked door open. Dropping to the ground as the door smashes open, I peer up in the hopes that somebody on the inside, be it Justin or my pilot Kevin Senior II was startled by it.
Nobody is in there though.
“Ah damn,” I feel a tinge of pain in my back as I roll around uncomfortably on the ground. A foot is placed right next to my head, and then my peripheral vision catches sight of a second foot, wearing matching dress shoes on the other side of my head.
“You alright there?” I look straight up to see the smirking face of Justin Jones standing over me. “You look like you fell over.”
“It would’ve been totally worth it,” I say as I scramble to my feet and dust off my shoulders. He’s chuckling at me.
“Well I’m having a little trouble trying to figure out exactly what you were trying to accomplish, so I’ll just have to take your word for that.” He sips from a cup that presumably contains some sort of hot caffeinated drink, possibly a latté. I never caught onto the whole coffee and Starbucks trend. I just don’t like the taste of coffee, does that make me a bad purpose? All these peppermint mocha-frappu-flippadippa-fuck-you-ccino things just confuse me. Coffee is black or white, and it always tastes bad. I am and forever will be a Coca Cola man, and will use that as my only source of the caffeine drug. Well, maybe them energy drink things like Red Bull as well, but that’s where I draw the line!
“You will never understand my genius,” I proclaim to him, striking a little pose that cements my position as the Supreme Being in the universe. Changing the subject now. “Where’s Kev Junior at?”
“He’s getting his own drink.” And almost on cue, emerging from a side door is a medium sized male with dusty blonde hair and a face that partially resembles that of a rodent. I think it’s the teeth that do it. All I know for sure though is that if he suffered the Nicole Ritchie syndrome, or whatever the equivalent is for a male, then he’d definitely look like vermin. And we all know that vermin just have absolutely no class.
“Hey Mr. Stone,” the man, presumably Kevin Senior II or Kev Junior as I like to call him, greets me.
“For the last time padre, if you’re going to refer to me as “Mister”, you may only call me Mr. Great One, Mr. Hero or if you’re a female, Mr. Wet Dream. Otherwise it’s Lee. Got that?” Ah, my ego has never been as high as it is in this New Year. In just under a week I’ll be turning 29 and will do my very best to make sure that my last year in the twenties is a memorable one.
“Sorry Lee,” Kev Junior apologises, choosing not to feed my ego anymore than is absolutely necessary. Bastard.
“So Lee,” Justin begins, intentionally taking my attention away from the abuse Kev Junior was about to receive. He’ll get his though, and soon enough he shall worship me! Justin will get his too, although he already worships me. “Have you seen the Anarchy card?”
“It’s up?” I ask, completely oblivious to everything relating to the XWF, aside from the fact that Justin and I are friends because of that place.
“Guess who’s in the main event?” There’s something behind his smile.
“Me?” I ask hopefully. If I ever want to get back to where we all know I’m aiming, I’ll need the extra points that a main event win brings. I’m going to do this the honourable way.
“Correct!” Hooray for me. “But you’re not the only one.”
“You?” Again my tone of voice is hopeful. I’ve invested in Justin’s career and need him to succeed just as much as I need myself to succeed.
“Two in a row Lee, you’re on a roll!” I fake a little dance. You know the kind of dance, a mock celebratory jive that shows zero signs of rhythm.
“Please tell me that this is our Tag Team Title shot,” I beg of him, hoping I can strike it lucky with a hatrick.
“Insert loud buzzer noise here that signals you being wrong. You’re not going to believe this match.” I absolutely hate that expression. Just as Justin is doing now, the person who says it always seems to leave a pause as if you’re supposed to try and guess.
“If I’m never going to guess, then why the hell are you trying to make me?” The slightest hint of frustration creeps into my voice, not directed specifically at Justin, but general hatred of that damn saying.
“Fair enough,” he replies. “Canadian Rules Battle Royal. Lee Stone, Justin Jones, Centurion, Dynamic Dynamite, Archangel…”
“And Steve Jason,” I interrupt him knowingly.
“Yeah, how’d you know?”
“Please nigga, look at the names in that match. There are the three possible contenders for his title, the Canadian “legend” – and I use that term very loosely, and the only Anarchy representative in the Universal Title match at Snow Job. Stevie J is bound to be in there.” He nods as he listens. I seem to make sense to him. Good.
“Right, you want to go plan for this match then?” He begins to head off towards the lounge set back at the plane entrance. “Get that Scotch bottle of yours out.”
“It’s gone,” I state, stopping JJ in his tracks.
“What do you mean it’s gone?” His eyebrow rises in unison with his voice as he queries my statement.
“Karen said I drank it all last night.”
“Dude… I carried you to your bed last night. You didn’t touch a drop of that bottle. You were drinking beer and tequila only.” My body literally shudders at the mention of tequila, but then I go back to focusing on what’s important. Justin’s telling me that I didn’t drink the whisky.
“Well then where the fuck is that bottle?” I ask, baffled and angered. I treasure my Scotch.
“That’s a good question. The only explanation that I can think of is that crazy bitch took it. Is there anything else she said went missing or you drank, etc?” I rake my brains trying to think. Anything… anything at all.
“Umm… she said that there’s no aspirin left,” I offer as an appeal to Justin’s better judgement. “That’s all I can think of.”
“Wouldn’t surprise me if she’s popping all of them right now and killing herself.” His voice is cold as he says this, which shocks me a little bit. “Whenever she was away from you man, she was out of her god damn mind.”
I start thinking to myself. Justin looks on and only now notices that Kev Junior has slunk away into the cockpit. Something just doesn’t feel right, I can’t describe it. Every little detail about Karen floats through my mind since the day I met her. Her constant smile comes to mind. Continuing to sift through the events of the past week, I reach today and her words deliver a blow to me that can only be compared to a straight punch in the crotch.
I was looking for one myself. She said that after I asked where the Aspirin was. I put it down at the time to her having been drunk last night, but now that I’ve sobered up a fair deal I don’t recall her touching a drop of alcohol.
You drank it all last night. She told me that I drank my whiskey bottle, and then she giggled after saying it. Why?
If I never see you again, thank you from the bottom of my heart. It’s been quite a while since somebody has been this nice to me. Oh shit. An epiphany strikes me and I bust into the cockpit.
“Kevin!” |