Nevermore
Suddenly, I heard a tapping. As if someone gently rapping.
Rapping on the front door of our apartment at seven in the damn morning. What the hell, hero?
It probably didn't help that Rose and I have only been asleep for about an hour. Planetoid played last night way downtown and when you hang out with our friends, it's never the event that takes your energy.
It's the after-party, and it's even rougher on those of us who live above 200th when the after-party is in Brooklyn.
One second, I rasped, pulling on a pair of sweats and trying to open my other eye, Hold on, I said. Being around smokers, even when they have to go outside, always messes with my voice. I got up and looked back at Rose, she was still sound asleep. Good.
That means I won't have to smack whoever woke me up: none of our friends would be awake yet.
More knocking. I closed the bedroom door and turned right at the end of the hall toward the front door. Three locks turned quickly. I probably should've checked the peephole first, but it's too early.
"Hello, Randall Knox?" said the man at the door.
He was wearing a cheap suit, and holding a microphone that didn't appear to be plugged into anything.
Yeah, I said. That's me. Who are you?
"James Murphy," he said, "EPW. Can I ask you a few questions?"
That's right. This is the guy that Steven Shane is always abusing.
He looked hungry. Waif eyes, I think Poppy called them, in one of her books. Like he's desperately trying to get someone - anyone - from the Empire to acknowledge him.
C'mon in, I said, want some coffee?
James took a tentative step inside, like he was never invited anywhere before. I looked back at him and gestured that yes, he's allowed to step inside.
Take a seat, I said, I'll be right there.
He went for the kitchen while I reentered the bedroom.
"Who is it," mumbled Rose, still half - asleep.
Some guy from EPW, I said, we're gonna have a cup of coffee and talk for a bit, I just wanted to let you know so that if you want to get up and he's still here you'll put something on before you come out.
She smiled at me, didn't open her eyes, and said "thanks."
I pulled on the shirt I wore last night that someone spilled a drink on, and left the bedroom. Not exactly the look we're going for with Impulse, the Marathon Man... but this guy asked to speak with Randall Knox.
Randall Knox ain't no hero, he's just a regular guy with an active night life.
So, what's on your mind, I asked, as I filled the coffee pot with water.
"Well, well, uhh.... um--" he said.
I chuckled. You okay, I said, or are you just not used to not being insulted?
"I don't get--"
Raised an eyebrow.
"Okay," said James, "I couldn't find Steven Shane so I looked you up."
There was already a sugar bowl on the table, but I took out the half and half and put it down in front of James. Why do you do it, I asked, if he's always talking down at you.
"At least he talks to me," said James, "none of the other EPW guys have ever given me the time of day, and maybe if I can keep at it, I'll get an actual job there."
I poured two cups and thought about it. He's going about it the wrong way, but I respect what he's saying. All he wants is someone to listen.
Well, I said, adding far too much cream and sugar to my cup, putting the second in front of him, not to knock your buddy Steve, but you might get in a bit better if you had your hands on the first official interview that the Empire's Intercontinental Champion ever gave, huh?
"The first..."
Yeah, I said, that's the point. He and Eddie Burns.
"No, I meant," said James, "Never mind."
My joke apparently went over his head, so I let it go. What did you want to know, I asked.
"Well mainly, what do you think about your match?" asked James, "You and Steven Shane - a man you narrowly defeated at Aggression 60 - against the former World Champion and his partner."
Let me start with Shane, I said. He had the chance to steal the title in Baltimore, and he didn't. That shows integrity: and since he had no idea that this tag match was on the way, it means I trust him far enough to be my partner this week. Plus, he's been here as long as me, he knows how high profile this is.
"High profile?" asked James, "Can you elaborate?"
I've got a belt, I said, and The First used to have a belt. This is a main event match in a top level wrestling promotion; this is where he can show he belongs on top, if he does belong there. He'll wrestle this one on the up and up.
"And you'd bet your career on that?" asked James.
I've bet it on less, I said.
There was noise in the other room; Rosie was apparently starting to rise.
Listen, I continued, what Shane did in Baltimore was commendable. He had the opportunity to take advantage of the situation and steal my title with a questionable shot to the back of my head. He didn't take it, which goes against everything he's been saying about how he's the best in the business, everything he says is said with the implication that he's owed something by the wrestling business.
I leaned back in my chair and drank a healthy mouthful of coffee. His actions suggest some kind of internal conflict, I said, between the man he's been and the man he's trying to be. He'll get there, and he'll be better for it.
"Good, good," said James, "So you think you'll be able to function as a team? You've both had some experience with teams in EPW so far, with varying degrees of success."
Difference, I said, is that this isn't an ongoing commitment. This is a one shot deal, and we've got an immediate goal: victory. This doesn't involve tag team championships or Kings of the Cage. Plus, we've got somewhat better partners this time.
"You two are former opponents," said James, "Does that make you better partners?"
Better than who, I asked. Erik Black? Strung out dopesmoker who values style over substance? Better than Stalker, who's been trying so hard to write his own version of The Prince that he's forgetting the simple fact that he doesn't have a title shot. Shane and I both have the goods, and we'll be able to do what we do best.
"Even against the former Champion?"
Let me stop you right there, I said, and this might sound a little cold, but The First was never the Empire's World Champion.
"I don't understand," said James, looking at me with confusion on his face.
He carried the belt, that's true, I said, but one of the first things I've learned in this business is that the man makes the title, the title does not make the man. The Champion is supposed to be the top wrestler in the company, and in my opinion, that definition has never applied to The First. My opinion only got stronger when he lost the belt to Anarky, and immediately vanished.
Now, he's come back and he's explained that he wants to do this right, I continued, work his way to the top to prove what I just said as wrong, and that's cool. I hope he does make it, but in that vein, it's evident to me that The First is the one with the most to prove in this match.
James nodded. "That's an interesting take," he said, "No worries that Shane will upstage you as the hero again?"
I laughed. So did Rose from the other room, but decided to stay out of the kitchen.
I read that, you know, I said. Someone reviewed the show, said that the role of the hero is mine to lose on any given night. You know what, I'll lose it every night, I don't care. Being the hero isn't my identity, and it isn't my one claim to fame. I do what I do because it makes sense to me and it's how I want to handle my business. Quite frankly, I'd love to see someone else try to quote unquote steal my heroic thunder.
No, I didn't do the air quotes, I'd have to punch myself if I did.
It's not about heroes and villains, I said, it's about your own revolution.
James listened intently, and nodded. "That's about all I have," he said, "Thanks."
Any time, I replied. I shook his hand and gestured to the door. Good luck, bro.
And I meant it.
I'm sure this wasn't over, but there's three other participants in the match, each of us with our own agendas and reasons to want to make a mark.
Maybe... we all could.