Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  Big John nods at the ringside operations table and “Ride of the Valkyrie” again blasts over the loudspeakers. Maestro storms off through the crowd. As he passes, scattered Dark Disciples shout “Bravo! Bravo! Encore!”

  Hardy can’t even watch. He’s turned his back on the Maestro and me. “Mr. Cooper, sir,” Hardy whispers, “I need you to pray with me.”

  I haven’t prayed since Brook was admitted to New Hanover, when the doctors couldn’t explain. And even then I did more threatening than anything else. But Hardy is close to bailing out. I don’t want to lose him now.

  “Of course I’ll pray with you, Hardy.”

  He turns and we genuflect together, each with a knee down, and Hardy takes one of my hands in his and says, “Oh Lord God, please watch over your servants tonight. I do not understand why you want me to get beat but it is not my station to question your divine wisdom. If it be your will, let this cup passeth over me. But if not, I will accepteth it. Even though I do not understand how this can be part of your mysterious plan, like Abraham I will obey.”

  Hardy pauses and I get the feeling I’m supposed to interject something of my own. So I say, “Please Lord, don’t let either of us get hurt tonight.” For good measure, to reassure the kid, I throw in, “Let me learn like Hardy to accept the wisdom in your plan.”

  Hardy smiles and says, “We humbly ask these things in the name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  “Amen,” I say.

  We stand up. The door kicks open and some staffer steps through. “Showtime, gentlemen.”

  I turn to Hardy. He seems content. But I feel guilty for saying what I did, for pretending to believe in his prayer. “Hardy,” I say, “are we doing God’s work tonight? Is that why you’re doing this?”

  He smiles. “Everything that happens is part of God’s plan, Mr. Cooper. And besides, Mr. Quinn told me a secret.” He looks around the empty room, then leans in close and whispers, “He told me a angel came and visited him and told him everything was alright.”

  I nod.

  Beaming, Hardy says, “This plan is a angel’s plan. It’s all God’s idea.”

  With that the doors crash open and the Maestro and Cro Magnum barge through. The caveman drags his AK-47 in one hand, his club in the other. As he passes, he grunts, “Cro-Mag need Tylenol with codeine. Double recommended dosage.”

  Hardy studies my expression and asks, “Don’t you think God’s got a plan?”

  “Sure I do, Hardy. Absolutely. Of course he does.”

  “If he don’t,” Hardy says, “what would be the point?”

  “That’s right, Hardy. But he does have a plan.” I push my face into the blue mask of the Terror and tuck it tight, ready for the arena.

  “I mean, if he didn’t, that’d just be, well horrible,” Hardy says. “That’d just be awful terrible.”

  -----

  Featuring the Terror vs. the Dream,

  Metal vs. Flesh, and Maybe Some Glossolalia.

  The slow opening of “Dueling Banjos” brings boos from the crowd, and a strange fear settles in me: When I step into the arena, I’ll find Alix and Brook leading the jeers. To escape this vision, I yank back the black curtain and storm into the aisle just ahead of schedule, before the fans have a chance to come to full boil. The moment they see me, misguided kids lean over the rails and throw their hands out for high fives. I slap them away and charge toward the ring. “Out of the way, little pukes!” I shout. “You can’t make friends with the unknown.” Someone shakes a cardboard sign in my path that reads APPLESEED IS AWESOME! so I snatch it away and rip it in half, frisbee the pieces over their screaming heads. This is the kind of thing I’m supposed to do, but I’ll admit that tonight, I find it more satisfying. When I reach the ring, I take two big steps to the apron, then duck between the ropes. Barney the ref nods hello and says under his breath, “Welcome to the nuthouse.”

  I shake both fists to show how upset I am by the fans’ unfriendly reception. I face the camera platform, mounted ten rows back, and yell, “Boo all you want to, if it’ll make you feel better about your crappy lives. Just don’t forget tomorrow it’s back to work. Say it with me: Do you want fries with that, sir?”

  A Dark Disciple in the front row, one of many with their faces painted white, raises a finger and carves an S in the air, planting Snake Handler’s sigil on me. “You must submit to the will of the master!” he shouts.

  “Yeah sure,” I holler back. “And you must be home by ten or Daddy’s gonna ground you.”

  Above the camera, in the Deluxe Skybox window high above, three tall dark figures look down on me. I spin and face the crowd behind me, where we’ve stacked plenty of folks with signs for the camera’s benefit. I WANT HARDY’S SEED one reads. Another claims A GOOD MAN TO FIND IS HARDY! I grab my masked head, showing how these messages enrage me, and turn into the ropes to my right. Before me, three college boys are passed out in the aisle, empty plastic cups piled at their feet. I point and shout, “Hayseed’s family made it in from the countryside. Too much moonshine.” Sitting close by, a man wears an oxygen mask, one hand resting on the nozzle of a green tank on wheels at his side. His free hand raises slowly and he unfolds a shriveled middle finger. Arena-wide laughter erupts. Above him, the giant video screen shows a sideways view of his obscene gesture. Next, something hard cracks my back. I turn just in time to see the barrage of two dozen apples raining down on me like artillery. I cover my face. They crash into my arms, splatter against my legs, and the crowd roars. Once the volley has subsided, I scan the canvas, pick up half an apple, and yell into the crowd, “This is the crap you want to believe in?” I climb the turnbuckle and offer the apple over my head. “This the dream you want?” With this, I take a huge bite from it, chew fast and then spit, showering the first couple rows with my apple cud.

  I freeze though when I realize who I’ve just spit on. A freckled teenage girl, not much older than Brook, sits crooked in a wheelchair. Rhinestones spell out M-A-R-N-A across her shirt. Black straps crisscross her legs. Her arms twist in on themselves and end in clenched hands. Her eyes roll and she smiles absently. Bits of chewed apple hang in her curly black hair.

  Though I know it would be horribly out of character, I’m about to climb out of the ring to clean her off when Big John Franko’s voice booms through the loudspeakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, would you please rise?” I glance over and see him nod at the techie, who reaches over a field of controls and snaps a switch. Immediately, Kate Smith belts out, “Oh say can you see?” and everyone goes nuts, leaping to their feet and snatching off their hats—not out of respect for our fine and noble country but because this music means Hardy Appleseed is coming to town. Even the wheelchair girl cranes her head, and I look over the crowd, to see what she cannot. With his red cape flapping behind him like Old Glory herself, Hardy strides down the aisle, slapping high fives left and right. Two young Disciples—dressed in black, faces painted white—jump the railing and lob rubber snakes at Hardy, who bats them away frantically. The fans think his fear is part of the act.

  A gray-haired lady charges forward with a sign that reads KISS ME—I’M ALL-AMERICAN. Hardy wraps his arms around her and plants one on her cheek. A grandma kiss. The investors have got to be drooling. An innocence like Hardy’s can’t be faked. He’s the absolute real thing.

  As he nears ringside, fans stretch their hands to touch the SWC Victory Belt circling his waist. In the middle of the dinner plate-sized gold buckle, two Greek Olympians grapple. Wrestling is the world’s oldest profession, despite what the hookers and the pimps would like to believe. When he reaches the ring, Hardy skips the steps, leaping instead straight up onto the apron. He grips the upper rope with two hands, leans back, and vaults over the top. His feet land with a thud that shakes the canvas. Our eyes meet for a second and I try to send him a telepathic smile. Hardy spins his cape off, then unhooks the Victory Belt and loops it over the post behind his turnbuckle. Facing the fans on the camera side of the arena, Hardy stands at strict atte
ntion and snaps the sharp salute that I helped him perfect. Thousands snap back. Then he heel-spins to the Skybox and does the same thing, though now I am behind him, mocking his salute with a sloppy one of my own. Hardy ignores me. And the fans don’t care about me either. From north, south, east, and west, Hardy’s followers fire back their responses. When he turns, I see his grin, wide and pure. For the moment, he’s forgotten that tonight he’s not walking away a winner.

  The bell sounds twice, the call for us to settle into our corners. I lean back into my turnbuckle. Big John Franko enters the ring with a mike, stands centered in the cone of light, and begins. “Wrestling fans, our main event for the evening. A no-time-limit match for the Heavyweight Category Class AAA Southeastern Wrestling Confederacy Championship.” Mild applause. No one really expects a change.

  Big John points at me. “First the challenger, a man who defies introduction. He must keep his face covered whenever in public as part of a confidential agreement with the governor of Kentucky. From the wild hills of the Southland, I give you—the Unknown Kentucky Terror!”

  Boos. I scoop up apple guts from the canvas and heave a handful into the crowd.

  Big John turns away from me. “And in this corner, the undefeated, undisputed champion of the SWC, the Cream of the Crop, the All-American Dream, Hardy Appleseed!”

  His fans go berserk. Five, six thousand hopping on their feet like Winnebago winners on The Price Is Right. Even Marna pumps her crooked hands as the chanting begins, “Apple-seed! Apple-seed! Apple-seed!” I slam my feet into the canvas and cover my ears, infuriated by their adoration for my opponent. Eight rows back a group of girls, maybe eighteen years old, wear white T-shirts that together spell out H-A-R-D-Y. They bounce and jiggle like the ones at the Stones concerts used to before stripping off their tops.

  I turn to Hardy, who has stepped to center ring with his sculpted arms outstretched, bathing in the hero worship. It’s not like with most winners in this league though, because Hardy’s eyes glow with love for these people. He reads the signs that say WE LOVE YOU, HARDY!, sees the Magic Marker hearts, and he believes them. The fans pick up on that I think, and this feeds their faith in him. And together they all live in this magic little bubble that’s got nothing to do with reality. I know about bubbles like that.

  Big John Franko returns to the operations table and the techie with the headset hands him a note. I wonder if it’s from Quinn. Hardy returns to his corner, kneels down to say a quick prayer. Out of respect, the rumbling auditorium falls almost silent. A handful of Snake’s Dark Disciples hiss. Hardy’s prayer is more than an act, but for Pete’s sake—we prayed ten minutes ago. How good does the guy have to be? Even worse, I know in my heart Hardy’s probably asking God to guide and protect us both.

  The bell clangs once, and before Hardy can get up or face me, I bolt across the ring and drive a knee into the back of his head. He slumps forward into the ropes, groping at them and barely staggering to his feet. From behind Hardy, I wrap my arms around his waist and lift him, hoisting his body up and over, tumbling us backward. His shoulders hit first and make a good strong whack on the mat, but I let him go and we roll apart.

  We get to our feet and Hardy smiles. That was my best suplex in three years. And he’s wondering if I didn’t go a bit heavy on the knee smash. I did. Can you see it in my eyes, Hardy? Tonight I’m taking it all back.

  We circle now and just as planned I come in high and Hardy goes low, scooping his arms around my midsection and bear-hugging me off the ground. Hardy’s not even squeezing, but I twitch like a cockroach. My double karate chop into Hardy’s neck would make Alix proud. He drops me, grabbing his neck with those huge paws and doubling over.

  While Hardy is momentarily stunned by my expert kung fu, I bounce into the ropes, recoil, and rocket at him, launching one boot up into his midsection. But Hardy catches it on cue. He straightens with my foot wrapped in his hands. I hop on one leg, trying to keep my balance. Hardy can do anything to me from here; I’m helpless. As part of the act I start shaking my hands, pretending to be all afraid at what Hardy might do to me. I lock my fingers together in mock prayer, begging for mercy, and I say under my breath, “C’mon, Hardy. Just like we practiced.”

  Without his Miracle Ear in, I know Hardy can’t hear my low voice, but I give him hard eye contact and he understands just fine.

  Hardy nods his head and gingerly sets my foot down, even bending over slightly to do it. This shows what an all-around swell guy he truly is. Some fans clap at this display of good sportsmanship. But as soon as that foot is down I plant it and kick hard with the other, clipping Hardy just below the chin. His head snaps back, no act here, and he collapses. I leap in the air, both legs rising out in front of me, aiming an elbow at Hardy’s stomach as I fall. But just before impact Hardy rolls out of the way and my elbow drives into canvas. I sit up and grab the elbow, which burns with real, honestto God pain. Hardy spins behind me, kneels pressing into my back.

  His arms loop around my neck and head in a sleeper hold. Barney the ref immediately slides out in front of me to see if I’m still conscious. With his mouth right next to my ear, tucked in tight where no fan could see him speak, Hardy says, “Mr. Cooper, sir, you’re doing awful good tonight.”

  He is completely sincere. I don’t get angry.

  Hardy releases the sleeper and stands me up. I’m doing the groggy thing in the middle of the ring, barely able to stand up straight. Hardy takes two ropes to pick up speed and clotheslines me, forearms my neck so hard it spins my feet over my head. My skull smacks the mat. Hardy steps to the near corner, climbs up and mounts the turnbuckle with his back to me. The fans scream. They anticipate the Flying American, Hardy’s signature move, a variation on the Bull of Heaven that we developed together. From five feet up, still facing the crowd, Hardy crouches, rides down and up with the bounce of the ropes, springs high into the air as he back-flips in a beautiful arch aimed at me. His body comes around and his chest crashes dead center on mine. Even with Hardy throwing his hands out to absorb some of the weight, this maneuver knocks the wind clean out of me. Barney the ref spins around on the mat, raising one hand to begin the three count. He slaps the mat once.

  On cue, the lights in the arena drop and we are cast into total darkness—midnight black. Hardy makes a little noise like a kid who wants to pull the covers over his head. He’s remembered the script. In his good ear, I whisper, “Here we go, big guy. What’s the mission status?”

  There’s no answer.

  From the operations table, I hear a series of clicks. The strobe lights ignite, pulsing white and altering the perception of time, stealing every other second. Over the loudspeakers comes, “Do you senssse my presenccce, oh sweet children of darknesss?” From the flashing arena come a few tentative boos, but they are swallowed by the rumble of applause and excited screams.

  Quinn’s plants start chanting “Fix! Fix! Fix!”

  “Hardy,” I whisper. “I need a mission status. I need the go code.”

  I can hear him breathing above me. His weight is crushing me.

  From the darkness at ringside somebody shouts, “Appleseed’s a cheat!”

  “We have come for the sssoul of He-who-walksss-with-the-sun.”

  I punch the sunwalker in the ribs. “Give me the damn go code, Hardy.”

  “Fix! Fix! It’s rigged!!”

  “Co gode,” Hardy says. “Yessir. Co gode.”

  A spotlight opens on one of the arena doorways. Hardy and I both turn our heads to see Snake Handler in the steady circle of light, Lucifer draped around his neck. With his scarecrow frame, it always surprises me that he can support her. As always, Snake’s dressed all in black—black pants, black shirt, black tie, black jacket. The white face paint is broken by his black goatee and shiny black lipstick. Lifting his skull-capped cane in the air, he draws an S with the tip, and every one of the Dark Disciples responds with the same sign. He starts slinking down the aisle, one bony hand on the cane and the other gently holding
Lucifer’s pale ivory head. He pokes her face at fans who come too close.

  “No nakes,” Hardy says. “I told Mr. Quinn no nakes.”

  We may have to skip a few pages in the script. Appleseed is not going to make it.

  As Snake approaches ringside more switches snap at the operations table. The strobes cut off and a red-tinged light shines over us in the ring. It’s like we’re in a heat lamp, a crimson cone.

  The fans remain in the dark.

  Snake clacks up the steps with his cane and stands outside the ropes. With his withered hand, he casts an evil gesture toward Hardy, still draped across my chest, and says, “You will sssubmit to my will.” Snake is miked, so his voice echoes through the arena. Most fans boo. But I hear clapping too. Quite a bit. More than just the Disciples could muster. Maybe Quinn is right about what these people want.

  Hardy lumbers off me and stands frozen. I gulp air. Hardy’s staring at Lucifer, six feet away on Snake’s shoulders. He shouts “No away.”

  His fans cheer. They heard “No way.”

  I get to my feet and work my way into the corner in front of Hardy, climb the ropes so now I’m the one standing on top of the turnbuckle. I’ve skipped ahead to our finishing move. The plan now is I slam Hardy from up here, flatten him out. Barney slaps the mat three times. End of story.

  Snake unwraps Lucifer from his neck and sets her down on the apron, despite Barney’s vehement protests. “Sssay hello,” Snake tells Hardy, “to your new massster.” The albino python’s pink eyes shine.

  Half the crowd begins chanting “Apple-seed! Apple-seed!” and half start chopping out “Snake-Snake-Snake!” Hardy might hear this, he might not. He certainly has no idea that I’m about to level him. His eyes are stuck on Lucifer, coiling on the canvas. Part of me is sorry I have to catch the big guy by surprise, but part of me is thinking I’m fifteen seconds away from my championship. I leap in the air, angling my body sideways so I’ll slam Hardy chest on chest, all 280 of me knocking him on his All-American ass. But when I hit Hardy nothing happens. Time freezes. He doesn’t fall and I don’t drop.