Buddy Cooper Finds a Way

by Neil O'Boyle Connelly

  When Trevor skids to a halt in a golf cart next to us, part of me is almost relieved. But only part of me.

  I’m looking straight ahead when he opens my door. “Very exciting! Our Savior has been returned unto us. Let me see your face.”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Al climbs out her side of the Lincoln and speaks over its top. “Trev, he’s had a long night and a rough morning.”

  “I understand,” Trevor says. “But this is no time for open hostility. Let’s be professional about this. What do you say, Buddy? How about working together toward the common good?”

  I aim my hamburger face at him and he can’t help but wince. “Lord, is that as painful as it looks?”

  “It would be easier if I showed you,” I say. What I have in mind involves the grille of the Lincoln. Trevor laughs, a bit uneasily, but then his eyes sparkle.

  “Actually, this could work. Those wounds, they’re pure gold.”

  Over my head, Al says, “You need to think this through.”

  “Consider where we are in the story. The big fight’s over. All that’s left now is the healing and Snake’s conversion. We’re way beyond verisimilitude. This is what Coppola would do. Remember Brando and that cat? Trust me, this is a masterstroke. Great art imitates life.”

  Alix circles around the front of the Lincoln and joins her husband. When she hands him the keys, he grips her fingers for a second and squeezes. She squeezes back, a secret signal between lovers. If I weren’t here, they would kiss now, briefly. Alix steps inside the open door and hunches down. “Coop, this isn’t at all something you have to do.”

  For a second I think that she’s read my mind and seen the image of Trevor’s bloody face, that my wife knows that if provided with opportunity, I would gladly bludgeon her husband like a baby seal. Assault and battery would not bring Alix back to me, so beating Trevor would make no sense at all. But these days things making sense doesn’t seem to be part of the criteria for making choices.

  “Point me toward wardrobe,” I say. “And we can all get back to imitating life.”

  -----

  Life After Cancellation. The Known Laws of Physics.

  The Official Contract. Some Serious Pathos.

  Milking the Miracle. The Way Things Were Going to Be.

  Imminent Extinction.

  Since my big story with Alix has apparently reached its ultimate end, it feels strange to still even be breathing and walking around, though of course now I’m just acting. It’s like a part of me assumed that without that ongoing narrative, Buddy Cooper simply couldn’t exist. This odd sensation reminds me of the way I’ve always worried about the lives of TV characters after their series get canceled. Sure, some have reunion specials, so we know that Gilligan and his gang eventually escaped that wacky island, and then there are phenomenons like Star Trek, so fans are well acquainted with the final fate of Captain Kirk. But mostly, series go off the air in between seasons, and the stories just stop. Not much gets resolved, no one grows old, and reruns loop the characters into stale but perpetual orbits. In my mind, Fonzie is forever young in his leather jacket, Hogan and the other prisoners are still fighting WWII from behind the barbed wire of Stalag 13, and Mr. Rourke and Tattoo are still granting fantasies.

  Standing just inside the door of Studio B, wearing once more the blue bodysuit of the Terror, I can’t help but wonder if I’ve been assigned the same fate as these TV people, if my life isn’t locked in a cycle of endless repetition. Fifty feet ahead of me in the hangar, a crowd mills around a perfect replica of the inside of the Civic Center arena the night I got shot. At the sight of the wrestling ring, surrounded by stadium seating on three sides, my shoulder wound pulses a Morse code of pain, like maybe it’s afraid we’re about to be shot again. Among the crowd of people waiting for my appearance, my one good eye can make out Trevor and Alix, Quinn. Closer to the ring, Cro-Magnum Man chats with an actor in a black-andwhite striped shirt. The resurrected Barney looks identical to the referee who died that night, and of course this bothers me deeply. For some reason I’m equally disturbed by the fans, many of whom seem to be dead ringers for the actual people who witnessed the shooting. There are the drunken frat boys drinking from plastic cups that I’m sure contain real alcohol. There is the old man with his green oxygen tank and mask. Hazel, the make-believe crippled girl, stands behind her wheelchair, flirting with the Mad Maestro.

  Given such meticulous attention to detail, the way my brain’s been lately, and recent events, it wouldn’t be at all hard for me to become convinced that in fact I have somehow stumbled into the literal past, that such temporal journeys are not in conflict with the known laws of physics. This notion triggers a dreamy and troubling image: Somewhere on the vast grounds of ReelWorld, right now—at this very instant—I picture stagehands dismantling our home on Asgard Lane. They hoist the La-Z-Boy and carry out the giant Trinitron. Somebody’s sweeping up the shattered fragments of that Spock plate. After the parking lot scene I had with Alix, this is a set no one has much use for, so it’s time to shut it down.

  “And this would be such a terrible thing?” These words turn my head to a large figure suddenly beside me in the shadows, shoulder to shoulder. I’m barely surprised to see Buddy, wearing the full costume of the Unknown Kentucky Savior, complete with blue latex mask. “Why is it,” he asks, eyeing up my battered face, “that every time I see you, you look worse?”

  I shrug. “Maybe every time I am worse.”

  “That sounds pretty defeatist. Making the effort to be more hopeful will produce positive results.”

  “More fortune cookie wisdom. You know, I think that’s exactly what I need right now. Thanks.”

  “Hey. You might want to check the attitude. I’m the one who’s been filling in for your sorry ass. No offense, but the show had to go on. Besides, the costume fits me pretty good.” He pats his belly, which doesn’t strain against the fabric nearly as much as mine does. In those days, I did 250 sit-ups before breakfast.

  “Well,” I say, “I’m here now.”

  “Yeah, we all can see that. I’m superfluous. That’s the life of an extra—standing in for somebody else. Honestly, there’s no real reason for me to be here anymore. Look, you want the mask?”

  He reaches up to peel it away, but I hold up a hand to stop him. “I’m done with all that now.” This declaration sounds powerful and weighty, though I really don’t know what I mean by it.

  Buddy lowers his hand. “Suit yourself. Hey listen. Pick your chin up, huh? You navigated some pretty tricky rapids here. Take a little credit.”

  I take a long breath and consider the events of the last two weeks, looking for evidence of accomplishment or hope. “Winston is dead. Alix and I are living off different versions of the same past. My daughter still thinks I’m an absolute loser. I have a court appearance next Thursday. On top of this, I totally screwed up a relationship with a kind and gifted psychic.”

  Buddy’s eyes tighten and he brings his face in close to mine. “You’re off the fucking brown couch. That’s a start.”

  I look down to the loose laces of my knee-high boots. With only one working hand, I couldn’t even tie them. “There’s just so much I don’t really understand.”

  “And who promised this understanding? When was total enlightenment part of the official contract?”

  I hear something in his tone and realize that the two of us, like me and Alix, have come to the end of things. Looking into his masked face, I say, “I figure this is the last time we’ll talk.”

  He nods. “Pretty much.”

  This notion, that I’ll never again see my younger self, strikes a chord of genuine regret in me. Whether he’s a delusion brought on by trauma and pain medicine or a phantom from beyond seems terribly irrelevant. I know that I will miss him. After all, he’s basically a good-hearted guy. “Where will you go?” I ask.

  “I’ll stick around and watch for a while yet, but then I’m off to the same place as you. Same as everybody. On
to the next scene.”

  Trevor’s voice booms in the hangar, amplified by that Cecil B. DeMille-style megaphone his mother gave him. “Let’s pull this together, sports fans. Has anyone seen Buddy? Will one of you interns get the assassin out of the john?”

  As I start forward, my twin says, “You watch your back, Buddy Cooper.”

  “Same to you,” I say. I feel the urge to shake as a sign of manly appreciation, but the right hand’s out of commission, so I have to settle for the combination solemn eye contact/earnest head nod. He returns the gesture, and I walk away.

  I wander through the crowd of technicians, careful not to trip on the cables snaking across the dark concrete floor. Between the curved line of cameras and the ring itself is a large open space. Once I cross the border into illumination, people start recognizing me. Heads begin to turn. I move toward Brook at ringside. She’s talking with Hardy and the real Marna, seated in, but not strapped into, her real wheelchair.

  My daughter’s eyes dim when she sees my face, and in a moment of deliberate optimism, I decide it’s because of the bruises, not just because I disappoint her as a human being. “It’s not as bad as it looks, Bird,” I say.

  Gently, my daughter hugs me. “That’s good,” she says. “’Cause it looks really bad.”

  We pull back from our embrace and I reach inside the neckline of my costume, tug out the vsaji, and show Brook, who seems happy I’m wearing her good-luck charm.

  Quinn walks behind Hardy and stops. “Christ. You’re sending my insurance premiums through the roof. Try to save the bleeding for the ring, will you?”

  Hardy smiles broadly. “I told you he’d be here, Marna. Mr. Cooper never does let nobody down.”

  If only I could be half the man Hardy Appleseed thinks I am. He leans in close and inspects my bruises. “Sir, they done your makeup awful good.”

  Paul, who’s been sitting by himself along the side, limps toward us in the long black coat of Snake Handler, leaning on the skull-capped cane. White powder dusts his face, and around his neck hangs not a python but a Slinky toy, the dachshund you could take for wobbly walks. I think this is some kind of hallucination until Mad Maestro notices me staring and says, “Emergent technologies offer amazing possibilities.”

  Quinn raises his eyebrows. “CGI. Marty’s idea. We’ll edit the damn snake in.”

  Paul nods his understanding and approval, then says to me, “I don’t think it’s too disrespectful, do you? To Lucy?”

  I tell my friend that I’m sure it’s fine. My eyes fall to a bloodstain on his white shirt. Paul explains, “I just got shot.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I remember.”

  Brook kneels in front of me and begins tying the laces of my boots.

  Alix is avoiding the huddle around me, lingering by Trevor. I’d like to think they’re talking about me, but I realize that other concerns likely occupy their minds. The director raises the megaphone once more and his words echo off the high metal dome. “Take your marks. This is not a drill.”

  As if in response, Brook finishes my laces and stands. “Good luck,” she says, though her tone makes it clear that this is more prayer than advice. She pushes Marna and her wheelchair out of camera range, then joins Hazel at ringside. Atop the stairs, Hardy spreads the ropes for me as I stoop and step, enter once more the squared circle where so much of my life has been decided. Paul and the Mad Maestro follow. Cro-Magnum, waiting in the corner with the resurrected Barney, lifts his caveman club in greeting. “Cro-Mag heart leap to see friend Cooper no longer in pokey.”

  I thank him for the sentiment.

  Trevor climbs up onto the ring apron and slowly the room falls quiet. Through the megaphone, which I would very much like to shove briskly up his ass, he begins explaining the final scene. “OK, the big fight is over and evil has been defeated, but at a heavy price.” Here, he looks at Barney the ref, playing possum on the canvas next to the wounded Paul, slumped against the turnbuckle, and then at my face. “The audience thinks the story is over. We’ve got them right where we want them. Now we nail them with some serious pathos.”

  His gaze falls to the fake Marna, planted in her wheelchair alongside the ring to the right with Brook and the other fans who didn’t flee. Hazel bats false eyelashes and puckers thick lips at Hardy, standing proudly next to me, beaming like always. Maybe it’s just his energy, but I suddenly recall that in the reality of this scenario, he and I are tag-team partners, that I am not the Terror but the Savior. In this make-believe world, falsely re-creating a fake fight that went terribly wrong, I am something more than myself. Something better. And as I have so many times in my life, I find myself wishing I could replay these actual events, revise the past now that I’ve had a rehearsal.

  Soft static crackles from Hardy’s Miracle Ear, so quiet I’m the only other one who can hear it. His lips ease into a thin and knowing smile. I’d swear the music is easy listening, though it could well be choirs of angels. Still, it sure sounds a lot like ABBA.

  Trevor turns to us and reviews the script. “Buddy, you’ll notice her crying, but Hardy, you move first. Come on down, then wheel her around front here, out into this good light. Then kneel like you’re praying. Take it slow and steady. Don’t heal her too fast. We’ve got to milk the miracle.”

  The director climbs down and disappears behind the blinding lights posted along the camera line. All the actors settle into quiet preparation. Hazel’s face turns sad and grim and, remarkably, actual tears begin to slip from her eyes.

  But another set of eyes steals my attention. Over Hazel’s shoulder, in the shadows of the stadium seating, clearly off camera, Marna watches from her wheelchair. Her hands are claws and her arms fold in on themselves, but her freckled face is radiant with joy, and her chest is rising and falling excitedly as she draws breath. And there is something magnetic in her expression, something about the way she looks at Hardy that makes it impossible for me to turn away. She believes in him. Though her body is crippled and crooked, she believes that she is about to witness the reenactment of a genuine miracle. I recall Hardy’s invitation from the D-day invasion at Wrightsville Beach, how he wanted me to join him in the waves and how I refused. Absurd as it sounds, I even wish I could return there. I wish that right now, here in Studio B, I had faith that Hardy’s healing hands could cure me, though I cannot name my affliction.

  Through the ropes, I see Brook looking at me, sensing my discomfort and hoping to provide encouragement. At her feet, a sign has been trampled by the fleeing mob: YOU’RE #1!! I read this and see her eyes and feel the heat of the bright lights on my bruised face. The stitches burn. In a place that looked exactly like this, on the night that we’re all pretending it is, I was supposed to win. It had been decided, predestined, ordained, that at last Buddy Cooper was going to be champion. That was the plan. That was the way things were going to be.

  “Just a second,” Trevor megaphones, snapping my reverie. He steps out from behind the cameras and enters the empty space in front of the ring. His eyes scan the mat. “This is all wrong. We’re absent one subdued assassin.”

  From behind the glare of lights comes Quinn’s voice. “Don’t tell me that kid’s still on the crapper.”

  “Here he comes,” someone shouts, and the whole room looks right.

  The moment I see the man-child assassin—emerging from beneath the stadium seating—I know the truth. While wardrobe could find a perfect match for the preacher suit and makeup might re-create that long gray hair, no cosmetic could reproduce the vacant look of his young eyes. As he approaches Trevor, he holds a gun at his side, and though everyone here thinks it’s a prop, I know differently. All this registers in an instant, and ridiculously I shout, “That’s him!”

  Trevor turns to the kid as he lifts the gun to the director’s face. “You’re supposed to be subdued,” Trevor says, just before the boy cracks his skull with the butt of the gun. He catches Trevor’s body with an arm around his neck and turns to the ring, then finds my face. “At las
t all transgressors are gathered,” he says. “Ripe is the time for retribution.”

  With this, everyone in Studio B realizes that we’ve once again left behind the original script, drawing screams, shouts, and a curse from the darkness beyond the cameras. The door I came in opens and closes, and shadow figures scurry through. With my arm at my side, I strain to open the fingers of my hand, hoping Brook will see my signal and stay low. The man-child drags Trevor a few steps closer to the ring and waves the gun in our direction. Most of us, including the dead Barney, have retreated into the far turnbuckle. Paul cradles the head of the Slinky dog and huddles against the Mad Maestro. “It wasn’t supposed to be this way.”

  Silently, I agree, recognizing this as a central truth in the life of Buddy Cooper.

  The rectangle of light from the door suggests more escapees, and I hope Alix had the sense to flee, though I know she wouldn’t leave Brook. Or Trevor.

  In the ring, only Hardy has stood his ground, on his mark at the center of the canvas, apparently still convinced he’s bulletproof. He points a finger at the gray-haired man-child. “I ain’t afraid of you. You’re just a plain bad apple.”

  I glance to the side and thankfully find Brook beside Hazel, both crouching behind the wheelchair.

  Dazed and groggy, Trevor mumbles, “Cut. Cut.”

  The assassin squeezes him in the crook of his neck. “Speak no more or be the first to feel my wrath.” He presses the barrel against Trevor’s temple.

  Shoot him, I think, may God forgive me. Pull that trigger.

  “No!” Alix yells, appearing at the edge of the camera line with both hands raised. Her eyes are wide with rage and terror.

  “Al,” I say, though she makes no sign that she hears me. I concentrate, willing her to stop, to go back, but she takes a tentative step forward, leaving the safety of darkness for love. The man-child turns the gun toward her.