by Paul O'Brien
“Over the last six years, I have given you people every penny that I have. I paid the fees and the extras and the tests and the medicines. I have done all of that. You’re right in that, nowadays, the money is a little late sometimes, but I don’t work around the fucking corner from here. I can’t just skip on by, and hand you your fucking money.”
Ricky threw the money on the table. It was a thick little stack, but it was not enough to keep Ginny there for a month.
“Sir...”
“Now, here’s what’s going to happen. You’re going to make sure that Ginny doesn’t miss one meal, or one single activity in this place. He stays in his ground floor room, because that’s what he likes. You’re to make sure that his life here is like your brochures say; people are happy on your brochures. He deserves to be the same. And I’ll make sure that you get your fucking money on time, and in full. Deal?”
The administrator tried to talk, but Ricky was looking for a one-word reply. “Deal?” Ricky asked again.
“We need the rest of the money by the end of the month, or we can no longer have Ginny stay at this facility.”
“His name is Mr. Ortiz.” Ricky said, as he stood slowly, and turned for the door.
“Mr. Plick?”
Ricky stopped. “I will have your money.”
“Mr. Plick, we also don’t accept food stuffs from the outside, and we can’t have unsupervised persons in the rooms of our patients.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The ice cream, sir.”
“Like I said, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Ricky said before leaving the office.
He called the same number at the same time on the same day of every week, and on every Wednesday, at six-o-clock sharp, Pagladoni’s Ice Cream Parlor would make their delivery: twelve scoops, four bananas, three candy toppings, whipped cream, and a long spoon.
Only this time, they were advised by Ricky to do it in a different way. Pagladoni’s youngest son, Carlo, tiptoed in the evening darkness, and approached Ginny’s ground floor window. Through the net curtain, Carlo could see Ginny waiting, with his chair facing the door.
Carlo gently approached, and tapped lightly on the window, leaving the tray of ice cream behind him. As he walked off, he could hear the window open, and the sound of the tray being slid into the room.
Week by week, Ginny forgot most faces, names, places, and old times, but he never forgot Wednesday at six. It was his favorite time of the week, and he even made an effort to dress up nicely and brush his hair for it.
Ginny looked forward to his delivery more than anything in the world, but for Ricky, it was his weekly apology. Like a man who sends his wife flowers, Ricky sent ice cream to soothe his conscience.
Even though, somewhere in his head, he knew that he was doing all he could, Ricky still felt bad that he spent so much time away from Ginny. His heart was broken that he couldn’t hug the man he loved, so ice cream was a tiny comfort to both Ricky for sending it, and Ginny for getting it.
As Ginny got worse, Ricky had days that he worried about what would happen to him when he could no longer remember anything. Ricky had been assured by the doctors who were taking large chunks of his money that Ginny would be in no pain, and that some people were “happily unaware” that they even had anything wrong with them.
Ricky prayed that would be the case for Ginny.
To a large degree, it was. Ginny had his routine, his own room, and his meals ready-made. They informed Ricky that he loved music hour, and that he would regularly dance with the other patients, if they let him. This made Ricky smile, because Ginny was the kind of man who loved to dance when no one was watching. Not once in their long relationship had they ever danced together.
As Ricky stood outside of Ginny’s room, he weighed time and again the cost of entering. The previous few visits had upset Ginny hugely. Ricky thought that Ginny knew him, but didn’t know how to process who they were together.
The doctors said that it was simply that Ginny didn’t like strangers, and Ricky was now a stranger.
So, he did all that he could do: he walked away with his heart broken.
It got colder as he stood there, but Babu was willing to wait another ten hours, if he had to. He was around the back of an old truck stop, about four miles away from the airport.
This was the meeting place. With all that had been stirred up, Babu figured that somewhere different was probably safest.
The second he saw the frame of the man approaching him, he knew it was his old friend.
“Chilly enough for you?” Ricky asked as he approached.
“Good to see you,” Babu said, as he shook the man’s hand and pulled him in for a bear hug. “How’s Ginny doing?”
“Good. Seems to be totally at home there,” Ricky said.
“Good. Thanks for taking the time to see me,” Babu said, as he ushered Ricky to a little picnic table at the side of the van.
“Lunch?” Ricky asked.
“I got hot tea, and some sandwiches. There’s a chicken dish in there, too, if you want it. Or you can take it with you.”
Ricky patted his old colleague on the shoulder, and took a seat. Babu took his seat with a little more caution.
“I never fucking know if I’m going to fit... or, if I do, whether the bench isn’t going to just disappear up my ass, or not.”
Ricky laughed a good, much needed laugh.
“You could stay,” Babu said to Ricky.
“I could. And I would in a heartbeat, you know that. But I can’t earn here.”
Babu set out the cups, and handed Ricky a wrapped sandwich.
“What if I said you could?” Babu asked.
Ricky nodded. He knew what was on Babu’s mind. “New York is about to be swallowed whole by the greediest, filthiest scumbags in the country.”
“And while they’re fighting each other, we have a chance to stand the territory up, ourselves.”
Ricky stopped, and thought about the situation for a second. It was something he wouldn’t have ever allowed himself to do before. “Do you know they’ve blackballed New York at their meeting this morning?”
Babu shook his head.
“Yeah, because of the slap, and everything else that’s going on, they’ve put the word out that if any wrestler works this territory, then they would be blackballed from the rest forever.”
“Fuck.”
“So, I’m just wondering... how do we work around that little detail?” Ricky asked.
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know?”
Ricky laughed again. He knew that he shouldn’t have even entertained the idea.
“That’s what I need you for,” Babu said.
Ricky looked around: they were at the back of a shitty truck stop, drinking tea from a flask like some low-level scumbags on the run. This wasn’t what he wanted from life at his age.
“Look at us,” Ricky said. “Even if we could get them, what would we do with the wrestlers, today? What is it with the baby oil, and the jacked-up bodies? It’s a bodybuilding competition now.”
“You mean to tell me that if Lenny Long asked you to run New York, you’d say ‘no thanks’ and move on?”
Ricky bit into his sandwich as he thought. “It’s weird that he is holding the paper.”
“He wants you in, Ricky. He doesn’t want anything to do with the business. You could come home, and make this for yourself.”
“Haven’t you heard what I said? On top of all of that, we’d need a lot of money,” Ricky replied.
“I’m sick of bowing and scraping. These pricks didn’t do nothing for the business here,” Babu said.
Ricky caught himself dreaming, again, and stopped immediately. He looked at his watch, and stood. “I’ve got to go.”
“How many more bumps have you got in that body, you old fool? How much longer can you make it in Japan?”
Ricky didn’t know how to answer Babu.
&nbs
p; “We have the pieces. They mightn’t be the shiniest, newest, most perfect pieces, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to lie down on Danno, and let this place get hollowed out by what’s coming. Listen, I’m not saying that we try to take New York because it’s cool and dangerous. I’m saying it because we have no other fucking choices left,” Babu said.
Ricky walked back to the giant, and gently said, “I know you’ve got some kind of deal with Joe Lapine in all of this.”
Babu stood up. “It’s a very simple thing, Ricky. Joe has kept the New York territory on life support for the last ten years or more. Now, I know why he’s doing that, and it’s not out of the kindest of his heart.”
“How much did he pay you?”
“Excuse me?”
“Surely you’re getting something out of this arrangement?” Ricky asked.
Babu came in, quick as a flash. “Yes, I am getting something from this. The only way I went along with it was if he promised me that there would be no more killing. People get paid on time, and you get safe fucking passage into New York to see Ginny. That’s what I got.”
Babu picked up his flask, and fired it against his van. “This fucking business brings out the worst paranoia in everyone.”
There was a pause as both men calmed down a little.
“Did you tell Lenny what you did, yet?” Ricky asked.
Babu hung his head a little. “One thing at a time.”
New Jersey.
1984.
One month before Lenny got out.
There were body builders, beauty queens, face paint, mirrored sunglasses, white suits with the sleeves rolled up, pretty boys, wild island men, hair spray, fanny packs, and a new guy standing around the ring.
“If you’re a baby-face and some ladies in the audience think you’re their hero, you better keep them happy out there. Entertain ‘em, fuck ‘em, or do whatever they want you to do with them. Remember: the fat gals have the biggest mouths, so if you are going to nail her, nail her good. We have to come back here every month, and you will not embarrass this company with your small or drunk dick. Do you hear me? On the other hand, if you’re a heel, you can drink and fight as much as you like. Hell, I had a boss who used to pay me some extra coin just to go to the local bar and start some trouble. Just remember: if you lose a fight, you’re fired,” Wild Ted Berry said from the ring.
He was once a journeyman wrestler, paid to lose in every territory he went to, but when he retired Ted found that he was more suited to the booking end of wrestling. A booker had to be creative and tough, and know every wrestling scenario in order to make the matches seem varied and unique. It was his job to put on matches that the audience wanted to see, and to pick the winners that they wanted to cheer for.
Ted had put forty years into the business, and not even he had seen anything like what was planned for on this night. That’s why he felt the need to give the back to basics speech. He wanted to remind the roster of what it was to be a pro-wrestler, and to focus their minds so they wouldn’t revolt or riot when they heard the main event.
“It’s my job to put you in this ring,” Ted continued, “It’s your job to give them what they want.”
The new guy, Kid Devine, watched the gruff Texan lay down the law from the ring. It was his first night, and he could tell by the human shit already left in his travel bag that he wasn’t very well liked.
It was the way that wrestlers communicated—especially to new guys.
“Call your wives and girlfriends, and tell them you’re going to Tunkhannock, Pennsylvania, Rochester, New York, Lancaster, Pennsylvania, Long Island, New York, St. Louis for TV, then Altoona, Pennsylvania, Salisbury, Maryland, Landover, Maryland, Johnstown, Pennsylvania, Garfield, Pennsylvania, Kingston, Howell, Lindenhurst, and Somerville, New Jersey. Don’t forget to tell them that you’ll see them next week when we do all this again.”
Kid chuckled, because he thought the insane travel was, well, insane. That action cost him entry to the dressing room, though. He’d had to take his shitty bag and get dressed outside in the hallway on his own.
Kid couldn’t figure out who had it in for him—maybe it was everyone. Laughing at the schedule hadn’t helped, nor did the fact that he was about to wrestle the legendary Babu in his first match.
“Go home.”
Kid was lying in the corner with his head on the second turnbuckle; he was coming to the end of his first match. His chest was chopped raw, and he was pretty sure that more than one tooth was loose. He also had a broken toe.
It wasn’t over, yet, though.
The short referee slid down, and pretended to check on the well-being of the rookie challenger. “Do you hear me? Go home,” the ref covertly whispered in Kid’s ear.
Holy Cross High School Gym in Queens was full, and it was the referee’s job to relay messages between the wrestlers without the audience spotting it.
The ref could tell by Kid Devine’s face that he had no clue what “go home” meant. The Kid wasn’t smartened up to the business; no one had told him that the outcome was what it was.
“Hit him with your finish, and pin him,” the ref whispered, as he lifted himself from the mat.
Babu walked gingerly across the ring toward his downed challenger. The giant’s condition, injuries, and level of fitness were all causing him pain and severe mobility issues. He had to hold the top rope just to move on his feet. His body was shot, and had been for a long time, but he needed to protect the belt, like he was programmed to do.
At that stage of his life, with all the political uncertainty out there, Babu thought that the best way to protect it was to give it to someone he could trust: someone without any history.
So, one more match it was.
“Is the kid still with us?” Babu asked the ref.
“Kinda,” the ref answered.
Babu hid his smile, and advanced. He was giving the kid the ultimate honor, but he was going to make the rookie work for it. That’s what all of the old timer’s did to the new guys: beat the living fuck out of them.
It was a rite of passage—a way to determine which of the new guys were cut out for the wrestling business. It would only damage the business to let them all in on the inner workings if only one or two were ultimately going to make it.
Even with Kid’s head ringing, he started to piece together what was happening: Babu was handing him the World Heavyweight Title.
The young, handsome, masked wrestler had been in training for only a couple of months. He’d run ten miles a day, and did five hundred ‘Hindu squats’. He’d gotten stretched by some old veteran until the veins in his eyeballs broke, and his tongue grew swollen. The young man kept coming back, though, because he was the man of the house. He had no more options, but to come back to try and make some money for his family.
The next day, the training would be even worse.
“Get up,” Babu shouted, as the referee seemingly tried to stop the giant from doing more damage.
Kid Devine then remembered seeing a younger Babu in his prime. He remembered the giant before he limped and grimaced in pain.
Kid remembered the Champ before he started dying.
“Get up, I said,” Babu roared at the rookie on the canvas. His visceral tone sparked a rush of adrenaline that lifted Kid Devine from the mat. The young challenger looked out at the small crowd, and imagined himself as a champion outside of the gym.
Both men locked up again, as the tepid response from the crowd swelled.
“What’s your finish?” Babu asked in the clinch.
Kid was taken aback that the giant was talking to him. “What?”
“Pick me up and slam me,” Babu ordered.
Kid reached down, and hooked Babu’s huge frame. He could immediately feel Babu lift his own weight up for him. Kid planted his feet, and put everything he had left into getting the iconic champion in the air. He could see the two enormous feet leave the canvas as he heaved Babu up for a slam.
He imagined the giant g
oing up ten feet into the air, only to be slammed down with such force that the ring would give in, too. In reality, he got Babu up to about his hip, and then he fell backwards with the giant on top of him.
“Get out of there,” the ref shouted to Kid, as he slow-counted the pin.
“Get him out of there,” Babu shouted, too.
Kid tried every which way to move the immense body on top of him.
“1,” counted the ref.
Kid, with Babu’s help, and maybe even a little shove from the ref, managed to turn his situation around, and he found himself where he should have been: pinning the champion.
It used to be that when a new heavyweight champion got crowned, the world heard about it. Babu hoped that would be the way, again, but for now, his job was to make sure that the lineage of the title stayed true. In a business of smoke and mirrors, it was the wrestling guys, themselves, who cherished nothing more than lineage. Winning the title—any title—only meant something because of who had previously held it.
The ten pounds of gold in and of itself wasn’t worth that much, but all of the classic matches and former champions that came attached with that gold meant everything.
Kid walked backstage, where Babu was waiting for him. Backstage was a school locker room with toilets so small that Babu had never even bothered trying them.
“Put out your hand and thank me,” Babu whispered.
Kid wasn’t sure what was going on, but he trusted Babu with his life.
“Thank you,” Kid said, as he shook Babu’s gigantic hand and bowed before him.
This little gesture moved the needle of hatred a half millimeter toward Kid’s favor. Everyone in the locker continued changing, and they all moved on in silence.
Kid was happy with himself. He removed his boot, and carefully inspected his toe. He should have been changing in the hallway, as he was told to do.
“You were going a little rough on me out there,” Kid said innocently to Babu from across the room.
Kid’s millimeter of good grace evaporated, and the needle moved to nuclear.
