Post by balastik on Jul 13, 2008 22:49:46 GMT -5
It was cold, he thought, rearranging his covers. The night before had been quite humid, after all, it was the middle of the summer.
It must have rained. He remembered someone saying it was going to rain last night.
Turning over in his bed now he stretched out. The cold sheets feeling foreign against his skin, forcing him to remember he was alone.
It had been less than a month since she had left, but still he remembered it as if it were just yesterday.
He had come home bruised and bloody, the product of one of his two jobs. They needed money, and he jumped at his first opportunity, a job losing to local wrestlers, what the business called “putting them over” he had learned. Of course, he had no real experience, but that didn’t deter his employer. He had picked it up along the way, being able to at least look acceptable in matches, but the end result was always the same; he would lose, and he would lose bad.
Then one night, she had had enough of it. She was tired of living with a loser, each of them working two jobs. She was tired of putting up with the short comings of the man she had put her faith in, and she left.
That night he come home they fought into the early hours of the morning, before finally he promised her he would find a way out, and find a way to make everything work.
The next morning when he woke, he went to hug her in bed. She was not their, only a note professing her abandonment.
Sleep now plagued him. Every morning waking up alone after restless nights was beginning to drive him insane, but of course he couldn’t show it, otherwise he would soon find himself out of a job and out on the streets. Not that his apartment was much better.
It was a basement unit, shared with several other tenants living above him. It was in the bowels of Brooklyn, buried deep within the worst of neighborhoods; often there would be drug deals or acts for violence in the streets at night, he tried to ignore them. The walls were faded, having once sported what he assumed was a cheerful wallpaper, floral pattern; it was now partially peeled and discolored.
He pulled himself out of bed; he did not want to think of her anymore.
Stumbling over to a nearby clock, he checked it. It read 11:36.
He cursed under his breath; he was late. He now scrambled. He found some relatively clean clothes on the floor and put them on as fast as he could. Once dressed he headed over to his dresser and grabbed a sweater and a backpack. Putting each on he opened the door and walked onto the street.
It was an ugly day outside; it was not raining, but it had been as the streets were still wet and the sky was still an ominous grey color. Walking quickly he made his way down the street.
He hated his street. There were always people on it, groups of young men and women hanging out on stoops talking, eyeing him as he walked past. None of them had ever touched him; he was worthless to them, but they scared him. He remember the streets in Ireland were different from this, less people and less hanging around, but Ireland had its own dangers, and had he stayed things would have deteriorated. Fast. All the same, he thought the point of moving to America was to hit it big and have security of life, not fearing for it everyday.
At the end of the street he stopped outside of an old brick building. There was a faded sign above the doorway, the letters undistinguishable. He took a second to run his hand through his hair before stepping inside.
The regulars were all their, sitting in their usual seats in front of the bar. They all looked up at him as he entered, muttering greetings. These men had been through rough patches. Here they sat all day and drank, washing away their bad memories. They were still sober at this point; after all the dusty clock on the wall only read 11:53. Seven minutes left.
He began making his way to the end of the bar, there were still three seats left empty. At this point a man emerged from the back of the bar. He was shorter and heavyset, his head bald except for a raggedy moustache. Smiling, he was the only one to speak clearly.
Mornin’ kid. Doncha look pretty now ya scars have faded?
Bernie had a thick New York accent and constantly tease all his employees. When it came down to it Bernie was a pretty nice guy if you could tough by his mannerisms.
Yeah, I wouldn’t get used to it though….
Heh, yah lucky we’re not mainstream kid otherwise yah might have ta clean yourself up once in a while. Heh, now go get changed, these gentlemen are not gonna wait all day!
He nodded, lifted up part of the bar and made his way to the back.
Passing through the incredibly dirty kitchen, he made his way to the break room; a tiny room with a table and chair; he opened his bag and pulled out its contents, a white grease-stained apron and a black hairnet. As he was opening it, however, a small green covered notebook fell out, hitting the floor softly.
He bent down to pick it up. He had almost forgot. Opening it up, the first page contained a picture of her, taped firmly to it. He winced slightly and turned the page. The second page, was a letter, from the “WFWF” it had a date and location written on it, as well as a train ticket and a name, “Trace Hamilton.”
Bernie can I see you in here a second?
Yah? What it is?
Bernie lumbered into the back room.
I’m gonna need some time off, I’ve got another fight, in Philadelphia.
Philadelphia? Geez kid yah really moving on up. Who yah fighting? Anyone I know?
Name’s Hamilton, Trace Hamilton, of the WFWF.
WFWF? You gonna be on TV? Yah better not leave me alone here!
You sure this is legit? Only close people in the WF are Kat Hamilton and Trace Demon?
No. This is WFWF developmental. Those people are apparently on the real card, this only small time stuff. A tryout run, this guy’s new to this place, just like me. He’s got nothing to show for his work, like me. In theory I can take him, and god knows that I could use a turnaround win at this point in my life.
Well ah right man, you got it, but try not to get your face cahved in this time. Now get out there it’s about to hit noon.
Bernie sauntered back to the bar junkies. Looking one last time at his notebook, he flipped it back to page one, just to see her one last time. Soon Bernie called again and he put away the notebook and threw on his apron.
He needed his life to change and he knew Trace Hamilton could be the key to him doing that.
