Post by Matt on Jun 16, 2014 23:56:39 GMT -5
The Ballad of Sam Malone
Birth Name: Sam Malone
Ring Name(s): Solomon Grundy | Sam Malone
Height: 6’1” (1.85 m)
Weight: 235 lb (107 kg)
Born: February 19, 1964 | Rahway, New Jersey
Resides: Winfield Park, New Jersey
Billed From: Newark, New Jersey
Trained By: Boris Malenko
Debut: 1984
Birth Name: Sam Malone
Ring Name(s): Solomon Grundy | Sam Malone
Height: 6’1” (1.85 m)
Weight: 235 lb (107 kg)
Born: February 19, 1964 | Rahway, New Jersey
Resides: Winfield Park, New Jersey
Billed From: Newark, New Jersey
Trained By: Boris Malenko
Debut: 1984
February 19, 2014 | Scotch Plains, New Jersey
I sit in the Scotchwood, in my favorite corner booth, staring at my waffles, bacon on the side, two eggs over easy, white toast a bit too burnt, and a glass of orange juice that is having a hard time getting the stale taste of last night’s Laphroaigout out of my mouth. I twirl my food around with my fork until Cynthia walks over, “Everything okay, Sam?”
“I’ve never been better…just another day in paradise, right?” She smiles, and walks away, the smell of her naiveness lingers in the air, turning my already sour stomach. I try my eggs as if I’m attempting the Guinness Book World’s Smallest Bite record. I happen to glance down at my phone and realize the time, 9:37. “crap.” I throw ten dollars on the table and race out the door, I was suppose to be at work at nine.
As I speed down route 22, my anxiety continues to boil. To say I’ve been a role model Target employee would be a lie. It’s no secret I hate the job, but I need it. It’s my livelihood, the benefits help cover my radiation therapy. Unfortunately, professional wrestling doesn’t come with health insurance.
My ’98 Civic screeches into the parking lot, and I scramble through the front door to clock in. Standing next to the time clock is Ron, superstar Team Leader. “Sam, what happened?” He doesn’t even await my response before he continues, “You have to go see Marcos in the office.” Marcos is the store manager and the scummiest person I know. I knock on his door, enter, and am pointed to a chair.
“Sam, unfortunately this is you fifth tardiness this year. According to the employee handbook -“
“Marcos, wait -“
“No, Sam, let me finish,” he raises his scrawny hand in the air, “according to the employee handbook, an employee is to be written up and suspended one day pay day after being tardy five times.”
I can live with that, “Marcos, that is absol-“
“I’m not finished. However, this would be your third time being suspended, and according to the employee handbook, and I don’t make this up, three suspensions is grounds for termination.”
“Marcos, please, I need this job.”
“You should have thought about that when you decided to be unaccountable for your behavior. You signed an employee handbook receipt, you know the rules…you did read it, didn’t you Sam?”
“Umm…”
“Sam, we are going to terminate you.”
“Marcos, I need this job…the radiation…please.”
“Sorry, Sam,” he extends his hand over the table and with a smirk, “best of luck in your future endeavors.”
I stand up, look him square into his brown eyes, and as hard as I can, smack him straight across the face. His glasses go flying to the ground and he crumbles like a tower. I walk out of his office, out the back door, and sit on the curb. I have $378 to my name, prostate cancer, and not a job to pay for the treatment. I reach into my jacket, and pull out a crumbled pack of Reds. I take one drag before I’m coughing into my fist. I look down, my first is covered in blood.
Happy 50th Birthday, Sam Malone: broke, dying, unemployed, professional wrestler.
I sit in the Scotchwood, in my favorite corner booth, staring at my waffles, bacon on the side, two eggs over easy, white toast a bit too burnt, and a glass of orange juice that is having a hard time getting the stale taste of last night’s Laphroaigout out of my mouth. I twirl my food around with my fork until Cynthia walks over, “Everything okay, Sam?”
“I’ve never been better…just another day in paradise, right?” She smiles, and walks away, the smell of her naiveness lingers in the air, turning my already sour stomach. I try my eggs as if I’m attempting the Guinness Book World’s Smallest Bite record. I happen to glance down at my phone and realize the time, 9:37. “crap.” I throw ten dollars on the table and race out the door, I was suppose to be at work at nine.
As I speed down route 22, my anxiety continues to boil. To say I’ve been a role model Target employee would be a lie. It’s no secret I hate the job, but I need it. It’s my livelihood, the benefits help cover my radiation therapy. Unfortunately, professional wrestling doesn’t come with health insurance.
My ’98 Civic screeches into the parking lot, and I scramble through the front door to clock in. Standing next to the time clock is Ron, superstar Team Leader. “Sam, what happened?” He doesn’t even await my response before he continues, “You have to go see Marcos in the office.” Marcos is the store manager and the scummiest person I know. I knock on his door, enter, and am pointed to a chair.
“Sam, unfortunately this is you fifth tardiness this year. According to the employee handbook -“
“Marcos, wait -“
“No, Sam, let me finish,” he raises his scrawny hand in the air, “according to the employee handbook, an employee is to be written up and suspended one day pay day after being tardy five times.”
I can live with that, “Marcos, that is absol-“
“I’m not finished. However, this would be your third time being suspended, and according to the employee handbook, and I don’t make this up, three suspensions is grounds for termination.”
“Marcos, please, I need this job.”
“You should have thought about that when you decided to be unaccountable for your behavior. You signed an employee handbook receipt, you know the rules…you did read it, didn’t you Sam?”
“Umm…”
“Sam, we are going to terminate you.”
“Marcos, I need this job…the radiation…please.”
“Sorry, Sam,” he extends his hand over the table and with a smirk, “best of luck in your future endeavors.”
I stand up, look him square into his brown eyes, and as hard as I can, smack him straight across the face. His glasses go flying to the ground and he crumbles like a tower. I walk out of his office, out the back door, and sit on the curb. I have $378 to my name, prostate cancer, and not a job to pay for the treatment. I reach into my jacket, and pull out a crumbled pack of Reds. I take one drag before I’m coughing into my fist. I look down, my first is covered in blood.
Happy 50th Birthday, Sam Malone: broke, dying, unemployed, professional wrestler.
