“What’s it all for?” he said. “Bulking up, getting strong? Why do it?” The guys looked at each other, dumbstruck.
“To be powerful,” I said.
“And why be powerful?” So you can become a Sumo wrestler, I thought, but I didn’t say that. “Here’s the thing,” he said. “Bulking up is a waste of time unless you do it for a good reason. There’s no point benching the big numbers if you can’t open a door for an old person. Or pick up a little kid who’s crying.” He held an imaginary child, and the gesture was so weirdly tender, the way he tilted his head toward his arms, I wondered then if he was a little off.
In retrospect, I can see the Stash was a decent human—he cared about more than winning, I’ll give him that. He wanted us to be good people. But on that night I had no patience for his lectures. As soon as we were done eating, I said I needed to go home so I could help Pill with her homework, which was a lie—Pill didn’t do homework, ever. But the Stash loved the idea of me helping my sister, so he encouraged me to get going.
It was snowing as I left, big wet flakes slopping up my windshield. I took my time driving, tapping the gas around the corners so the back end of the Impala would swing left, then right, a gentle dance. When I got home, Frankie was comatose on the couch and by some act of God, Pill was asleep in her room, her arm thrown over her head. Let sleeping dragons lie, I thought. I did my homework and collapsed into bed, and it felt unusually serene, lying there under the covers, my body pleasantly sore from the workout and the snow-brightness flooding in from outside.
The hotel curtains glowed around the edges, the same as on that snowy night, though it wasn’t snowing–-it was a gray morning towards the end of March somewhere in Chicago, and I was not in my bed at home but on a hard hotel mattress. A stain the shape of South America floated in the ceiling above, and a jagged hole showed itself in the wall behind the TV. What was I doing in this place? I had left home in order to follow my dreams, but those dreams seemed impossible now. Destiny, fate—there was no such thing, I decided. And now we were stuck in this seedy hotel and I had no job prospects and my savings were disappearing faster than I had expected.
At the gas station, where Pill and I were getting our usual sausage biscuit and jelly donut breakfast, I noticed a small “Help Wanted” taped on the cash register. I asked about it.
“Three to ten a.m. every day,” the cashier said. “Making donuts. Twelve bucks an hour. I used to do it but then my arthritis flared up.” She held her hand, which was yellow and brittle looking, the knuckles swollen. “Do you want an application?”
“No, thanks.”
“It’s pretty early for a young guy.”
I could do early. I had managed it for three years with my paper route. But I couldn’t leave Pill alone in the middle of the night. Or anytime, really. Which brought me to a question I hadn’t considered completely: What would I do with Pill while I worked? Originally I had thought she could go to school. But it was always a battle to get her to go to school, even at home. I couldn’t imagine dropping her off at some school in Chicago with no one she knew. And anyway, I couldn’t possibly save enough money at twelve bucks an hour.
We headed to the car and Pill stopped at a pothole filled with water. She fished a nightcrawler out of it and held it up, the fat thing twisting and contracting in her fingers.
“Can I keep it?” she said.
“Worms belong in the ground, you know that.”
“But I can get a little house and put dirt in it and feed it and take it out and play with it pleeeeeeeease.”
“No, Pill.”
“You wouldn’t let me help the dog and she was hurt, and now you won’t even let me keep a worm.”
“What dog?”
“The one in the car. She was bleeding and I wanted to get her. I dream about her every night.”
“How is keeping a worm going to help with that?”
“It can be my pet.”
“A worm as a pet?”
“Yes!”
“Okay, whatever.”
Because it didn’t seem to matter at that point, whether or not she kept a worm. I had more important things to worry about, like whether or not we should just give up, go back. Call it a colossal mistake. A misadventure, as Mrs. Culpanada would say.
“Pill,” I said. “I have a question. Should we just go home?” I think I wanted her to say no, Sam. You can’t give up because this is the life we are meant to live. It’s a struggle right now, but it will only get better, and one day I will be so happy. We both will. But she became thoughtful, and she said—almost apologetically, as if she were afraid to hurt my feelings—“I miss my teacher. And I don’t like the hotel.”
“Me either.”
“But I love the Sumo suit,” she said. “Can we do it one more time?”
“Okay. We’ll stop at Vern’s and do the Sumo suit one more time, so you can have a good memory from this trip.” So it won’t be just car accidents and injured dogs and sketchy hotel rooms, I thought. But she wasn’t bothered by any of that, it seemed. She was so amped about going back to Vern’s and keeping the worm, she was jumping up and down, the worm getting whipped around from the commotion.
12
Wrestling Stand-in. Vern’s gym was louder and more chaotic than the day before. A few guys were working out on the free weights, and the TVs were blaring. A lady I hadn’t seen before was cleaning the closet, pulling posters out of it and shoving them into a giant trash can. Pill saw what she was doing and gasped and ran over to her.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Throwing these away.”
“But Why?” She gripped the side of the trash can like she wanted to seize it. I reached in, pried her loose.
“I’m sorry,” I said to the lady. She had long stringy hair and bad teeth, but she smiled at Pill in a sweet way.
“You can have all the posters you want,” she said. “I don’t care. There are more in there.” She pulled some hair back behind her ear, and it exposed her wrist, which was freakishly thin, the skin opaque and the veins dark and raised.
“Can I have all the posters?” Pill asked.
“No,” I said.
“But they’re going in the trash. Please.”
“You can have one,” I said. She hamster-squeaked and bolted to the closet, and the woman followed her. I was about to go after her and make sure she only took one, but Vern was suddenly beside me, flustered and out of breath.
“You came back,” he said. He put his hands on his hips, which forced his elbows out around his middle.
“I thought we’d use the sumo suits one more time, if that’s okay.”
“That’s fine.” He sighed, shaking his head. “What a day.”
“Is it a bad time?”
“No, it’s just that one of my wrestlers walked out. Stormed out, really, like a little kid. Can’t find guys with any discipline—babies, most of them.” I wasn’t sure why he was telling me all this, but then he looked me up and down. “How much do you weigh?” he asked.
“One-seventy.”
“My guy Tony’s trying out on Saturday, and it was his partner that walked out. Would you be willing to stand in, just for today?”
Tony was a man at the free weights with a mullet. He wore baggy blue tiger-print pants, and he was curling a decent-sized dumbbell—fifty pounds at least—pumping it smoothly and looking down at his biceps.
“I’ve never done that kind of thing,” I said.
“I’d teach you what you need to know. Just a few moves, easy ones.” He waited, and when I didn’t respond, he said, “Just an hour. That’s all we need. April can help your sister with the suit.” As if on cue, April and Pill came out of the closet, April dragging the suit with some effort, and Pill hop-skipping alongside her and chattering. I didn’t want to be a stand-in for someone’s wrestling practice—I wasn’t even sure what wrestling was, in this context—but I couldn’t think of a good excuse.
“Okay,” I said.
Tony was a truck of a guy, shoulders and delts that bulged in a cartoonish way. He had massive hands with thick calluses that scraped my palm as we shook. Vern made us stand in the middle of a big mat and then he took my hands and plunked them up on Tony’s shoulders at the base of his neck, and Tony’s arms were coming down over mine, giant slabs of meat. His breath smelled terrible.
“This is your collar-and-elbow,” Vern said. “Now, Sam, pull his head down and lock your fingers under his chin. Give his head a good squeeze.” I pulled his head down against my chest like I was going to give him a noogie and I squeezed, as instructed. His head felt massive in my arms, and I imagined his brain inside, a floating world, everything he had ever thought about, hoped for.
“That’s your standing headlock,” Vern said. “Now go again.” We broke apart and went again, this time faster—collar-and-elbow, bad breath, head-lock, squeeze. “Good,” Vern said. “Now Tony is going to crotch you and lift you up.” Crotch me? But there was Tony’s hand coming between my legs, and then he was hoisting me up so I was laid out over his shoulder, looking at the ceiling. I pedaled my feet, trying not to slip off. He jumped and readjusted himself under me so I was balanced better, but it felt like forever up there, his shoulder digging into my back. Then he set me down with surprising gentleness. “Normally,” Vern said, “he would kick his feet out and drop you both down to the mat. That’s a suplex. But I don’t want to make you do that if you’re not comfortable. Unless you would be comfortable with it. I mean, you don’t have to.”
Tony said, “You ever done a black-flop into a pool? That’s what it feels like, that sting all over. Goes away fast.”
“Alright, I’ll do it. It’s just falling, right?”
“Right!” Vern said. “It’s not a big deal. Just make sure you support your head going down. Keep a stiff neck.” To avoid a neck injury, probably, which concerned me slightly. This was stupid and risky. But a voice in my head was shouting, Fuck it! Do it! and that’s the voice I listened to on that day.
We went again, collar-and-elbow, head-lock, then Tony lifting me so I was looking at the ceiling, and it wasn’t so awkward this time, we were balanced better. But then the support disappeared from under me and we fell fast and hard, wham. They were right, it stung like hell, and the shock traveled up my spine like someone had whacked the top of my head. But it was a rush, too, my body thrumming. I wanted to do it again.
“Not bad,” Tony said. He was standing over me, holding out his hand, and I grabbed it and let him pull me up.
Vern came close, checking my eyes closely. “How was that?”
“Fine.”
“You’re good in the air. You okay to keep going?” I said sure, though something about the way he was sizing me up made me wonder if this was really about Tony. It felt more about me.
“Fireman carry,” Vern said.
“Oh come on,” Tony said. “That’s so easy.”
“I’m talking about Sam.”
“He’s gonna lift me?” Tony said. Which pissed me off slightly, that attitude. I could lift him.
Vern turned to him. “Do you want my advice or not?” Tony cracked his knuckles. “Cause here’s my advice: you need to work on being lifted, and Sam can do it. I think.”
“I can do it.”
The fireman carry was me hoisting Tony up so he was draped over my shoulders. I felt it in my knees and my neck, the massive weight of him, but I kept him up there until he started to squirm—and then on Vern’s instruction, I ducked my head and heaved him onto the mat. Which was much more satisfying than I had expected, tossing a body, the pure savagery of it. Tony scowled at me as he pulled himself up. Scowled for real. Maybe I had thrown him too hard. But I didn’t care. I wanted to go harder. And Tony did too—he leveled up to meet me. Vern yelled at us to stop being idiots, to dial it back or someone would get hurt. But we didn’t dial anything back, and I was glad, because it scratched an itch in my brain, that physical roughness.
For awhile I forgot about Pill. Then at one point, while I was standing on a platform, about to jump and land on Tony’s shoulders, she appeared on the mat below me. Her face was red and sweaty and her hair was matted, fused to her temples. I could see the cast-off sumo suit on the floor by the stage.
“Can I have the keys?” she said. “I need to get the wormy.”
“We’re almost done,” I said. “Just hold on a minute.”
“Sam, Pleeease.” I pointed to the keys on a chair and told her to come right back. Tony was standing below me, shifting his weight and spreading his arms. Vern told him to take a step back so that I could get some air, and Tony went so far back it was dicey, whether or not I would land on him. But fuck it, I thought, I didn’t care at that point, I don’t know why. I sprung into the air, lifting my arms like a superhero, and hit him just right. He caught me and flipped me down to the mat, throwing me so hard it echoed in the gym, and my chest and abdomen turned to concrete, and I couldn’t breathe. Vern bent over me, his braid swinging down.
“Okay?” he said. “Got the wind knocked out of you.” He grabbed the waist of my pants and pulled my hips up toward him, so I was doing a backbend, which felt like a bad idea but it worked, it popped a spring somewhere and I could breathe again. He helped me up, steadying me, his hand on my arm, and I caught him feeling my muscles. For a second I wondered if he was a pervert, but that didn’t seem right. I think he was just really excited about my work.
“You did good,” he said. “I know Sumo is your thing, but if you ever wanted to train for this kind of wrestling, I could get you hired like that.” He snapped his thick fingers.
“Does it pay?”
“It pays anywhere from good to great, depending.”
“I’d have to think about it,” I said.
Tony was lingering off to the side. He touched his lip and looked at his finger, which was glistening with blood. “Fuck,” he hissed.
“Did good, Tony,” Vern said. “You’re ready.” But Tony left the mat and disappeared into a darkened hallway. It felt like I had stolen something from him. The scary thing was, I didn’t care.
Pill came out of the same hallway Tony had gone down, with April following her. She scurried over and showed me a styrofoam bowl half-filled with mud, the worm writhing on top, drier and less vigorous. A twig with pine needles was stuck in the dirt. The worm’s tree, she explained. And there was a Cheeto, arcing around the tree.
“This is its couch!” she said.
“That’s a Cheeto.”
“It’s an orange couch.”
“Her idea, not mine, little rascal,” April said. She rubbed Pill’s head like she was petting a puppy.
“April, I’m not paying you for this,” Vern said.
She shot him a look like she would kick him in the teeth. “I was just trying to be helpful,” she said. She walked away and Pill ran after her, grabbed her wrist.
“Where are you going?”
“I have to get back to work.”
“Can I help?”
April looked at me and Vern, then bent down and whispered something to Pill. She nodded eagerly and said, “See ya tomorrow!” And she skittered back, handed me the bowl. “We’re coming tomorrow, right?”
Vern was watching me. “Yeah maybe,” I said. “I need to think about it.”
But even then I knew I would do whatever mental loop de loops were needed to justify coming back, and this wasn’t because of the chance to make money. That was important, but it wasn’t the main motivation. It was more about how it felt to leap into the air and land on another body and be thrown on the mat, the impact traveling up my spine and exploding in my head. I needed more of that.
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