Post by King on Nov 1, 2020 15:54:08 GMT
03:23pm, Thursday, October 29th
Rain is falling on this cool October day in Rochester as Stephen and Portia drag their luggage down the way toward their room at the Econo Lodge off of I-90 and I-390. The flight from Las Vegas was long and agonizing. Mother Nature also certainly had offered no reprieve on this day. Travel was a lifestyle both were somewhat unaccustomed to. Stephen had spent most of his life back home living in Nevada since his college days, rarely traveling more than a few hours drive. Portia was born and raised in Texas before moving to Nevada at the age of twenty-three, but from then on had never ventured out of the silver state much herself. To achieve their dreams this would be the new normal, though. Each week would see a new city with new sights, as well as new challenges. This may be the part they had been least prepared to face.
They arrive at the door to their room: number fourteen. It was nearly as far from the front desk as one could have gotten; but Stephen had an odd thing about numbers because being a Nevadan he was also fond of gambling and averse to certain numbers. Thus he wanted no part of the initial offering of room six, seeing it as unlucky. Chances were not to be taken on this day, the eve of perhaps the most important day in his professional career. If anything with this deal fell through it would be back to the clubs working for one hundred fifty dollars a night. His mounting legal debt made that a harsh prospect to face. More than that though, if anything fell through with this deal it meant Portia would be forced to return to dancing- a prospect he didn't wish to face. As much of an asshole as he could sometimes be, he genuinely loved her. She was the only person that mattered anything to him in this world.
Stephen drops a bag off his left shoulder, exhausted and sore. He fumbles briefly with the keys, the jingling near drowned out by the smashing of raindrops on the pavement; finally getting them into the keyhole after what only seemed like an eternity of struggle. He gives the door a nudge, sighing as he reaches down for the bag. Concerned, Portia asks, "Are you okay, baby?"
"Yeah," he replies, a clear and apparent attempt to hide his discomfort. "I knew that fucking flight was going to be miserable. Six hours in the air is a long time to be stuck in a tiny ass seat. My back is just a little jacked up, no big deal."
They enter the room and drop their belongings by the door. For forty-four dollars the room is nice enough, almost somewhat spacious. From where they stand they face a bed on their left, draped with a red blanket of sorts. Above that on the far wall sits a window, although the view isn't much to behold. To their immediate right along the near wall is a small dresser with a television mounted above, followed in line by a desk.
Portia moves instantly toward the bed, wasting little to no time in finding a place to sit and rest. Her long blonde hair had become damp from the rain, and she felt a bite of chill. When they had departed from Las Vegas it had been a rather balmy eighty degrees. As a result she had come dressed in no more than a small, tight fitting black top, coupled with a pair of Neiman Marcus jeans and jet black heels. She had handled the travel much better herself, however, but the grind had still been a bit more than she anticipated.
Through her gaze she watches as Stephen quickly check his phone before tossing it onto the dresser beside him. He removes his shirt, a slight grimace to follow. She can sense he's bothered much more than he's letting on. One thing that she had learned about him very early on was that he would always hide his pain like a creature in the wild so as not to appear weak.
Portia lovingly asks, "Is there anything I can do to help? You look like you're miserable."
"I just need to loosen it up some, maybe get it to pop. Would you walk on it to get some of knots out," he requests
"Yeah, sure." She reaches down and pulls off one of her heels, then the other, brushing the bottom of each foot respectively as she does. "Lay down here by the bed."
Stephen positions himself on the floor by the bed. Portia places her right foot on the small of his back, feeling around for a second to find her footing before stepping up the rest of the way where her left foot lands just below his shoulder blades, full weight on him now. She turns slightly to her left and starts working her way up his back and down again on a path along his spine. "I hope my feet aren't too cold," she says as she begins to rub at his lats with her foot in a bit of a downward motion.
"No, you're good, babe," he reassures her. "That feels good."
Portia carries on walking on his back silently now to let him relax, moving waist to neck, then neck to waist; working the muscles as best as she is able with her small frame, and trying to get it to crack. She had done this for him numerous times before. His back would tighten up sometimes on long car rides, after an especially intense workout session, or at times simply because it randomly chose. In a vacuum certainly not the biggest of issues, but it got her to thinking about other physical ailments he's had over the years. When he had altercations with patrons in the clubs it was never an issue. Those would typically be over quickly and decisively in Stephen's favor. How would it be though she thought to herself when he's wrestling with men as big as him, if not bigger; or stronger, faster or most likely younger than him? What will happen when he goes through a table or is sent careening off a ladder? Selfless she was not- but when it came to Stephen she was different. She loved him unconditionally; and love breeds concern. He wanted to give her everything, and she knew he'd risk his own physical well-being to do it without so much as a second thought. As much as she wanted fame and fortune, she'd let go of the dream in a heartbeat to protect him from himself if it came down to it.
Suddenly she's pulled from her thoughts by a soft moan from below.
Portia jokingly asks,"Did you fall asleep down there?"
"No, just felt a nice pop." Stephen adds, "It's really tight in my lower back. Would you move around down on that a little more?"
"Oh yeah, sure," she tells him, planting both feet together on the small of his back. "Right here, baby?"
"Yeah, that's good, right there, Portia," he acknowledges.
He had finally started to unwind a bit for the first time since the call came from the Imperial Wrestling Federation expressing their interest. As much excitement over the future the past few days had brought, they had also been a whirlwind of chaos. Almost one full week ago he had quit his job at the club where he was working as a bouncer, so money was scarce. The check of the phone earlier had been to see if his friend, Wes, had sent a text yet confirming rather or not he'd be able to lend them a bit of money to tide them over until the contract came. Being a rather proud man, the ask itself hadn't been the simplest of tasks for Stephen. There was also the fact that Wes worked as a card dealer out in Vegas for not much more than Stephen had been bringing in bouncing, and the burden it'd put on him also weighed on Stephen. From his position on the floor though, the grip of everything had began to slip away momentarily. He was in the company of his girl, who has always been there to help and support him. Everything else would work itself out. It had to. There was no plan B in the event of failure.
12:07am, Friday, October 30th
Night had fallen on Rochester hours ago. The rain had long since vanished. Cold had crept in in it's stead when Stephen stepped out onto the walk in front of their motel room. He reaches with his right hand into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket, producing a pack of Marlboro Reds. Three taps to the left hand, as is always the case, and he pulls a single cigarette from the pack. He hangs it from his lips before going into his front left pocket for a lighter. He brings both hands to his face, shielding the cigarette with his right and flicking the lighter with his left. His face is awash in the glow of the flame for a fleeting moment, the lines of age clear. He tucks his lighter away from where it came and takes a drag. In the still of the night the vibration of his phone on his person gently echos. Taking the cigarette from his mouth he reaches for the call.
"Hey," is the greeting.
Stephen listens momentarily.
"Fuck, the flight was shit, Wes. What can you do?" A question posed rhetorically.
Once again he lends his ear.
"Yeah. We booked a room in an Econo Lodge up here until Monday. Their doc is going to check me over in the morning. Shit goes well there, I got the deal, I guess."
There is quiet in Rochester as words are spoken on the other end of the call, giving Stephen the opportunity to take another drag off his lit cigarette before sending the cherry to the Earth below.
"Nah, I don't know how strict they are with that shit. I know I'm good, though."
He pauses briefly.
"Right?" He hears some shouting in the distance carrying on the night air. Instinctively he gives a glance in that general direction, but there's nothing to be seen from where he stands.
Stephen carries on, "Worried what they're going to maybe say about my knee though, man. Fuck. Shit has been stressing me out. I ripped that shit up bad playing football. I had two complete ACL reconstructions and one on my MCL. I just hope that shit doesn't fuck this deal up for me in any way. Indies never cared, but that's indie shit, ya know? Imperial, they're fucking big time, Wes. I don't want them to get scared off or some shit like that."
Once again the listener, Stephen begins to pace in front of the door.
His turn to speak, replying, "Shit, yeah, can't do nothing but see, I guess. Me and Portia are going to go over in the morning after we get up, catch the Doc. Know then. It is what it is. If I got to go back to the club, it's fine. I don't give a fuck. I mean I do. I want this bad, man. Can't change history, though. I just don't want Portia to have to keep dancing. She's been wanting to quit. I want to give her that choice, ya know? She's coming home with me, but I still don't want some shit stain trying to put his hands all over her. I'll kick the piss out of some motherfucker for that, shove his fucking dollar down his fucking throat. He can choke on that shit. Whatever. Shit pisses me the fuck off. Anyway, you get my text about the money?"
He waits, taking another puff off of his cigarette as Wes speaks to him on the other end of the call.
"Man, whatever you can do, I appreciate it. I owe you one. I'll pay you back a grand on the five hundred if I get this deal. I'll get you either way."
He takes another quicker drag, blowing smoke into the night air.
"Yeah," a concise response to whatever was said. Stephen looks out onto parking lot, adding, "I better get off here though, man. Got to try to get some fucking sleep. I'll text you tomorrow, let you know how this shit goes. Take it easy, Wes,"
He wraps up the call quickly before hanging up the phone with his thumb and sliding it back into his rear jean pocket. Mere hours and a physical are now likely all that stands between him and bringing a dream to fruition. Peering out over the edge sometimes can be more frightening than the climb itself, however. Fall here and it's a long way to the bottom. For now though he had solved the problems of the day, bringing him some peace. He flings his cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out under boot. There is a minute of quiet reflection, then a turn toward the door to go back inside.
Rain is falling on this cool October day in Rochester as Stephen and Portia drag their luggage down the way toward their room at the Econo Lodge off of I-90 and I-390. The flight from Las Vegas was long and agonizing. Mother Nature also certainly had offered no reprieve on this day. Travel was a lifestyle both were somewhat unaccustomed to. Stephen had spent most of his life back home living in Nevada since his college days, rarely traveling more than a few hours drive. Portia was born and raised in Texas before moving to Nevada at the age of twenty-three, but from then on had never ventured out of the silver state much herself. To achieve their dreams this would be the new normal, though. Each week would see a new city with new sights, as well as new challenges. This may be the part they had been least prepared to face.
They arrive at the door to their room: number fourteen. It was nearly as far from the front desk as one could have gotten; but Stephen had an odd thing about numbers because being a Nevadan he was also fond of gambling and averse to certain numbers. Thus he wanted no part of the initial offering of room six, seeing it as unlucky. Chances were not to be taken on this day, the eve of perhaps the most important day in his professional career. If anything with this deal fell through it would be back to the clubs working for one hundred fifty dollars a night. His mounting legal debt made that a harsh prospect to face. More than that though, if anything fell through with this deal it meant Portia would be forced to return to dancing- a prospect he didn't wish to face. As much of an asshole as he could sometimes be, he genuinely loved her. She was the only person that mattered anything to him in this world.
Stephen drops a bag off his left shoulder, exhausted and sore. He fumbles briefly with the keys, the jingling near drowned out by the smashing of raindrops on the pavement; finally getting them into the keyhole after what only seemed like an eternity of struggle. He gives the door a nudge, sighing as he reaches down for the bag. Concerned, Portia asks, "Are you okay, baby?"
"Yeah," he replies, a clear and apparent attempt to hide his discomfort. "I knew that fucking flight was going to be miserable. Six hours in the air is a long time to be stuck in a tiny ass seat. My back is just a little jacked up, no big deal."
They enter the room and drop their belongings by the door. For forty-four dollars the room is nice enough, almost somewhat spacious. From where they stand they face a bed on their left, draped with a red blanket of sorts. Above that on the far wall sits a window, although the view isn't much to behold. To their immediate right along the near wall is a small dresser with a television mounted above, followed in line by a desk.
Portia moves instantly toward the bed, wasting little to no time in finding a place to sit and rest. Her long blonde hair had become damp from the rain, and she felt a bite of chill. When they had departed from Las Vegas it had been a rather balmy eighty degrees. As a result she had come dressed in no more than a small, tight fitting black top, coupled with a pair of Neiman Marcus jeans and jet black heels. She had handled the travel much better herself, however, but the grind had still been a bit more than she anticipated.
Through her gaze she watches as Stephen quickly check his phone before tossing it onto the dresser beside him. He removes his shirt, a slight grimace to follow. She can sense he's bothered much more than he's letting on. One thing that she had learned about him very early on was that he would always hide his pain like a creature in the wild so as not to appear weak.
Portia lovingly asks, "Is there anything I can do to help? You look like you're miserable."
"I just need to loosen it up some, maybe get it to pop. Would you walk on it to get some of knots out," he requests
"Yeah, sure." She reaches down and pulls off one of her heels, then the other, brushing the bottom of each foot respectively as she does. "Lay down here by the bed."
Stephen positions himself on the floor by the bed. Portia places her right foot on the small of his back, feeling around for a second to find her footing before stepping up the rest of the way where her left foot lands just below his shoulder blades, full weight on him now. She turns slightly to her left and starts working her way up his back and down again on a path along his spine. "I hope my feet aren't too cold," she says as she begins to rub at his lats with her foot in a bit of a downward motion.
"No, you're good, babe," he reassures her. "That feels good."
Portia carries on walking on his back silently now to let him relax, moving waist to neck, then neck to waist; working the muscles as best as she is able with her small frame, and trying to get it to crack. She had done this for him numerous times before. His back would tighten up sometimes on long car rides, after an especially intense workout session, or at times simply because it randomly chose. In a vacuum certainly not the biggest of issues, but it got her to thinking about other physical ailments he's had over the years. When he had altercations with patrons in the clubs it was never an issue. Those would typically be over quickly and decisively in Stephen's favor. How would it be though she thought to herself when he's wrestling with men as big as him, if not bigger; or stronger, faster or most likely younger than him? What will happen when he goes through a table or is sent careening off a ladder? Selfless she was not- but when it came to Stephen she was different. She loved him unconditionally; and love breeds concern. He wanted to give her everything, and she knew he'd risk his own physical well-being to do it without so much as a second thought. As much as she wanted fame and fortune, she'd let go of the dream in a heartbeat to protect him from himself if it came down to it.
Suddenly she's pulled from her thoughts by a soft moan from below.
Portia jokingly asks,"Did you fall asleep down there?"
"No, just felt a nice pop." Stephen adds, "It's really tight in my lower back. Would you move around down on that a little more?"
"Oh yeah, sure," she tells him, planting both feet together on the small of his back. "Right here, baby?"
"Yeah, that's good, right there, Portia," he acknowledges.
He had finally started to unwind a bit for the first time since the call came from the Imperial Wrestling Federation expressing their interest. As much excitement over the future the past few days had brought, they had also been a whirlwind of chaos. Almost one full week ago he had quit his job at the club where he was working as a bouncer, so money was scarce. The check of the phone earlier had been to see if his friend, Wes, had sent a text yet confirming rather or not he'd be able to lend them a bit of money to tide them over until the contract came. Being a rather proud man, the ask itself hadn't been the simplest of tasks for Stephen. There was also the fact that Wes worked as a card dealer out in Vegas for not much more than Stephen had been bringing in bouncing, and the burden it'd put on him also weighed on Stephen. From his position on the floor though, the grip of everything had began to slip away momentarily. He was in the company of his girl, who has always been there to help and support him. Everything else would work itself out. It had to. There was no plan B in the event of failure.
12:07am, Friday, October 30th
Night had fallen on Rochester hours ago. The rain had long since vanished. Cold had crept in in it's stead when Stephen stepped out onto the walk in front of their motel room. He reaches with his right hand into the inner pocket of his worn leather jacket, producing a pack of Marlboro Reds. Three taps to the left hand, as is always the case, and he pulls a single cigarette from the pack. He hangs it from his lips before going into his front left pocket for a lighter. He brings both hands to his face, shielding the cigarette with his right and flicking the lighter with his left. His face is awash in the glow of the flame for a fleeting moment, the lines of age clear. He tucks his lighter away from where it came and takes a drag. In the still of the night the vibration of his phone on his person gently echos. Taking the cigarette from his mouth he reaches for the call.
"Hey," is the greeting.
Stephen listens momentarily.
"Fuck, the flight was shit, Wes. What can you do?" A question posed rhetorically.
Once again he lends his ear.
"Yeah. We booked a room in an Econo Lodge up here until Monday. Their doc is going to check me over in the morning. Shit goes well there, I got the deal, I guess."
There is quiet in Rochester as words are spoken on the other end of the call, giving Stephen the opportunity to take another drag off his lit cigarette before sending the cherry to the Earth below.
"Nah, I don't know how strict they are with that shit. I know I'm good, though."
He pauses briefly.
"Right?" He hears some shouting in the distance carrying on the night air. Instinctively he gives a glance in that general direction, but there's nothing to be seen from where he stands.
Stephen carries on, "Worried what they're going to maybe say about my knee though, man. Fuck. Shit has been stressing me out. I ripped that shit up bad playing football. I had two complete ACL reconstructions and one on my MCL. I just hope that shit doesn't fuck this deal up for me in any way. Indies never cared, but that's indie shit, ya know? Imperial, they're fucking big time, Wes. I don't want them to get scared off or some shit like that."
Once again the listener, Stephen begins to pace in front of the door.
His turn to speak, replying, "Shit, yeah, can't do nothing but see, I guess. Me and Portia are going to go over in the morning after we get up, catch the Doc. Know then. It is what it is. If I got to go back to the club, it's fine. I don't give a fuck. I mean I do. I want this bad, man. Can't change history, though. I just don't want Portia to have to keep dancing. She's been wanting to quit. I want to give her that choice, ya know? She's coming home with me, but I still don't want some shit stain trying to put his hands all over her. I'll kick the piss out of some motherfucker for that, shove his fucking dollar down his fucking throat. He can choke on that shit. Whatever. Shit pisses me the fuck off. Anyway, you get my text about the money?"
He waits, taking another puff off of his cigarette as Wes speaks to him on the other end of the call.
"Man, whatever you can do, I appreciate it. I owe you one. I'll pay you back a grand on the five hundred if I get this deal. I'll get you either way."
He takes another quicker drag, blowing smoke into the night air.
"Yeah," a concise response to whatever was said. Stephen looks out onto parking lot, adding, "I better get off here though, man. Got to try to get some fucking sleep. I'll text you tomorrow, let you know how this shit goes. Take it easy, Wes,"
He wraps up the call quickly before hanging up the phone with his thumb and sliding it back into his rear jean pocket. Mere hours and a physical are now likely all that stands between him and bringing a dream to fruition. Peering out over the edge sometimes can be more frightening than the climb itself, however. Fall here and it's a long way to the bottom. For now though he had solved the problems of the day, bringing him some peace. He flings his cigarette to the ground, snuffing it out under boot. There is a minute of quiet reflection, then a turn toward the door to go back inside.
Well howdy there pardner.