AN: Inspired by Middle Men, the music of one of my favorite bands, and the story Nothing Fake by JamesSunderlandsPillow. This is also something of a companion piece to a story that I wrote called Teardrop on the Campfire.
I would recommend listening to the songs Heel Turn 1 and Heel Turn 2 by The Mountain Goats as they're brought up while reading, though it's not entirely necessary.
I admit that my understanding of wrestling prior to writing this was a bit rudimentary, and while I did try to do research and watch several wrestling matches in preparation, I imagine that anyone who knows a lot about the sport will find much about this story that is either overly simplified or inaccurate. Still, while I doubt that I was entirely successful, I hope that this story does at least some justice to something that means so much to so many people, and that you are able to enjoy it somewhat. If nothing else, I think that it contains some interesting language and imagery…
Heel Turn
"I'm not gonna die in here."
Lynn's main problem, as far as she could tell, was a pure and simple lack of momentum.
If only she were able to get a running start, she was confident in her ability to make short work of breaking down the metal door that held her within the confines of her gym locker. It was rather like tackling an opposing player in football, really; she would only have to get low to the ground with her feet shoulder-width apart, keep her head up, and run with all of her strength towards that which imprisoned her. It was all rather simple, honestly; the sort of thing that any half-decent Pee-Wee league quarterback could have pulled off without much effort…
Being that she only had about a finger's length of distance to work with, rather than an entire football field, she was forced to consider alternative options.
"I'm not gonna die in here."
Her fist shot again and again into the door, to no effect. As strong as she was for her age, bending steel must have been past the limits of her strength, as she had been punching at the metal for a little over fifteen minutes and had barely even made a dent. All that she had managed to do thus far was fill her locker with a clanging-banging noise like a rubber mallet pounding uselessly against the walls of a diving bell, and every strike sent painful tremors up her wrist. Some small voice way down deep in the back of her head was telling her how hopeless the whole endeavor was and that she would have been better off just screaming for help, but Lynn ignored this inner dialogue and kept at her work. Back in the halcyon days of kindergarten, her parents had once read to her a bedtime fairy tale about a little bird who had sharpened her beak against a mountaintop day after day until, after countless eternities, the very mountain itself was worn down into a valley. It was only a matter of time, she reasoned, before she did likewise with the door, and if there was one thing that Lynn was in no short supply of, it was time.
Of course, there was always the chance that she was merely wearing down at her knuckles with every punch.
Perhaps, in the end, it was her hand that would become a valley.
"I'm not gonna die in here."
All spitfire was her voice, as full of rage and determination as a dragon's breath was full of flame. She could feel (not see; no, she could not see anything while trapped in that darkness) blood dripping down her fingers and beads of perspiration trickling down from her brow to the corner of her mouth. A horrible taste, salty and rancid, hit the side of her tongue as she repeated her mantra in between every punch, and her pungent body odor slunk its way up through her nostrils and settled like a dull ache in the back of her throat. She had already been drenched in sweat following her workout in gym class, and seeing as the only sources of ventilation available to her were the three slits, each one as narrow as a coin-slot on a gumball machine, on the door at her eye level, there was nowhere else for that awful stink to go other than into her nose. She could not wait to break free so that she could rush to the locker room shower and wash that sweat from her skin and open her mouth wide under the shower-head to rinse that cacophony of vile flavors from her mouth.
'Till then she just had to put up with it, though the smell did become so unbearable at one point that, for a few seconds, she abandoned her task and pressed her face against those hairline slits in the door, where she greedily gasped for a few precious helpings of fresh air. Never before in her life had she ever felt so less-than-human than in that moment; reduced to something rather like a wretched catfish creature shlick-schlucking with its mouth up the side of an aquarium.
Once she had her fill, she went right back to punching.
"I'm not gonna die in here."
The words themselves were starting to leave a bitter taste.
"I'm not gonna die in here."
A wandering thought entered her mind; that she had seen this exact situation play out before countless times in various films and television series, though never from this particular perspective. She almost had to stifle a sarcastic laugh at the sheer absurdity of it all. This whole scenario in which she found herself, that of the unpopular girl shoved into her locker, all of a sudden reeked to her of cliché. This was the stuff of terrible child-friendly cartoons and sitcoms, dreamt up by hackneyed screenwriters too old to even remember what it was like to go to middle school.
Always played for a laugh, always serving as a lighthearted background gag, always followed by an iris in and a cut to commercial…
Never did the cameras seem to show what went on within the metal walls; the suffocating claustrophobia, the awful smells, the sweltering heat, the knuckles bloodied from trying to escape…
"I'm not gonna die in-"
Much like the smell, the pain itself soon became unbearable.
A primal yell scratched and clawed its way out of her mouth as she retreated her injured hand up against her chest, where the soft fabric of her black sweatshirt stung against all of the raw open wounds on her fingers. Suddenly Lynn felt a certain sense of gratitude for the darkness that shrouded her, as it spared her from having to examine the full extent of the damage done, though she could imagine the blood from her knuckles soaking into the threads of the hoodie and clotting into a scab that she never could have peeled off. She made a mental note to throw the sweater away when (if) she ever got out of there.
For a moment she just stood there and breathed heavily with her head down as she swayed back and forth slightly on her feet, as though some subconscious muscle memory were trying to recreate the sensation of being gently rocked and cradled in her mother's arms as a small child.
What other options were available to her, Lynn wondered. The only other chance for freedom which sprang to her mind was to find some way to sit down so that she could press her feet against the door. At least in theory, she could then push with her legs until the hinges broke. Easier imagined than done, however, considering the limited room, and even if Lynn were able to contort her body in such a fashion so as to get down on her haunches, there was still no guarantee that she would succeed. If there was one thing that the soreness in her hand was teaching her, it was that she clearly was not as strong as she had once believed. No, as far as she could tell, that quiet voice inside of her head was right. The situation really was hopeless.
A new trickling sensation came to her face in that moment, just below her eyes, and a taste came to her tongue that was just as salty, though so much more shameful to her, as that of her sweat.
"I don't wanna die in here…"
Gone was the righteous fury in her voice. What was once a mission statement became a plea, barely whispered but still deafening as it reverberated within her locker.
"I don't wanna die in here…"
Louder now, though no less meek and mild.
"I don't wanna die in here…"
"I don't wanna die in here…"
"I don't wan…I don't…I…"
Her words gave way to full on blubbering, with tears and sweat and snot streaking down her face in equal measure. Once again, she could not help but feel thankful for the dark, and for the fact that she was hidden away from the rest of the world there in that cramped space. If there was a fate worse than entombment within her locker, then surely it was being seen in such a whimpering state by any of her classmates. They had enough ammunition to tease her with already without having to witness such a pitiful display.
The last time she had cried so unyieldingly was on one occasion when she was five years old and had scraped her knee on the sidewalk outside of her house after trying and failing to teach herself how to ride a bike.
Was that what she had been reduced to now? A frightened little girl weeping on the pavement, waiting for her mother to come and scoop her up into her protective embrace and carry her inside…
Waiting for her father to sit her down at the kitchen table to dress and kiss her wound…
Waiting for her parents to tuck her into bed and whisper to her in soothing tones, "Well LJ, you made a good effort, but you should really have known better than to try riding your bike on your own just yet. Tell ya what; how about tomorrow we put your training wheels back on, then we can help you practice in the driveway? That's a bit more your speed, kiddo…"
Lynn would rather have made the locker her casket than return to that stage in her life.
"I. Am not. Gonna die in here."
There it was again, slowly but surely; the steely resolve in her tone, fierce and proud and spoken through clenched teeth.
"I. Am not. Gonna die in here."
She stated it as a fact, like she were merely commenting upon the blue color of the sky on a clear Summer day.
"I. Am not. Gonna die in here."
The words must have held some kind of talismanic power, as the more she repeated them the more she could feel her strength returning. Her tears ceased their relentless flow and the pain in her hand melted away to the point where it did not hurt at all when she cracked her knuckles in preparation for another round of striking at the metal. If anything, she found the resulting popping noise to be immensely satisfying as it landed upon her ear.
The sound made her feel as though there were sparks of lightning crackling within her bones.
"I. Am not. Gonna die in here."
How could she? She was Lynn Loud.
She closed her eyes tightly and inhaled one long breath of that tainted air, holding it defiantly within her lungs and knowing in her heart that when next she exhaled and opened her eyelids she would be doing so with the fluorescent lights on the locker room ceiling shining upon her face.
Her fingers curled until her nails pierced deeply into the flesh of her palm, and she drew her fist back as far as she could, which, admittedly, was only about three inches, but she was confident that three inches were all that she would need.
"I. Am not. Gonna die in here."
Did she actually say so aloud that time, or was it simply the voice inside of her head, finally come around to her point of view? Lynn could not be sure.
"I. Am not. Gonna die in here."
Her fist shot out like a cannonball and hit nothing but empty air.
At first she was perplexed as to the lack of resistance that met her hand, though much as she would have liked to flatter herself into believing that she was simply too strong for petty things like breaking through metal to even register as a sensation on her skin, she knew that further investigation was required. Slowly she opened her eyes, and once they adjusted to the light she was greeted by the kindly and wrinkled face of one of the school custodians silhouetted in the now open doorframe, staring down at her with a look of mercy in his expression. She reckoned that he must have heard her crying while cleaning the locker room and took it upon himself to come to her aid.
No longer did she feel like a bird honing her beak against a mountain, nor like a catfish in an aquarium, but rather like a timid little field mouse caught with her leg entangled in some underbrush; weak, pathetic, in need of someone stronger than herself to come and save her from all of the surrounding vipers and vultures…
Any sense of shame that she felt, however, was overwhelmed in the moment by her joy to finally be free. She flew out of the locker and wrapped her arms around the man in the type of hug that she usually reserved only for her father, burying her face and crying hysterically into his chest and inhaling deeply the scent of bleach and Pin-Sol that clung to his coveralls. While not exactly pleasant, the smell was so much more preferable to what she had been forced to breathe in for the past twenty or so minutes.
Thankful though she was for her rescuer, in truth, Lynn could not help but resent him slightly for his intervention. After all, she had been right on the cusp of proving her strength, and now would have to spend the rest of her life wondering if she could ever have escaped on her own.
That midnight, the Loud family living room was all awash in the dim blue glow of the TV set.
There were no other sources of light in the whole downstairs, but Lynn did not mind the darkness too much. It was still much brighter than the inside of her locker, if nothing else.
Clad in her pajamas and seated on the couch with her feet resting upon the coffee table, Lynn dug her bandaged hand into the bowl of warm popcorn by her side, where the melted butter stained the gauze a faint yellow that clashed with the few pinpricks of red that leaked through the dressing above her knuckles. She upended a palmful of her snack into her mouth and chewed mechanically as the taste of salt overwhelmed her tongue, with the flavor providing her with no sense of pleasure whatsoever. If anything, she was only reminded of the tears and sweat that had earlier breached her lips, and as soon as she swallowed, she knew that the rest of the bowl would go uneaten.
No matter. There were other uses for popcorn, after all.
"…Mira el tamaño de esta hombre-"
Lynn audibly gasped and leaned forward in her seat as the words sounded from the television speakers. Not that she could understand them, of course. No, she was merely reacting to the events that were unfolding on the screen.
At the center of a wrestling ring somewhere in West Texas, Salvador Cruz lay helpless on his back while Marty Anderson climbed the ropes, with the stage lights of the arena casting a long shadow of his hulking body over his downed opponent.
A snowfall of popcorn rained down all around the two wrestlers, courtesy of the jeering audience in the surrounding bleachers. Lynn saw fit to quietly boo right alongside them and add a few flakes of her own to the blizzard, tossing a handful of puffed kernels at the screen as she imagined herself as a member of that crowd located over fifteen-hundred miles away. It was almost like being among friends. Almost.
She could not help but smile at the mere fantasy of it all; fifteen-hundred miles of distance between her and Royal Woods, and in particular, the town's middle school…
Anderson, as far as Lynn could tell, must have violated some rule, as a pinstriped referee was animatedly pointing and shouting at him as he made his ascent, though his words were lost in the clamor of the crowd and the rapid-fire dialect of the color commentary. Not that Anderson was paying attention anyway. In the few matches that Lynn had seen him in before, he had never seemed to care much about following the referee's instructions. He just kept at his climb with all of the grace of King Kong scaling the Empire State Building until he reached his summit, where he paused a split second to stare down and snarl at his rival, still belly up with his forearms in the air and curled towards his chest like a dead spider on a bathroom floor. Though the video quality was far from crisp, Lynn could still easily tell that Cruz's visage was one of abject terror, with fearful eyes that quivered within their sockets and widened nostrils that flared in and out with every heavy breath. Lynn had seen such an exaggerated expression only once before, and it was when Luna had shown her the album cover for In the Court of the Crimson King.
Had there been a mirror inside of her locker, Lynn would have seen a similar expression on her own face earlier that day. The only difference between her and the man on the screen was that she knew deep down that Cruz was mostly just putting on a performance.
He must have been an incredible actor. With a little effort, Lynn could even trick herself into believing that his fear was as genuine as hers was.
Anderson leapt from his perch and for a few seconds time seemed to move at half-speed. All was silent as the audience held its collective breath, all except for a little boy in the back row of the bleachers who yelled, "Watch out, Salvador!" He took the words right out of Lynn's mouth. Amazing how a child's voice could ring out loud and clear amongst the surrounding white noise.
When Anderson's elbow crashed down like a meteor onto nothing but the foam-padded mat as Cruz rolled out of the way, the crowd went wild, and Lynn let out a cheer so loud that she had to throw her hand over her mouth and look over her shoulder in embarrassment, checking to make sure that nobody was bounding down the stairs to chastise her for waking them up.
Once she was certain that the coast was clear, Lynn exhaled a relieved sigh and leaned back onto the couch, relaxed once more. Honestly, she told herself, she should have known better than to worry like that. Cruz always rolled out of the way in the nick of time. Always. That did not mean, however, that her heart could not still skip a beat at the sight of him in danger.
Something else that Cruz always did was try to help his opponent back to their feet, and tonight was no different. He extended his hand, but his honorable act was rewarded with Anderson pulling him to the floor, where the two wrestlers proceeded to grapple with one another, their forms as tangled and knotted-together as the roots of King of Limbs in Savernake Forest, though it was easy to tell where one ended and the other began. Their bodies could not have been more different; Cruz built like an action figure, with every muscle a steel cable and every tendon wound as tautly as a guitar string. If ever there was a man strong enough to bend metal, it was him. Surely, if he had been trapped in a school locker (hypothetically, of course; his muscles were far too big for him to fit within such a cramped space), it would only have taken him a single punch to break free. His chestnut-colored skin glistened with the sweat which also soaked his shoulder-length black hair. In contrast, had it not been for the singlet that he wore, Anderson may not have resembled a wrestler at all. Pale, balding, beer-bellied, and with a patchy beard growing on his chin, he reminded Lynn of Bluto from the old Popeye cartoons that she used to watch on Saturday mornings as a little girl, before she discovered more sophisticated forms of entertainment. A brute, not a champion; that much was obvious, even without taking his behavior in the ring into consideration. Lynn liked that about wrestling. It was often so easy to tell just from a single glance who was the face and who was the heel in any given match.
She wished that middle school could be so simple.
"I didn't know you spoke Spanish."
It caught Lynn off guard to hear a new voice enter the room, and when she turned her head she saw Lincoln, dressed in his pajamas, standing behind the couch and staring down at her, light from the flickering television dancing in his eyes. Perhaps it was just her imagination, but Lynn could have sworn that he had sounded impressed when he spoke, like he had stumbled upon one of his big sister's hitherto unknown secret talents. Much as she loved hearing such an awestruck lilt in his voice, especially when it was directed towards her, she knew that it was undeserved. "I don't," she admitted, embarrassed. "Other than a word or two here and there…" Being that her body was all sprawled out on the couch, Lynn moved over until she was sitting right against the armrest, freeing up space and silently inviting her brother to join her. Usually, she preferred to watch wrestling alone, but tonight she longed for a bit of company.
Lincoln accepted her invitation, though by his small shrug Lynn had the suspicion that it was more because it was late at night and there was not much else to do than because he truly wanted to watch. Nevertheless, he walked to the front of the sofa and sat himself down, reaching for the bowl of popcorn and taking a handful into his mouth. Lynn was happy that at least somebody could enjoy the snack as it was intended. "You need me to translate for you?" he asked as he chewed. "I'm not exactly fluent or anything, but I've been getting pretty good grades in Spanish class so far this year."
As if to prove Lincoln's point, the announcer on the television said in animated tones, "…Como ahora cambian las mesas vemos a Cruz trabajando-" as Anderson held his opponent's handsome face and strong jaw down against the mat in a Texas cloverleaf.
"For example," Lincoln said. "Basically, what that means is that Cruz is trying to turn the tables on the other guy." Sure enough, after a few particularly skilled bits of maneuvering, within seconds it was Anderson's face against the floor as Cruz ensnared him in a Guillotine choke.
Not exactly the most necessary of translations, perhaps, but Lynn still felt amazed by her brother. Unlike Lincoln, she had been failing Spanish class ever since the start of her first year in middle school. Failing most of her classes, as a matter of fact, likely because she found it hard to concentrate on her studies when so much of her average schoolday was spent trying to avoid her tormentors.
She would never have admitted so aloud, but there were certain things that she envied of her brother, like his good grades and the way in which he could eat popcorn without being reminded of the taste of sweat and tears…
"I wouldn't worry yourself about it," she said as she turned to face him. "Besides, I can usually follow along pretty well, even without understanding Spanish. It's almost like wrestling speaks a universal language, in a way…"
"And what language is that?"
"Oh, you know…" Her mind at first went blank as it searched for a way to verbalize what she had meant, but as soon as she glanced again to the screen and saw Cruz and Anderson struggling on the floor, looking so much like some modern interpretation of Saint Michael fighting the Dragon, she knew exactly how to finish her sentence. "Good and evil, I guess; rudos y técnicos, heels and faces, heroes and villains…whatever names you use, it's all the same kind of energy."
"~Fell in love years ago with an innocent girl from the Spanish and Indian home of the heroes and villains~"
Luna's voice, singing a song that neither of them recognized, echoed in the kitchen, just barely loud enough for them to hear it in the living room. Lynn and Lincoln glanced at each other in momentary confusion before quickly shrugging it off. After so many years of having her as their sister, they both had long ago grown used to hearing Luna singing aloud some song or another to herself.
Lynn did find it odd, however, that the lyrics which floated into the room seemed to match what she had been talking about.
Before she could wonder too deeply as to whether or not her sister had been eavesdropping on her conversation, Lincoln spoke up again. "Well, I sorta know what you mean," he said. "This one time, Clyde and I went to the comic book store at the mall, and they had these vintage issues of an Ace Savvy manga that used to run in Japan back in the sixties. Neither of us could read them, 'cause they were all written in kanji, but that didn't stop us from looking through the pages and admiring the art…" His mouth curled into a wistful smile at the memory, at least until Lynn started snickering under her breath. "What's so funny?" he asked, sounding more than a little offended.
"Nothin'," she said between laughs. "It's just that you're the only guy I know who could take something awesome like wrestling and find a way to make it seem lame." For a beat, he seemed taken aback by the insult, but then he too broke into a light laughter, and together brother and sister chuckled in the dark until the events on the television became too compelling for Lynn to ignore. "Okay, shush now," she said, her lighthearted tone replaced with one of intense focus as she leaned forward in her seat to pay close attention to the screen.
During the time in which Lynn and Lincoln had been talking, the tides of the match had shifted yet again, to the point where Anderson was back on his feet and coming after Cruz with a metal folding chair, brandishing the furniture as a weapon while the referee futilely yelled for him to put it down. "Uh, is he allowed to do that?" Lincoln asked.
Lynn did not even take her eyes from the television when she answered. "Technically no, but Anderson's always fighting dirty; using foreign objects, taking cheap shots, ignoring the ref…" Her words were punctuated with the sound of steel hitting flesh as Anderson struck his opponent in the back with the chair while the crowd hissed. Once again, the arena became a snowstorm; not only were the members of the audience throwing popcorn, but hot dogs and plastic cups half-full of cheap beer flew through the air as well. "Boooo," she nastily jeered, reaching for the bowl at her side and grabbing a handful of popcorn to throw at the screen, where the kernels rebounded against the glass as uselessly as her fist against metal. Lincoln watched all of this play out with a look of bemused fascination about his face, like he were an anthropologist who had stumbled upon a previously undiscovered civilization. "Here, you try," Lynn halfway-suggested/halfway-commanded as she took the bowl by the rim and pressed it into her brother's arms. "It'll help you feel like you're really part of the crowd. Betcha ya can't hit Anderson from here."
He regarded the challenge for a moment, staring hesitantly into the bowl. "I dunno, Lynn. I don't wanna make a mess…"
"C'mon Stinkoln," she said with a roll of her eyes. "Don't be such a wuss. Besides, Charles'll come around and eat whatever's on the floor anyway. Just try it; it's fun!"
With a resigned sigh in acknowledgment that it was pointless to argue, Lincoln took a kernel into his hand, aimed, and half-heartedly fired. Amazingly, the ammo hit its mark and bounced off of the screen right over Anderson's face. "Hey, I actually did it!" he said, his tone somewhere between shocked and impressed.
It did her heart such good to see him so proud of himself. Moments like this were what made Fridays after midnight her favorite time of the week; watching wrestling, spending time with her brother, feeling the heavy weight of the purple bags under her eyes that reminded her that she was still three whole sleeps away from Monday morning and the start of another school day…
"Nice shot, Linc," she congratulated, offering up her hand and giving her brother a high five. As soon as their palms touched, they returned their attention back to the match, with Lincoln actually beginning to look invested in what was going on.
Stumbling and weak-kneed, Cruz nevertheless rose back to his feet, standing tall and proud as he stared down his rival with a steely glint in his hard eyes, the crowd cheering in his favor. It would take more than a bit of metal to keep him down; that much was obvious. As Anderson staggered forward, gearing up for another attack, Cruz leapt and hit him hard with a flying dropkick to the solar plexus, knocking the wind out of his rival and sending him crashing to the floor, and all of a sudden Lynn could see what her brother had meant when he drew parallels between superheroes and wrestlers. Where else could such acrobatic feats have been performed other than in a ring or within the panels of a comic book?
"So…I've been meaning to ask; what happened to your hand? You, um, never really mentioned why it's all bandaged up."
Suddenly that warm Friday-after-midnight feeling disappeared.
"Oh, you know…" Lynn said hesitantly as she stared at her hand and flexed her fingers in and out. Her mind raced for an excuse for its sorry state, though suddenly all she could think of was her time spent afterschool in the nurse's office, where an indifferent woman in blue scrubs tightly wrapped gauze around her wounded knuckles; Lynn with her face still damp and her breathing still irregular and her bloodstained sweatshirt long before thrown to the bottom of the nearby trashcan. "I pushed myself a little too hard in gym class, as usual. We were playing soccer and I sorta tripped. 'Scraped up my knuckles pretty bad…"
"You okay?"
It brought such strain to Lynn's muscles, moreso than any workout she had ever done before, to force herself to smile, but still she managed to curl her lips into what she hoped would resemble a cocky grin. "Yup, totally! You know me; you can get Lynn Loud on the ropes but you can't knock her out…"
Something else that she envied of Lincoln was the easy way in which he could smile back at her. Much as she knew that she did not deserve to do so, she still indulged herself in the fantasy that he was looking at her in the same way in which she looked at Salvador Cruz. She was so pleased with the daydream, at least until Luna's singing had to come and snap her back to reality.
"~Every time I find, myself in this ol' bind, watchin' the death of my hopes…"
The song came drifting into the room like a light Summer breeze, so carefree and cheerful, like Luna had not a trouble in the world. She strolled in from the kitchen with a spring in her step, carrying a half-full glass of milk from which she took a sip before resuming her performance.
"…In the ring so long, gonna prove 'em wrong, I'm not knocked out but I'm on the ropes~"
As soon as she finished, she paused in front of the couch and stared at her siblings eagerly, as though she were anticipating applause. Instead, the only clapping came from the television speakers as Cruz struck Anderson with another dropkick, one that sent him flying out of the ring while Lynn and Lincoln could do nothing but stare at their elder sister blankly, though Luna was not to be discouraged. "C'mon, that's 'On the Ropes' by Eels! You guys know Eels, right?" Again, she was met with nothing but confusion from her siblings' faces. "You two have no taste," she bluntly stated, only half-joking. Realizing that she was blocking the television, Luna took another long swig from her glass and stepped aside, looking at the screen just as Anderson landed on a ringside press table, snapping it in half. "I didn't know you were into wrestling, Linc."
"Not usually, but it's starting to grow on me."
"You wanna watch with us?" Lynn asked.
"Nah," Luna said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "The sport itself has never really been my thing, though there's been some pretty great music written about it. 'Watching Grunge leg-drop New Jack through a press table,' is the best lyric Weezer ever came up with, for example…"
For the second time that night, Lynn had to laugh to herself. "Do you just have, like, a song in the back of your head for everything?" It was amazing to her how, much like Lincoln did with comic books, Luna could find some way to relate the sport back to her own area of expertise. Perhaps she was more right than she had initially believed when she claimed that wrestling spoke a universal language.
Judging from the proud smile that came to her face, Luna clearly took such a statement as a badge of honor. "Not only that, but I'll do you one better; I happen to know of an entire album dedicated to pro-wrestling." At last she downed the rest of her drink and set the glass on the coffee table. "Wait here," she said. "I'll go and grab it for ya so we can give it a listen!"
"Oh, that's not-" Too late. Before Lynn could finish her statement, Luna set off running excitedly out of the room and up the stairs in the outer hallway, and Lynn thought that she could see a mischievous little twinkle sparkling in her big sister's eyes as she passed her by.
Then again, perhaps it was just the flicker of the TV set catching off of her irises.
Whatever the case, Lynn turned to Lincoln and saw that he seemed just as puzzled as she was, though they both quickly shrugged it off and went back to watching the final moments of the match.
At the center of that wrestling ring somewhere in West Texas, Marty Anderson stood quaking in his boots while Salvador Cruz climbed the ropes, with the stage lights of the arena casting a long shadow of his powerful body over his trembling opponent. There was something so poetic and cinematic in the way that their roles were reversed from the start of the bout. It was as if a Hollywood screenwriter had planned it all out beforehand.
The only difference was that, when Cruz leapt from his roost and held his legs out to deliver yet another of his famous dropkicks, Anderson did not move out of the way just in the nick of time, but instead bore the full force of the blow.
He crashed to the floor like a felled redwood and Lynn could almost see the walls of the arena quake at the impact, though perhaps that was more on account of the roar of the cheering crowd; as loud as a hurricane gale. Lynn and Lincoln cheered as well, though not quite as forcefully as the audience for fear of waking whoever was sleeping upstairs, when they saw Cruz stroll over to his opponent and pin him down with an inside cradle. Anderson, utterly defeated, offered no resistance whatsoever while the referee hunched over and slammed his palm three times onto the mat.
"Yes!" Lynn and Lincoln practically shouted as they jolted excitedly in their seats, upending the bowl and its few remaining kernels of popcorn onto the floor.
Just like that, the match was over, and the champion's arm was held aloft while Anderson rolled onto his side in the fetal position with a pained grimace on his face and beads of sweat rolling down from his brow in rivulets that led straight to his mouth. Much as Lynn wanted to enjoy her hero's victory and picture herself in Cruz's place, as she often did whenever she watched him wrestle, she could not help but empathize with his enemy, low on the ground all curled unto himself like a beaten dog. Rather than think too deeply about how she could relate to Anderson's plight, however, she grabbed the remote from off of the coffee table and turned the television off, and in the now-dark glass she could make out the reflection of Luna entering the room behind her, carrying what looked like a small briefcase in her hand and a vinyl record in its cardboard sleeve under her arm.
"Alright dudes," she said as she peeked her head in through the living room's doorway. "Ready to rock?"
The way in which Lincoln held his hand over his mouth to stifle a yawn was answer enough. "Actually, I think I'm just gonna go to bed," he said as he got up from the couch. "Watching all those dropkicks really wears a guy out. G'night Luna; and Lynn?"
"Yeah?"
"Buenos noches," he said with a sly smile.
Lynn snickered. "Mind translating that for me?" she said, playing dumb. They chuckled quietly together, and already she was counting down the minutes until the next Friday after midnight, when they could sit together again and watch more wrestling in each others company. She was thankful that at least there was at least one thing that she could look forward to during the following week.
"'Night dude," Luna told him as he passed her by and ran up the stairs. As soon as she heard his bedroom door snap shut, she went over to the couch and leaned in close to her little sister. "Actually, this is perfect," she said conspiratorially. "You and I hardly ever get to spend any time together. C'mon, let's move this to the kitchen; better acoustics, ya know?"
The kitchen was a much brighter place than the living room, thanks in part to the ceiling light being switched on and the curtains being pulled back over the window above the sink, allowing for star and moonlight to pour in and reflect off of the tiled floor, intermixing with the orange glow coming from the open refrigerator. "Man, I dunno what it is," Luna said mostly to herself as she pulled a carton of milk from inside and shut the door, "but there's something about it being after midnight that just makes everything taste so much better."
Lynn had to agree. In fact, the only exception to the rule as far as she knew was popcorn. She stood leaning against the kitchen counter with an open box of cookies by her side, and she greedily ate one after another as Luna poured her a glass of milk. They were cheap and generic store-brand treats; the only kind that her parents could afford after stretching their weekly grocery budget across providing for ten children, but that did not stop Lynn from finishing off the rest of the package, and when she took Luna's offered cup and downed the contents of the glass within seconds, for the first time that day her mouth was able to forget the taste of sweat and tears.
Meanwhile, Luna went over to reach her hand behind the microwave, feeling around blindly in the dark space as she tried to find its plug and pull it from the wall socket, and Lynn took this as an opportunity to get a closer look at the album which her sister had brought downstairs. She picked it up from where it was set down on the counter and admired the artwork, which depicted in bright colors a muscular wrestler flying through the air in the center of a ring, his long blonde hair trailing behind him like a comet tail.
The Mountain Goats, it read in black letters at the top. Beat the Champ.
"So, what kind of music is this anyway?"
"Folk-rock," Luna answered. After so many moments of fumbling around, finally her face lit up as she brought her hand out from behind the microwave, clutching its plug in her hand. She took the briefcase from off of the floor and placed it on the counter, opened it up, and Lynn could then see that it was not a briefcase at all, but rather a portable record player.
"Folk?" Lynn asked, confused. "You mean, like, Oh Susanna, This Land is your Land, that kinda stuff?" Even if Luna and she were not particularly close, Lynn still could not imagine her rock n' roll loving sister listening to such songs willingly. Besides, something like thrash-metal, all aggressive and testosterone-fueled, seemed to her like a much more appropriate genre for an album that was supposedly all about wrestling.
"Folk-rock," Luna stressed, as if that lone syllable made all the difference in the world. "Emphasis on the rock. There are many different breeds of rock, you know. Hard-rock, prog-rock, Kraut-rock, rockabilly…all of them different, yet perfectly valid in their own ways."
Lynn remained unimpressed. "Eh, I prefer electronica," she said dismissively. "It helps me work out. 'Really gets the blood pumping…"
Pointedly, Luna grabbed the black cord that wove its way out of the record player's side and plugged it into the now-empty wall socket behind the microwave. She then walked over to her sister, took the album from Lynn's hands, and removed the record from its sleeve. "Well, let's see if this doesn't get your blood pumping." She said it as if Lynn had presented her with a challenge.
Lynn watched with curiosity as her sister returned to the record player and placed the album delicately onto the turntable. "You know, I never really understood the appeal of vinyl. Haven't Mp3s made them pretty much irrelevant?"
"Well, both formats come with their own sets of advantages," Luna explained as she flipped a few switches on the front of the machine, powering it on and setting it to forty-five RPM. "I mean, it's a lot more convenient for me to just listen to my iPod whenever we go for a drive than it is to pack along a turntable, but vinyl actually produces a richer sound. There's some long technical explanation as to why that is which I won't bore you with, but for now all I want you to do is listen. There's this one song I think you're really gonna love." Without further adieu, Luna lifted the tone arm, briefly eyeballed where she wanted to set it, and dropped the needle onto the now-spinning record. No music played at first; caught between songs, the player's speakers only produced a faint hissing and popping noise, as if the very album itself were cracking its knuckles in preparation. "Aw yeah, listen to that crackle," Luna said with a satisfied smile crossing her face. "Always reminds me of a campfire…"
Though Lynn did not share in her sister's passion for music, still she could not deny the inherent warmth in the noise; the audio equivalent of film-grain on an old movie. Then the song began, and though there was still fire in the sound, it was more akin to a towering blaze than the gentle campfire that Luna had described.
Lynn never could have imagined that a lone acoustic guitar could sound so powerful, as if the musician whose hand strummed across the strings was not so much playing as attacking the instrument. Almost in spite of herself, she felt her head start to bob along to the rhythm. "What's this song called, again?" Lynn asked, entranced by the music. Her eyes focused on the record spinning there on the turntable; hypnotic, mesmerizing…
"'Heel Turn 2,'" Luna answered proudly. There were few things in life that brought her more joy than sharing her favorite music with her loved ones, and clearly the song was having the desired effect on her little sister.
"Is there a 'Heel Turn 1' we should listen to first?"
"They only ever play that one live," Luna said, speaking quickly so as to not talk over the upcoming lyrics. "If ya want, we can watch a performance online after this, but don't worry about that now. Just listen…"
Right on queue, a high and nasally male voice pierced through the air like an icepick, commanding Lynn's attention in a way that even the guitar on its own could not.
Get stomped like a snake
Lie down in the dirt
Cling to my convictions
Even when I get hurt
Be an upstanding well-loved man about town
In your child's mind that's how it goes down
But I try
The losing side
I don't wanna die in here…
Luna was right; the song really did get Lynn's blood pumping.
I don't wanna die in here…
All at once she was back in that dark locker, repeating those same six words to herself over and over as she cried, alone and frightened…
Helpless…weak…
As far as she could wrack her brain, Lynn could not remember ever hearing the song before. So how was it, she wondered, that the chorus managed to find its way into her mouth earlier that day? Perhaps Luna had played the album long before on some other day's after-midnight hour, while the rest of her family slept, and the words found their way into Lynn's ears, sinking into her subconscious and becoming an inextricable part of her being.
Drift down into the new dark light-
Before the next line could be sung, Lynn with her eyes widened in panic darted to the record player and lifted the needle from the vinyl, halting the song dead in its tracks. Silence filled the room, and in the quiet of the kitchen Lynn could hear nothing aside from the heavy breaths which she drew in and out of her upper stomach as her heart thump-thumped in her chest at a rapid clip.
"I take it you're not a fan?"
Lynn turned to face Luna, who was leaning casually against the fridge in a relaxed manner that suggested she were not at all surprised by her sister's reaction. "It's not that," Lynn answered quietly. "It's just that…well, it's just that the song was reminding me of something I'd rather not think about."
"You mean like what really happened to your hand?"
Lynn's heart, still racing, skipped a beat at the question. For a split-second she considered repeating the lie that she had told Lincoln earlier that night, but one look into Luna's eyes, so knowing and full of understanding, told her that it would have been useless to do so. Instead, she merely slumped her shoulders in defeat and stared down at the floor, transformed once again into a timid little field-mouse of a girl. "…You didn't just wanna listen to music with me tonight, did you?" she quietly asked as she realized the full scope of why Luna had brought her to the kitchen.
"Of course I did!" Luna insisted, still smiling. In contrast to her sister, she maintained a calm and cool demeanor. "I love rockin' out with you guys, and this was an album I thought you'd really appreciate." She walked over to join Lynn by the record player, and at first the younger girl winced at the thought that Luna would drop the needle once more and resume the song. Instead, to Lynn's relief, Luna simply took the record from the turntable and placed it back into its sleeve, holding it up in front of her chest so that Lynn could take another look at its cover. "Lynn, do you have any idea why this album exists?"
Seeing as Lynn had not even heard of Beat the Champ before that day, all that she could do was slowly shake her head and await an explanation.
No longer was Luna smiling. "John Darnielle, the Mountain Goats' lead singer-songwriter, had a very, very rough childhood. 'Wrote a whole album about it, as a matter of fact, called The Sunset Tree. Wrestling was his escape when he was a kid, then music as he got older, then when he became an adult he decided to bring together two of his greatest loves and record an album in tribute to the sport that gave him hope as a child."
For so many moments Lynn just stood there, staring all dewey-eyed and reverent into the bright colors of the album's art, which was suddenly infused with new meaning as if it were being held under a new dark light. When she spoke, she did so hesitantly, as though it were a fight to force the words out of her mouth. "Some people like to think that wrestling is 'fake' or 'low entertainment,' or whatever," she said bitterly. She had heard such words before from a few of her classmates, who sometimes made fun of her for her love of the sport. Among other things, of course. "But I don't see how something that helped a little kid through bad times could ever be called 'low.'" Amazing how she could relate so much to somebody whose voice she had only heard for the first time a few minutes prior…
"We still talking 'bout the same kid here?" Luna asked with an eyebrow raised, to which Lynn looked away, all of a sudden more interested in staring at the opposite wall than her sister's kind face with its gaze so warm, though it could not match the warmth that she felt from Luna's hands as they reached out and clasped onto her shoulders. "Lynn," she said, sighing softly. "I know you're being bullied. You don't have to hide it from me; it's okay to open up about it."
As it turned out, an invitation was all that Lynn needed. "…She shoved me into a locker, Luna." Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I didn't even think that people really did that, 'cept on TV."
Luna's mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed in anger. "Who did?" she asked tersely.
"It could've been anybody," Lynn said, making a point to dodge the question and speak instead to something far more vast than one lone incident. "Everyone hates me…" As hard as it was to force herself to lie and smile in Lincoln's presence earlier that night, it was much more difficult to keep herself from crying in front of her older sister. A few tears rolled down her cheeks, and Lynn almost wished that she were back inside of her locker so that her shameful weeping could be hidden away. "I hope that you never have to know what it's like to be as hated as I am." To her surprise, when she turned her head upwards and saw Luna's face, she saw that there was not a single trace of judgement or even pity in her eyes.
"I know how you feel, Lynn," she said, her tone as gentle and relaxing as the crackle of a record on a turntable caught between songs. "I used to be bullied a lot too."
Lynn nearly had to choke back a sarcastic laugh. "There's no way that's true," she scoffed. "Every time I see you in the hallways or at lunch, 'seems like you're always with a different group of friends." Faint jealousy was apparent in her voice. Whenever Lynn walked the halls of Royal Woods Middle School or sat at one of its cafeteria tables, she did so alone and completely isolated from her peers. "I bet you're one of the most popular people in the whole school."
Ordinarily, Luna might have joked about how flattered she was to receive such a compliment, but not tonight. "I don't know if you remember, but like you, I didn't really have a lot of confidence in myself when I was younger, before I became a musician. Other kids seemed to pick up on it, like how piranhas can sniff out blood in the water, and I guess I was an easy target 'cause I was kinda small and shy. Believe me, I've been shoved into my fair share of lockers, same as you. Adults like to think that little kids are all innocent and sweet, but really they're just wild animals. Middle-schoolers especially."
Lynn could not have agreed more. After all, she herself had felt like an entire menagerie of beasts during her time in the locker; a bird on a mountaintop, a catfish in an aquarium, a mouse in a field…
Absurdly, a strange tune appeared in Lynn's head at that moment. It was one that she had heard before on the radio countless times, yet its name escaped her. "What's that one song?" she asked. "The one that's like, 'Despite all my rage I am still just a rat in a cage…'"
A spark of recognition lit up within Luna's eyes. "Ah, 'Bullet with Butterfly Wings,'" she said, sounding more than a little excited despite the sombre tone of the night. "Another song written by an avid pro-wrestling fan; Billy Corgan of the Smashing Pumpkins. One of these days you, me, and Lucy oughta listen to Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness together. One of the best double-albums of the nineties, full stop." Lynn shot her sister a deadpan glare, and Luna seemed to remember that now was not the time to geek out about music. "Sorry, I got a little carried away there. Go on with what you were saying."
Once she was sure that the conversation would not be sidetracked again, Lynn pressed on. "…I guess that's just how I felt when I was trapped in my locker; like a rat in a cage. No matter how hard I tried, no matter how angry I was, no matter how many times I punched at the door, I couldn't escape on my own. I'd probably still be stuck in there if the janitor hadn't come and rescued me. I was too weak to do it myself…"
"Lynn, you are the strongest person I know, in body and in spirit," Luna said. By the way in which she spoke, so casual and nonchalant, it was clear to Lynn that her big sister truly believed it. "I'm gonna let you in on a little secret; every victim is stronger than their bully. Just because you need help every now and again doesn't mean you're weak. It's like Chavo Guerrero; he was a great wrestler on his own, but he was also tag-team champion with Al Madril, right?"
Lynn, partly impressed but mostly just confused, raised an eyebrow at the reference. "How do you know who Chavo Guerrero is?"
"Track two," Luna said, tapping her finger on the album still in Lynn's hands. "'The Legend of Chavo Guerrero.' Everything I know about him is contained in the lyrics."
Lynn turned the record over, examined the track listing, and sure enough sandwiched between 'Southwestern Territory' and 'Foreign Object' was the song that Luna had mentioned. "Ah, I should've known," she said with a tiny smile.
Luna smiled in return, then folded her arms across her chest. "Now then; you never answered my question," she said, turning serious once more. "Who was it that shoved you into your locker?"
That tiny smile vanished from Lynn's face just as quickly as it had appeared, and she took to nervously rubbing at her left bicep with her bandaged hand. "Just this girl in my gym class. Maya something. I don't really know her last name…"
Luna's expression, already severe, hardened ever more. "I see," she said curtly, and Lynn had the suspicion that her sister was thinking back on all of the Mayas in her own life who used to pick on her. "And just how are you planning on getting back at this…Maya?" The name was spat from her mouth with a particular amount of venom.
The question threw Lynn for a loop. "Get back at her?" she asked, confused. Revenge was the furthest concept from her mind. All that she had planned to do as soon as the new school week started up again on Monday morning was try to keep as far from Maya and all of her other bullies as possible. "I dunno, I haven't really thought about it…"
"I don't believe that for a second," Luna bluntly stated. "I reckon that just about every bullied kid in the world has a revenge-fantasy or two stored in the backs of their heads. I know I sure did; in fact, I'd sometimes lay awake at night just thinking about my fist going into the faces of everyone at school who ever messed with me. That was my revenge-fantasy, now let's hear yours."
Come to think of it, there was a certain scenario that had played out in Lynn's mind countless times before, often while daydreaming in the middle of her classes. A new smile crossed her lips, one that was far more devilish than the one that had graced her face only a few moments prior. "…Actually," she said hesitantly, "there is something I've thought of doing to Maya for a while now." Grinning like a jackal, Luna leaned in an inch or two closer towards her sister in anticipation. "She likes to hang out in front of her locker every day before homeroom starts, chatting with her friends, fixing up her hair in the little mirror she's got taped onto the back wall inside…" So much hatred seethed through her teeth as she described her tormentor, who, in Lynn's fantasy, was blissfully unaware of the karmic retribution that was about to befall her. "More than anything else in the world, I want to go up to her while she's got her back turned and push her inside, right in front of everyone in the hallway."
At first, Luna was unimpressed. "…Is that it?" she asked, sounding more than a little disappointed. As far as revenge-fantasies went, Lynn's seemed a bit tame compared to to knocking people's teeth out.
Despite her sister's skepticism, Lynn's devilish smirk did not falter. "…Then I want to turn around, fart right in her face, and slam the door shut on her."
A beat of silence followed, and then…laughter. Bright, mirthful, joyous laughter that at first took Lynn by surprised but that she was helpless to resist joining in on. She could not remember laughing so hard since before her first day as a middle-school student. "Aw man, that's brutal," Luna said as her chuckling finally died down. "You've really thought this through, huh?"
"Yeah," Lynn admitted. "I guess I have…" A twinge of guilt flared up in the back of her mind, and suddenly she did not quite feel so much like laughing. "Does that make me a bad person?" she asked sheepishly.
"Of course not," Luna answered unhesitatingly. "Why would you think that?"
"I dunno…I guess just 'cause of some of the things I've heard before. After I got my hand all fixed up, I had to go see the principal to talk about what happened, and he said that the best thing I could do to take care of my bully problem was to just hold my head high and try my best to ignore them. 'Said that fighting back would be like, 'stooping to their level,' or whatever."
Had Luna rolled her eyes any harder, they might have popped right out of their sockets. "Adults love to say that kinda stuff," she said. "Never helped me, though. Sure, I admit; sometimes it's better to just walk away, but other times, like when someone shoves you into your locker, you need to do what you can to survive. 'Doesn't make you a bad person, and don't let anyone ever tell you that 'fighting back' is morally the same thing as 'fighting.' That's the whole essence of what 'Heel Turn 2' is all about. Sometimes, you've gotta come unhinged; get revenge." She allowed herself to smirk slightly. "You'd have heard those lyrics if you hadn't turned the song off midway through."
For the first time since her school year had started, Lynn felt as though she could face Monday morning. As a matter of fact, she almost could not wait until she could walk through the front doors of her school and face down Maya and make her daydream a reality. Though she may not have been able to punch her way out of her locker, Lynn now saw that that did not quite reflect as poorly upon her strength as she had once thought.
After all, bullies were not made of steel.
"Well, maybe I was a little hasty," Lynn admitted. "Maybe you and I could listen to this whole album together, start to finish. You up for it?"
"I'm always down to listen to music with you! But hey, that reminds me; you wanted to listen to 'Heel Turn 1,' right?" Before Lynn could answer, Luna had already pulled her phone from out of her pocket and was searching the internet for a performance of the song. "Personally, I don't think it's one of the Mountain Goats' best, but even one of their lesser songs is better than what most bands could come up with." She tapped her thumb on the screen, and suddenly the sound of an acoustic guitar, bouncy and light, filled the kitchen. Admittedly, the audio quality was not up to par with what the record player had produced, but that did not stop Lynn from tapping her foot to the beat and enjoying the music. Just from the first few notes, she could tell that, unlike its sister-composition, she would not feel the desire to shut the song off without hearing it in its entirety.
In the middle of a stage somewhere in Nashville, John Darnielle, his voice distinctive and pleasant against Lynn's ear, began to sing.
The ushers and the guys who chuck the popcorn
They feel the rush of stillness in the air
They turn toward the ring from where they're standing
I'm just lying there
But I prop myself bolt upright on one hand
And I pull up on my haunches and I face the crowd
The guy who knocked me down has got his back turned
In comes the great grey pestilent cloud
I, I, I'm not gonna die in here
I, I, I'm not gonna die in here…
Work hard to be a hero all my life
Always try to turn the other cheek
And save my closed-fist punches for the ones who throw them first
Always show some mercy to the wounded and the weak
Always help a guy back to his feet
Always help old ladies cross the street
I watch my guardian angel leave the building
I am my only friend
One thing about the good guys that I've noticed
They always beg for mercy in the end
And I, I, I'm not gonna die in here
I, I, I'm not gonna die in here
I, I, I'm not gonna die in here
I, I, I'm not gonna die in here…
And, thanks in part to Luna, she didn't.
AN: Thank you for reading.