"Green?" The woman asked, looking up from her notepad. She wasn't quite sure she heard him correctly.

The man sitting opposite gives her an embarrassed laugh. "Sorry, doc. It means you're new to the business. It's not to say he didn't go through formal training, though. It's just when it's your first few times in front of a live crowd, certain guys freeze up. We had a gate of about 200 that night and they loved him. Young fella, orange hair and coming out in a full on straight jacket. Goes by Psycho, the fans ate it up. No shoes, total barefoot. That's saying something. I feel like that was half the problem with what happened."

"Like a safety issue?" The social worker inquired. While sports related injuries weren't exactly her practice, this was an interesting client. She seems to remember seeing flyers in the Arlington County area for some event, but didn't pay them much notice. Professional wrestling was something that she'd blip by on TV for a Saturday morning but here was one in the flesh. He didn't seem overly aggressive or depressed. There was an underlying sadness to weathered dignity of a man past his prime.

Randy winced and gave a yes/no hand sign. "It's a dangerous job, even though most people think it's just two guys 'fake hitting' each other. So they fed me, I mean, had me take him on in the main event as it cuts both ways. He gets some exposure with an old dog like me and I get to work a five minute match so they get a nostalgia pop. You could tell he was a little star stuck by suddenly have to fight someone that he grew up seeing on the tube, but what can you do? "

She nods, briefly. "Did you know him?"

Randy shakes his head. "No, but I didn't really have to. It happens all the time, everywhere. The booker – the guy running the show – comes down beforehand and says Guy A is with Guy B, good luck. So you have to put together a match and quick. This guy…he may have been young with funky hair and a wild, spaced out grin, but he got what I was putting down and fast. That's a good thing. He knew I was going to win just for me being me and didn't mind at all. We both agreed that he'd hit me with a chair shot, get a two count, boom boom boom, Ram Jam, send 'em home happy."

The woman leaned forward, intrigued. She knew there has to be a reason why his story is being so clear. "So what actually happened?"

Without being aware, Randy's hand passes over his forehead, a ghost walking across a graveyard of scars. "We're doing our thing, good heat from the crowd and it's heading to the finale. The kid grabs a folding metal chair from under the ring and winds up like he's Hank Aaron swinging for the fences. I mean, he's going to hit me, but we know how to take it. It's all protected. But…remember how I told you how he was barefoot? Good, ok. So he's all set to brain me when he slips on some water bottle that a fan had tossed in the ring. Just bad timing and worse luck. I'd like to find the guy who threw it. Anyway, the whole gig goes to hell and he actually pops me solid across my dome. The next thing I know is that I'm in the back area with in icepack. The kid was there, looking equally scared that I may try to get some revenge or have a go at him for the botch."

She hears the word 'revenge' and thinks a moment before replying. A small shadow rolls past her face and Randy can't help but feel a little chill. Leaning forward a bit (this is important), she asks "Did you?"

Randy leans back in the chair, a small sigh escaping. "No. Neither. It's a hard enough job to have, let alone the boys tearing each other apart. Traveling, low pay, shitty promoters, egos, drugs, everything. He felt terrible, legit. It wasn't his fault. We joked around a bit, packed up and went home. Last I heard, he was doing steady work for a promotion outside Boston. I hope he does ok, I really do. We're Family, I know how weird that sounds."

She nods, almost a big too fast. "Family. No…yes, I do understand." She reply is so cryptic that Randy, someone who has worked with facial expressions and body movements, can't quite read. "So you came to me to get some to me on overall psychological evaluation. I see the physical came back fine, which is encouraging."

"Right. But that's the thing. Something happened when the kid hit me. Something really, uh…strange. It's like a car crash when you know something is going to happen and you can't stop it. I saw him load up, the crowd noise, not one particular thing and BAM. Stars, and them I'm just flat out dead. But…and I know how this is going to sound, but a one of those bellhop bells ding, ding, ding. Not the ring bell, which is totally different. I saw one during a wedding when I was checking my coat. Little silver thing, just…ding."

She frowns a bit. "Really?"

Randy nods. "It gets worse. The ref, he's trying to get me to my feel and we sometimes get instructions in case things go wrong. Well, this was pretty wrong. As God is my witness, he says 'Burn it to the ground!"

She checks her notes. "But you said you woke up in the back area."

He spreads his hands. "I know! That's what I mean. People have videos on me and it's like watching a really bad movie. I half remember him helping me up. The other half is me passed out in the lockers. It gets worse."

And for the first time, her client seems agitated. Not dangerous, but his calm, easy persona has been breached. Randy "The Ram" Robinson is gone, replaced by an aging gentleman whose years of hard traveling and abuse have taken its tool. He speaks, wanting to get this story out:

"Right after, I find this job not too far off from where I was telling you where the kid ended up. Just about 10 miles north. It was through Craigslist, just a week long gig at this closed publishing company. Security. Seemed like easy money and I wasn't booked that week, so why not? I get there and it's not just one building – it's five! And the place hasn't been occupied in years. There's a baseball field, cafeteria, everything…all closed. I'm supposed to sit at the front desk and I thought that was the dumbest thing I've ever heard because it's a front desk in a place that's as empty as hell. So I'd sit and I'd feel like hours went by and it's be five minutes. I tried everything to break up the silence, but the only thing I'd hear is the highway traffic from outside the overpass. It didn't help. It was like hearing blood move through a massive, unseen artery. So yeah. Darkness. And silence." Then…"

She motions for him to go on as time is running short.

"Then, on my last night I had to have dosed off. I'm actually surprised I lasted that long. Then…ding, then…somehow – the desk phone is ringing. I know how totally insane it sounds, but it's going off. One of those old style ones from the 1970's. The sound alone was enough to want me to scream in that cold, empty place but it kept going. I picked it up and this voice sounds like an old man, some old man trying to tell me something important. He keeps saying 'Maryanne, Maryanne, I'm home. I've come back.' At that point I grabbed my stuff and ran into the night. Call me whatever you want, but there's a limit. I've been through enough in my life and, I dunno, it was too much. I took off into the darkness like some demon was chasing me. Maybe there was. I find my car, positive something was going to grab my shoulder and pull me back and then…"

The woman glances over. Their time is up. He finishes:

"Then I found two things that I'll never understand. One was a tire iron. The other was a set of black leather gloves with W. B. engraved on them. My tires were fine and I don't know anyone with those initials. And that's it. I left and never went back. Not that I could now, see, there was a bulldozer all primed and ready to go. Sorry if I ran long." Randy looked spent, as if he'd just ran three miles from a dead start.

The provider stood up and grabbed a single business card a stand on her desk, pausing to speak before handing it over the her client. "I think I can help you, Mr. Robin…Randy. My specialty involves family issues and overall wellbeing. One final thing and it's important – never once do I want you to think what you've experienced is anything detrimental to you mental health. It's not, trust me."

The wrestler look at her, mildly stunned, but her eyes told the whole story. He was telling the truth and she believed him. He took a quick glance at the card before thanking her. It read:

Diane Adams, LICSW