Silence, Pt. 1: Champion

“The champ is here!” Greg Miller says as soon as Jason steps inside the warehouse wrestling school. “Kind of thought we’d never see you again now that you’ve gone and won yourself a fancy new belt.”

It seems like a lifetime ago that Jason had first stepped foot in this school, hoping Miller could get him in touch with Lindsay Troy to negotiate a return to the ring. So much has happened since then. And now, today, Jason has come back a champion.

Greg says, “You bring the belt?”

Jason doesn’t say anything. He sets his duffle bag on the dusty concrete floor. Inside is PRIME’s Intense Championship belt, which Jason extracts and holds it out for Greg to take.

Greg hesitates; Jason understands. Greg has never really believed, Jason knows, that he would ever be this close to a real, major league wrestling championship. Despite devoting his life to the craft. Sometimes it’s hard to reach out and touch the things you want most. Especially if you never really believed you could get them.

But finally Greg takes the shiny silver title belt from Jason’s hand. “It’s heavy,” he says. “Hey everyone. Come see this. Come look what Snow brought to school today. For show and tell.”

There are as many as twenty students in attendance today, and they all eventually begin to drift over.

Greg says, “The irony is not lost on me that you started comin here because you needed to learn the fundamentals of wrestling. And the title you bring back is the one you win for disregarding all that.”

Jason can’t help but smirk. 

Greg says, “Okay, well now you’ve shown us. So tell us about it. Tell us about the match.”

Jason doesn’t say anything.

Greg says, “What? Cat’s got your tongue or somethin?”

The students have gathered in a circle now, mesmerized by the For-Real championship belt in their midst. Greg is holding it like a tray, chest high, and a few of them dare to touch it

Greg says, “Seriously. What’s goin on?”

Jason looks at him for a second and then steps around him and begins negotiating a path through the students. He slides into their makeshift ring and waits for a training partner to present himself. Hopefully one of the smaller kids. Snow has to prepare for his first defense in Japan, against Tony Gamble. And he knows Gamble can beat him. It’s happened before. For a title.

Greg emerges from the crowd of students without the Intense title. He looks curiously up at Jason and calls out, “You okay?”

Jason’s pretty sure he will never be okay again. Not after what happened in that little bungalow on Forrest Street.

Greg says, “But seriously though. What's goin on. Why aren’t you sayin anything?”

Why Jason Isn’t Saying Anything

I.

Christmas Eve, 2024

In his darkest moments, Jason always talked to God. That had been true even before he became a Christian. He figured, to some extent, it was true for everyone. If you’ve never reached out to God, Jason supposed, you just haven’t been desperate enough. Yet.

God, he reached out, seated on a cheap motel bed, naked to the waist save for his jeans. I used to think I could hear You. A little bit. I used to think I could feel You. I haven’t felt you in so long.

Upon his lap sat PRIME’S Intense Championship Belt. Proof that his return to professional wrestling had been a success. His return to the real world, on the other hand, had been a dismal failure. He had wanted success in wrestling, sure. But what he had really wanted was his daughter back. Instead, he had lost his daughter forever, and won a shiny silver wrestling belt.

When he closed his eyes, sometimes, he could still see the way she had looked at him from the passenger seat of Oliver Preston’s car. The first time he had seen her since she’d been a child. Just long enough to realize he would never see her again.

He stood up from the bed and let the championship fall to the stained white rug. God, I really need to hear You right now. Or feel You. I need something. Just SOMETHING.

God did not respond.

Upon checking into this Saint Ambrose motel a few days ago–the cheapest he could find–Jason had noticed that the bathroom had no ceiling, which left the overhead piping exposed. He went into that bathroom now, where a belt hung tied from one of those pipes, and was looped through its buckle at its opposite end. Jason tugged the belt hard. The pipe had no give.

The bathroom’s hanging lightbulb throbbed and buzzed. The sink’s faucet leaked loudly.

I don’t know if You’re listening, God. I don’t know if you’re real. I used to believe so strongly. But maybe I just needed that. Maybe I needed to believe. To believe something. For a moment he let his consciousness pull back, recede, and he stopped reaching out, in this one single moment, a rationalist–and atheist whole. But then the next wave of desperation hit and he resumed his prayer. If You’re up there, please protect my daughter. I want to, but I can’t. I don’t see what good I am if I can’t protect her. And please, God, protect Danielle and Emily too. They don’t need it as much. My family. Or at least they used to be. God?

God did not respond.

The bathroom seemed overwhelmingly bright. Jason stepped onto the bathtub’s ledge, having earlier removed the shower curtain and its rod before tying the belt up there. Before that he had cut a couple of notches into the leather in order to fit the thing snugly around his neck. It was no fancy job. And now, balancing on the bathtub’s ledge, he tugged the loop down over his head and face before, with some struggle, fastening it tight.

Here’s the thing about suicide. It wasn’t so much that Jason wanted to die as it was that he just didn’t want to bother with living anymore. For weeks now–since seeing Haley in that car, driving away–pain had been a constant companion. Ever–ever–present. Every place he went felt like the wrong place to be. He didn’t want to be awake but he couldn’t sleep. He didn’t want to be anything or anywhere. And then, a few days ago, the pain dried up. And somehow that was worse. Because now Jason felt nothing at all. As if feelings were finite things and he’d used them all up.

And so now he stood on the ledge of this crackhouse motel’s bathtub, these the final moments of Jason Snow. The great, the legendary, the mythical, the multi-time champion, multi-time Hall of Famer; the lying husband, the absent father, the thief, the criminal. The murderer. Jason Snow. The man who’d won everything and somehow managed to ruin everything at the same time.

God, he prayed deadly one last time, if for some reason You don’t want me to do this, You’re gonna have to speak up. Right now. You’re gonna have to send me a sign.

He gave it a second.

Nothing happened.

Well. You’re probably right, he thought to God.

And then his phone rang.

For a moment he thought it might have been God. Or maybe Haley, sparked by God. But no, when Jason fished his phone out of his jeans and checked its Caller ID, he saw it was only Bryce.

Jason dropped the phone and let it clatter on the tiles. Eventually it stopped ringing.

He gave God a couple more seconds.

Then he stepped off the bathtub’s ledge.

Jason Snow was many things in life–a legend, a myth, a multi-time champion and Hall of Famer and yada yada–but one thing he was not was a contractor. Or a plumber. Or a mathematician. Or anyone who could have told you that, no matter how strong a water pipe looks, and no matter how many good, hard tugs you give it, it likely can not withstand two hundred and thirty-some pounds of strain being dropped suddenly onto an unsupported section of its length. And so the pipe tapped out quickly and broke at the closest joint and the belt slid off and down went Jason, into the bathtub, and then backward over its ledge, bouncing his head off the grimy tiles.

A stream of stale-smelling water came pouring forth and splashed on the tub’s ledge and soaked Jason’s jeans and then it trickled and then it dripped and then it stopped.

Jason had never felt so thoroughly like a failure.

He hadn’t noticed he had fallen onto his phone until he felt it buzz beneath his torso. He squirmed until he could reach it. Bryce again.

Three rings.

Four.

“Hello.”

“You sleepin or somethin? You sound like shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Well get up. We got a thing to go to.”

Jason stared at the overhead light. Pulsing in time with the ever-growing pounding in his head.

Bryce said, “You still there?”

“What’s goin on?”

“Christmas dinner. At Cheryl’s.”

“This isn’t a good time, Bryce.”

“You say that like I give a fuck. She wants you there, so you’re there. Let’s not forget you owe us half a million dollars. Hey I feel real bad about how that turned out for you or whatever, but debt is debt. So dress nice. Somethin with buttons. I’ll pick you up.”

Jason sniffed. “I’m at the Cedar Pl–”

“Yeah I know where you are.”

Of course he did.

The call went dead.

Jason spent a couple of more minutes on the floor. Staring. He could feel his heartbeat in his head. He could see it in the light. Or maybe that was just a trick of his imagination.

After a while he got up. And got dressed. In a shirt with buttons.

II.

Cheryl’s House

Cheryl King was nothing like a gangster and was yet, perhaps, the most gangster person Jason had ever met. She sat at the head of her family’s massive dinner table in the midst of a playful conversation with a couple of children–grandchildren or great grandchildren–while a veritable congregation of Christmas Eve diners, two tables’ worth, got down to business a a meal whose preparation had been overseen by Cheryl herself. Even at eight-three years old–Bryce had just informed Jason that Cheryl had recently turned eighty-three–there was no doubt that this was her house. And she ruled it.

Cheryl had three daughters and a son, each of whom were present tonight. The daughters, so far as Jason could tell, were complete idiots and utterly dependent on Cheryl. Two of them had moved back home after their own children were grown while the eldest had never left. Cheryl’s son, seated right now between his mother and a depressed-looking woman who must have been his wife, just so happened to be Matthew Bedford, the recently-elected mayor of Saint Ambrose, who was, according to Bryce, the biggest idiot of all. But Jason couldn’t help but note a bit of jealousy in Bryce’s voice.

When the time came to eat, Jason ate. A few of Cheryl’s family and friends had questions for him–”a professional wrestler? Really!”--and Bryce let them know that Jason was not just a wrestler, but a champion. “A legend in the industry,” Bryce said. Legend, myth, etc etc. Jason could never quite bring his smile to his eyes, and really he spent most of the night trying to come up with a better place to tie the belt.

After dinner broke up, everyone milled around Cheryl’s first floor, hoping, it seemed to Jason, to get a few words for her. Jason spent his time tucked away in a corner with Bryce, listening to Bryce badmouth everyone in attendance. They were mostly family. Some friends. But aside from Jason and Bryce, not a single one was an acquaintance from Cheryl’s less-than-legal side hustle. So finally Jason just asked, “What’m I doin here, Bryce? What’s she want?”

“What do you think? She wants to talk to you.”

Could have fooled Jason. Cheryl had passed him half a dozen times since dinner,and not once had she so much as acknowledged his existence. “About what?” he asked.

Bryce looked at him as if he were a moron. “You took half a million dollars from the woman to pay your daughter’s boyfriend to go away. Whether you got screwed over in the deal or not, that’s not our problem. The money wasn’t free. I warned you about that.”

“Yeah, but–Christmas Eve?”

“Hey. She told me to bring you. You’re here. That’s the way it works with Cheryl. Get used to it.”

Jason watched her. She swept in and out of rooms like a woman half her age, dressed like the very spirit of Christmas itself in a red and white pantsuit. In one hand she carried a glass of wine that, if Jason was any judge, she hadn’t so much as sipped all night.

For quite some time he watched her, making smalltalk with Bryce, until finally he heard, “Jeremy!” And it was Cheryl. Talking to him.

Bryce corrected her. “It's Jason,” he said.

“Well of course it's Jason,” Cheryl said. “What did I say?”

Neither of them answered her.

She smiled brightly, this tiny woman with her dyed black hair and doll's eyes, and a moment later her son, the mayor of Saint Ambrose–oh what a world this was–appeared next to her. He was surprisingly tall, given his mother's stature, and had short gray hair and dull eyes. Like his mother, he carried a wine glass, but unlike hers, his was nearly empty, and almost certainly, judging by his posture, had been emptied several times already.

“So this is the guy,” the mayor said. There was something sad in his eyes, Jason thought.

Cheryl kept right on smiling. “Jared,” she said to Jason, “this is my son, Matty.”

Jason nodded hello.

Cheryl's smile faded and she scrunched up her face. “I heard from Bryce that things with your daughter didn't go too good.”

Jason shook his head.

Cheryl leaned forward slightly and whispered, “You know I could help you with that. I could send someone out. For this boyfriend. This Oliver Preston character.”

Jason tilted his head and narrowed his eyes. How did she–

“No,” he said quickly. “No.” He sniffed. “If she wants to make mistakes I have to let her make em. God knows I made enough.”

Cheryl nodded and shrugged. “Oh, we all have,” she said. “So. Are you up for some work?”

That seemed to even surprise Bryce. “Tonight?” he said.

Cheryl shot him a sharp look. Then she smiled again. “Yes,” she said. “Tonight.”

Bryce, who wasn't a whole lot taller than Cheryl, leaned close to her. “Cheryl, it's Christmas Eve,” he said.

Cheryl looked back up at Jason, but her eyes went no higher than the bruise that must have been showing more and more on his neck. “I know that, Bryce,” she said, forcing a smile. “I have a feeling timing might be everything on this.” And then her eyes came up the rest of the way to Jason's. “This is a tricky job, dear,” she said. “But I'll remind you, you do owe me a lot of money.” And then, without looking away, she said, “Matty,” to her son. “Leave us alone for a second.”

Matthew Bedford drained the rest of his glass and looked drunkenly at Jason. Then at his mother. “This isn’t right,” he said, shaking his head.

“Matty,” Cheryl said, “you're drunk. I asked you to leave us alone.”

“I'm not going anywhere. I can't let you do this.” He looked at Jason. “You don’t have to do this.”

Cheryl's eyes went so cold that they gave Jason flashbacks of eyes he had seen in prison. Eyes like he sometimes saw in the mirror. To her son, she said, “Oh he does. He does. Now I told you to walk away.”

The mayor sneered. But then he did as he was told. And walked away.

Cheryl stared at Jason. “Let’s talk,” she said. And then, much more quietly she added, “I need you to make someone go away, dear.”

Jason looked at Bryce. And Bryce was shaking his head.

III.

Forrest Street

An hour later Jason found himself in Bryce’s car, Bryce behind the wheel, with the engine off, Bryce staring hard at a small bungalow across the street between a couple of larger homes. It was a little after ten at night. On this side of the road there were only trees.

Bryce said, “That's some bruise on your neck.”

“Wrestling injury.”

“Yeah. Right.” He scratched his eyebrow. “Well I hope you're not thinkin of doin somethin stupid. Because all that stuff Cheryl was talkin about? About fixin your problem with your daughter's boyfriend? Despite all appearances, she ain’t just some grandmother offerin–“

“I know a threat when I hear one.”

Bryce turned to Jason and stared at him for a long moment. “Well I guess despite all appearances you ain’t the idiot you seem to be either.” Then he looked back at the house. “I warned you before," he said, "but I don't think you understood. Not as good as you need to. This job...” It sounded like his voice shook. That  surprised Jason. “You have to do this. You don’t get this done? For any reason? For any reason...” He let that sink in. “Like wrestlin injuries. I think you know what will happen.”

Jason did. What Cheryl had been saying back there at her house, implying that she knew how to find Oliver, was that she knew how to find Haley.

Jason looked at the house.

“Exactly what is it I have to do in there?”

Bryce started to speak, but then he stopped. And Jason was pretty sure he saw a tear flash down his cheek. “Somethin I can’t do,” he said.

~

At day's end, Jason sits on the bench in front of the makeshift ring with a towel on his head, hanging in his face. His gym clothes are soaked in sweat. The students have begun trickling out of the warehouse, but most of them stop by to pay respect to Jason—really they just want another look at a real title belt, which at the moment is draped over the bench next to Jason. For most of them—probably all of them, if Jason is being honest with himself—this is as close as they will ever get to a wrestling championship. Some of them take a second to touch its face. He supposes some of them know too. Ungifted though they may be, they're not idiots.

Soon enough, with just a few students milling around on clean-up duty, Gregory Miller waddles over and takes a seat on the bench next to Jason, his belly falling out of his faded yellow t-shirt and down between his thighs. 

“I don't know about this no-talking thing,” he says to Jason. “You weren't exactly Mr. Personality to being with. But maybe it's working for you. You were good today.”

Jason knows. He can feel it. He can feel himself... ascending. At least in this way.

Greg says, “You know I was a little afraid after you didn't show up for a  while that maybe you'd, you know, quenched your thirst. Or found another gym. And we've come this far. Now you've got Tony Gamble coming up. Smaller guy than you. Skilled.”

Jason pulls the towel off his head and lets it fall between his feet. He's no stranger to Tony Gamble. Gamble had, after all, relieved Jason of a championship belt once before. Many years ago. He knows he's in for a fight. 

God give me strength to keep going, Jason prays silently, right there on the bench next to Greg Miller. Greg is still prattling away, giving Jason strategic pointers about the upcoming match, but Jason isn't listening at all.

Because Jason knows the way his professional fate has always intertwined with his personal fate. His worst moments, personally, have always been linked to his best professional moments. And after what happened inside that little bungalow on Christmas Eve–after Jason decided he would no longer speak until God spoke up–Jason has no doubt he will be at his very best in Japan come Friday night. Gamble is in for the fight of his life.

He closes his eyes and lets out a shaky breath. And, unbidden, images from that night play themselves out right there on the backs of his eyelids. He holds them closed and forces himself to watch. Again.

God, he prays, if you can hear me, if you're up there, I'd like to hear you.

But God, as ever, does not respond.