I See the Things You Cannot

Hello Hayes Hanlon. I don’t think we have been formally introduced. My name is Scott. You may have heard of me, but maybe you haven’t. We have something in common, you and I. We both looked up to the golden era stars of PRIME, and we both saw ourselves in the ring with those stars one day. I’ve learned this week that you and I are pretty much the same age. I’m imagining two young boys, you in the Pacific Northwest and me in sunny Florida, both watching Lindsay Troy, Brandon Youngblood, Jason Snow… in the ring every week. I recall vividly the first time I attended a live show. Jason Snow was in the main event. It was burned into my memory. It helped to set the course of my life, if I’m to be honest with myself. I watched Jason Snow just about cave your skull in not too long ago. It looked painful. He had help, sure. You were face down and not particularly conscious, though, no matter how you got that way. I felt terrible for you when I saw that happen. You didn’t deserve it. You fought bravely and well, which is all anyone can expect of any of us. I don’t like when people take shortcuts, but I guess that’s the life we’re living now, isn’t it? You've been experiencing a ‘crisis of self’ lately. I have been reading some psychology books that Kerry gave me for Christmas last year, at least the ones that our koala hasn’t eaten, and I came across that phrase in one of them. It means you had an idea in your head of who you are, but you have now found yourself questioning everything, unsure of what to do or how to do it. Except… If you win the Almasy, things will be set right. That’s what you think. I know that you’ve been highly successful since joining PRIME. I know you’ve won championships and been in some huge moments. And yet, I have to wonder if being so good so fast led you to believe you are better than you are. One thing I have noticed is that when someone consistently wins early in their career, the eventual setbacks hit a little harder and a lot deeper. I don’t know what you know about me. However, I’m learning more about myself every day. I don’t know yet what I’ll be capable of once I reach my full potential. I have noticed that intelligence isn’t the same thing as being naive, and I’m seeing that I can learn things when I set my mind to it. The sky is the limit, I suppose. I don’t know what tomorrow brings, other than knowing that I will be training as soon as I wake up every morning leading up to our match, that I’ll be studying everything about you, who you are, what your tendencies are, how you move, the strategies you employ, all because I am determined to be the very best version of myself that I am capable of being right now. I heard you talking to Kenny Freeman last week. You seem like a nice guy. However, I think you’re just a little more patronizing than you'd like people to believe you are. I think you look down on people like him. I think you would have him believe you care about his plight, that you may even want to show him an open door to being more than a lackey, or, as you put it, ‘A stick that’s so fucking far up the Red Army’s ass?’ Such language. Actual friendly people don’t talk the way that you talk, Mr. Hanlon. I think your words are empty. I think you like to say the things that friendly people say, but you’re just like everyone else who looks down on people like Kenny Freeman. And then, of course, after you defeated him, you stood there while the people let you know that they see through you just like I do, not that you noticed. And what will you say to me, I wonder? I’m looking forward to finding out. Are you going to ask me if I’m more than a ‘joke character’, as well? Whatever that means. I think Kenny is Kenny, and I am Scott. We aren’t characters. We are people. Some people are meant to be much more than they are right now, while others have already become all that they will ever be. I guess you think I’ll be making jokes. I could do that. Sometimes I can be funny, I guess. And sometimes people laugh, and I don’t know why. But I’m learning to be more serious when I need to be, also. I guess Kerry is rubbing off on me a little bit, just like I’ve rubbed off on him. Maybe Kenny isn’t capable of more. You certainly got your win over him in round one. Perhaps he will be more someday. And what about you, Mr. Hanlon? Are you still becoming something greater, or have you reached your peak? Your resume is already impressive. Is winning the Almasy what you need to take that next step in your mind? Is that what would make you whole again? Are you forever chasing an image in your mind that you haven’t been able to make a reality lately? Is there no more progress these days? I don’t know the answers to any of these questions any more than you do. But I’ve heard enough from you to know that I don’t need your encouragement. I don’t want to know your thoughts on the matter because I don’t think they are as important as you do. I’m sorry if this is harsh, but don’t tell me what you think, because I don’t care. Or is blowing smoke up everyone’s ass with a condescending smile and a pat on the back your ‘character’? I think you’ve already punched your ticket to round three in your mind. You won’t say that, but everyone who pays the slightest bit of attention to you knows it’s true. Like I said, I’ve been reading, I’ve been studying, and even the most interesting books sometimes start fast and then slow to a disappointing crawl. It’s okay if that turns out to be you, Mr. Hanlon. Don’t be so hard on yourself. You are tough, you are talented, and undoubtedly one of the most gifted people to have ever stepped into a wrestling ring, or else you wouldn’t be here. I don’t know if I can beat you, but I am challenging myself to find out through hard work and by pushing myself to my limits, not through false humility and desperate grasps at endless straws. I would never want to be in your shoes, losing myself the way you have. Someday, maybe some other little kid will look up to me, and I wouldn’t want him to end up booing me the way fans boo you now. I’m sorry about your plans. I know how big they are. I have plans, too. I hope you find what you’re looking for, just not at my expense. There could be a Russian waiting for me just around the corner if I can figure you out. But I’m not a little kid wishing I was Jason Snow anymore, and I guess that’s where you and I are no longer the same. I’m still looking at my future with some hope, while you’re spending your life chasing something that you can never be, chasing a feeling that you will never be able to catch with any amount of wins, or gold, or approval. You are fake and condescending because when you try to figure out who you are, you don’t like what you see, so you hide it behind false encouragement and a stupid mustache. You’re a ‘character’. I just want to be Scott. I apologize if I haven’t made you laugh today.

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The heat clung to Scott, even inside the conditioned air of Emma’s beat-up sedan. July 4th fireworks had faded into memory, replaced by the relentless hum of the highway and the rising mercury. He leaned his head back against the worn fabric of the passenger seat, the rhythmic thump-thump-thump of the tires against the road a hypnotic sound to his ears. Across the console, Emma gripped the steering wheel with an intensity usually reserved for defusing a bomb. Her eyes, magnified by her prescription glasses, scanned the road ahead. “You sure he said ‘you’?” Emma asked, her voice a low rumble, the question already having been asked approximately seventeen times since they left Scott’s apartment. “Not, like, ‘someone’ or ‘anyone’?” Scott chuckled. “He said Scott. My name. S-C-O-T-T. Pretty sure he knows who I am, Em. Been his son for, what, twenty-eight years now?” “Hmm,” Emma grunted, a sound that could mean anything from mild skepticism to deep-seated concern. “He never asks for help. Not even when that oak tree fell on the garage roof, remember? He just got up there with a chainsaw and a prayer.” “Maybe he’s mellowing out,” Scott offered, ever the optimist. He stretched his muscles, honed by his training, rippling beneath his simple t-shirt. The thought of his upcoming match against Hayes Hanlon flickered in his mind, a distant yet thrilling prospect. But today was about Dad. “Mellowing out? Dad?” Emma scoffed, a short, sharp burst of air. “The man who thinks emotions are a foreign language spoken only by people who don’t know how to properly change their oil?” Scott laughed, a genuine, hearty burst. The landscape outside blurred into a monotonous green. The air conditioner was fighting a losing battle against the sun, its efforts more a suggestion than a command. “Still, it’s just … weird,” Emma mused, her brow furrowed. “He calls you, the one who thinks a wrench is something you throw into a good plan. What could he possibly need help with that he can’t do himself?” “Maybe he misses me,” Scott said, a hopeful lilt in his voice. He knew it was a long shot. His dad was never one for displays of affection, not even subtle ones. A few months ago, after a match, he had come close, but even that was delivered with the emotional equivalent of a grumble. Emma snorted. “He misses the way your car handles after he’s tuned it up, maybe. Not your sparkling personality, baby brother.” Scott just smiled. He loved that Emma wanted to protect him. Besides, he had a good feeling about this. A little father-son bonding, a few chores, maybe even a beer on the porch. It sounded like a perfect day. The miles ticked by. The highway gave way to state roads, then county routes, and finally, the familiar, winding back roads that led to their father’s house. Miami never suited him. It was their mother’s hometown, not his. He moved the family back out to the country after she died. Besides, that house had too many memories bouncing around its walls. Scott grew up out here, despite his claims that he grew up ‘in the small village of Miami’. In truth, it was here, some one hundred fifty miles North of the city. The asphalt grew rougher, the trees denser, their branches forming a leafy tunnel overhead. The air, even through the half-hearted AC, carried the scent of pine and damp earth. “Almost there,” Emma said, her voice taking on a softer, more familiar tone. Scott always loved coming home, even if home was a modest ranch-style home that always seemed to be one step away from falling into a gentle state of disrepair. It was a very lived-in place, full of character and the ghosts of childhood memories. They turned onto the gravel driveway, the tires crunching loudly. The house, a single-story structure of faded yellow siding, sat nestled amongst overgrown bushes and a lawn that had seen better days. A rusty pickup truck, a relic from his dad’s mechanic days, sat parked askew near the porch. The porch itself sagged slightly to one side, and a loose shingle dangled precariously from the roof, flapping gently in the breeze. Emma scanned the house, a worried crease forming between her brows. As they stepped out of the car, the heat enveloped them full like a suffocating blanket. The only sound was the distant drone of cicadas and a faint clinking of something metallic from around the back of the house. “Guess he’s out back,” Scott said, pointing. “Probably wrestling with a stubborn bolt.” They walked around to the back, past a wilting rose bush and a collection of mismatched garden tools left haphazardly near a faded plastic shed. The clinking grew louder, accompanied by a low, guttural moan. Emma’s hand instinctively went to Scott’s arm, a silent warning. They rounded the corner and saw him. Their father, a man forged from years of grease and toil, was hunched over a rusty lawnmower, a wrench clutched in his hand. His usually strong shoulders were slumped, and his movements were slow, almost hesitant. He wore his customary stained work shirt, but it seemed looser than Scott remembered. His hair was now streaked with more gray than black, and his face, usually a roadmap of gruff determination, was pale, almost ashen. “Hey Dad!” Scott called out, trying to inject some cheerfulness into a voice that he didn’t quite feel. Their father startled, dropping the wrench with a dull clang. He straightened slowly, painfully, a soft groan escaping his lips. He turned, his eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, seemed a little unfocused. A thin sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead, but it looked less like exertion and more like fever. “Scott. Emma,” he said, his voice rougher than usual. He managed a weak smile, a rare sight. “Glad you made it. Traffic wasn’t too bad, I hope.” “No worse than usual,” Emma said, forcing a smile of her own. She walked over to him, her gaze raking over his face, her concern palpable. “You okay, Dad?” Their father waved a dismissive hand, a gesture meant to convey strength but only highlighting his weakness. “Just warm out here. This old mower’s being a pain. Thought maybe Scott could give me a hand.” He gestured vaguely at the lawnmower, then at a pile of splintered wood near the back fence. “Got a few other things too. Fence needs mending. Gutters are clogged.” Scott exchanged a quick, worried glance with Emma. This was more than just a few chores. This was a list that seemed more like a disguised plea for help. And the way their dad looked… “Dad, are you sure you’re alright?” Scott asked, stepping closer. He noticed a tremor in his father’s hand as he reached for a rag to wipe his brow. “You don’t look so good.” “Nonsense,” their father scoffed, though with less than his usual conviction. He straightened his back, a visible effort. “Just a bit of a summer cold. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t fix.” “A summer cold that makes you moan like a dying man over a lawnmower?” Emma challenged, her voice sharper now. She reached out, gently touching his forehead. He flinched slightly at her touch. “Dad, you’re burning up!” “Just warm,” he insisted, pulling away. “Been out here all morning. You know how it is.” But they did know how it is. Their father, the man who could work through a broken arm without a complaint, was now wilting in the summer sun over a lawnmower. Something was wrong. “What exactly have you been doing all morning?” Scott pressed, his voice gentle but firm. He looked at the lawnmower. It looked like it hadn’t been touched in weeks. The fence, too, seemed untouched, its splintered wood bleached by the sun. Their father sighed a long, weary sound. “Tried to get this thing started. But it’s… It’s just not cooperating. And the fence, well, the windstorm last week did a number on it. Just need a few extra hands.” “Dad, tell us what’s going on,” Emma said, her voice insistent. Her eyes were now filled with deep, maternal concern. “You never ask for help. And you look like you’ve been run over by a truck. What is it?” He turned away, his eyes fixed on the distant tree line. A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the relentless buzz of the cicadas. Scott felt a knot of dread tighten in his stomach. This wasn’t a cold. This was something else. Something serious. Finally, their father spoke, his voice barely a whisper. “It’s nothing. Just… these old bones. Not as young as I used to be, you know.” He tried a weak chuckle, but it caught in his throat, turning into a raspy cough. Their father’s eyes, usually so guarded, flickered with a raw vulnerability that Scott had rarely, if ever, seen. He saw the pride battling with something deeper, something akin to fear. He saw a man who had always been self-sufficient, now facing the harsh reality of his mortality. “It’s… It’s just a bit of a cough,” he finally said, his voice barely audible. “And I get tired easily. The doctor says it’s… nothing serious. Just getting old.” He ended with a forced, dismissive wave of his hand, but his eyes betrayed him. “A cough? And tired?” Emma echoed, her voice laced with skepticism. “Dad, you’ve worked as a mechanic for fifty years. You could rebuild an engine blindfolded. You’ve never been ‘tired’ in your life.” “Everyone gets tired, Emma,” he snapped, a flash of his old self returning, but it was a weak imitation. The fight had gone out of him. “Is it your lungs?” Scott asked, his voice low. He remembered the occasional smoker’s cough his dad used to have years ago. “Is it something serious?” Their father’s shoulders slumped. He looked down at his calloused hands, turning them over and over. “They’re running tests,” he mumbled, the words barely escaping his lips. “Just… routine. Nothing to worry about.” It was a plea, a desperate attempt not to burden his children. “Dad,” Emma said, her voice soft. “Why didn’t you tell us?” He shrugged. “Didn’t want to worry you kids. You've got your own lives. Scott, you’re doing so well. Didn’t wanna be a distraction.” The tournament flashed in Scott’s head. How could he focus on wrestling when his father was ill? “You’re never a distraction, Dad,” Scott said, his voice thick with emotion. He reached out and placed a hand on his father’s shoulder. His father didn’t flinch this time. He just stood there, a defeated figure against the backdrop of his neglected home. “We’re staying,” Emma declared, her voice firm. “We’re not leaving until we know what’s going on. And we’re taking you to the doctor. A proper one.” Their father sighed. “No need for all that fuss. I’m fine.” But his eye, meeting Scott’s, held a flicker of something else - relief. They spent the rest of the afternoon in a strange, subdued mood. Scott tried to tackle the chores, but couldn’t focus. He kept glancing at his father, who sat on the porch swing, looking out at the yard, with a distant, melancholic look in his eyes. Emma, ever practical, went inside and started cleaning, the swish-swish sound of a broom echoing, followed by the clatter of dishes. Later, as the sun began to dip below the horizon, painting the sky in orange hues, Scott sat on the porch steps beside his father. “You know, you were always good at fixing things, Scott,” his father said, his voice softer now, almost nostalgic. “Even when you were little. Remember, you tried to fix my old radio with a screwdriver and a piece of gum?” He chuckled. “You always wanted to help…” His voice trailed off.

Scott looked at his father, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Scott put his hand on his dad's shoulder again.

"I still want to help."

There was a glint in his father's eye. Scott smiled slightly, and his dad loosened up a bit. “This match coming up. It’s a big one, right?” Scott nodded. “They all are.” “You’ll do good. Always believed in you.” The words hit Scott hard. This was his dad, even now, trying to give his son strength. After a few more moments of silence, Emma managed to get their father to come inside for a light dinner. Scott remained on the porch, where he listened to the crickets and stared out at a sky full of stars. Everyone found Scott so simple for so long, but life was becoming anything but simple. His phone buzzed in his pocket. He pulled it out and stared at the screen. It wasn’t a good time. Not right now. He tucked it away without acknowledging the message, took a deep breath, then stood and walked inside.

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