'The Chariot' or: The Other Side of Despair

Previously

A jingle plays.

The audience claps.

I’m in the backyard.

The grill’s fired up. I’m flippin’ burgers, apron wrapped ‘round me that says ‘CAN’T GET FULL ON FANCY’.

The audience laughs.

Blue sky overhead. A speaker’s playin’ “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang. The house behind me, it’s one of them Craftsmen you always see linin’ the suburbs.

White picket fence.

Above ground pool.

The American Dream, straight outta a sitcom.

There’s a whole mess of folks minglin’ ‘round. I recognize most of ‘em. Donny Winters and Rob Williams, talkin’ to my brother Frankie. Hugo and Jimmy floatin’ in the pool next to Fred, Harley, and STRONK. Coral, leanin’ up ‘gainst the fence, chattin’ up Bambi with a baby in her arms. My dad in his wheelchair, a beer in hand.

Hell, even ol’ Larry Lawson, off by himself in a lawn chair.

Natalie comes runnin’ through the crowd wearin’ a big ol’ smile, a puppy chasin’ after her with tail just a-waggin’.

“Daddy!” She shouts, all sorts of excited. “I taught Buster how to sit! Look!”

The audience coos.

“Well, heck!” I say. ”Buster’s gettin’ ‘bout as smart as you are, ain’t he?”

The audience laughs.

She giggles and runs off, Buster chasin’ after her.

A glass door slides open behind me and there's Cora slinkin’ up, carryin’ a tray of hamburger buns. I give her a little smirk when she walks up beside me. White gold and diamonds glimmer on her ring finger.

“Hey there, honey,” I say. “Nice buns and I ain’t talkin’ ‘bout that tray you’re handlin’.”

The audience laughs.

“Keep up that sweet talk, ‘Tona,” She says. “You know I love to hear it.”

She turns to leave.

“Hey, hold your horses,” I say. “Ain’tcha gonna kiss the cook?”

Cora turns back to me with a big ol’ grin ‘fore she leans in and kisses me hard on the lips.

The audience whistles.

When she pulls away, she whispers ‘gainst my lips, “See you after dinner, cowboy.”

I can’t take my eyes off.

This is it, I think to myself. This is happiness. This is what I’ve been waitin’ for. Ain’t no pain. Ain’t no fear. It’s all so easy.

Until it ain’t.

There’s a low rumble in the distance.

The audience murmurs.

I look up from the grill.

The wind stops blowin’.

The sky goes black.

Not like night. There ain’t no stars. Just complete darkness. I clench my jaw as I look ‘round at the guests. They don’t even notice. They’re still talkin’. Still laughin’.

One by one, I watch my friends, my family, even my worst enemies burst into flames.

It’s sudden and immediate, like the wick of a candle. None of ‘em seem to mind. Not as their skin singes and burns away. Not as their flesh crackles with embers. Not as they're engulfed. Not even as I start to scream.

The audience screams too.

I try to say somethin’, but ain’t no words comin’ out. I try to move, but I’m frozen in place. Watchin’. Starin’ as they all burn ‘til they’re nothin’ but pillars of ash.

All except one person.

Someone I ain’t even noticed was there.

The audience is screechin’.

Cryin’.

Speakin’ in tongues.

Vera saunters across the lawn, weavin’ 'tween the burnt-out husks of everyone I’ve ever known. Her hair is an inferno, but the rest of her is just fine, clad in black, a smirk on her face.

She don’t speak at first.

She just leans in real close.

Slow.

The audience goes quiet.

I can already feel the flames lickin’ at my feet.

She whispers ‘gainst my ear.

“L'existence humaine commence de l'autre côté du désespoir…”

She kisses my cheek just ‘fore I begin to burn. ◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

I. Comedown

I woke up gaspin’, wadin’ in a pool of my own sweat; wide-eyed, still tryna separate dreams from reality. The room was quiet. A little pile of cocaine sat idle on a tray on my bedside table ‘longside half-drank glasses of wine. Vera laid sleepin’ beside me, curled up on her side.

She’d landed in Vegas the day before and I’d picked her up at the airport. She came bearin’ all the same fruits I’d already plucked from her tree, but after enough time and enough distance, they’d tasted even sweeter than I remembered. She didn’t look pregnant and I didn’t ask her why. We both had other things on our minds. She sucked me off on the car ride back to Golden Nugget, leanin’ her head down from the passenger seat while I gripped the steerin’ wheel with one hand and tangled the other in her black hair.

We spent the afternoon fuckin’, snortin’, and actin’ like we ain’t seen each other in years.

I kept feelin' guilty with her 'neath me. Thinkin' 'bout Cora. Hell, even thinkin' 'bout Bambi.

The heart sure is a deceitful sonuvabitch, huh?

Vera started stirrin’, murmurin’ in her sleep ‘fore her eyes cracked open. A slow smile crept ‘long her lips when she saw me. “Ah, mon ami,” She muttered. “How did you sleep?”

“Not great,” I muttered, wipin’ the sleep from my eyes. “Got a headful of bad dreams, I reckon…”

Vera moved to sit up, her naked body all bathed in mornin’ light as she wrapped her arms ‘round me from behind, her chin perchin’ on my shoulder. “Poorest baby,” She said. “That’s nothing that we can’t fix, no?”

I didn’t say nothin’.

Her touch felt strange, foreign, wrong.

When she nuzzled ‘gainst my neck, I turned away.

When she kissed my cheek, I winced.

I pulled away, standin’ up and startin’ ‘cross the room. I heard her start to say somethin’, but I was already out the bedroom and halfway down the stairs.

I grabbed a blanket off the back of the couch, wrappin' it ‘round my waist ‘fore I stepped out on the balcony, pluckin’ a half-smoked cigarette from the ashtray. I stared out into the suburban sprawl just a few blocks away, the creased sands further still, the pockmarked hills juttin’ out on the horizon. I would’ve given anything to sprout wings and take off towards all that; anywhere but in that fuckin’ hotel room, my mind already made up ‘bout what was gonna happen next.

When Vera came out, she walked on bare feet. I didn’t look at her, but I could tell she was poutin’. It was in that slow approach, the tone of her voice. “Cheri…?” She asked. “Are you okay…?”

I sighed. Naw, I weren’t okay. I was a fuckin’ trainwreck. I was a walkin’ disaster, too fucked up to keep anything together other than a wrasslin’ career constantly on the verge of goin’ off the rails and a coke habit severe ‘nough to make ol’ a wall street banker blush. I weren’t fuckin’ okay. I was circlin’ the goddang drain.

“Listen,” I said, bitin’ at my lower lip. “I… don’t think we oughta keep doin’ this, Vera.”

I looked at her. She weren’t tearin’ up. She weren’t poutin’ or nothin’ neither. No, her eyes were narrowin’ into slivers, upper lip already snarlin’ up, head tiltin’ to the side just ‘nough to feign a questionin’ gaze.

“...what do you mean, Daytona?” She still spoke so eloquently, even through clenched teeth.

“C’mon now. You know what I mean,” I said. “This whole thing. You and me. It… ain’t good for me, Vera. Probably ain’t good for you neither. I mean… ever since we met, it’s been a downward spiral, ain’t it? Sex and drugs is fun as hell, but maybe… it ain’t the best foundation to build a house on, y’know?”

I didn’t mention Cora. I sure as shit didn’t mention Natalie. All the same, the way that woman looked at me, it felt like she knew all the real reasons why. There was a fire formin’ in her pupils. Her hands were ballin’ up into fists and then she was barin’ her teeth. ‘Fore I could stop it, one of them fists came barrelin' towards me, catchin' me right in the fuckin’ eye, knuckles collidin’ and sendin’ me reelin’ backwards. I gripped onto the railin’ to keep from fallin’ over, my brain tryna catch up with the sudden assault.

“You are a son of a bitch,” Vera growled, rage and anger poisonin’ her words. “Fuck you, Daytona!”

She stormed back into the hotel suite ‘fore I could gather up my wits. I heard her inside, rummagin’ and ragin’ and screamin’ French words I weren’t even ‘bout to understand. I stood dumbstruck, clutchin’ that blanket ‘round my waist to keep my dick from floppin’ out, reachin’ up with my free hand to feel the sore flesh ‘round my eye.

Five minutes later, she came rushin’ back down the stairs, fully dressed with her hair up in a bun, draggin’ her suitcase behind her and lettin’ it fall hard on each step. She stared at me as she made her way down, still screamin’. When she reached the bottom of the stairs, she stopped and pointed an accusin’ finger out towards me.

“This is not over, Daytona,” She said. “This is not over until I say that it’s over. You will see. Just you wait. You will fucking see.”

And just like that, she left, slammin’ the door behind her.

I stood there on the balcony blinkin’, ears still ringin’ and cigarette still burnin’ ‘tween my fingers ‘fore I flicked it off the balcony and down to the streets below.

“Welp,” I said. “Reckon that went worse than expected.” ◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

II. Long Drive

So, with a blackened eye and guilt like a buckshot, I got in my truck and started drivin’ towards Carson City.

Don’t ask me why. Thought just came skitterin’ ‘cross my head somewhere ‘tween Vera stormin’ off and me snortin’ up the last of the cocaine; waste not, want not. I started thinkin’ ‘bout my hometown and then I started reminiscin’. Started thinkin’ ‘bout my dad too. I hadn’t seen him in… months? Last thing I ‘member him sayin’ was how disappointed he was in me… and then there was that visit from Frankie a few months ago, tellin’ me the cancer came back.

It weren’t like I missed him or nothin’. It ain’t like it’s easy to miss someone who’s loomed over your life like a dark shadow since you was a kid, it was just…

I’m five years old.

Mom's cookin'. Frankie's in bed.

I’m sittin’ crosslegged on the floor, three feet from the TV screen, watchin’ my dad wrassle a match ‘gainst ‘The Soviet Surfer’ Felix Montgomery.

The Berlin Wall fell the same year I was born. Couple years later, whole damn Soviet Union collapsed, but most red-blooded, god-fearin’ Americans still held more hate in their heart from the Commies than they did for just ‘bout anyone else. Reckon it was a generational wound, huh? A scar that weren’t gonna heal.

Felix Montgomery, he’s this bleach blonde surfer boy from California, but he’s started carryin’ a surfboard with the ol’ hammer and sickle painted on it. He’s cuttin’ promos ‘bout how America can’t never compare to the Soviets, how capitalism’ll be the death of us all. The fans keep booin’, but Felix keeps winnin’ ‘til he’s got the world title ‘round his waist. 

Now my dad, “Diamondback” Jack Desmonds, is whoopin’ his ass six ways to Sunday.

I’m hootin’ and hollerin’, clappin’ my hands with every suplex, every bodyslam, every neckbreaker. The crowd is goin’ nuts and my dad, he’s lookin’ like a goddang hero. Ol’ Felix, he’s pullin’ out all the stops, though.

No one expects my daddy to win. He ain’t on the same level as ‘The Soviet Surfer’...

And then it happens.

The commentator, he starts screamin’, “By God! Desmonds just hit the Rattlesnake DDT! He’s gonna do it! He’s gonna…” The ref starts countin’. The fans count with him. So do I.

ONE…

TWO…

THREE!

“A Country Boy Can Survive” by Hank Williams Jr. starts bangin’ through them speakers while the crowd loses their goddang minds. 

And there I am.

Five years old.

Watchin’ my daddy hoist the world title up ‘bove his head.

…out in the desert, the roads just keep on goin’ in a straight line, from here to eternity. Ain’t much to see. Even less to do. It was a seven hours ‘tween Vegas and Carson City. I did what I could to keep myself occupied; turned up the radio and sang along, called up Cora and talked to her for a good forty minutes ‘bout how she was doin’, how Natalie was doin’, how I was doin’. ‘Bout halfway there, I just gave in to the silence.

Eventually, I started thinkin’ ‘bout my match at ‘gainst ol’ Kenny Freeman, ‘bout how it might not’ve been cut from the same cloth as my daddy’s match ‘gainst Felix, but it sure as shit was made in the same textile factory. Freeman weren’t no champion, but here we had a California boy turnt Commie. Don’t know if Kenny knew how to surf, but I wouldn’t put it past him; peckerwood like that, he were just ‘bout bound to pick the worst fuckin’ way to rip waves.

Fact is, I never paid too much mind to Kenny. Reckon I just seent him as some weird, shitty extension of ol’ Ivan’s ego; less a livin’, breathin’ human being and more a walkin’, talkin’ punchline. But Commies, they're sneaky motherfuckers and with my boy Harley hangin’ ‘bove the ring, I couldn’t have him gettin’ caught up in some Commie crossfire. Randall Schwartz’d be there too and I reckon that might've look like mutually assured destruction to some folks, but c'mon. One Harley Walker is worth fifty Randall Schwartzes.

So, what’s it take to beat the tar outta’ve a Commie turncoat?

Maybe that question was what I was thinkin’ when I got to Carson City. Maybe that was the whole reason I started drivin’. Maybe that was why I pulled up outside my childhood home, sittin’ in the car with my hands on the steerin’ wheel, tryna garner up the gumption to go inside. Maybe I wanted to ask dad how he did it, see if he could help me come up with a good enough game plan.

Or maybe it was just an excuse.

Maybe I just wanted to talk to my dad one last time. ◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇◆◇

III. Reunion

I walked ‘cross the yard and up to the front door. I started to knock, but hell, I lived there for eighteen years. Ain’t like it weren’t my home, in a roundabout way.

Besides all that, the door was unlocked, so I just let myself in.

“Dad…?” I shouted. “You home…?”

No answer. I walked into the den, that sacred room that housed all my dad’s memorabilia from his wrasslin’ years. Pictures. News clippings. Ring gear. Among all that, the title belt he won off ol’ Felix hung on the wall, a centerpiece that tied the whole it all together. There was a picture of dad standin’ victorious over a fallen Felix Montgomery hung up next to it and I imagined that’d be me in a few days, standin’ over Kenny Freeman, holdin’ my title up in the air with another victory to my name.

If nothin’ else, I figured dad’d be proud.

I started wanderin’ the house, room by room. Walkin’ through your childhood home ain’t nothin’ like you ‘pect it to be; there’s nostalgia, sure, but there’s somethin’ else ‘neath all that. A longin’? Some lonesome callin’ towards a simpler time when everything was easier, better, happier.

But this world ain’t made for lastin’ happiness. Naw, that’s never been the deal.

Upstairs, I heard a beepin’ at the end of the hall. Rhythmic. Constant. Sounded like a smoke alarm with a dyin’ battery. I started walkin’ towards it, feelin’ a weight in my chest like I knew somethin’ bad was ‘bout to happen, like the universe were whisperin’ in my ear, tellin’ me to turn back.

I didn’t turn back, though.

I kept walkin'.

At the end, there was a cracked door and darkness within.

I pushed it open.

…and there he was. He looked so goddang thin, skin like gossamer, a skeleton dipped in candlewax. His hair was all gone and so was most his beard, the medical bed pushed up ‘gainst the wall and his eyes shut tight. Tubes and wires from equipment all tangled and attached to him ‘neath the sheets, a cornucopia of medicine bottles sittin’ on a dresser nearby. My dad, reduced to nothin’ but a figment of his former self.

I stood in the doorway, a lump in my throat and an ache in my heart.

All of a sudden, nothin’ seemed to matter.

Not Vera.

Not Kenny Freeman.

Not even Cora and all the topsy-turvy feelin’s ‘bout me and her.

I went to stand next to the bed, just starin’ down at him. He didn’t even know I was there. My head felt dizzy and then my cheeks felt wet and, when I spoke, my voice came out as a cracklin’, sputterin’ thing.

“D-dad…?” I stuttered.. “It’s me. It’s Daytona.”

Somewhere, the audience laughs.

“...sorry I ain’t been ‘round, it’s just…” My words trailed off and I shook my head. “...god. You... you can hear me, can’t you?”

Somewhere, the audience cries.

“I’ve been… doin’ good,” I told him, lyin’ through my teeth. “Real good… Winnin’ alotta matches. Got myself a championship and everything. Even got a match with a goddang Commie next week. Guess I’m finally catchin’ up with you, huh...?”

Somewhere, the audience cheers.

“You… uh… you ‘member Cora, right?" I asked. “Yeah, well, me and her… we… we started talkin’ again. Met my daughter for the first time. Her name’s Natalie. Bet she’d love to meet her grandpa...”

Somewhere, the audience claps.

“I’m… tryna do right for once, y’know? Tryna live up to your expectations,” I told him. “Tryna get off the cocaine. Tryna… tryna live the rest of my life without bein’ such a fuckin’ disappointment. It… it ain’t easy, dad. It ain’t fuckin’ easy…”

Somewhere, the audience screams.

He was barely breathin’. He was barely even there. I reached out and touched one of his hands, curlin' my fingers ‘round his and, for a long time, I didn’t say nothin’ at all. I just watched him, hopin’ his eyes would crack open, hopin’ he’d say somethin’, hopin’ he’d smile when he saw me. He never did.

I wiped away the last few tears, shakin’ off the chills crawlin’ ‘neath my skin. I went back downstairs, back into the den to where the World Title was hangin’ on the wall. I pulled it down from its mount, tucked it under my arm, and walked back upstairs, back down that hall, back into that dark little room where my dad would eventually, inevitably, undoubtedly die. I splayed the belt out ‘cross his waist, chokin’ back a whole new stream of tears as I looked down at him, a champion one last time.

“Love you, dad,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”

When I left, my head was still spinnin’, my heart doin’ cartwheels in my chest, my stomach all twisted up in knots. As I walked out on the front porch, a car was pullin’ into the driveway and there was Frankie behind the steerin’ wheel. His eyes were stuck on me, a confused expression on his face as he opened the driver’s side door, callin’ out past the hood ‘fore I had the chance to run away.

“Daytona…?” He asked. “What are you doing here…?”

“I dunno. I just…”  I shook my head, shruggin' my shoulders. “...figured I’d stop by, y’know?”

“Oh,” Frankie said. "Alright...”

He closed the car door behind him and crossed the few feet ‘tween the driveway and the front porch to meet me. For a few seconds, we just stood there, him starin’ at me and me tryin’ my best to look away.

“He’s… not doing great, Daytona,” Frankie said. “He doesn’t have much time left.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I kinda figured that out…”

There it was again. That silence. The rift ‘tween us still so vast, so immeasurable.

“Listen,” Frankie said. “I’m… sorry about the way things have been. Between us, I mean... I know I fucked up, Daytona.”

“Well, you ain’t the only one, Frankie,” I told him. “I just… I… goddammit.”

‘Fore I knew what I was doin’, I threw my arms out wide and wrapped ‘em tight ‘round my brother. His body tensed up as I pulled him in close for a hug, startin’ to cry all over again. Slowly, he relaxed, pattin’ me on the back, lettin’ out a long sigh like the weight of the world just lifted off his shoulders.

“C’mon,” He said. “Let’s go inside... I think we need to talk, huh?”

I nodded my head, wipin' away the tears, snifflin' and swallowin' and tryin' not to fall to pieces 'fore I followed him back inside, a thousand apologies already ringin' in my ears.