poetry
The Wrestler
I boarded the plane and sat down armed with a book that would guarantee me
silence. He boarded and took the seat next to me. I adopted the body
language that says don't talk, don't bother me: I looked out the window; I
opened my book. If only I had brought headphones I thought. THAT would have
been obvious.
He seemed to be staring at me. I took a sideways glance. The Satanic Bible
was perched on his tray. I looked back at my book. I could tell he wanted to
talk to me. I felt more irritated than if two babies screaming had been
thrust upon my lap.
He started speaking. He was 19 and a wrestler from Canada, from the coldest
part of Canada. I thought: record his every word. Pretend you are a
reporter. Make this bearable.
He was recruited from high school. He was told to adopt a persona, maybe a
Marilyn Manson type. That's how he got his first tattoo. They paid for it.
His hands are mangled. He's not yet 20 but he's full of scars. Oh, some of
those are self inflicted he said. We get an extra twenty bucks if we bleed.
He describes how he was taught to hide a razor in his sock and cut himself
during a fight. The crowds love it he reports. He whips out his imaginary
razor and swipes his brow. That's how I got that one and it was an extra
twenty bucks, he says. They want him to be 'darker' so last week he was
given the Satanic Bible.
He lives in an apartment in Tustin. They set him up there. He likes living
in Tustin because it's pretty close to Hollywood and he might just get
discovered. He has a phone but no car. He needs the phone for the last
minute phone calls. They tell him where his next match will be. He wishes he
could drink. He could drink in Canada.
I wonder what the total salary is. I wonder about his mother. There he sits,
next to me, a mother craving the quiet of a plane. He has tattoos, scars,
fresh wounds, and haunting eyes. He is a little child, I think. He is a
little child living alone in Tustin, spending a small series of eternities
waiting for phone calls, cutting himself, and waiting to be discovered.
– e slee
© Copyright elisa slee 2001
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