Short Bus Hero (16 page)

24. Hobophobia
/ hōˈ-bō-fōˈ-bē-ə /
fear of bums

I
t takes a hundred bucks,
cash, to get Stryker’s address out of the skeleton lady at the car dealership. After Lois hands her the bill, she coughs out the street name, dripping phlegm, floating on a cloud of smoke. “Thanks,” Lois says. Stryker should be back from Philly, since the wrestling match was last weekend, but they still haven’t heard from him, and he hasn’t been back to work. Lois hopes everything is okay, but she knows it isn’t.

Earl guides the new Cadillac up the mid-morning Braddock street at a crawl. Empty store fronts with broken windows and For Sale signs leaning out slide past. The siding on some of the houses is pretty much stripped of paint. Those houses are the same color as the mill-stained brick buildings that dot the street. What was once a KFC now appears to be a crack house, tagged appropriately with graffiti that says “Crack House.” Pairs of shoes tied together by the laces hang overhead from ancient telephone wires. Beer cans and brown paper bags with clear glass bottle necks peeping out line the gutters. The burnt shell of an old Ford Mustang sits on concrete blocks obstructing the sidewalk. The smell of piss and industry hangs heavy in the air.

Why do you people let things get like this? I don’t get it.

Humans are lazy. It’s a universal truth. I’ll tell you a secret: you will never have to worry about aliens coming to kidnap you and making you their slaves. There are much harder workers in the galaxy.

“Five forty-three,” Lois says, pointing. “There it is. Earl, pull over.”

There is no way he wants to park the brand-new car in this neighborhood, even at this time of day. He fought Lois like crazy to shell out their daughter’s money for a new ride. But, scanning the sinister streetscape, he knows he can’t let his wife go up to the door alone. Or even with just Ally. A bum on the other side of the street watches them climb out of the car. He looks hungry. Earl presses the alarm button on his key.

Twice.

The three of them climb the rickety wooden steps, paint long worn off, to the door bearing a tarnished number one. Their shoes thump on the wooden slats of the front porch, the sound absorbed by the gray day. Earl hopes they don’t hit a rotted spot and fall through. No one answers the door when they ring the bell. They don’t hear a sound from the inside, so they rightly assume the doorbell does not work. Lois knocks. She’s not sure anyone even lives here. It looks abandoned. She thinks it might even be condemned. At least it should be. Maybe that receptionist gave them the wrong address.

They wait.

Nothing happens.

The bum across the street continues to watch them, lifting a forty ounce Colt 45 to his lips every few seconds. He’s got plenty of empties in his shopping cart, maybe even enough to cash in for another forty.

Earl pounds on the door.

Still, nothing happens.

“Look…look in the…the…the window,” Ally says. She hates being outside in the cold. Her fingers hurt because she forgot her mittens at home. She jams her hands in the pockets of her new North Face parka.

They can’t see through the transom—it’s too high.

“Not that one,” Ally says. She points to a window around the corner of the alcove they’re standing in. Many times, she’s a lot smarter than the company she keeps. Ha. Lois steps over to the picture window and peers through a slender gap between the edge of the glass and what appears to be a bed sheet hung inside.

“I don’t see anything,” she says.

Which is a lie.

She sees a broken chair, the back of an ugly plaid sofa, a pizza box on what she assumes is the kitchen floor, an ugly kitchen table, and an old pair of Asics wrestling boots.

She sees the ghost of Ally’s half-million dollars.

“We’re calling the police,” she says.

I whisper to her that I understand.

I whisper to her that it’s not true.

I whisper to her that there’s hope.

Yeah, there’s hope all right. Hope that I’m right.

25. Amaxophobia /
ə-makˈ-sə-fōˈ-bē-ə
/
fear of riding in vehicles

J
ason isn’t in
the best shape to travel. But, this trip is essential. Call it pivotal.

“Where are we going?” he asks from his wheelchair, bumping over a dip in the curb at the intersection. He is thin and ghostly, a vapor of his former self. Every bump in the sidewalk pushes him closer to vomiting in his lap. He’s blindfolded, making it that much more fun. Every bump feels like the edge of a cliff to him. Whee. He feels his heart rate cranking up.

The hour-long drive in the stretch Navigator had been comfortable for everyone but Jason. Ally kept smiling at him the whole time and singing to her Barbies, but he didn’t have the energy to talk much. He leaned his head against the window and watched the countryside slide past. It was a sight he’d grown used to, everything just sliding past. Ally could see the love of her life slipping away and it was getting harder and harder for both of them to hold on.

But, oh boy, she thinks, when he sees what I bought for him, he won’t dare die!

Oh, Ally. If only I could protect her.

Debra rolls Jason up the ramp to the VNO trailer, where their low-rent offices are located. Ally bends down next to the wheelchair and pulls off his blindfold. His hollow eyes open and first focus on the huge black and silver VNO banner draped across the wall behind what used to be Lee Cashbaugh’s desk. He swivels his head and tries to comprehend what he is looking at.

Debra wheels him behind the desk and he sits staring around.

“Well?” Ally is anxious for his response. She keeps snapping her fingers and rocking back and forth, hopping from one foot to the other.

“Where are we, Ally?” Jason asks her. He wants to go to sleep.

A shirtless pale hulking figure in black and white make-up crowds into the room holding a VNO baseball cap. His skin is as waxy and ashen-looking as Jason’s, but it’s different in that Raven’s is a tapestry of scar tissue and new scabs. He steps between Lois and Earl and smiles at the boy behind the desk.

“Hey, boss,” Raven says, handing Jason the hat.

A small crowd presses in the doorway to get a glimpse of the new boss. There had been rumors that they were getting bought out by retards, but no one had believed it. Surprise! The staff wonders if they’re going to lose their jobs or what. Surely this sick and disabled kid can’t run the place. Not even with the other one’s help. Huh.

Their selfishness amuses me.

“I’m not your boss,” Jason says, smiling. “Ally, look, it’s Raven!” He claps his skeletal hands and bounces in his wheelchair with as much exuberance as he can muster. Then he coughs. “What is this place?”

Ally laughs. “Work.”

“What?” Jason says, looking at Trish and Jeff.

“It’s work!” Ally shouts and claps, smiling and spitting everywhere. “This is your office. We own the…the…VNO, Jason!” Ally jumps up and down, rocking the mobile home they’re in, her elbow catching the corner of the gunmetal desk. “Ow.”

Jason is not getting it.

“Honey,” Trish says, walking around the desk and squatting next to him, “you’re the new Executive Vice President of the VNO.” She smiles at him through the tears in her eyes.

Jason gawks at her, mouth agape. His eyes flick to Ally, who is still rubbing her elbow. He looks back at his mother. She nods her head. Trish gets up and hugs Ally.

“You bought the VNO?”

“Yeah,” Ally says. “I bought it…it for…for you, fiancé.” She smiles at Jason, a bubble of saliva breaking at the corner of her flaky lips. Ally is actually the owner, per Tony Clifton’s advice, but she gave Jason an executive position. She can’t tell if he’s happy or sad.

Jason screams like a girl. “No way! Ohmygodohmygodohmygod! Dad!” Jason’s eyes roll behind his glasses and his face has the natural tinge of pink that has been missing for months. Jeff high fives him and puts the cap on his bald head. He can’t believe Ally did this for his boy.

Everyone is smiling and leaking tears and hugging.

Including me. Well, minus the hugging part.

Jason touches Heaven for the second time.

They say the third time’s the charm.

26. Catagelophobia /
kad-ə-jelˈ-ə-fōˈ-bē-ə
/
fear of ridicule

O
pen-mouthed grimaces
and grins whirl past in a continuous blur as Stryker rides Gemini’s infamous “death spin.” His mask comes untied, the aglets from the laces poke him in the eyes and are held there by gravity. Then, he feels himself falling fast and hard. The bloodied canvas jumps up to jar his spine and rock his skull. Gemini snatches the mask off of Stryker’s sweaty head, not bothering to look at his face yet. He struts to a distant corner to taunt the wannabes he’s already beaten, holding up the mask like some kind of hunting trophy.

Stryker doesn’t care that he’s been unmasked. In fact, now is a really good time for that. While Gemini’s back is turned, Stryker slips the blade fragment out of his wrist wrap and draws it quickly across his bare, sweaty forehead. He scrambles to his feet, drawing a surprised smattering of applause from the others.

Gemini turns around.

Shock registers on his face.

Stryker stands before him, a veil of blood and sweat tinting his defiant vision. “Come on, son,” Stryker yells. He’d never been much of a showman before, which is why Murray didn’t buy his contract, but, now, this guy is on a mission. “Is that all you got? Come on, Gramma! I’ll snap your head off and shit down your fat neck, you lame old sumbitch!”

Gemini lunges at him, madder than hell.

Stryker has a clear advantage—he hasn’t just wrestled nine other guys. His arm snakes around Gemini’s neck as he absorbs a head butt to the mid-section. Stryker’s other arm winds around Gemini’s waist and he holds him upside-down over the mat. Every muscle in Stryker’s torso strains and shakes.

He lets go, dropping Gemini on his head.

Ka-crunch!

Stryker rooster-struts to the corner and climbs the turnbuckle.

He takes a second to savor the expression of incredulity on Drake Murray’s face.

He yells to the crowd, waving his arms: “Yes, brothers, the old Stryker is dead, but the new one is alive and AWESOME!” The other candidates stand and cheer.

I cheer, too, but no one hears me (thanks be to God).

He jumps back into the ring, driving his elbow straight into the back of Gemini’s already injured neck. The point of his elbow connects directly with Gemini’s levator scapulae, compressing the bulging muscle tissue, bruising it. He’ll need to wear one of those marshmallow cervical collars you always see fakers on those TV court shows modeling for eye-rolling juries.

Stryker walks around the ring screaming: “I’m back and there’s Hell to pay!”

Drake Murray climbs into the ring and gets in Stryker’s face.

“Get the fuck out of my ring right now,” Murray screams, his face going crimson and veiny. “That’s my star.” He is humiliated and outraged. Who the fuck does Stryker think he is? How many times does Murray have to show someone the shitcan before they get the message? Un-freaking-real. “You can’t come in here and—”

“And what?” Stryker says. Despite his confidence, his whole body is shaking. Adrenaline. “Win? Win my way back in? Why not? I’m better than anyone here! Including that asshole,” he points to Gemini, who is trying to get up.

Oh, Stryker is loving this. Definitely made for TV stuff, right here, right now. Did Drake Murray, Maven of Melodrama, really not recognize that fact? Wow, tragic. The new and improved Stryker is solid gold, and the only way for him to go is up. But, Murray is too blind to see that.

This is the best wrestling drama I’ve ever see. And that’s a bold fucking statement.

“You have no personality.”

Whaaat? No, sir. Come on, is Murray that stupid?

“Nobody likes you. Nobody even hates you. You can’t move merchandise. You can’t draw crowds. You’re nothing but a fucking jobber!”

Okay, that may have been true about Stryker’s first couple of years, but, hadn’t Murray seen the more recent numbers? Stryker had been getting paid the big bucks and everything. Didn’t he see what he just did to his boy Gemini?

“Get out of my sight. I’m not taking you on. Ever.”

Murray launches a big green lugie right in Stryker’s eyes.

Humiliation jumps on Stryker’s back and digs in.

Shit.

I want to tell him that all is not lost. Yet.

But, it’ll be more fun to watch him figure that out for himself.

27. Gelotophobia
/ jə-lot-ō-fōˈ-bē-ə /
fear of being laughed at

“D
o you like vampires?”
the reporter asks.

“Yeah, I-I-I like them,” Ally says, “but Jason’s fa-favorite is…is…is the Moravian Raven.”

A crowd of reporters and camera men crowd once again into the Formans’ old front yard as Ally holds court from the tiny porch. They really need to move into the new house. Soon. It would look so good on-camera. The lawn has enough room for all these people. And it’s in a more private location. The address is kept secret, so people can’t send them any more sad letters or come to their front door, begging for cash.

Since Ally had won the lottery, she has been under constant siege by people hounding her for money. All the big charities send her personalized form letters, the hospital had an executive staff member call her, random people from all walks of life write to her. Of course, Lois doesn’t tell her about all the letters—she hoards most of them in the back of her bedroom closet, in boxes with Ally’s and Kevin’s baby clothes. If Ally read them, she’d give away every penny she has. Sometimes, random people show up in Jeffersonville, roaming the streets, staking out the town, until they find Ally. That’s a little harder than the mail for Lois to control. It’s tough to pull Ally away from some crying, single, crack-whore mother with a wailing baby on her hip and a dirty pre-schooler hanging on her ragged shirt sleeve. It can be scary sometimes, too. One time, a junkie, complete with crusted over needle tracks in his neck, knocked on the door and threatened Kevin with a knife. Ally wrote him a check for a hundred dollars just so he’d go away. It was crazy.

“And you bought the VNO for your friend?” the reporter continues.

“My fiancé. I love Jason,” she whispers, blushing and putting a hand over her eyes. The whole story comes out that her friend is suffering from acute myeloid leukemia and that Ally just wanted to make him smile. She tells the reporters how she and Jason had planned to get married someday—not to have babies, but to get married anyway, and live together forever. She goes on to say how their relationship was so much better, how everything was so much better, before she won the lottery. She tells of how she tried to commit suicide because she couldn’t make herself feel “normal,” even after she won all that money. She gets carried away and lets slip her mother’s terrible secret: that she’s one of those freaky hoarders who fills their house with collected trash until someone outs her. That really burns Lois up; she wants to smack that kid. Then, Ally tells how she wants to bring happiness to everyone. Through wrestling.

And her mother is proud.

It warms the heart of the nation.

It renews my faith in the human race.

And it makes Lois feel better about not having Ally declared incompetent. She did the right thing by leaving that alone.

“What else are you planning to do in wrestling? We heard that you wanted to help Stryker Nash…”

Ally looks at Lois, who stands next to her, arms folded across her chest, lips pursed. She still wants to call the police, but Ally says no. Ally wants to give Stryker a few more days. She has a “hunch,” she says. For some reason no one understands, she believes in Stryker. Call it faith.

Good job, Ally, I whisper.

“I…I…I’m w-wor-working with Stry-Stryker Nash right now,” she stammers, eyelids fluttering.

* * *

Across numerous state lines, Stryker switches off the national news in his hotel suite as Ally forces out that last sentence.

Across the Strip, in the bar at the WWC resort, Gemini and Drake Murray look at each other (Gemini twisting his entire torso since he’s unable to turn is head) and bust out laughing.

The heartless bastards.

(Sorry, little too emotional for an angel?)

* * *

Later on, the heartless bastards make a little trip to the resort next door.

“Hey, buddy,” Gemini and Drake walk up behind Stryker at the black jack table, laying their hands on his shoulders. Stryker glares at the dealer, gesturing to be hit.

Seventeen.

Dogshit on a shoe, Stryker thinks. Stick, he signals.

He says nothing to Murray and Gemini. He sees Gemini’s big faker collar out of the corner of his eye and enjoys one second of pride and joy. He drains his glass and waves to the cocktail waitress. He can’t believe these pricks showed up to hassle him.

Wait, yes, he can. He can believe it from Gemini, anyway. He’d never had any direct dealings with Murray before the whole buyout thing. He’s not sure why that man is so hostile toward him. He doesn’t care. It is what it is.

“Aw, what’s a matter, little guy?” Gemini snickers in his ear. “We heard the lottery winner’s gonna take care of you.” He makes a “duhhh” sound and pulls a stupid face.

Dealer gets black jack. Of course. Vegas sucks.

“Yeah, we hear that fucking mongoloid short bus rider is wor-wor-working with you right n-n-now.” Murray’s breath smells like smoked salmon and gin. “Maybe you could be the new Dr-Dra-Dracula in her pretend vampire world.” He and Gemini giggle like a couple of high school bitches, mean girls making fun of a retard.

Oh, what you freaking humans do to each other. I’d like to smack each and every one of you. I’m sure you all deserve at least one.

Stryker thrusts his face into Murray’s so they stand nose-to-nose. “Don’t you ever,
ever
fucking call her that again.” He glares into Murray’s eyes before turning to sweep his chips off the table and head for the exit, leaving Murray and Gemini to share a nervous laugh with the waitress.

He escapes out into the neon night, his self-loathing amplified by the passing tourists in loud shirts. No one is wearing jackets, even though tiny ice crystals still fall from the sky. The ass-hats from Indiana and North Dakota think they’re in fucking Hawaii or something. He hates Vegas.

Stryker thinks he will never wrestle again. Today was the fucking end of everything. He wonders how long he could last in Bermuda on the money he’s got left in his hotel room safe.

That was the original plan, why he was going to ask Ally for half a mil in the first place. He wishes he’d never watched the news that night, seen fuckface talking up goddamn Vegas Vilification. Dammit.

He sees three cops talking to each other on the corner. Paranoia whispers that they’re looking for him. Would Lois call the cops? Who fucking cares.

He slips into a taxi headed for oblivion.