I sat in the hospital waiting room in my full regalia — blue sequins chafing my thighs while the cut tee I was wearing made me a bit too cold. I tapped the rubber boots to keep time with the commercial jingling overhead. It was something to keep my attention while I waited for the doctors to make sure the kid was feeling ok.
“Welcome back to Channel 5 News!” said the television. “Now, let’s turn over to Sam Nelson with the weather!”
I tapped my foot faster to block out the sound of my voice on the screen. Looked at my boots on the linoleum so I wouldn’t have to see my face.
A friend of mine from my college basketball days had taken his kid to a wrestling match of mine one weekend. It was a side gig — something to make me feel young. The studio didn’t like the bruises that would show up on my neck in the morning show, but all I got were a few slaps on the wrist. And the flips I could do, the performance of it all. Just made me feel better than being able to read a teleprompter and knowing what the readouts were from a weather observatory a couple miles away even if I was a heel in the wrestling ring.
Few months later and come to find out the kid has cancer. The friend of mine calls me and wants a favor. I humbly oblige. And here I am.
This friend of mine, Kent, steps out of some revolving doors. “He’s ready now, Weather Man.” My name is Greg.
The kid is hooked up to a series of tubes and pumps all flashing and draining and coming in and out of his body. He’s breathing heavy in his gown, the skin like paper and barely making a dent in the bed. A window lets in some light through the blinds. Even the light is sterile as it's filtered through. The boy’s name is Victor Dun.
I step into the room behind Kent. The kid’s eyes light up without Kent even having to introduce me. I flash some muscles, snarling in between some basic bodybuilder poses.
“Want me to make it rain the pain?” I ask.
“Yeah!” Victor says. He hocks up a lung afterwards. A frown forming with each breath leaving his body.
My smile drops but Kent glares at me to keep egging the kid on. “Ahhh, what the hell do you know,” I say with the limp of a wrist. “You probably can’t even beat me in an arm-wrestling match.”
“Oh yeah! Set up the table, dad!”
Kent obliges, pushing a bouquet of flowers off the table. I grab a chair to sit down opposite the kid. Heart monitor beeping. My foot tapping to keep pace with the kid’s life.
It takes Victor a few minutes to lean over the bed. “Come on!” I say. “You’re just giving me time to warm up!”
Kent positions himself over the table, acting as an official for the match. I grip Victor’s hand. Holding it like a feather. The veins turning blue up to his naked, bald head.
“Ready?” asks Kent.
His kid nods. Even spits in my face. I wipe off the spit.
Kent slams on the table with a fist. The match begins.
I try to put on a show. Straining my neck and letting myself lower my arm ever so. And the kid is trying too. He’s really giving it his all. The heart monitor beeping faster. His dad smiling ear to ear.
After five minutes of the charade, Victor Dun is victorious. I let him be — lower my fist to the laminated wood. Heave out and even sweating from the attempt to restrain myself.
“Goddamn…you beat me.”
Victor looks at his hand in my hand. Slinks ever so back into the bed. A frown forms on his face. “I guess I did,” he said.
“What’s wrong?” asks Kent.
And Victor Dun, in a moment of existential doubt, responds with, “I don’t know. I just thought he’d be stronger. But you’re weak.”
I slink back into the chair. Now no better than a machine.
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