Post by Madman on Feb 18, 2013 5:03:25 GMT -5
The relic of a station wagon rolled into town. No one gazing upon it could have ever guessed that the vehicle was ever anything more than a mustard colored piece of junk. The fact such a thing still ran was surprising to all, even the car’s owner. Steering the battered car was Joe Martinez. His frame was a perfect match to his mode of transport. Joe’s eyes were focused on taking in the alien city. He was entering unknown territory.
The structures here were a world away from the trailer in New Mexico he had grown up in. They were a total contrast to the small towns across America he had ventured to in search of honest work. The city more closely resembled Los Angeles, where he had spent a few years working day labor and other various odd jobs. This place however had its own local feel. The architecture, the people, the general sense had a variance in behavior he could not quite place. Joe drove until he was comfortably inside city limits. The sun’s final grasp of sunlight was signifying night would soon overcome.
Joe parked in a vacant lot that seemed inconspicuous enough. The neighborhood had the appearance of one where people kept to themselves, a place where hopefully no one would mind his presence for a night or two. He took a moment to breathe in the air of the new town, to get a taste of what might be his new land of opportunity. He breathed out, hoping to exhale any anxiety he had. Turning back now might not be an option. The empty gas tank and handful of single dollar bills wouldn't carry him very far. Just a check, his first check was all he needed. Then he could get a place to stay, somewhere to get a hot shower and some food.
His thoughts drifted right back to what had brought him here in the first place: A wrestling contract. It was a real, bona fide, authentic wrestling contract. Immediately doubt rushed back into his being. Was it a cruel joke? A lie? Had he hallucinated his way here? Joe recalled the email as best he could. He remembered calling the man from the company from a payphone and speaking to him. He recalled hearing those words that robbed him of speech. At the moment he couldn't think of the man’s name, Andy? Aaron? Alec? He was too excited.
There wasn't much to do now but wait. It was Sunday evening. He would go visit the offices tomorrow and confirm this was the real deal. For now daydreaming was all he had. Joe wondered if he would be treated like the rest of them. Would thousands of screaming fans cheer at his appearance? Would they get excited at the mention of his very name, holding him up as standard and comparing performances with his moments of greatness? Would there be a legendary rivalry between him and another foe? To his hands, his gaze fell, bringing his spirit along.
Joe’s hands were beaten, weathered, covered in old scars. The knuckles sat misaligned, the fingers were flat and stumpy, and the skin was like old leather. It was a mixture of hard work and rough treatment. A testament to the life he had been living for nearly fifteen years. The rest of his body was no better. There were no nutritionists on the road. No dietitians. No home cooked well balanced meals. Joe ate what he could whenever he could. The next meal was never a certainty. No personal trainer dictated his work out regiment. No personal image consultant counseled him on which haircut was trendiest. Martinez didn't look like the young muscular male models they had parading around on TV these days. Joe Martinez did not resemble Adonis. He was more like the boar that killed him.
"Who do you think you are?"
That did a bit to put things in perspective. Joe didn't have the body to prance around in a speedo in front of everyone gyrating suggestively. He wasn't lean like a show dog that everyone revered. He was built like the junkyard dog that everyone feared. Joe hadn't gotten his build from a hired gym instructor; it was earned through lifting heavy equipment, hauling bundles, building structures, and fighting with life. His scars all had stories. He was here to gather more of them.
So deep in thought was Joe that he didn't notice the lawman tapping on the window of his car. He jerked back into reality when he heard the authoritative “Excuse me!” A lean face peered into him.
He rolled down his window quickly. Nervously he inquired, “Yes officer? What can I help you with?”
The officer shined a blinding ray down upon him. “What are you doing out here?”
“Nothing officer, just sitting.”
“Sitting huh? Well, I got a call about you; folks seem to think it’s suspicious. This happens to be private property.”
“Oh. I’m sorry officer. I’m new in town.”
“I noticed from your plates, what are you doing here in town?” the officer asked, shining the bludgeon-like Mag-lite into the rear of Martinez’s vehicle.
“I came out here for work.”
“What kinda work you do?”
Joe Martinez knew it would sound ridiculous to tell the police officer outside his window about what he would be engaging in tomorrow. He knew the officer was currently peering into a collection of mismatched junk, trash bags full of old clothing, tattered books, nothing to back his story. “Contract work, manual labor type of stuff.” he replied.
The officer nodded. “Ok well, you can’t stay here.”
“Listen, I know you’re not here to cause any trouble but I have to move you along. Follow the road south six blocks. Parking’s free on the weekend’s downtown. There’s a shelter two blocks east from there ok?”
Joe was surprised. He barely stammered out a “Thank you.
The officer gave him a genuine smile. “Now don’t let me catch you out here anymore, if someone wants to sign a complaint against you, I’ll have to oblige.”
Joe nodded and started his car up again…