Hayes Hanlon
“Hello, this is Hayes.”
“Hayes, it’s Jack.”
“…Jack Mason?”
“Yeah man, it’s me.”
“Oh, hey dude. Sorry, kinda caught me off guard. Wasn’t expecting a call…”
“It’s cool. But hey, listen. I’ve got some tough news.”
“What’s going on?”
“Luke had a heart attack yesterday.”
“…is he okay?”
“No, man…”
“…we lost him.”
A pale gray sky hung over the cemetery in Black Rock, Oregon. A light drizzle fell to the grass under foot, no need for an umbrella.
A “dry rain,” Luke would have called it.
Hayes kept his distance. Family and friends stood on either side of the massive black casket containing the Bulldozer from Black Rock; people Hayes had never met, all drying their eyes while a lanky minister in black droned on about Jesus and God and Heaven.
He fought hard not to roll his eyes. He knew Luke would have done the same.
And he wondered what Adam Ellis would think of this minister and his absolutes. Of his false certainty.
“Thanks be to God for his indescribable gift!”
Of his bullshit.
Hayes stuffed his hands into his black peacoat, resetting his posture. His dark gaze glanced to a more familiar collection of misty eyes, that of Pacific Northwest Wrestling’s finest: “Seasick” Steve Martin, stoically biting his bottom lip behind a graying beard. Landon Collier, the bowling ball known as Maelstrom, a storm of blubbering lips and shedding tears. And “Jetstream” Jack Mason, standing taller than Hayes remembered, with blonde locks holding strong against the rain.
He wanted to stand with them. He’d never understand why he couldn’t.
Or why the only thing he could think about was ReVival 27.
He hated that about himself.
“Let the one who is thirsty come; and let the one who wishes take the free gift of the water of life.”
If only that fucking minister knew how much whiskey Luke used to drink.
Hayes caught a saddened glance from Jack Mason, quickly redirecting his own gaze back to the minister. To the casket. To the family surrounding it.
But in the back of his brain, he felt his skull hit the mat from a second-rope Randallplex. Over and over. He knew Jack had seen it. That the whole PNW roster had seen it.
He knew they all watched him let them down.
“For the wages of sin is death, but the gift of God is eternal life in Christ Jesus our Lord.”
He’d put it all out there, though. Right? Left it all on the mat? Made himself proud? Even told Youngblood minutes before the bell rang that he’d be proud to drop the belt to the Hall of Famer.
A bold faced lie. Just as bold as the minister’s.
They’d never remember that match, and how Hayes Hanlon took the Tower of Babel to his limit. They’d never talk about all those knife-edged chops to the chest, and how they busted him open, or how he still roared in Youngblood’s face for more.
No.
They’d just remember that he lost it. Again. As quick as he won it. Like the first time.
They’d remember three titles. And one successful defense.
“Those who walk uprightly enter into peace; they find rest as they lie in death.”
Home Run Hayes.
The Comeback Kid.
“I am the resurrection and the life. The one who believes in me will live, even though they die.”
Perpetual Dropper of the Ball.
“Hey, man.”
Hayes escaped from his trance as Jack Mason’s voice cut through the monotony, having made his way toward the back of the cemetery to join “Hammerin’” Hanlon. Hayes offered a small smile behind his mustache.
“Hey, buddy, he said, clapping him on the shoulder.
Jack grinned weakly before they turned their attention back to the service. They stood back far enough to carry a quiet conversation, away from the minister’s words.
“You ever been a church guy?” asked Jack.
“Never,” Hayes scoffed. “Never even considered it.”
“Yeah. I don’t think Luke ever did, either.”
“He didn’t.”
A soft silence. The dry rain tapped lightly against Luke’s coffin. On the shoulders of everyone in attendance. On the leaves of maple trees bordering the cemetery.
“It always weirded me out,” said the young Hanlon, breaking the silence. “Even when I was a little kid.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. We had these neighbors on our street a couple houses down. They had like, five kids, and we used to ride bikes together and whatever. I remember going in their house one time. It was a fucking mess, but that was fine. It was their walls that creeped me out. No family photos. No pictures of the children, or grandparents.”
Hayes locked in to the minister, with his book in hand. He shook his head.
“Just…Jesus. And crosses. Everywhere.”
Jack raised a pair of surprised eyebrows, but kept quiet.
“But even that wasn’t it,” Hayes continued, turning his head toward Mason’s. “What really got to me is what they did to my sister.”
“Olivia?” asked Jack. “Did they try to indoctrinate her or something?”
“No,” Hayes replied. “The total opposite. I always found that family pretty weird, but Oliva loved them all. She loved seeing them after school every day. Playing down by the river or whatever. The bible stuff never bothered her, they were just…her friends.”
He cleared his throat, and shifted his jaw. Jack allowed him the chance to settle.
“And then, one day, it just…stopped. And Liv was sad. For a long time.”
Hayes furled his brow at the minister, reaching the end of his sermon, and sniffed harshly through his nose.
“Anyway. It turned out that their parents had learned that we weren’t church-goers, and told their kids that we were like, devil worshipers or something. So they stopped seeing us. Stopped seeing my sister. And it really fucked her up. And kinda fucked up my parents. How do you explain all that to an eight year old? How do you tell your kid that their friends won’t see you anymore? That they think you’re absolutely evil?”
He thumbed his nose, forcing back old frustrations. Jack exhaled heavily, shaking his head softly.
“Sorry,” said Hayes, catching himself. “Didn’t mean to dump all that on you.”
“It’s cool…” Jack reassured, turning his head back to the service. Family and friends placed flowers on the giant black casket. Next to photos. Next to a black and green flannel shirt. And a pair of size fifteen steel-toe boots.
“…I don’t believe in God either.”
Toby Castellanos rarely had a cellmate.
Any officer manning the graveyard shift would tell you it was because he was a cheat. And a thief. And would beat the piss out of some kid serving five days for a parole violation just to take their dry cookies or fireball candies. That it wasn’t worth the trouble to pair him up.
They were probably right.
He kept a bible on the floor of his bedside, though. Clearly he’d never read Leviticus.
The brick wall of a man sat at the edge of the bottom bunk, a steel platform supporting him beneath a thin mattress. If you could call it that. He pulled at a misshapen, hand-rolled cigarette, pushing smoke through a matted black beard. Dark, deep set eyes staring at the point where the concrete floor and cinder block wall met.
“Y’know, I could write you up for that.”
Toby glanced to his left, offering an unimpressed grunt to the security guard’s hollow threat through the cell door’s small, glass window. He replied with another drag, and a heavy plume of smoke.
“Th’fuck you want, Pete? You ginger fuck.”
Peter Welch cracked a toothy grin, scratching his shock of bright red hair.
“Oh, just checkin’ in,” said Pete. “Had a little bit of news, but if you’re not at all interested…”
“For fuck’s sake…” Toby growled under his breath, ashing his cigarette. “What, Pete? What “news” you got for me?”
“Your release date is all,” Pete chided. Toby’s ears perked up underneath a mop of black hair, but he hid his interest with another drag.
“Don’t fuck wth me, kid.”
“A month,” said Peter, cutting to the chase. “Two at the most.”
Toby exhaled, smoke billowing slowly through his teeth.
“Of course,” Pete added. “That all depends on your end.”
Toby grunted, his hunched, broad shoulders heaving.
“My end is solid.”
“You sure?” Pete probed. “‘Cause I need to be real sure that this grandkid of yours has the cash on hand to back it up…”
Castellanos slammed his heavy hands against the edge of his bed, shoving himself to his feet and thudding toward the cell door, flicking the cigarette’s remnants against the glass.
“It’s SOLID. You ginger CUNT. You want your fuckin’ payday or not?”
Officer Peter Welch snickered, slapping a hand against the thick metal door protecting him from the hulking frame of Toby Castellanos.
“Two months most,” Pete reiterated. “You hang tight, Toby.”
Welch rapped his knuckles against the glass before ambling down the cell block. The breath from Toby’s nostrils fogged the glass, dark brow furrowing. He slammed his palm against the door and returned to the edge of his bunk in a heap, snagging the bible off the cold floor. He quickly flipped through the pages, stopping them with a stubby finger.
On Leviticus. 19:18.
With an absent snort, he tore the page from its binder, and used it to roll another cigarette.
“What happened, Jack? Was something going on? Was he getting sick?”
Hayes and Jack took their time leaving the cemetery while Luke Knapp’s enormous casket was lowered beneath the earth. “Seasick” Steve and Maelstrom hung back to offer condolences, while Mason opted to remain with Hammerin’ Hanlon.
“Nah, man. It just happened out of the blue,” he said, a somber tinge in his voice. “But you knew Luke. He was a big dude, and he didn’t take care of himself. Red meat and bourbon wasn’t going to add any years.”
Hayes wanted to laugh out loud. With a deep belly laugh like Luke used to do when someone told a crude joke backstage, or some rookie botched a flip off the top rope. Instead he held himself back with a light chuckle, matching Jack’s short stride toward the cemetery parking lot.
“So what now?” he asked.
“I…I don’t really know,” Jack replied with a long breath. “I think the right thing to do is try to keep it going. Luke would’ve wanted that. Maybe one of the guys would wanna take the lead.”
“You should take the lead.”
Jack chuckled, kicking at the grass. “Yeah. Maybe.”
Hayes kept his eyes on the wrestler known as “Jetstream.” He seemed so much older than he remembered. Carried himself differently. But the uncertainty in his eyes tried to convince him otherwise.
He had seen it in Luke’s eyes. When he told Hayes he was invited to the Almasy Tournament. To PRIME. That his time at Pacific Northwest Wrestling was coming to a close.
He knew that kind of hurt. All too well.
“Well, maybe I could stick around,” said Hayes, hands stuffed deep in his pockets.
Jack shot him an incredulous glare.
“Huh?”
“I dunno,” Hayes continued. “It might be the right time to come back. Help you out with PNW. See if we can keep it going. Luke would’ve wanted that.”
“What are you talking about, man?”
Hayes tripped over his words. “It’s just, I dunno. I lost the Big Belt again, and it might be a while before I can get any momentum. I…I guess I kinda want to come back? Make up for leaving you guys. Make it up to Luke…”
“You know Luke would have slapped the teeth out of you head for saying that, right?”
A silent response.
“Listen, man,” said Jack, turning to face his friend. “Do you remember when Luke subbed you in for me? When I was floundering in front of everyone at the high school?”
“Yeah? Of course I do…”
“Do you think he did that because he wanted to keep you tied down to that place? Like he thought making you PNW’s poster boy was your destiny or something? Like that was as far as you were gonna go?”
“I…I don’t…”
“Let me answer that for you: NO.”
Hayes curled his lips in, at a loss. But also keenly aware of the truth. Of what Luke Knapp wanted for Pacific Northwest Wrestling, and what he wanted for Hayes Hanlon.
The two were not mutually exclusive.
“Man…” Jack started, shaking his head. “Do you know how proud we were of you, Hayes? When you beat Dan Ryan’s kid in PRIME’s first match back? When you won the Five Star? And the Universal Title?”
Hayes opened his mouth, but words failed to form.
“We were buzzing, man! The whole locker room couldn’t stop talking about it! We still do! And bro, I don’t wanna be a dick or anything, but Luke would slap the shit out of you right now if he heard that bullshit…”
“You’re right,” Hayes interrupted. “I’m sorry. You’re right.”
A nod from Jetstream, and a comfortable silence. Hayes glanced back to the cemetery, to the plot where Luke Knapp was laid to rest. To the folks dressed in black exiting the service, never to be seen again.
“You know, that wasn’t your last shot,” Jack stated.
Hayes offered a nod. “Maybe not, but it sure felt like it.”
“Isn’t this match with Adam Ellis another opportunity? Doesn’t it get you into the dance at Tropical Turmoil?”
“Yeah. It does. It’s a long shot though.”
“Pfft. Good. You’ve been taking long shots for a while now. And making them.”
Hayes cracked a smile, and Jack offered one in kind.
“We’re proud of you, Hayes,” he said. “You’re doing the right things.”
He hadn’t noticed the rain let up, and the sun fighting through the clouds overhead.
“Tell the boys I think about them all the time,” Hayes said, extending a hand.
“I will,” Jack confirmed, meeting his grip. “Give ‘em hell, man.”
They met for a quick hug, then made way for their respective vehicles, the sun shining through brightly.
“Yo, Hayes.”
The young Hanlon looked back to Mason, one foot in the door of his rental.
“How’s your brother?” Jack asked.
Hayes paused a moment, and smiled weakly. The mere mention of Paul came out of left field, and dulled the positive vibrations of the conversation. It had been the better part of a year since he’d seen his older brother, or even talked to him. Just a text message after he’d won the Universal Title at Colossus.
And nothing more.
“I couldn’t tell ya… he replied, climbing into the driver’s seat.
“…I haven’t seen him in months.”
Phoenix, Arizona was slated to host ReVal 30. So from his visit to Luke Knapp’s funeral in Oregon, Hayes decided it was time to swing by his suite in Las Vegas on the way to the Footprint Center..Jack Mason’s words hung heavy in his mind on the flight; about Luke. About PRIME. About chances lost and those yet to come.
About Paul.
A day or two on the Strip would do him good, if nothing else to assure himself that he didn’t need to chew on a few bars to get through the week. Or to find Molly next to a dumpster from some line cook at a restaurant.
The familiar ding of the elevator door was comforting, like coming home. It fell softly on a tired mind.
He swiped his card at the door, stepping through the threshold…
…to find a mess. And music. And bottles. And people.
Hayes dropped his bag, utterly confused. His tired eyes wandering through this late night party of beautiful strangers.
“Oh, shit! What’s up, baby brother!”
Hayes stood numb at the sound of Paul’s voice, and to his lanky frame fighting through the dancing mini skirts and loose ties, stumbling across the living room to Younger Brother. And yet, he accepted his loopey embrace.
“I’ve MISSED you, bro!” he said, holding his brother by the shoulders, eyes bloodshot, hair a mess, words slurring. “Thanks for letting me use the suite, man! You want a line?”
Hayes glanced to the glass coffee table. To the three lines all chopped up and ready to go. He thought about the chances to come. How he’d kicked his habits.
How he wanted to sob into Paul’s shoulder, or punch him in the teeth.
Instead, he looked into Older Brother’s matching dark eyes, and smiled.
“You’re goddamn right I do.”