He turned from the window over the kitchen sink that was being pummeled with rain. His mother sat at the island counter in the center of the room. She was nursing her second (or was it third?) glass of wine. Her eyes were already watery and bloodshot. He knew she'd been crying long before he'd stepped back into the house that felt like he'd left just yesterday.
"She'll be back," he said.
"This time it's different."
He sighed, pressed his palms against the counter and inhaled a deep breath. No, he thought. It really wasn't different than any other time, but he didn't bother to say as much.
"You gotta bring her back, Peter. You have to."
"Yeah," he breathed, "I'm just the guy for that job?
"--what?"
"Morgan hasn't talked to me in three years, Mom."
"No, you haven't talked to her in three years."
"Maybe we should just let it be then. She doesn't want someone to bring her back and if she did, I'm the last person for that job.
He looked back to her, saw the glare, the one she would give him when he was just a child and he had disappointed her in some way.
"You did this you know," she muttered.
"Excuse me?"
"She never would have run off if --"
"Hey!" he barked. He desperately wished for something to throw, not at her, but into the ground. "You don't get to put that on me. I was the one who said to get her help. You were the one turning the blind eye after Dad die--"
He ducked, the plate that had been in front of her smashing behind his head as it hit the wall. No one said anything for a moment. Each just staring at the other. Both breathing heavy.
"Please," she started, her voice catching, "just bring her back. I'm asking you, as your mother, bring your sister home."
He wiped at the back of his mouth with his hand, and glanced behind him at the smashed china on the tiled floor.
"Where is she?" he asked softly.
"Tokyo."
I hate southern California.
No, really. I do.
I fucking hate it.
The whole part of the state could fall off into the ocean tomorrow and I wouldn't care. Don't even get me started on LA. That hideous, cesspool of smog and the shallow, beautiful people. It's just one big festering neon distraction.
I land in San Diego, feeling headachy from my flight and wondering what I'm doing here in the first place. I get a lukewarm coffee from the airport Starbucks and take a cab to the hotel.
It's been three long years since I stepped into a wrestling ring and yet, in two days I'm about to enter a gauntlet and try to figure all this out again.
Am I scared? No.
What I'm concerned about is that I might have rushed this thing back too early. But as the old saying goes you can't get back into fighting shape unless you're in a fight.
And I badly need to fight someone.
I need to take all this anger that is swelling inside of me and ball it up and swing at the world.
I check into my hotel room and lay on the bed hoping my headache will surpass before I have to head to the arena and sign my official contract that I had once thrown in the trash. If you're asking yourself what made me change my mind, well, I'm asking myself that now too.
Maybe it's for the purpose, the honor, the chance at being something bigger than myself. Or maybe it's for the money, the fame, the bitches and the drugs, right?
Seriously, if anyone is in this thing for the money then they need to get a fucking reality check. Ricky Desmond I'm looking at you, dipshit.
Oh, and speaking of dipshits. Can anyone please give me back the ten minutes of my life that I wasted watching Christine Nash go to the goddamn zoo?!
I'm really supposed to believe that my future boss, John Madison, allowed the budget for this dysfunctional former stripper to wax poetic about being a lioness and apparently running her illiterate mouth about some L. Ron Hubbard bullshit about being an Angel.
Right, next you're going to tell me that there's a child molester aka a chili-moe, wrestling in this federation.
Look, I'm not saying it's Russelmania, but you draw your own fucking conclusions on that one.
Does anyone want to take wagers on how many pink bikes he has in the back of his van? Let's just say Adam Morrison isn't the only one not allowed within thirty feet of a school yard.
I end up spending my morning on a jog through downtown San Diego and wouldn't you know it this place is crawling with smiley glad-hands and insecure actresses as well. Everyone just trying to be part of the hive, I suppose.
And some say the end is near.
I agree, all you have to do is look at your own environment.
It makes me think of the landscape that I'm about to enter into.
Better learn to swim.
TWO YEARS AGO
TOKYO JAPAN
Peter Lake. And he's standing in the middle of a hotel room. Crisp. Sharp. LIFELESS. This place is where someone traveling isn't worried about spending a lot of time.
Peter stares at the king-sized bed -- it has not been slept in.
The hotel manager, a husky Japanese man with broken English says:
"The maid says she hasn't used the bed in the past three days."
The manager looks uncomfortable.
Peter wanders around the room. Peter picks up a dirty blouse neatly hanging over one of the chairs. Runs his finger over the collar --
"Did she rent a car through your concierge?
"No, sir."
Peter puts down the shirt. Floats over to the desk -- a chaotic, ugly representation of his sister's state of mind.
A torn magazine, medications, tickets, receipts, cigarette packets. Peter pulls open one of the drawers --
Inside -- an empty bottle of scotch and a sharp looking steak knife. Peter abruptly closes the drawer.
"Quite honestly, Mr Lake, I don't think she rented a car at all."
"Yeah? Why's that?"
Peter turns. Maybe a little embarrassed. Maybe a little guilty. But definitely a little angry --
"What the fuck does that have to do with renting a car?"
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have…"
"C'mon. What's it have to do with renting a car?"
" -- Mr. Lake."
The hotel manager shakes his head. Deep breath now. Then --
"I don't think anyone would rent to her. She… had a friend check her into this hotel as she was quite… inebriated at the time… sir."
And Peter is so fucking angry he wants to pound something, this guy maybe, but luckily his attention is diverted as --
He spots something on the night stand. A wallet. Peter immediately crosses to it. Picks it up. Opens it --
Cash. Credit cards. Driver's license. All his sister's.
Peter settles down onto the bed -- as if the air has been knocked out of him. A few moments pass. Then… softly --
"She left her wallet. Who leaves a wallet?"
"Perhaps you should talk to the police, Mr. Lake."
The manager remains awkwardly in the center of the room. Peter sits, his eyes full of desperation. As he whispers softly to himself --
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