10-24-2022, 08:56 PM
Chapter 1
December 2006
Detroit Rock City, USA
A brand new 2006 Dodge Charger, black as night with a bright red stripe down the middle, pulls up in front of a dilapidated, run down house on the outskirts of Detroit. The sounds of the 425-horsepower engine cut through the noise of children playing games in the street. The driver cuts the engine, and the noise from under the hood is replaced by a voice that calls out from inside the house.
“Randy, is that you?”
Randy Ramon, who has yet to earn the “Rockstar” moniker, steps out of the car. His hair is the length that the viewer is accustomed to, but his face is clear of the years of battle scars that he has since earned.
“Yeah, Dad!” he calls out as he climbs the broken steps of his parents’ home, a small cottage with a wide wooden porch and an overhanging awning that has seen better days. He called from the studio to let them know he was dropping by, but the roar of the engine probably gave it away anyway.
“Lunch is almost ready!” again comes the voice from inside.
“When did you learn to cook?” he asks as he swings the creaky screen door open and steps inside.
“Don’t give me that shit, I’m perfectly capable of putting cold cuts on bread. Hope you still like turkey.”
He crosses through the living room, passing the furniture that is so worn and beaten that it could have been found in a ditch. Pictures of Randy and his siblings adorn almost every wall and table, but their parents had never been good at keeping a clean home. It’s part of why he struck out on his own at such a young age. He’s always stayed close though. In fact, he changed studios – from one in beautiful Southern California to another in decrepit inner-city Detroit, just so he could be around to help his parents when he could. Especially now.
“Where’s Mom?” he asks as he enters the kitchen, noticing that his father was alone.
His father closes the refrigerator, two-liter of Pepsi in hand. “She’s out in the garden. Growing another gourd, or carrot, or something.”
“Still with the gourds?”
He shrugs. “She likes doing it. It keeps her focused, and the doctors say it’s good for her to keep busy.”
He crosses the kitchen with a couple of plates of sandwiches. His father had come straight from the construction site, a fact made clear by the stains on his dirty overalls. He was disheveled and looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes would suggest he’s not sleeping well.
Randy took the plates. “The gardening may be helping, but do we need any more cucumbers? You can’t even give them away quick enough.”
His father laughed. “Shut up and eat. Chips?”
“No thanks.” This was a perfect encapsulation of their relationship. Dance around the important topics in favor of the small talk. “Where did they find her?”
“Near the corner market on Greenview. She got confused. Turned around. Ended up going the wrong way. Luckily, she had it together enough to call Riley.”
His sister must have called his father, who in turn called Randy from the work site, worried and half panicked. He’s on thin ice with the foreman and couldn’t afford to leave. Ten minutes later he called again. His mother was home safe. Still, Randy knew a quick visit was in order.
“Is she still taking her meds?”
“Of course. I make sure she takes them before I leave for work each morning.”
His mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, very early stages, shortly after Randy moved out to Hollywood to pursue his dreams. It started with little things. She was headed to the store and forgot where she left her keys or wanted to call him and couldn’t remember his telephone number. Things like that. The doctors said that the sudden empty nest syndrome might have brought forth symptoms that may have otherwise remained dormant. Her mind had a difficult time processing her new life. Eventually the bouts of forgetfulness were accompanied by frustrated anger.
“Why don’t you take this out to her? I’ve got to check in with the foreman."
Randy nods, taking the plate from his father. “Maybe we need to talk about a live-in nurse.”
His father immediately shakes his head. Stubborn to a fault, he’s consistently avoided this discussion. He’s let it slip that he sees the need, but his mother wouldn’t appreciate it. Further, he should be able to take care of her. She’s his wife. But the situation was weighing on the household, on him, on the family.
“When’s the last time Riley or Joey came by?” His younger siblings have never been as family oriented as Randy, not for a lack of caring, but they’ve just had trouble separating their professions from their personal lives.
“Oh, you know how they are. You know how they can be.” Randy shakes his head. In truth, Randy felt comfortable making the move to Hollywood BECAUSE his two siblings chose to stay local. He thought they would be more involved and would step in as needed, but their inability to be there for his parents, even after his mother’s disease came to light, has led to a groundswell of his own anger and guilt.
He can understand their side of it, obviously, since he himself moved across the country. Enough so that, as mentioned, he’s caused himself to be closer to home to make up the difference.
Who knows, maybe 'running away from uncomfortable situations' runs in the family.
With the plate in hand, Randy heads for the back door, his father watching on. “She’ll be happy to see you.”
Randy wishes he could say the same. It pains him to see her like this. Such a strong, independent woman reduced to conversations about live-in nurses and fugue states.
Randy headed for the garden out back. He could hear the sounds of Tom Petty coming from inside the open garage. His mother frequently poked fun at him for his own taste in music, asking why he couldn’t make music more like “Tommy,” so it’s almost too fitting that “Last Dance with Mary Jane” fills the air as he approaches.
He can see her hunched over a patch of carrots, or it could be potatoes, for all he knows. His thumb is about as green as the blue sky. She wears her trademark red t-shirt. Her so-called "lucky" shirt. She wore this specific shirt when her beloved Red Wings closed out the 1997 and 1998 Stanley Cup finals, so she figured it MUST be lucky.
She started wearing it on other special occasions, and more often than not she got the result she wanted, whatever it might be. It's only weird if it doesn't work. It doesn't seem to have been that lucky as of late, however. Now, due to her lapses in memory, there's a better chance she's wearing it than not wearing it most days.
“Mom.” He says.
Her ears perked and she quickly turned, wrapping her arms around him. She was a foot shorter, but her personality was larger than life. She was the life of every party, and everyone was better off when she was around. She used to teach elementary school science and was the type to give any shirt - other than the lucky red one of course - off her back for a friend in need. Unfortunately, the onset of Alzheimer’s forced her into early retirement nearly a year ago.
“You didn’t have to come all the out here, I know how busy you are!”
She pulled away from the embrace.
“How else would we get this sandwich to you?”
“Your father made it?”
“You know Dad. Trying his best.”
“He really does. He’s such a good man.”
“So,” Randy takes a deep breath, “heard about your incident with the corner store.”
She turns away, ashamed that she’s in the state she’s in and that she needed help to cover the three blocks from the corner store to their home.
A long pause ensues.
“This goddamn sucks...” she says softly, turning back around and breaking the silence.
He points to the garden. “Kale certainly does...”
She grins. “You’re just like your father...”
“The gourd doesn’t roll far from the patch I suppose.”
Another awkward moment of silence.
“Really though, I’m fine. You don’t need to rush over here every time I misplace my hat.”
Randy pauses. He knows she’s right; she has his father and sometimes the neighbors will chip in when he is stuck at work. There’s no NEED for Randy to be here, but who knows how much longer she’ll remember him?
He dares not say it out loud, but there’s a knot behind his sternum... a part of him that knows he’s running out of time with her. It's an eternal battle between spending time with her and making his own life. One he hoped he'd never have to fight, and now that he's here, he struggles with it every day.
“Where did you get these sandwiches?” she asked, taking a bite. “They’re delicious.”
There’s that stomach knot again. He keeps a level face and calm tone.
“Dad made them."
A bit of confusion followed. “Oh... yeah.”
Their eyes met, and he could see the fear, confusion, and shame she felt at this moment.
“Mom...I...”
“Go grab a beer with your father. I’m sure he’d like that. I’ve got to finish up out here.”
“I...”
Before he can finish his thought, a loud ringing comes from his pocket. He pulls out a brick-like cell phone and checks the caller ID.
"It's the studio... I've... I've got to go."
She shakes her head. "I understand."
The two embrace as the scene fades.
Chapter 2
June 2010
Detroit Rock City, USA
It’s a dark, stormy day on the outskirts of Detroit. Rain falls from the sky, pitter-pattering in the puddles that have formed on the ground below.
A black-clad crowd gathers around as a beautiful scarlet coffin is slowly lowered.
Closest to the coffin stands Randy Ramon, loosely flanked by his siblings. Their father is a step behind, unable to bring himself to move any closer.
The thick, dark sunglasses on Ramon’s face hide the swollen, teary eyes that he holds open sheerly out of determination. Every fiber of his being wants to close his eyes, or look away, just for a temporary reprieve from the hurt, and pain, and guilt that overwhelm him at this moment.
His shoulders have heaved up and down haphazardly ever since he saw them place her lucky red shirt in the coffin. It's becoming increasingly difficult to keep his umbrella vertical.
Eventually even that falls to the wayside, and the downpours cause the rest of his body to become as soaked as his eyes and face.
All he can think about is the guilt that threatens to send him to the ground in a heap of misery and despair. See, after all of the talk about being closer to home in order to help out, he did not follow through.
The last time he saw his mother, on that afternoon in 2006, he received a phone call from the record studio. It was his agent informing him that Ragnarök Records, an up-and-coming label in Southern California, agreed to sign the Revolution to a record deal, and would front the costs to finish the album he hoped to finish in Detroit.
The only catch? He had to go BACK to California.
After copious amounts of inner reflection and turmoil, he called his parents from the airport to discuss, but to say there was actually a discussion would be a misnomer. His mind was already made up, he just
needed to feel some semblance of their approval.
His mother, in her typical fashion, didn’t hesitate to tell him to go. He could tell his father was less thrilled about it, but he didn’t tell him not to go. His next call was to his sister, Riley, in an attempt to get her more involved with their parents, to get her to take his place. He begged her, pleaded with her. Made it known that this was something he felt he needed to do, and he'd regret not doing if he didn't. She was skeptical, but to her credit, she DID step up. Probably not to the extent that Randy would have been involved, but she was there when she was needed.
Things became a blur once he landed in California. At first, he called home every day to check in. Eventually, every day became every week, then every month, then just for holidays, and then barely at all. The last call was nearly two years ago.
He felt justified in the moment.
His album was released, then went triple platinum (more than 240,000 copies sold). Then came the legendary world tour, and then they were back in the studio looking to avoid the sophomore curse. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what felled them a year later. Their second album barely sold a tenth of what the first album sold, and their ride was over almost as quick as it began.
It was at this point he virtually decided to go home, get a “real” job, and be part of the family again. At the last possible moment, however, guilt about being away for so long and anxiety over explaining himself and his actions sent him in another direction: a wrestling career.
He toured the country with his first, smaller promotion, but could never bring himself to stop home, even when the promotion held a show in Detroit.
No, this... this is what it took to get him home. He was on the road last week driving from Milwaukee to Indianapolis when he got the call: his mother had succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s at the young age of 52.
Apparently, she had been on hospice care for several weeks, but no one bothered to call him, and who could blame them?
So, here he stands, beneath the weight of his guilt and the decisions he’s made, as the person he cared most for in the entire world is lowered six feet underground. He's never felt so alone while surrounded by people.
Needless to say, he’s barely holding it together.
As of his arrival this morning, he planned to go to the wake this evening. But as he accepts a rose from the undertaker and steps forward to lay it upon the coffin, his anxiety places him in a vice grip. He can’t bring himself to face his family yet, and so he makes the decision to head directly to the airport.
He has a show tomorrow in Los Angeles, and the early arrival home will give him a chance to mentally prepare and move on – in his own way – from today’s events. So, after laying the rose, he makes an abrupt U-turn and heads directly for the limo that brought him here. As he extends his hand to open the limo door, a familiar voice calls out from behind.
“Randy, wait!” his sister calls out.
At first, he sighs and hangs his head, unable to turn around. After a beat he mentally talks himself out of it and slowly turns to face her. A long pause ensues as neither of them speaks. After a several beats, both siblings lunge forward simultaneously and embrace in a loving, soggy hug. No further words are spoken as they separate, and she places her hands on his shoulder. She looks him in the eye, then gives a reassuring nod, as he turns and ducks into the limo and out of the rain.
As his eyes adjust to the difference in lighting, a box-shaped package comes into view on the seat beside him. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Before he can even process this information, the driver’s voice echoes through the speaker system. “Uh, sir, your father dropped that off. He said your mother wanted you to have it.”
Randy’s head whips towards the window, and his eyes dart back and forth, but his father is nowhere in sight. He thanks the driver and cautiously motions for him to move out.
Later that afternoon, he sits in a window seat on an American Airlines flight from Wayne County Airport to LAX. The package rests on his lap. Initially confused by the gift and disinterested in opening it, curiosity now gets the better of him, and he is compelled to untie the string. The removal of the brown wrapping paper reveals a perfectly constructed and maintained mahogany box. A sealed white envelope rests on top.
At the behest of the flight attendants who make their departure announcements, he tucks the mahogany box under the seat in front of him and confirms that his seat is in the full and upright position.
After takeoff, once the craft has reached its cruising altitude, he opens the envelope with a tear in his eye. He pulls out a folded sheet of paper. Its frayed edges and slightly discolored hue suggest she wrote this a long time ago, probably even before the Alzheimer’s even set in.
Randy takes his time reading the letter, his red, damp eyes occasionally shifting to and from the box on the floor. After a deep breath, he folds the letter and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, which has finally dried out from the rain.
As he processes the information held by the letter, he can feel the exhaustion of two consecutive sleepless nights wash over him. Armed with the knowledge that there are at least four hours left on this flight, he allows himself to rest his eyes, and eventually drift off to sleep.
Upon arriving at his Los Angeles apartment, he sets his belongings down on the couch and plops down in his favorite chair, with the mahogany box resting on his lap. The place is a mess. Clothes on the floor, wrestling gear on every other surface, empty pizza boxes. It looks more like a college dorm room and less like the apartment of a grown man.
Randy again allows himself to get lost in the words of the letter. After a beat, he begins fiddling with the hinge of the box, preparing himself to open it.
After several tries, he ultimately decides that he’s not ready, mentally or emotionally, to do so.
He turns and sets the box down on the end table next to the chair, directly next to a bottle of 15-year Glenfiddich Scotch. He observes the deep brown color of the liquid as he takes the bottle in his hand.
In that moment, the weirdest thing happened: his mouth began to water. As if he could taste the Scotch.
Why is that weird?
It's weird because he's never tasted this scotch before, or ANY scotch for that matter.
It’s weird because Randy doesn’t drink.
Never has, actually. Not one drop. It’s always been a point of pride. He told himself, years ago, that he would not let the Rock and Roll lifestyle consume him or change who he was.
He’s succeeded to this point.
He didn’t even buy this bottle. This was a gift from his new wrestling partner, Chris Palmer, after their recent Tag Team Championship victory.
He thanked Chris and told Chris that he could enjoy it the next time they got together outside of wrestling, otherwise it would just collect dust on his end table.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.
Or, at least that’s what he tells himself as he removes the cork from the bottle and takes a swig.
The deep, smokey flavor burns at his throat on the way down, and he’s surprised to find that he... likes it?
The initially painful burn helps distract from the happenings of the last few days, so he takes another. He finds that the more he takes in, the more he forgets, so he takes another.
And another.
And another.
And anoth-
December 2006
Detroit Rock City, USA
A brand new 2006 Dodge Charger, black as night with a bright red stripe down the middle, pulls up in front of a dilapidated, run down house on the outskirts of Detroit. The sounds of the 425-horsepower engine cut through the noise of children playing games in the street. The driver cuts the engine, and the noise from under the hood is replaced by a voice that calls out from inside the house.
“Randy, is that you?”
Randy Ramon, who has yet to earn the “Rockstar” moniker, steps out of the car. His hair is the length that the viewer is accustomed to, but his face is clear of the years of battle scars that he has since earned.
“Yeah, Dad!” he calls out as he climbs the broken steps of his parents’ home, a small cottage with a wide wooden porch and an overhanging awning that has seen better days. He called from the studio to let them know he was dropping by, but the roar of the engine probably gave it away anyway.
“Lunch is almost ready!” again comes the voice from inside.
“When did you learn to cook?” he asks as he swings the creaky screen door open and steps inside.
“Don’t give me that shit, I’m perfectly capable of putting cold cuts on bread. Hope you still like turkey.”
He crosses through the living room, passing the furniture that is so worn and beaten that it could have been found in a ditch. Pictures of Randy and his siblings adorn almost every wall and table, but their parents had never been good at keeping a clean home. It’s part of why he struck out on his own at such a young age. He’s always stayed close though. In fact, he changed studios – from one in beautiful Southern California to another in decrepit inner-city Detroit, just so he could be around to help his parents when he could. Especially now.
“Where’s Mom?” he asks as he enters the kitchen, noticing that his father was alone.
His father closes the refrigerator, two-liter of Pepsi in hand. “She’s out in the garden. Growing another gourd, or carrot, or something.”
“Still with the gourds?”
He shrugs. “She likes doing it. It keeps her focused, and the doctors say it’s good for her to keep busy.”
He crosses the kitchen with a couple of plates of sandwiches. His father had come straight from the construction site, a fact made clear by the stains on his dirty overalls. He was disheveled and looked exhausted. The dark circles beneath his eyes would suggest he’s not sleeping well.
Randy took the plates. “The gardening may be helping, but do we need any more cucumbers? You can’t even give them away quick enough.”
His father laughed. “Shut up and eat. Chips?”
“No thanks.” This was a perfect encapsulation of their relationship. Dance around the important topics in favor of the small talk. “Where did they find her?”
“Near the corner market on Greenview. She got confused. Turned around. Ended up going the wrong way. Luckily, she had it together enough to call Riley.”
His sister must have called his father, who in turn called Randy from the work site, worried and half panicked. He’s on thin ice with the foreman and couldn’t afford to leave. Ten minutes later he called again. His mother was home safe. Still, Randy knew a quick visit was in order.
“Is she still taking her meds?”
“Of course. I make sure she takes them before I leave for work each morning.”
His mother had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, very early stages, shortly after Randy moved out to Hollywood to pursue his dreams. It started with little things. She was headed to the store and forgot where she left her keys or wanted to call him and couldn’t remember his telephone number. Things like that. The doctors said that the sudden empty nest syndrome might have brought forth symptoms that may have otherwise remained dormant. Her mind had a difficult time processing her new life. Eventually the bouts of forgetfulness were accompanied by frustrated anger.
“Why don’t you take this out to her? I’ve got to check in with the foreman."
Randy nods, taking the plate from his father. “Maybe we need to talk about a live-in nurse.”
His father immediately shakes his head. Stubborn to a fault, he’s consistently avoided this discussion. He’s let it slip that he sees the need, but his mother wouldn’t appreciate it. Further, he should be able to take care of her. She’s his wife. But the situation was weighing on the household, on him, on the family.
“When’s the last time Riley or Joey came by?” His younger siblings have never been as family oriented as Randy, not for a lack of caring, but they’ve just had trouble separating their professions from their personal lives.
“Oh, you know how they are. You know how they can be.” Randy shakes his head. In truth, Randy felt comfortable making the move to Hollywood BECAUSE his two siblings chose to stay local. He thought they would be more involved and would step in as needed, but their inability to be there for his parents, even after his mother’s disease came to light, has led to a groundswell of his own anger and guilt.
He can understand their side of it, obviously, since he himself moved across the country. Enough so that, as mentioned, he’s caused himself to be closer to home to make up the difference.
Who knows, maybe 'running away from uncomfortable situations' runs in the family.
With the plate in hand, Randy heads for the back door, his father watching on. “She’ll be happy to see you.”
Randy wishes he could say the same. It pains him to see her like this. Such a strong, independent woman reduced to conversations about live-in nurses and fugue states.
Randy headed for the garden out back. He could hear the sounds of Tom Petty coming from inside the open garage. His mother frequently poked fun at him for his own taste in music, asking why he couldn’t make music more like “Tommy,” so it’s almost too fitting that “Last Dance with Mary Jane” fills the air as he approaches.
He can see her hunched over a patch of carrots, or it could be potatoes, for all he knows. His thumb is about as green as the blue sky. She wears her trademark red t-shirt. Her so-called "lucky" shirt. She wore this specific shirt when her beloved Red Wings closed out the 1997 and 1998 Stanley Cup finals, so she figured it MUST be lucky.
She started wearing it on other special occasions, and more often than not she got the result she wanted, whatever it might be. It's only weird if it doesn't work. It doesn't seem to have been that lucky as of late, however. Now, due to her lapses in memory, there's a better chance she's wearing it than not wearing it most days.
“Mom.” He says.
Her ears perked and she quickly turned, wrapping her arms around him. She was a foot shorter, but her personality was larger than life. She was the life of every party, and everyone was better off when she was around. She used to teach elementary school science and was the type to give any shirt - other than the lucky red one of course - off her back for a friend in need. Unfortunately, the onset of Alzheimer’s forced her into early retirement nearly a year ago.
“You didn’t have to come all the out here, I know how busy you are!”
She pulled away from the embrace.
“How else would we get this sandwich to you?”
“Your father made it?”
“You know Dad. Trying his best.”
“He really does. He’s such a good man.”
“So,” Randy takes a deep breath, “heard about your incident with the corner store.”
She turns away, ashamed that she’s in the state she’s in and that she needed help to cover the three blocks from the corner store to their home.
A long pause ensues.
“This goddamn sucks...” she says softly, turning back around and breaking the silence.
He points to the garden. “Kale certainly does...”
She grins. “You’re just like your father...”
“The gourd doesn’t roll far from the patch I suppose.”
Another awkward moment of silence.
“Really though, I’m fine. You don’t need to rush over here every time I misplace my hat.”
Randy pauses. He knows she’s right; she has his father and sometimes the neighbors will chip in when he is stuck at work. There’s no NEED for Randy to be here, but who knows how much longer she’ll remember him?
He dares not say it out loud, but there’s a knot behind his sternum... a part of him that knows he’s running out of time with her. It's an eternal battle between spending time with her and making his own life. One he hoped he'd never have to fight, and now that he's here, he struggles with it every day.
“Where did you get these sandwiches?” she asked, taking a bite. “They’re delicious.”
There’s that stomach knot again. He keeps a level face and calm tone.
“Dad made them."
A bit of confusion followed. “Oh... yeah.”
Their eyes met, and he could see the fear, confusion, and shame she felt at this moment.
“Mom...I...”
“Go grab a beer with your father. I’m sure he’d like that. I’ve got to finish up out here.”
“I...”
Before he can finish his thought, a loud ringing comes from his pocket. He pulls out a brick-like cell phone and checks the caller ID.
"It's the studio... I've... I've got to go."
She shakes her head. "I understand."
The two embrace as the scene fades.
Chapter 2
June 2010
Detroit Rock City, USA
It’s a dark, stormy day on the outskirts of Detroit. Rain falls from the sky, pitter-pattering in the puddles that have formed on the ground below.
A black-clad crowd gathers around as a beautiful scarlet coffin is slowly lowered.
Closest to the coffin stands Randy Ramon, loosely flanked by his siblings. Their father is a step behind, unable to bring himself to move any closer.
The thick, dark sunglasses on Ramon’s face hide the swollen, teary eyes that he holds open sheerly out of determination. Every fiber of his being wants to close his eyes, or look away, just for a temporary reprieve from the hurt, and pain, and guilt that overwhelm him at this moment.
His shoulders have heaved up and down haphazardly ever since he saw them place her lucky red shirt in the coffin. It's becoming increasingly difficult to keep his umbrella vertical.
Eventually even that falls to the wayside, and the downpours cause the rest of his body to become as soaked as his eyes and face.
All he can think about is the guilt that threatens to send him to the ground in a heap of misery and despair. See, after all of the talk about being closer to home in order to help out, he did not follow through.
The last time he saw his mother, on that afternoon in 2006, he received a phone call from the record studio. It was his agent informing him that Ragnarök Records, an up-and-coming label in Southern California, agreed to sign the Revolution to a record deal, and would front the costs to finish the album he hoped to finish in Detroit.
The only catch? He had to go BACK to California.
After copious amounts of inner reflection and turmoil, he called his parents from the airport to discuss, but to say there was actually a discussion would be a misnomer. His mind was already made up, he just
needed to feel some semblance of their approval.
His mother, in her typical fashion, didn’t hesitate to tell him to go. He could tell his father was less thrilled about it, but he didn’t tell him not to go. His next call was to his sister, Riley, in an attempt to get her more involved with their parents, to get her to take his place. He begged her, pleaded with her. Made it known that this was something he felt he needed to do, and he'd regret not doing if he didn't. She was skeptical, but to her credit, she DID step up. Probably not to the extent that Randy would have been involved, but she was there when she was needed.
Things became a blur once he landed in California. At first, he called home every day to check in. Eventually, every day became every week, then every month, then just for holidays, and then barely at all. The last call was nearly two years ago.
He felt justified in the moment.
His album was released, then went triple platinum (more than 240,000 copies sold). Then came the legendary world tour, and then they were back in the studio looking to avoid the sophomore curse. Unfortunately, that’s exactly what felled them a year later. Their second album barely sold a tenth of what the first album sold, and their ride was over almost as quick as it began.
It was at this point he virtually decided to go home, get a “real” job, and be part of the family again. At the last possible moment, however, guilt about being away for so long and anxiety over explaining himself and his actions sent him in another direction: a wrestling career.
He toured the country with his first, smaller promotion, but could never bring himself to stop home, even when the promotion held a show in Detroit.
No, this... this is what it took to get him home. He was on the road last week driving from Milwaukee to Indianapolis when he got the call: his mother had succumbed to complications from Alzheimer’s at the young age of 52.
Apparently, she had been on hospice care for several weeks, but no one bothered to call him, and who could blame them?
So, here he stands, beneath the weight of his guilt and the decisions he’s made, as the person he cared most for in the entire world is lowered six feet underground. He's never felt so alone while surrounded by people.
Needless to say, he’s barely holding it together.
As of his arrival this morning, he planned to go to the wake this evening. But as he accepts a rose from the undertaker and steps forward to lay it upon the coffin, his anxiety places him in a vice grip. He can’t bring himself to face his family yet, and so he makes the decision to head directly to the airport.
He has a show tomorrow in Los Angeles, and the early arrival home will give him a chance to mentally prepare and move on – in his own way – from today’s events. So, after laying the rose, he makes an abrupt U-turn and heads directly for the limo that brought him here. As he extends his hand to open the limo door, a familiar voice calls out from behind.
“Randy, wait!” his sister calls out.
At first, he sighs and hangs his head, unable to turn around. After a beat he mentally talks himself out of it and slowly turns to face her. A long pause ensues as neither of them speaks. After a several beats, both siblings lunge forward simultaneously and embrace in a loving, soggy hug. No further words are spoken as they separate, and she places her hands on his shoulder. She looks him in the eye, then gives a reassuring nod, as he turns and ducks into the limo and out of the rain.
As his eyes adjust to the difference in lighting, a box-shaped package comes into view on the seat beside him. It’s wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. Before he can even process this information, the driver’s voice echoes through the speaker system. “Uh, sir, your father dropped that off. He said your mother wanted you to have it.”
Randy’s head whips towards the window, and his eyes dart back and forth, but his father is nowhere in sight. He thanks the driver and cautiously motions for him to move out.
Later that afternoon, he sits in a window seat on an American Airlines flight from Wayne County Airport to LAX. The package rests on his lap. Initially confused by the gift and disinterested in opening it, curiosity now gets the better of him, and he is compelled to untie the string. The removal of the brown wrapping paper reveals a perfectly constructed and maintained mahogany box. A sealed white envelope rests on top.
At the behest of the flight attendants who make their departure announcements, he tucks the mahogany box under the seat in front of him and confirms that his seat is in the full and upright position.
After takeoff, once the craft has reached its cruising altitude, he opens the envelope with a tear in his eye. He pulls out a folded sheet of paper. Its frayed edges and slightly discolored hue suggest she wrote this a long time ago, probably even before the Alzheimer’s even set in.
Randy takes his time reading the letter, his red, damp eyes occasionally shifting to and from the box on the floor. After a deep breath, he folds the letter and tucks it into the inside pocket of his jacket, which has finally dried out from the rain.
As he processes the information held by the letter, he can feel the exhaustion of two consecutive sleepless nights wash over him. Armed with the knowledge that there are at least four hours left on this flight, he allows himself to rest his eyes, and eventually drift off to sleep.
Upon arriving at his Los Angeles apartment, he sets his belongings down on the couch and plops down in his favorite chair, with the mahogany box resting on his lap. The place is a mess. Clothes on the floor, wrestling gear on every other surface, empty pizza boxes. It looks more like a college dorm room and less like the apartment of a grown man.
Randy again allows himself to get lost in the words of the letter. After a beat, he begins fiddling with the hinge of the box, preparing himself to open it.
After several tries, he ultimately decides that he’s not ready, mentally or emotionally, to do so.
He turns and sets the box down on the end table next to the chair, directly next to a bottle of 15-year Glenfiddich Scotch. He observes the deep brown color of the liquid as he takes the bottle in his hand.
In that moment, the weirdest thing happened: his mouth began to water. As if he could taste the Scotch.
Why is that weird?
It's weird because he's never tasted this scotch before, or ANY scotch for that matter.
It’s weird because Randy doesn’t drink.
Never has, actually. Not one drop. It’s always been a point of pride. He told himself, years ago, that he would not let the Rock and Roll lifestyle consume him or change who he was.
He’s succeeded to this point.
He didn’t even buy this bottle. This was a gift from his new wrestling partner, Chris Palmer, after their recent Tag Team Championship victory.
He thanked Chris and told Chris that he could enjoy it the next time they got together outside of wrestling, otherwise it would just collect dust on his end table.
The best laid plans of mice and men often go astray.
Or, at least that’s what he tells himself as he removes the cork from the bottle and takes a swig.
The deep, smokey flavor burns at his throat on the way down, and he’s surprised to find that he... likes it?
The initially painful burn helps distract from the happenings of the last few days, so he takes another. He finds that the more he takes in, the more he forgets, so he takes another.
And another.
And another.
And anoth-
TO BE CONTINUED...