Lucy and the Wrestler

The old man sat on a stool and leaned against the aged bar. He was a cliche'. The broken down seventy year old still looming large over his domain which was a little bit further than he could reach. He was broken with painful experiences. The great war, the ring, his failed marriage, the death of his son and brother, he had nothing left but a small pension barely enough to rent a room in a fleabag hotel. Little went right in his life even with all the right intentions, he was a product of that old devil, time. You can see he was large and in his younger days, quite something. His blonde hair now quite grey, his skin beginning to sag a bit, he walks with a moderate limp, noticable but easily forgotten, just like his life it seemed to him. He has only the few friends in the bar though they have been dying off over the years. He is like many of us when we age, we tell the same stories of our glory days, far too fantastic to believe, and so distant from where we are now. It seems like a dream really. Or did he make it up? Was it real? Yes. It was real, very real. His broken bones and scars were evidence of his many wars both actual and created. He sat as large as his path through life on a diminutive stool that looked like much of his life now, top heavy and barely balancing out. He sat telling sotries of the good ol' days to anyone who would listen, even after they have walked away, he looks around to see if anyone else was listening. He was a sad man in the final years of his life. Not even a soul to pity him.

Lucy was rumored to have been a prostitute though no one really knew for sure. She was a drunkard. She stumbled in and stumbled out each night with a torn dress she wore when much younger, the same dress, night after night. No one could tell you how she lived or where, they could only tell you she was drunk and that is all. She often proped herself up against another man praying she was still beautiful to someone. She was beautiful at one time, though it was a bit hard to tell for sure now. She needed love and was desperate for attention which she never got. She too was sad having been used and rejected too many times. She never married. Men would leave when she got too close. For them it was a fling. For her, it was love that never materialized. You see, she was a dreamer, not very realistic dreams of love and romance, she never seemed to get the game of cat and mouse with men. She was always blindsided when dumped. There was always an excuse, you know the ones, they make no sense in the real world but make sence to a dreamer and a drunk. "Ok. Sure." she would always say. "I get it. You don't want me." She was throughly heart broken each time, time and time again. Eventually she would be afraid the man would leave her, she would become paranoid and possessive. She would hold on and congile and he would remit. Just one more gin and tonic, a quick role, then back home to the wife. He was never her man, but she was definitely his gal on the side, that is untill a younger one would come along. She was a sure thing. A known quantity. Not quality, so don't bring her home to mom and dad. In fact, she was at times barely tolorable. She would begin to drink and get sloppy. Her voice would have a shrill and get loud when she was drinking. It was painful. Only the pot at the end of the rainbow would keep the guy interested. That is why they stayed.

Tonight she leaned all her weight on the wrestler as he drank his beer slowly, He had only tokens, and not too many left before the end of the month. Better to sacrafice now than pay later he thought. She was nearly passed out, her mumblings a shadow of her consciousness as she would fall onto the bar occasionally slipping off the old mans shoulder. This went on for hours when suddenly, the man jumped from his stool and began to animate with a sort of dance his joy in what he saw on the television in the corner. It was a clip from his wrestling days. Didn't he look glorious? His athleticism was abounding in those days. He was huge and formidable. Nothing could stop him! Lucy came alive. She always seemed to come alive when others were happy. She imagined being at the party and a close friend. She was neither. She was alive and enjoying the old mans relish when as suddenly as he had begun, he stopped. He was dumbfounded. He saw his daughter on T.V. talking about her painful life. He had not seen her since she went to college. She refused his letters and calls repeatedly before he was too broken to continue. And like that, he was frozen in place listening to his life being recounted by his daughter in graphic detail. She talked about the abuse her mother would take, the punishment as a child, his drinking late at night, and the inevitable outbursts of anger at dinner and when everyone else was going to bed. Before he could have reenacted the scene blow for blow and now, he was getting blow after blow until he fell again onto his stool. Lucy leaned once more.

He was being pulled apart as is thoughts ran through his head. "How could she say such things? How could I have been so cruel?" He battled himself and his tears until he came to a conclusion. He was bad. God knows this. Perhaps if he prayed tonight he might be forgiven. He knew he would not be, his daughter would never forgive him, his wife, now dead, would not have forgiven him, and he certainly could not forgive himself. Maybe God will forgive him if he prayed. Perhaps, though not sure, he vowed to do just that when he got home. And sure enough, with resolution in hand, he perked back up. "Lucy darling." he sayed. "Let's go to my place and celebrate." She asked, "What are we celebrating?" He said, "Being alive." And so the patterns in life begain again, like they have over and over, not being recognized for what they were. Both began again on their own destruction. Both with optimism, both as sad as they had come in. They leave again through the swinging doors. "Don't let the door hit your ass." he said. "I won't." as she quickly shuffled outside. The night bartender wondered if either of them had seen the sun in all of these years. I doubt it. Sadness always lives in the darkness. There was no light here.