Post by Deleted on Aug 16, 2022 16:11:42 GMT -5
Early Afternoon
Arlington, Virginia
You know, I don’t expect people to feel bad for me. I never show people my life- fans, competitors or otherwise- in order to garner some kind of sympathy. I neither need it nor do I want it. I do this, because I think it’s important to show you that there is more to me than just the arrogant asshole you see on television or the flirty fuckboy you see on twitter. A lot of people eat, sleep and breathe the professional shoot wrestling business and that’s fine, it’s just not me. To me, wrestling is just one more thing I do. I have an entire life outside of wrestling and that’s what truly makes me who I am.
I am not a wrestler that goes home and schemes my next move or celebrates this victory or sulks over that loss. That’s not me. It never has been and never will be.
I am a man that just happens to also be a wrestler. I am a loving father to my three children and a dedicated husband to my wife and our marriage- a marriage that looks bizarre to most, but most certainly works for us. I’m also a businessman and a philanthropist with my fingers in many pies outside of wrestling. And I will never apologize for being who I am.
The call came just after lunch. Seb and I, after our meeting at Veneras International to discuss business, he and I went to lunch and talked some more. A little business, a little personal. Nevertheless, Janet, my fathers gatekeeping secretary, gave me a call. Dads house had been on the market since he died in May and it just sold. I needed to get over there. There were some things still inside the house that needed to be removed and were not part of the estate sale.
Seb and I parted company after lunch. He offered to come with me to help see me through some things as I continue to work on coming to terms with dads death, but I felt it was important for me to confront things on my own.
A few minutes later I pulled the old Monte Carlo into my dads driveway. Before killing the rumbling engine I just stare at the house. It’s a far cry from the old Compound in Connecticut. The place in Connecticut was gigantic. After he’d lost the war and control of the Illuminatus to me, he’d been excommunicated and settled here. At first, he lived in a luxurious little penthouse not far from his office. I guess as time went on and he grew older, he wanted something simpler. Something less extravagant and ended up here on a cul-de-sac on Sequoia Drive outside Arlington. Often, I myself have wondered what it might be like to not live the life of extravagance that I currently enjoy. More than once I’ve considered settling in a neighborhood just like this once my wrestling days come to a close. Whatever his reasons, I’m glad he got to experience living a regular life before he died.
I’d never visited once he moved here. The neighborhood kids though, a lot of them were fans of wrestling and loved that the ‘guy next door’ was a legitimate hall of fame legend. One that seeded another hall of fame caliber future legend that was current and relevant on professional wrestling airwaves.
Looking to my right, I see the realty sign with its ‘Sale Pending’ dangling from it and kill the engine. Stepping out of my car I notice a pair of eyes staring at me through a neighbors window. The boy looks like he might be Frankie’s age. Frankie is quite small for his age so I suppose it’s probable the boy in the window is a bit younger. Nevertheless, I shoot the boy a smile and a wave before heading into the house.
Inside, its empty, deserted, and just a tad creepy. Simultaneously I can feel his presence as well as his absence and I don’t know what sort of feeling that gives me. I just know that the hair on my arms stands on end. Making my way through the house, a call comes in. It’s Janet.
“Hey,” I greet her.
“Hey honey, how you doin’?” she asks. She’s always treated me as if I was one of her own children. Until today, I hadn’t really talked to her since my fathers death. Honestly, I didn’t know how to. I wasn’t sure how she’d react to me knowing I was the one that pulled the proverbial trigger that now sees my father in his grave.
“I’m good Janet, how ‘bout you?” I reply after some hesitation.
“Oh, hangin’ in there,” she answers. “Did you find it?”
Before I answer her, I look around the living room and all the nothingness surrounding me. “Find what?” I ask her.
“Sebastian’s bedroom closet,” she replies.
Quickly, I make my way upstairs to the second floor.
“Up the steps, last door on the right,” she informs me.
Down the hall and to the right, I enter his deserted bedroom. Hesitating for a brief second or two, I head across the room to the walk in closet. Inside and resting on the floor is something a fan of both his and mine gave him at some convention a few years ago.
A painting of me.
“Do you see it?” she asks, cutting my silence like a broadsword.
“Yeah,” I answer quietly.
For years I’d talk a lot about my father. The vast majority of it wasn’t in glowing terms. Early in my career, I struggled to measure up to his magnificence and it created problems for us. As time went on and I started perfecting my own craft and became a bigger star than he ever was, it only served to worsen our relationship. The fact he wasn’t a great father when I was young didn’t help matters any. He was never really good at outwardly showing love or affection toward me. I mean, I get it, you’re a product of your environment so it wasn’t all his fault. It’s not that he didn’t, it’s that he just didn’t know how. My grandfather was a hard, cold, German man that showed absolutely zero affection for him in any way. Oftentimes, I wondered to myself whether my father even loved me at all- that was until the arrival of this fan-made painting of me. Back when he lived in the penthouse, he had this displayed prominently and proudly on the wall in his foyer. It was literally the first thing anyone visiting would have seen.
“I saved that for you,” she says to me, momentarily knocking me out of my own head. “I thought you might want to keep that.”
“What would I do with a painting of myself?” I ask her while- for some unknown reason- trying not to give away that it means something to me.
“Thad honey,” she says. I can almost feel the eye roll on the other end of the phone. “You and I both know that painting was special to you.”
“Special to him,” I argue.
“To you too, don’t try to act like a tough guy with me,” she asserts herself.
“I’m not gonna hang a painting of myself in my own house Janet,” I protest. “That’s just fucking weird and gives off the vibe that I’m far more conceited than I really am.”
“Thaddeus Leander Duke!”
Oh shit.
All three names.
“The Second!”
And the suffix!?
“It’s not the subject of the painting that means anything to you,” she begins, explaining what I already know but I’m still refusing to admit. “The subject mattered to Sebastian. You know that. That’s why that painting means something to you.”
Unexpectedly, a tear escapes my eye and rolls down my cheek.
“Yeah I know,” I relent. “Thanks Janet.”
“Honey there’s one more thing,” she says, immediately perking up my ears. “You’ll find that in the garage.”
Holding the painting in my hand, I start to quickly make my way back down through the house toward the attached garage.
“Why didn’t you sell it?” I ask as I continue my trek.
“Someone offered five grand for the painting,” she answers. “But you can’t put a price on sentimental value.”
“What about the other thing?” I ask of her.
“Two reasons,” she begins. “The sentimental value thing and it was too heavy for me to lift.”
As she concludes her answer, I open the door to the garage. Resting untouched for months but squeaky clean, is my dads 1977 Lincoln Continental.
“Plus I thought you should be the one to make the decision whether or not to sell it,” she continues explaining. “You two built it.”
“Janet, I’m gonna go,” I say to her as I step down into the garage.
“Call me when you decide,” she says. “Find the keys.”
“I know where they are,” I inform her. “Sell it,” I say before ending the call.
Making my way inside, I take a slow stroll along the length of the massive car, dragging my finger along the long, sharp body lines. I think, in the moment when you’re young, when you understand less about the world and what makes people act or react the way they do, you sometimes have a perspective about things that you don’t begin to change until later in life when you’re more experienced, of sounder mind, and ultimately have a better grasp on humanity as a whole.
I’ve been unfair to my father. Despite the despicable evils he committed over the course of his life, he wasn’t all bad. I’ve said before that I’m a melting pot of both my father and my mother. Outside of wrestling, this was the one thing that bonded us: our love for automobiles. Dad was a very big man. He couldn’t fit comfortably into a Camry. He always had to buy the biggest of everything just so he’d fit inside without knocking his knees against the lower dash or bumping his head on the roof if he drove over a pothole.
This was a special find. Coincidentally, he bought it at an estate sale when I just after my tenth birthday. It was rough. The paint was chipped, cracked, faded and peeling. The front bumper was pushed back about three inches. The leather interior was cracked and torn, same with the vinyl roof. Glass was cracked or missing entirely. One of the fender skirts were missing as well as most of the body molding.
I haven’t even thought about this car in years. Numerous times, I’ve said that he never really did much with me when I was a kid that was father-like. Maybe some of that was just me masking and justifying my hurt and anger toward him. Truth is, everything I know about engines and repairing vehicles is because of him… and this old Lincoln.
Flashback - 2009
The Duke Compound
Old Saybrook, Connecticut
“Loosen those lugnuts,” my father says to me. I’m ten years old and don’t have the strength. Those bastards are stubborn as hell. The old Lincoln was just about finished by then and we were intent on changing out the brake pads.
“Shouldn’t you jack it up?” I asked him.
“Eventually,” he answers. “You want to crack ‘em loose before you take the car up. Otherwise, you’ll never get them loose and the tire will just spin and spin.”
I remember struggling mightily. I was tall for my age thanks to him but wiry and pretty much rail thin thanks to my mother. I tried and tried and sweat my ass off trying hard to bust them loose but they just wouldn’t budge no matter what I did. Even planting my foot inside the wheel wells and using my weight and leg strength, still wouldn’t budge them.
“I can’t do it,” I finally give in, throwing the lug wrench on the cement garage floor. Sitting there on the floor I remember the feeling of defeat. Dad wouldn’t have it. He lightly smacked me upside my head as he knelt beside me.
“I don’t wanna hear defeatist bullshit Thaddeus,” he said to me.
“But I can’t…”
“Stop,” he interrupted curtly. “So you don’t have the arm strength. What do you have?”
Sitting there with sweat and brake dust all over my face, I think hard.
“Leverage,” I answered him. Saying nothing, he only nods. Excitedly jumping to my feet, I pick up the lug wrench and secure it to the first of the five lugnuts, having it positioned straight back, pointing toward the rear of the car. Placing my hands on the fender, I step up on the lug wrench. Using my feet, I bounce what little weight at ten years old that I do have up and down. Finally, the first lugnut creaks loose. Stepping down, I tried to celebrate but Dad wasn’t having it.
“You ain’t done nothin’ yet, Thad,” he said to me. “You still got four more to bust loose.”
Determined to finish the job, I resumed working. I remember it took awhile, but I finally got them all loose. Dad jacked the car up off its wheel and removed it, laying it aside before he put my focus on the brake caliper. Again, I struggled. Determined to break the bolts loose without his intervention, I try to use my head. The trick I used on the lugnuts wouldn’t work inside the fender well. Thinking to myself, I scurry up off the floor in a hurry.
“Where you goin’?” he asked, but I ignored him.
Grabbing a small five pound sledgehammer from the workbench, I quickly rush back to my job. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m not sure even to this day, but I thought I caught him smile. Smiling wasn’t something he did very much. Nevertheless, back under the fender well of the long ass Lincoln, I attach the ratchet to the bolt and give the handle a hard smack with the hammer. Like a hot knife through butter, the bolt busts loose easily.
Later, when we were all done, the car was put back together and lowered to the floor. Covered in grease, sweat and brake grime, now it was time for a victory celebration.
“Alright kid, let’s get cleaned up,” he said to me.
Guiding me to the deep sink in the corner of the garage he squirted some orange Gojo hand cleaner into my hands. I remember its gritty feel in my palms and how awkward it felt. I was sure nothing was gonna take all the grease from my hands, but lo and behold, after rubbing the Gojo against my skin for a few seconds, it trickled off and down the drain as I rinsed off.
Dad then handed me a towel. “How’d I do?” I asked, hoping for some seal of approval from the only parent I ever knew. Back then, I didn't yet hate him the way I eventually grew to. He was my hero.
“I guess we’ll find out,” he said to me.
In the moment, I remember sadness creeping in. All my life I struggled to be accepted by him. For years all I ever wanted was just a little bit of acknowledgment that yeah, I did okay. I had no idea what was coming next. At the time, I had no idea that what was about to happen, was his seal of approval, it was his way of saying “Good job Thaddeus,” without actually saying a word.
“C’mon let’s go for a ride,” he said.
I was excited. Dad was on the road a lot in those days but when he was home, we’d spent hours working on this car. Together we rebuilt her from the wheels up, inside and out. All that was left now was getting her to the body shop. I’d waited so long for this moment that with the quickness, I was opening up the passenger side door.
“What are you doing?” he asked as he jarred the door out of my hand and slammed it shut.
“You said we were goin’ for a ride Dad,” I remember answering him in protest.
“You’re driving,” he said with the slightest of smirks. I stared back at him in bewilderment. “What? My master apprentice deserves to be the one to stretch her legs after he worked so hard on bringing her back to life.”
I couldn’t believe it. In a rush, I bolt to the driver side of the car and hop into the driver seat. The old Duke Compound was a sprawling property. We had several hundred acres of ocean front property and there was almost no risk of this rookie ten year old driver hitting much of anything. After adjusting the split bench seat so that I could sit comfortably and still reach the pedals, I turned to my dad with my hand out. Saying nothing, he looked at me, then pointed to the sunvisor folded up against the cars roof. Pulling down the visor, the keys fell into my crotch.
Excitedly, I shove the key into the ignition and turn. The beat up old Lincoln rumbles to life and nothing at that time would have wiped the ear to ear grin from my face. I knew the basics. Adjust the mirrors, seat belt, so on.
Reaching for the shifter, he grabs my hand and even now I remembered how large his hand was compared to my own.
“Hold the brake first,” he taught me. “Then shift, then ease up gently on the brake.”
“Okay,” I said to him, still beaming. With a firm hold of the brake, I shifted her from ‘Park’ to ‘Reverse’. Easing slightly off the brake, the Lincoln starts to make its way from the spot its sat in for nearly a year. I was careful not to steer too sharply as we backed out. This day, I wouldn’t dare disappoint my father.
Present Day
Arlington, Virginia
My phone ringing and vibrating in my pocket snaps me out of my own memory. Without realizing it, I’d been crying as I was thinking back on that day. Pulling my phone from my pocket as I miss the call, its one I’ll certainly want to return shortly. My boy Frankie.
Making my way to the driver side of the car, I open the door like I did 13 years ago before tossing the painting across the front seat. I’m considerably bigger now than I was then, but Dad was a big man. I still needed to adjust the seat. Opening up the garage door with the clicker, I sit there a moment and dry my eyes. Looking above my head, I pull down the visor. Like 13 year ago, the keys fall into my crotch. Digging them out, I put the key into the ignition and fire up the old Lincoln.
Before backing out, I give Janet a quick call.
“What’s up honey?” she greets me.
“Send one of the boys and a truck to pick up my car from Dads house,” I tell her.
“Any particular reason?” she asks with her all-knowing tone of voice.
“I’m keeping the Lincoln,” I answer her.
“Of course you are,” she says, still in that same tone of voice.
“You knew I’d keep it, didn’t you?” I say with a smile.
“I strongly suspected,” she replies. “I know you two had your problems honey, but Sebastian loved you so much more than you ever knew.”
“Yeah,” I say with sadness evident.
“You didn’t know it, but he talked about you constantly,” she continues on. “Anytime we were out or in a meeting. If someone was a fan from his wrestling days, they’d talk about him. He’d talk about you and how proud he was that you were forging your own path.
“I never seen him smile as much as when he was talkin’ about you,” she finishes.
“Stop,” I interrupt as I begin to feel the dam starting to break.
“Honey,” she pauses. “You did the right thing.”
Her saying so almost jars me out of my skin.
“I knew so much more about you and him and your history than I ever let on,” she starts to explain. “I know what he did to your mother, Thaddeus. He knew you’d eventually have to do it. We talked about it. He thought you’d have to do it in order for you to move on with your life.”
“It doesn’t make it any easier,” I protest quietly.
“Nor should it,” she agrees.
“Janet thanks for doing this,” I say to her sincerely. “But I wanna call my son now.”
I can almost feel her smiling on the other end of the phone.
“Yeah,” she says quietly. “You do that honey. Tell Frankie I’ll see him soon.”
“I will.”
After ending the call, I back the Lincoln out of the garage, past my Monte Carlo and onto the street. I can almost hear dads voice 13 years ago. “Hit the gas pedal boy,” he said. Putting it in ‘Drive’, I smash the gas. The old Lincoln lurches forward while I hit ‘call’ on Frankie’s name.
“Hey dad,” he greets me.
“What’s up buddy?”
“Nothin’, mom just told me where you were,” he answers. “Thought you might need to talk.”
Eleven years old maybe, but so much wiser than his age.
"Buddy, I always wanna hear your voice."