Mom's Gonna Be Proud

“What even is destiny?  Is that a stupid question?  There are no stupid questions.  That’s true.  Is this fate?”

Those are the questions and ramblings that went through Keith Castle’s mind while staring into an empty wrestling ring.  Serious eyes.  Gazing deep into the soul of an industry that’s eaten him alive since conception.  A faint smirk?  Correct.  He’s definitely smirking.  There’s something special about this moment.  That’s pretty obvious by his devious simper and an intensity that could impregnate a lion.  Make no mistake.  This is the look of a man who’s capable of great things.  Albeit - he’s nothing more than the average Joe.

Go ahead and stop asking.  Who is this guy?  This is Keith Castle.  A well-rounded millennial and the son of Tawny Castle.  That name may sound familiar?  Remember when she starred in the Great Damn Wrestling Federation?  Best woman’s wrestler of the 80’s, and that’s no lie.  We’ll get to her later because she plays a pretty pivotal role in this epic.

In the meantime, this guy is basking in the realm of stoic stone mode.  That’s Keith Castle.  He’s always in stoic stone mode.  Up until this moment he was the next big thing down in the circuit, conqueror of mud shows, and a national journeyman.  He’s been just about everywhere.

Nowhere, at the same time.  The sudden realization that his life was about to change hit him hard in the soul.  This was going to be a real reverse Kafkaesque metamorphosis.  Absurd systems and meaningless obstacles aside, until now - Keith was earning barely enough to pay the bills.  Not that it was a big deal, because it wasn’t, and that’s because he’s kind of boring and actually pays his bills.  A responsible indy darling making the bare minimum and inching by, but always voted the next big thing in those fancy magazines.  Six feet of average going nowhere, everywhere, but not anymore.  He’s going somewhere, now.  The smile returns.  Those eyes never changed behavior; focused, and deep in thought.

Keith Castle is the newest addition to the PRIME wrestling menu.  This is that moment a man becomes even manlier.  We’ve all been there. The right of passage for only the most unique and uber-athletic.  He’s athletic, that’s for certain, because he’s got the build of a track star with a little meat on his bones.  A good 200 pound plus frame that’s topped with a curly brown man-bun.  There’s nothing really impressive about him, and that’s what makes him unique.  He’d be considered mid-level handsome, but not enough to be a whore, and not enough to marry.  Even his toothy smile, nothing fancy, imperfect in every way, but not legitimately cringe-worthy, came with a curious charm.  The searing gaze tells the real story.  The vibes are different.  People can instantly tell that Keith is a driven individual.  He’s just got that look.  He’s kind, he loves his fans, and he’s easy to like just by looking at him.  People share brain cells with him.

Maybe it’s the perfect amount of facial hair for a man, if such were to exist?  It compliments his face and jawline magnificently.

The wrestling ring is for the Great Damn Wrestling Federation.  Remember that place?  Of course! He’ll be leaving it for PRIME.  The big leagues.  This was earned.  This was a culmination of healthy, hearty, necessary change.  Years of tweaks.  Years of consistent fighting.  Gains on gains, on gains.  The enduring hell of cauliflower ear and ring worm.  The grueling training that strengthened bone and turned muscle to stone.  The fights.  The tournaments.  Life on the road.  Being abandoned as a child.  He’ll be forty in a few years.  It’s all just a test.  Keith handled his baggage with sophisticated prowess.  The time was right, and control was at its peak.  Things were about to change, and Keith was optimistically jiggy with it.

“So, where do we go from here?”

That’s Keith’s foster dad, Roger, and he’s Keith’s number one fan.  He’s been to a lot of Keith’s shows.  Admittedly - it’s probably a little overboard.  Especially the ‘Keith Castle’s Foster Dad’ unisex t-shirt that’s a tad on the tighter side.

“Fun match tonight.  Nice win.  Tough crowd though,” Roger said, baffled.  Keith turned around and welcomed him with a smile.

Keith shrugged.  “Kind of nice to go out with a win.  I do wish the crowd was more into the match though.  Hopefully I’m not losing my touch?”  Roger thought this silly and put his hand on Keith’s shoulder.

“You? A freed man.  A made man.” Roger shakes his head and smiles.  “C’mon, big dawg.  If you were losing your touch, then do you think PRIME would have any interest in ya?  These people were probably put to bed two matches before yours.  That one was a real stinker.”

“I don’t know.  I let my mind wander.  I can't get distracted like that in PRIME.” Keith disregards Roger’s joke.  He isn't thrilled with his own performance but he's strict about excuses and immediately shuts it down.  He's always been hard on himself.  It's built character.

“All of this makes me think about my real mom,” Keith continued.  “That probably sounds funny, but it’s true.  There’s no problem with Mary, Roger, so please don’t take this out of context.  But, I want to see her again.  Try to build a relationship.  I’m going to be travelling a lot more.  I can find her.  I've been putting a lot of thought into this.  I told myself that when this happens, when I make it, that I'm gonna find her.  You give me a few weeks and it'll happen.”

Roger looks somewhat torn.  It’s evident by Roger’s expression that he doesn’t agree with this decision.  He takes a step back and looks Keith in the eyes.

“Are you sure you wanna do that?” Roger questioned with concern. Keith did not hesitate.

“Absolutely.  One hundred percent.  It’s a done-deal.  I'm going to find her.  I need to.  I just didn't want to do it until now.  There's something telling me that this has to happen.  And it will.” Keith’s certainty is present in his firm and commanding tone.  He's confident and more humble, but not enough to seem obnoxiously over-confident.

“Well if that's what you believe then I'd say you've got yourself a believer,” Roger smiled and patted Keith on the shoulder.  Roger changes the subject and lowers his voice,  “Keith Castle - PRIME professional wrestler,” he says like a stern voice-over narrator.  Keith nods, looks back toward the ring, and releases a sigh.

“This is going to be a challenge,” Keith looks back at Roger, “but that’s OK.  I wanted this.  I wanted to be in this moment.  It felt inevitable.”

Roger agrees, shares a smile, and then whips his arm around Keith to direct him toward the gymnasium exit.  “C’mon.  You’ve got a large group of fans waiting for you in the hallway.”

The ring is the only one left.  It sits bathing underneath a spotlight and surrounded by the dimly lit seating arrangement.  Even this object shares emotion during these moments.  It’s left all alone and patiently waiting to be deconstructed.  Silent, used, abused, and patient.  If there’s anything to learn from this image it’s the similarity between the ring, and Keith Castle.  It’s an object made for entertainment, used by others for a night of non-stop fighting, only to be silent, patient, and waiting for its deconstruction. It provides no excuse and does its job dutifully.  It’s constant because it’s not allowed to give up.  Keith was born in the ring.  They’ve been together forever.

He was literally born in a wrestling ring following an event at a local VFW in Eugene, Oregon.  ‘Tenacious’ Tawny Castle apparently never took days off.  The warrior was in labor for the entire show but insisted she was fine. She waited until the end, and patiently stalked until the last person exited the banquet room.  That’s when she entered the wrestling ring, nestled her back against the closest turnbuckle, and pushed for approximately six minutes and thirteen seconds.  She timed it.  It was right around the same time of night when it was announced that Iraq released 330 French hostages during some big controversy in Kuwait.

The baby was swaddled in the cape of Tawny’s outfit.  The red cape with the big white ‘T’ in the center.  Tawny wasn’t cut from the same cloth.  This type of midwestern cloth was of a different breed of clay with coal in its veins and hailing from a royal bloodline of plight.  An unpredictable God-chosen oddity with a skewed interpretation of humanity.  There’s nothing this woman wouldn’t do, couldn’t do, and shouldn’t do.  She often called herself the Rumble Fish.

That should put Keith into perspective.  Keith was her ride-or-die for the next seven years.  He was a backseat passenger of her pearl white 1985 Buick LeSabre.  Tawny’s boyfriends always sat shotgun.  Sometimes other men would tag along.  All of them were wrestlers, travel buddies, but that never stopped the eventual promiscuity.

Keith eventually got his own hotel room and whatever happened in Tawny’s room was never discussed.  His mother was a contemporary strumpet with barely any limitations.  Her synapses were coated in the powder of Peru, her veins transported opioids, and all while her liver was held hostage by spirits.  A woman under the influence with an asinine libido.  That’s why Keith will never know his real father.  It’s not only that she was with a plethora of men, but sometimes she couldn’t remember who, when, or how many at a time.

Somehow Keith turned out the way he did, level-headed, and determined.  He spent hours in those hotel rooms working out.  As far as Keith was concerned?  The noises being made next door were the byproduct of an intense workout regiment involving his mother and Guts Fraily, or Rex Valor, or The Steam Engines.  Is it a surprise that Keith had a rather abnormal daily regiment?  Keith always knew which work-out day it was when heard Tawny shout it through the wall.  Some of her gibberish was familiar, but most of it needed an educated guess.  His naivety aided in developing a strict focus.

It didn’t matter who shared the backseat with him in ‘Le-Fucking-Sabre’, as Tawny would often call it, because they didn’t bother Keith Castle.  Some people have special powers that involve inventing cures, or owning cities, while Keith had a power to ignore everything around him.  His face would be deep in some kind of book, or magazine.  Objects were passed around him and he’d even help relay a cigarette, beer, bulb, or occasional joint, without knowing he was doing it; face-in-media.

The focus could only be broken by Big Lord Davies’ childhood stories or a game of chess against Wallaby Wallace on one of those tiny magnetic boards that was also the vessel to store the pieces.  If the hotel room had a television?  All night binges of ER, the X-Files, Mystery Science Theater, and an unlimited amount of abstract calisthenics, kept him entertained.  These types of cultural impacts on an individual’s environment make every bit of difference.  It’s all DNA embedded in the character.

The main cause for Keith’s stability arrived when he was 8 years old.  Tawny’s irreverence led her to believe that something had to be let go.  Keith was put up for adoption.  It’s unorthodox for a mother to give up her 8 year old son, but nothing with Tawny was orthodox.  It’s been hard for Keith to remove the image of his mother’s face from his memory, especially the very last time he saw her.  She was drained like a rung-out dish cloth.  Her eyes were webbed with bloodshot.  Tawny’s pain and torture was masked by thick layers of makeup that became more noticeable and sloppy on her leathery skin, year after year.  The curls of her hair grew into an orgy of tumbleweed.  Even her kiss felt like the dab of a dry sponge, and often smelled like one that recently dusted cigarette ash from a surface.  It was all catching up to her.  Then, she was gone.   She’s been gone for twenty eight years.

Keith Castle now lives in an apartment in Longmont, Colorado.  That’s about an hour north from Roger and Mary.  He lives in a quiet building, and shares the apartment with his roommate; a blue and white parakeet named Keeter Gabriel.  Their living space is minimal.  Space is cherished.  The only thing on the wall is a mounted television.  Across from the TV is a bland blue couch, a cheap coffee table within reach that’s housing one wrestling magazine, and a plain black floor lamp.  The most depth to the area is presented in a small bonsai garden near the picture window.  They have a great view of the rich masonry and blank brick wall on the adjacent building.

Keeter lands on Keith’s shoulder and pecks at his earlobe.  Keith sits shirtless, in gray sweat pants, on the edge of the couch.  He peeks in his periphery at the bird perched near his ear.

“Great show tonight,” Keith’s voice has a tenor to it that’s just on the edge of bass.  Keeter lets out a soft chirp in Keith’s ear.  “Had about thirty somethin’ fans waitin’ for me.  It was wonderful.  Conversations were top notch.”  He speaks in a calculated way as if every word is specifically chosen and spoken with purpose.  “Just great - great fans.  Many will convert to PRIME fandom, guaranteed.”

“I won tonight,” Keith’s piercing green eyes looked down at the beige carpet.  “I’ve never felt the way I did when the bell rang.  A win’s a win, but this one was different.  Kind of like one of them delightfully embracing oh shit moments.  I looked down at Goucho and realized that this was the end.  Years of enduring blood-soaked canvas and turning the ring into our sadistic playground.  He’s beat me, I’ve beat him, countless times and in all variations.  The battles that greyed our hair and dropped our testicles.  All of that ended when he gave up.  I could have dislocated his shoulder tonight with the Castlepainia.  A token of my appreciation for the relationship.  But what good does a lame shoulder do when it’s not aiding the retaliating arm?  There will be no retaliation in PRIME, because there is no Goucho.”

Keeter tilted his head and oddly squawked.  The noise was clear and obvious to Keith because he apparently understands Keeter’s language, or signal.  That was the logic squawk.  Keeter was telling Keith how it is, and Keith took it humbly to the chin.

“You’re right, Keet.  As usual, you’re right.  There are Goucho’s everywhere and PRIME will have one, or many.  Probably many.  There will be more Gouchos.” He looks at the parakeet with a toothy grin.  “And, there will be Keith Castle.  That’s it.  That’s the feeling.  There will be Keith Castle in PRIME.  There will be a commitment to uphold for an even larger crowd.  Keith Castle must bring his A-game.  The performance must be of an elite quality.  The fights will be grandiose duels of the highest of stakes.  There will be more matches like the one that I had tonight, Keeter.  This was the last win, today.  There are more wins, tomorrow.”

Another Keeter squawk sends Keith the signal.  The bird keeps the man in check.  Keith huffs, a quick exhale through the nose, with a single gut rumble of a belly laugh.

“Yes, and there will be losses.  You’re absolutely right - you slick beaked little rascal.” Keith lightly pokes Keeter on the cere.  “But, we go hard to the end, and we win or lose with grace and dignity.  Outcomes only matter on paper.  I don’t consider it a loss if I keep coming back for more.  You know how much I like a good fight.  I love a good fight.  PRIME is a place of high honor, respect, culture, and esteemed repute.  You’re only getting the absolute best, and I shall reciprocate.”

Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in C Minor plays suddenly in the background, but only for the first five seconds.  Keith and Keeter both turn their head in the direction of the violins.  Then Keith returns a glance at the bird.

“I’ve been chatting with someone who has a lead on my mother’s whereabouts,” Keith says with excitement.  He stands and Keeter flies toward a kitchen island several feet away.  The bird lands next to Keith’s cell phone and pecks the screen.

“What does it say?” Keith asks.  The bird reviews the screen and then whistles.  “Really?”  Keith questions as he retrieves the phone and reads the message.  He sighs as he puts the phone back, and scratches his head near the man-bun.  His lips are pursed and if his eyes shot lasers then he’d be burning a hole through the island’s faux wood laminate.

Keith looks at the bird.  “Why can’t she stay in one place?  Now I’ve got to go see this guy named,” he grabs the phone, glares, and re-reads, “Tom Scar-pay-thee-in.”  He looks back at Keeter.  “Why does that name sound familiar?” Keith attempts to recall.  The bird tilts its head and chirps.  Keith scratches his chin.  “I don’t know?  I never knew them by any other names.  It’s like Goucho - he probably has another name.  I couldn’t tell you what it is, but it’s probably not Goucho.  It’s probably Todd.  I’m not sure who this Tom Scarpathian is, but hopefully he’s got some info on where mom might be.”

Keeter decides to journey over to the bonsai garden and finds comfort on the window sill.  Keith follows the bird and grabs a pair of sheers, then a spray bottle.  He starts to lightly snip at branches of a beautifully twisted bonsai that’s leaning to the left as if being blown by a strong wind.  The curves, all the twists, limbs interlocking, branches that are conditioned, and the over-all delicate beauty of the bonsai tree was attractive to Keith.  There’s a pattern to it.  A light snip, with a gentle swipe, a nurturing spray, and repeat all around like a maestro.  Keeter loves watching the grooming and adds to the ambience with a lovely song.  The perfectly tuned chirping made Keith smile.

“You’re right, Keet.  There’s somethin’ happenin’ here,” Keith sets the sheers aside and delivers one final misting.  He half smirks at Keeter.  “Mom’s gonna be proud.”