The Day Bob Evans Died

"Freedom. Reservation for one."

The hostess flashed a well-rehearsed smile at her guest.

“Good evening, Mr. Freedom. May I... check your coat?”

This was an interesting question for a couple of reasons. The first reason is that it was eighty degrees outside and this guest was wearing a coat.

The second reason is that the coat itself was a gaudy tapestry of red, white, and blue. Not a dressy blazer normally seen in this type of establishment, but a faux leather biker jacket. A fierce-looking bald eagle was stitched across the back. Tassels dangled from the sleeves like party streamers.

The attire wasn’t appropriate for this fine-dining restaurant, but at least it matched his equally loud cowboy hat, sunglasses, and boots.

“I’ll keep my coat.”

It was subtle, but there was a slight twitch in the hostess’s left eye.

Are you fucking serious, dude?

“Your table is ready, Mr. Free –”

“Chad.”

“Very well, Mr… Chad. Your table is ready whenever you’d like to follow me.”

They traversed the buzzing dining room, passing couples celebrating their anniversary and friends enjoying a bougie night out.

Chad Freedom was celebrating, too, but he didn’t have a significant other or friends. Tonight’s meal would be shared only with his thoughts.

While he walked coolly behind the hostess, Freedom's eyes constantly scanned the room. He internalized his surroundings. He identified the nearest exits. Did anyone look familiar? Did anyone look out-of-place (besides him)?

Unlikely. He was a long way from Southwest Michigan where he had spent his entire life until recently.

Still, you can never be too careful. That’s what his handler had told him.

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“Your name is now Robert Evans.”

A defiant look crossed the face of The Artist Not Yet Known as Chad Freedom.

“Out of all the names the government could possibly assign me, you picked Bob Evans?”

He spit the name out like it tasted bad.

“Bob fucking Evans? You can suck my signature pork sausage!"

The marshal – his handler – tilted their head slightly.

“Bob, the whole point of this is that you don’t stand out. We want you to be unassuming. You need to be unassuming.”

Yeah, no. That wasn’t this witness’s style.

“Listen, Deputy Dick…”

The nickname wasn't totally unfair. The marshal’s name was Richard Mercer.

“… If I have to be someone else, and move across the country, and start my life over, I’m going to pick who I am!”

The client didn’t seem to grasp the seriousness of their circumstances. Mercer sighed. He felt tempted to interrupt but opted let this to play out. His client had been through a lot recently.

“Okay, okay. Let’s assume you get to pick your name. What is it?”

The client smiled widely. They’d been thinking about this for several days already.

“Chad Freedom.”

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The waitress arrived. Chad ordered a chimichurri steak well done with…

“What are papas fritas?”

“Papas fritas are our hand-cut french fries. They’re double-fried in beef tallow, tossed with truffle oil and parmesan, and then finished with fresh herbs.”

In one ear and out the other.

“Spanish french fries? My God. We’re in America! You call them whatever you want, but I’m calling them American fries. I'll have American fries next to my steak.”

Somehow, the waitress maintained her composure. It's okay that her guest didn't grasp that American fries already existed.

The truth is – Chad Freedom didn’t give a flying fuck about what his French fries were called, but he had an American image to uphold.

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“Listen, I might be able to compromise with you on the name. What I can’t do is allow you to keep wrestling. It’s too public. You can find a new hobby. Maybe even one that doesn't require getting punched in the face."

Bullshit.

“I am not quitting wrestling.”

It wasn’t a negotiation. It should have been, but it wasn’t. The marshal’s patience was finally wearing thin.

“That is not how this works, Bob.”

“Chad.”

“This is not how this works, Chad. We are trying to protect you! The best way we can do that is by having you maintain a low profile. It might not light you up inside, but it’s going to keep you alive. You want to be alive, don’t you?”

A pregnant silence followed. The answer took too long to arrive.

“I don’t want to live without wrestling.”

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Freedom tried in vain to strike up conversation with his waitress. The restaurant was full, and she was busy. There wasn’t time for casual chit-chat.

Yet, he yearned for more of her time. To exchange phone numbers with her. Not for a fling, though. He wanted something deeper. A conversation. A human connection.

He wanted someone to share his news with.

The truth is – Chad Freedom was lonely.

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“Wrestling will be the only thing I have left. You can’t take that away from me.”

It felt melodramatic, but it was true. His whole existence was being uprooted. He needed something to bridge his old and new existences together; some semblance of continuity.

Richard Mercer hadn’t been a U.S. Marshal that long, but he recognized this part of the process as a delicate balancing act. On one hand, the client needed concealment. On the other, the man now known as Chad Freedom was abandoning the only life he knew. Mercer imagined how daunting it was to give up everything you know and start over. He sympathized but dutifully kept his feet on the ground.

“Chad, you can’t. You can’t put yourself in the public eye. You could be recognized. If they recognize you, they’ll know where to start looking for you. You know these people are ruthless. If they weren’t, you and I wouldn’t be talking right now.”

Chad put his head in his hands. His life had spiraled, and his thoughts were now following suit.

“I get it… It’s just…”

Freedom wasn’t crying – he wouldn't admit it, anyway – but his breathing was erratic and his nose began to run. Mercer sat patiently.

After several minutes, Freedom sat back in his chair and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. His eyes were watery – must be the pollen this time of year – and focused.

“You know what, Deputy Dick? I think you’re thinking about this all wrong.”

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Before he was Chad Freedom - before his life was turned upside down - he used to wrestle with a mask on. The mask provided him with an aura, and the slightest bit of padding from all the blows to the face.

Wrestling was never a full-time job. His main barrier was that he didn’t like to travel. He liked being near his home – the domain where his friends, family, and familiarities were. To stay close to home, he settled for wrestling in local beer gardens and high school gymnasiums.

He was never a versatile performer, but he was particularly good at withstanding punishment.

If there’s one thing about Chad Freedom, it’s that he knows how to endure.

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The client rambled excitedly, trying to convince his handler.

“Think about it, Mercer. Sure, I might be harder to find if I’m working some boring desk job and blending in. But do you think anyone would notice if I came up missing? I’d be replaced and forgotten immediately.”

Forgotten immediately. That was kind of the point, wasn’t it? The client didn’t think so.

“I used to wear a mask when I wrestled, so no one will recognize me now! All I have to do is change my gimmick and find a company that tours in bigger, better, more secure places.”

Freedom stopped for a moment, contemplative.

“And they need to have a television deal.”

Mercer blinked dumbly.

“A… television deal?”

“Yes!”

“How does that make any sen—”

“A television deal puts more eyeballs on me. Not only can audiences see that I’m alive and well, but bad guys would risk exposing themselves trying to get to me. That’s probably why no one’s ever tried to kidnap Oprah!”

Mercer opened his mouth to retort. There were no words.

Mercer closed his mouth silently. Still processing.

Mouth open again. Surely, there was an appropriate follow-up to what his client had just said.

Nope. Mercer closed his mouth again, utterly baffled.

Finally:

“Let me get this straight … you think putting yourself on television is somehow safer than living a quiet, peaceful life?”

Freedom smiled like someone who had just solved a problem.

“You’re damn right it is.”

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The waitress swiped his credit card. The frontside of the plastic read “Chad Freedom.” He was still nervous to use it – it left a digital trail, after all – but Mercer insisted it was safe and secure.

Strangely, it never occurred to Freedom that he was afraid to use a credit card but unafraid to look like Kid Rock on the Fourth of July in public.

The waitress returned the card, then placed the receipt and a pen on the table. Chad jotted down his tip. One hundred dollars for a hundred-dollar meal. Hopefully, she’d think fondly of him. Maybe she’d feel a twinge of regret for not having conversed with him more.

He moved to sign his name.

J… O…

He stopped.

That wasn’t him anymore.

He crossed the two letters out.

That wasn't good enough. He blackened them completely with the pen, pressing hard into the paper.

He signed again – correctly as Chad Freedom this time. The signature was awkward and slow because he wasn't used to it.

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Laughing at a client is unprofessional, but Mercer couldn’t help himself. This was lunacy.

“Okay, pal. You’ve had time to digest and process and daydream, but we need to get back to reality here.”

Chad’s face became steely as he unleashed a barrage of rhetorical questions.

“I’m an American citizen, right?”

“Yes. We verified.”

“And as an American citizen, I have rights, right?”

“Last I knew –”

“And, so, it’s my right to live my life how I want to?”

“Of course, but – “

“Then this is my decision, and I’ve made it. There. Settled.”

“It’s not settled.”

“No, Mercer. It’s fucking settled. You’ve told me not to get too close to anyone because it’s too much of a security risk. What am I supposed to do, huh? Hole up in the shitty apartment you found for me? Work a tedious job, then go home and draw the shades, and rot? That’s not a life!”

Freedom wiped the spittle from his chin, and Mercer looked into his client’s pleading eyes. It was an emotional argument instead of a logical one, but the man made an interesting point.

What’s the point of living if you can’t feel alive?

Mercer rose from his seat.

“The U.S. Government cannot be responsible for anything that you do against our advice. We’re also not responsible for any consequences you may experience as a result of those decisions. Proceed at your own risk.”

That’s exactly what Chad Freedom was doing.

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Chad Freedom was celebrating his acceptance with PRIME. They checked all the boxes he told Mercer needed to be checked.

He was celebrating that his life had been shattered but was already starting to pull back together.

There was something else worth celebrating, too: the birth of his new gimmick as an ultra-American.

Mercer pointed out that at least two other famous wrestlers had similar gimmicks. Freedom shrugged it off saying, “Good. There’s about to be a third.”

What Chad liked most about the new gimmick was that he no longer had to wear a mask.

New identity, sure.

But no mask.

Satisfied, he departed the restaurant exactly as he arrived - alone.

But Chad Freedom wouldn't be alone for long.