Cast Away

TWO WEEKS AGO

Nobody told Chad Freedom how boring survival would be.

He bought a cheap guitar at a pawn shop down the street. He tried playing it, but it made his fingers hurt.

To mute his thoughts, he experimented with THC for the first time in his life. It only made him paranoid, which is a terrible thing to be when you’re in WITSEC.

He stroked his Old Glory so much that the poor thing was red, white, and blue.

A threadbare robe and patriotic boxer shorts had become his daily uniform.

He hadn't shaved in days.

What’s the point?

Freedom had avoided death so far, but he still wasn’t really living.

It was a sunny afternoon, and he hadn’t left the ratty apartment in two weeks. He was stir crazy. He needed to breathe new air. WITSEC be damned, he was going outside.

He rummaged through the apartment’s lone closet, unzipped a duffel bag sitting on the floor, and found what he was looking for -- a red, white, and blue basketball signed by the Harlem Globetrotters. A gift from an old friend from Freedom’s old life.

He put on his tennis shoes – also red, white, and blue – and double-knotted them. There was a park a few blocks over. The park had basketball courts that were frequently occupied by pick-up games.

Going to shoot hoops, even though he was terrible at it.

What’s the point?

It didn’t matter if he was good or bad at it. He needed to do something.

Maybe he’d even talk to another human.

He was about to open the door to his apartment, when an angel materialized on his left shoulder and a devil on his right shoulder. The angel spoke about the virtues of patience and following the rules. The devil’s message was less frilly: This is America. Pursuit of happiness, bro!

Compelling arguments from both sides.

Suddenly, the angel’s face morphed into Richard “Deputy Dick” Mercer, the U.S. marshal assigned to Freedom’s case. Mercer kept repeating the same thing:

“Proceed at your own risk.”

Ugh.

Witness protection may have saved Chad Freedom’s life, but it was destroying his soul.

Freedom limply dropped the basketball onto the floor. It bounced a couple times before settling underneath a side table. The downstairs neighbor pounded a broom handle into their ceiling to informally file a noise complaint.

He forced his tennis shoes off his heels without untying them and kicked them noisily across the floor. The downstairs neighbor didn’t like that, either.

Freedom gloomily stripped down to his patriotic undies, leaving his athletic clothes in a lazy heap in front of the front door, and donned his threadbare robe. Uniform complete.

His stomach rumbled. Maybe he should eat something.

What’s the point?

He collapsed into his easy chair. His ass was wearing a groove into the seat already.

Freedom sighed and flipped on the television.

His only friend.

Between getting signed to PRIME and being an alleged uber-American on the eve of America’s 250th birthday, Chad Freedom had things to be happy about. But he wasn’t happy.

It was hard not to feel sorry for himself in that sparse apartment. The emptiness wasn’t surprising. He’d only started his life over a couple weeks ago.

Mercer had strictly forbidden his client from possessing belongings from his life B.F. (Before Freedom), and Chad Freedom was completely severed from his previous identity.

From... her. From their dog, Moose. From their happy lives together.

His memories weren’t atrophying yet.

But they would.

A thought so heavy it became hard to breathe.

He needed to get out of this fucking apartment.

He needed to feel the buzz of an arena. The stiff, familiar bounce of a wrestling canvas. The smell of baby oil and body odor.  The thrill of the fight.

Delicious distractions. Purpose.

Before he was Chad Freedom, wrestling was just one piece of a much larger, much prettier puzzle.

Now, wrestling was all Chad Freedom had.

He thumbed the button on his remote, flipping through television channels.

The news.

Too depressing. I don’t need help feeling depressed.

Reality TV.

Too fake. I need something real. Something genuine.

TeleTubbies.

Why does this exist? Why do I exist?

Then:

Castaway. Tom Hanks.

This’ll do.

Chuck had just painted a face on a volleyball using his own blood. From that point forward, the inanimate object became vital to the castaway’s journey.

Freedom repositioned himself in the chair to see the basketball he’d dropped earlier. It was still taking refuge under the side table.

He stared at it for a second.

It seemingly stared back.

Freedom laughed (though it sounded more like a dry cough than a laugh).

Then he said aloud to no one:

“Imagine being so lonely that you’d talk to a volleyball.”

Freedom tore his eyes away from the intimate object under his side table.

Ridiculous.

They met in community college when they were both 19.

He was captivating, loud, and almost always the center of attention. His brain motored at a million miles per hour, and so did his mouth. He cracked jokes constantly. Some of them landed. He pretended not to give a fuck about anything, but he secretly lived and died from other’s opinions of him.

She was quiet and faded into the background, and a dreamer in pursuit of love and harmony. She told everyone, including herself, that she was a free spirit who didn’t give a fuck. But she gave a lot of fucks. She yearned to be memorable and cared for.

There was a courtyard across from the campus bookstore. All the cool kids smoked in the courtyard. That’s where they first met.

It was a wintry day in Southwest Michigan.

Chad Freedom – not his name back then, but the only name that mattered now – was lighting up a Marlboro Light. He pretended not to shiver underneath his hoodie.

She entered the courtyard following behind her best friend. Snowflakes clung to her thick, wavy hair. Her black military jacket was too thin for the temperature.

Her best friend, the one she followed into the courtyard, was an ogre of a woman. The ogre’s name was Kim.

“I need a cigarette.”

A demand from Kim, who expectantly held out an open palm.

Chad Freedom obliged. One well-packed Marlboro Light for Kim, the ogre.

He leaned around Kim to catch eyes with the flowy-haired girl. The one with cute, rounded cheeks. He smiled. Or maybe it was a smirk. Either way, she liked it.

She smiled back crookedly.  He said, loudly – he always talked loudly back then:

“Do you want one, too?”

It was a rhetorical question. He had already drawn the cig from its soft pack. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it so her palm bloomed open, and dropped the cigarette into it.

She looked at the cig, then to him. She was only an inch shorter than him, so it was easy to make eye contact.

She had stopped smiling when he grabbed her hand, but now she was smiling again.

She pouted her lips a little and stuck the cigarette between them, and then she searched through the pockets of her military jacket, cargo pants, and messenger bag. It took a minute because there were so many to check. She shrugged sheepishly.

Like a gentleman, Chad Freedom produced a lime green mini-Bic from his pocket. He flicked it once and it lit. The movement was smooth and well-practiced.

He raised the lighter so the flame danced along the end of her cigarette. Ignition.

She inhaled like she knew what she was doing. Coughed. Laughed about it and then coughed some more. She was embarrassed, and a little dizzy. He thought it was adorable.

People generally didn’t notice her.

But he did.

It made her feel warmer.

“I need a lighter, too!”

Kim’s thundering voice broke the moment.

He surrendered his mini-Bic to her. Kim lit her coffin nail, then tossed the lighter back to him. It was a low throw, which was purposeful on her part.

He contorted his body, hoping to catch it like a cool kid, but his back foot slid on some ice hidden under the accumulating snow. He flailed, desperately, and then succumbed to gravity.

On the ground, his cheeks stung from the cold wind. It was a good thing. He could blame the cold wind (and not earth-shattering embarrassment) for the redness in them.

She didn’t hesitate to come to his aid, tossing down her cig and offering a hand to help him back up.

He looked up at her for a second – right into her big, brown, eyes – before accepting her support. She pulled, and he rose. It was unspoken, but they worried they’d slip and both would end up on the ground next time.

Finally, everyone was upright again. He had a giant wet spot on the seat of his light-wash jeans.

He smiled and shrugged his shoulders. Well-practiced nonchalance. Good acting.

He thanked her. She smiled back at him.

She chuckled, then he chuckled. Gaining momentum until the dam broke entirely and they erupted into riotous laughter.

She laughed so hard she nearly slipped, and it made them laugh so hard they saw stars in their eyes. Tears rolled down their cheeks and threatened to freeze.

Attempting to conceal his humiliation, he removed his hoodie and tied it around his waist. The cold assaulted his now-bare arms. He clenched his jaw so his teeth wouldn’t chatter.

His laugh-partner noticed and, without permission or prompt, started rubbing his arms with her open palms.

Friction.

It warmed him in more ways than one.

He fished the soft pack back out of his pocket. He shook out his Lucky – the one he superstitiously turned upside down in the pack. He handed it to her. She looked down at it, then back at him.

“You’re giving me your Lucky?”

He tried to play it cool. Always trying to play it cool.

“Yep. You’re my Lucky today.”

He turned to leave the courtyard in a motion that was meant to seem slick. He didn’t get far. He turned around to face her again, fishing something else out of his pocket.

“And since you don’t have one…”

The lime green mini-Bic. He grabbed her hand, squeezed it so her palm opened, and dropped the lighter into it. She looked down at the lighter and then back at him.

Her cheeks hurt from smiling, but she couldn’t stop.

He smiled back. At least, it might’ve been a smile. Could’ve been a smirk. She didn’t know, and it didn’t matter because she felt equally giddy about either.

He about-faced again, and he was suddenly out of the courtyard.

In the background, Kim complained that she hadn’t been given a second cigarette.

She focused on the gifts in her hand.

His lighter. And his Lucky.

She put the Lucky between her lips and flicked the lime-green mini-Bic. It didn’t light on the first try. She wasn’t as practiced as he was. It took a few more clumsy tries before she got it lit. She inhaled, then coughed, but not as bad as the first time.

She didn’t smoke much, because she didn’t think it tasted good.

This one, though …

She suddenly understood how people got addicted.

Her heart pounded in her chest.

Probably just the cigarette.

Still sitting in his easy chair with the TV droning, he said it to his empty apartment:

“My Lucky.”

He’d never stopped calling her that.

“My Lucky.”

Who was he saying it to?

Not the basketball.

Chad Freedom packed light. Mostly because he didn’t have much, but partially because he didn’t need much. The duffel bag – not red, white, and blue, surprisingly – was only half-full. It sat on his bed.

If his Lucky were there right now, she would’ve made a snide comment about wrestling. She wished her fiancée had a different hobby, and she wasn’t afraid to say it.

Then she’d kiss him on the tip of his nose.

He forced the thought aside. He’d been exercising that skill a lot recently, and it was becoming easier.

He wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

Chad Freedom honed his focus on PRIME.

It was his only distraction lately, aside from the TV currently blaring in the other room.

Ultraviolence. An appropriate name for the two nights of carnage he'd watched on the backstage monitor.

Satan Jones and his stupid fucking haircut. Their interview.

Freedom’s first televised appearance in PRIME - during a pay-per-view, nonetheless - should’ve been a jubilant occasion.

It was what he’d told his handler, Mercer, that he wanted – a spotlight so bright that no one, regardless of their intentions, could enter it without being noticed.

He’d touched the spotlight briefly, but he didn’t know what to do with it.

He couldn’t talk about who he really was, or how he got to PRIME, or anything else that happened more than a month or two ago.

What was his backstory?

He knew so little about himself.

Chad’s robe is splayed open, airing his patriotically dressed crotch into his stuffy living room (which was also the laundry room, dining room, and eat-in kitchen).

A happy trail of pulverized potato chips running from his waistband to his chin.

The TV’s still on.

Freedom is looking at it, but he’s not watching.

Lights on, no one home.

He needed new stimuli.

He needed catharsis.

He needed a match.

Or maybe a friend.

NOW.

El Profesor.

Stupid name.

Because this is America, and we speak English.

The Professor. Profess-ER!

Anyway…

I’m  comforted by The Professor, honestly. 

No matter where or how far you look in PRIME’s archive, there is nothing published about El Profesor. The dude is a ghost.

It proved what I told Mercer a few weeks ago – you can be a wrestler and still exist under the radar. Just look at The Professor!

He was like Bigfoot. A myth. Never actually seen.

He? Probably a “he.”

Because if it was a woman, it would be La Profesor.

Anyway…

I have this sense of kinship with The Professor.

We’re each walking into this 0 – 0.

A good, neutral base.

New faces in PRIME.

Actually, can you even see The Professor’s face, or do they wear a mask?

You know what?

Whatever.

It's not about The Professor, anyway.

It's time to find my spotlight.

Chad Freedom looks unwell. Not sick. Just… bad.

He’s slumped over in his chair telling a story to no one.

The words kind of slur and mush together.

He’s not drunk.

Sobered by his reality.

He's repeating two words. They’re crisp and audible when he says them.

“My Lucky… My Lucky… My Lucky…”

To himself.

And probably no one else.

Freedom was clean-shaven again, and he was nearly ready.

To leave his apartment.

To have his first match.

To learn something about The Profess-ER!

To take one step forward in his new life.

... even if that also meant taking one step away from his old life.

Right now, Chad Freedom had one more thing to pack.

He walked out of the bedroom and into the living room (which was also the laundry room, dining room, and eat-in kitchen). The TV was turned off for the first time in two weeks.

The last thing Freedom needed was now perched on a barstool next to his easy chair. Much better digs than living under a side table. Freedom gathered the basketball and twirled it on his finger as he walked back into the bedroom.

He carefully placed the basketball in his duffel bag, chuckling as he did so. He grabbed the bag's zipper, about to pull it shut.

But first, to his basketball:

"Don't worry, Wilson. I'll do all the paddling. You just hang on!"

End