Keyed Up

Sixteen years ago a lanky, nerdy kid from a small town called Montevideo found his way to Hollywood, California.

He also discovered how difficult life there could be.

For two years no agent would sign him because he didn’t have the money to pay for one.

No casting director would give him the time of day without an agent.

No one would even throw a dollar in a hat when he worked the corner doing celebrity impressions.

In fact, one day the only things he earned were $6 in loose change, a pair of cheap red sunglasses, a headband, and a rusty old key that looked like it opened the door to a dungeon.

The kid slid the key into the breast of the single white dress shirt he owned and pocketed the glasses and headband before walking across the street and ordering a pint.

He pulled up a stool at the bar and began digging out the loose change.

That’s when the old man at his side raised his own glass of water with a smile.

“Saw your impressions,” he said.

The kid rolled his eyes.

“Didn’t see you pay me for them.”

The old man chuckled.

“I did you one better, son."

The kid slid his $6 across the table to the barkeep.

“Well, that was the last of my cash, so I highly doubt it."

The old man winked.

"I gave you the key."

The kid scoffed.

"Yeah? What's it open?"

The old man stood up and pressed two fingers against the breast pocket of the kid's shirt, before the kid pushed them away and turned back to the bartender who was looking down, cleaning a set of glasses.

“Who the fuck you talkin’ to, Nathan?”

He turned around. The old man was gone.

"There was a..."

The young man shook his head.

"Never mind. Probably just some old man trying to make himself feel important."

The barkeep continued to clean.

"We all want to matter," he said. "No matter how big or small you get."

Nathan looked at his pint glass. The words "Drink Me" were printed on it.

"It would be nice if something would just make sense for a change."

He reached up to put a hand on his chest.

The key was still there. Moving to the rhythm of his beating heart.

🔑 🔑 🔑

Tap. Tap. Tap.

“How about let’s focus on the next round.”

I kept hitting the table with the cap of my pen as a half-filled answer sheet sat in front of me.

I looked up at Tom.

“You mean the next round of drinks, next round of Survivor, or next round of trivia?”

It was still weird seeing him out of his mask. He refused to take it off in any of the Airbnbs so far on account that someone may walk in and see him without it; but with me? It was different. And all the better that he would be able to blend in at Merkle's Bar & Grill.

“All of the above?”

The unmasked Luchador laughed heartily.

It was my idea to scope out some of the bars that may be on the Survivor crawl.

It was his idea to stop here first. For trivia.

“Alright everyone! It’s time for the next category… HORROR MOVIES!”

Tom flashed a smile my way.

“Aw yeah. We got this in the bag. Mr. Movie Magic over here.”

I didn’t want to tell him I absolutely hated horror movies, but after being the winning team at Medieval Times? I wanted to hold on to that feeling as long as I could.

With everyone from all the tribes now under one roof, the factions that existed prior to Avalon, Troy, and Snow would certainly begin to reform from their Balkanized state. But maybe I could buy a little time to keep Tom and Ivan’s Glasnost surviving long enough to avoid a new Berlin Wall.

“What’s the answer Nathan?”

“Shit. Sorry. I didn’t hear the question."

“It was ‘What camp did Jason Voorhees terrorize… wait, I know this one.”

“You sure?"

“Yeah, it’s…”

Tom looked over and saw someone at the bar surreptitiously taking his phone and snapping a picture of the answer key. He nudged me.

“LOOK AT THAT SHIT!”

My body couldn’t decide whether to drain the color out of my face or make my blood boil.

“That sonofa…”

Tom held me back and slugged more of his beer down.

“Eh, you know what, it ain’t worth it. There’s always gonna be cheaters. Important thing is not cheating and then still winning.”

I settled back into the booth but kept my eyes locked on the team now high-fiving each other like they just robbed Fort Knox.

“Besides, we made it this far despite going up against scum like Cancer, right? He’s gone. We’re not. Cream rises. We’re the cream, baby.”

He raised his glass for a toast. I obliged, despite having nothing to toast with.

“Here’s to not curdling.”

And… believe it or not we finished third, earning a $25 bar tab… all going towards Tom’s drinks.

That other team? Turns out it was actually last week’s answer sheet… and they ended up with egg on their face and a big ol’ goose egg.

I told Tom where I was headed next - the dueling piano bar nearby - but he shook his head.

"Eh, this place didn’t turn out to be my thing after all. But a piano bar is double-secret not my thing,” he said with a laugh.

As I waved and began to exit I felt him grab at my arm.

I looked back as he locked eyes with me, his expression serious.

“Watch yourself out there, Nathan. They’ll all be looking for an opening. An opportunity to gain an advantage for them and their friends. Goes the same for Ivan and Kenny as it does for Scott and Henry. We’ve survived Survivor longer than we probably should have.”

Then he let go and said:

“No sense in getting keyed up now."

🔑 🔑 🔑

I knew Sluggers was going to be popular with the remaining Survivor members, but Ivan Stanislav was the last person I expected to be at a piano bar.

Yet there he was … nursing a glass of vodka in the corner trying to remain as inconspicuous as someone of his demeanor could.

At least he had the foresight not to wear anything that showed his communist sentimentality. I doubted it was out of fear, but rather a desire to avoid missing our match should the local authorities decide to detain him.

I slipped through the crowd and made my way to Ivan’s table. He did not look at me; his attention and ire were focused on stage, where two men were trading off verses from “Friends in Low Places.”

“You decided to go out?”

The Russian Bear growled.

“I had not planned to. But then I see advertisement for ‘Dueling Pianos’. I was expecting to hear  Rachmaninoff and Scriabin. A taste of home. Not… lonely cowboy songs.”

“TO THE OOOOOOOOOASSSSISS!”

As the crowd drunkenly joined in song Ivan stood up, his massive frame filling the back corner like a piece of heavy antique furniture.

“This was mistake. You are welcome to leftover vodka, Comrade Lake.”

“Actually, Ivan. About the bar crawl...”

Ivan was already halfway to the stairs, yelling over the crowd.

“I DO NOT CRAWL! LET THE OTHERS CRAWL ON THEIR BELLIES!”

Then it happened.

They started playing the Star Spangled Banner.

I’d been in PRIME long enough to know how paranoid Ivan could be. To the Russian Bear, it was on purpose, and his face showed the barely-contained rage within.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out a $10 bill, and scribbled the only song I could think of on a nearby piece of paper, ran up to the nearest piano and slapped both on the table.

The anthem stopped.

“Seems like we have someone who isn’t feeling quite patriotic tonight!”

The crowd booed as the performer tucked away the money and then began playing the theme from Tetris.

I looked back to see Ivan smiling.

“Korobeiniki! DYAAHAAHAA!!”

“That’s what it’s called?!”

But then a tall man in a cowboy hat and jean jacket slapped a $20 down on the opposite piano and looked at me like I had just shot his dog.

The Star Spangled Banner was back. And now the crowd was joining in.

“What so proudly we hailed! At the twilight's last gleaming!”

Ivan spat on the floor and charged his way up toward me – then past me – as he leapt onto the stage. The pianist barely had time to turn before Ivan caught him by the shoulders, lifted him from the bench, and deposited him beside the piano.

“Your patriotism is noted. Your musical judgment is condemned,” he growled. He then produced a thick wad of cash from his pocket and slammed it on the piano. It groaned beneath his fist.

“I have paid.”

Amazingly, Stanislav cracked his knuckles, placed his massive fingers on the keys, and began to play. The opening notes were slow, heavy, and imperfect. Also, unmistakable.

The State Anthem of the Soviet Union.

“Soyuz nerushimyy respublik svobodnykh!”

A chorus of boos answered him immediately. Someone threw a plastic cup.

It bounced harmlessly off Ivan’s shoulder while security began filing into the room.

I grabbed Ivan’s suspender, but moving him was like towing a battleship with dental floss.

“Ivan, we should go!”

The Russian Bear rose, looked at the man who threw the plastic cup and then at security.

He growled once more, but allowed me to walk with him through the crowd and down the stairs. I apologized and gave security my information so I could settle any damages.

Once outside I stared at Ivan, slightly impressed by his musical ability, but also aware he could hear the growing U-S-A chants that echoed inside.

“Let’s just hope this isn’t one of the stops Lindsay picked for the cr— I mean challenge.”

Ivan snorted, then turned and began walking.

“American piano was off key anyway.”

🔑 🔑 🔑

After Ivan's musical Cold War, I doubled back and drifted down the block, past the Old Crow, the Rabbit Hole, the Graystone — until I found myself in front of "Dad's Place" and saw a familiar face through the window.

Coltrane Anderson.

PRIME's newest face in the company's Survivor experiment gave a quick glance at me as I walked in before turning back to his drink, and to the pair of women onstage butchering ABBA's "Gimme Gimme Gimme."

“Mind if I… sit down?”

Coltrane just shrugged as I pulled up a stool and waited.

“Let’s give it up for Nancy and Nicole everyone! And congratulations on the engagement!”

“You uh… scoping out the bar crawl situation too?”

“Nope. Nancy and Nicole invited me.” His response dripped with sarcasm.

Before I could respond, someone dropped a massive three ring binder onto the table and for the first time, I saw his eyes light up.

“What’s that?”

He gave me a confused look.

“Song book. Is this… have you never been to karaoke before?”

“I uh… not in a place like this. We mostly had dive bars; more specifically, one bar, which was a dive, in my hometown. Out in Hollywood, though … it was mostly rentable booths with bottle service and bougie stuff like that.”

Coltrane uttered something between a “huh” and a “hmm” and then opened up the binder.

“You got a favorite song?”

All I could think of was that I just about started another Cold War by choosing the Tetris theme under pressure earlier.

“None that I think would be particularly appropriate for karaoke. Especially sober.”

Coltrane actually chuckled and then closed the book.

“Let’s get you a drink, then. You need to warm up for the bar crawl.”

“No, I’m actually–”

He turned and gave me a look somehow meaner than the one the cowboy at the piano bar gave and I simply nodded, as the server came over. I asked for something light. Thinking about Ivan, I opted for a vodka soda - hold the vodka - but it was clearly not what Coltrane had in mind.

“If we’re doing this, we’re doing this right, Lake. Two shots of bourbon. Neat.”

My stomach turned in a knot, but the big man had already moved on, patting the top of the binder with a satisfied look on his face.

“So what song are you doing?” I asked.

The drinks arrived. We raised our glasses. I took the shot, and felt the burning liquor roll from my throat down to my gut.

“Which song are we doing you mean?” he replied.

I leaned in, not sure I heard him correctly.

“Just something to give us a little motivation.”

The big man crossed his arms as he stood up, a smirk on his face.

“The Black Keys”

Then he made a gesture, running his hands along the sides of his waist.

“Gold on the Ceiling”

🔑 🔑 🔑

“And so we did… I was awful. Of course. But thankfully Coltrane’s got a voice big enough to match his body type.

It was easy enough to slip away after the song ended and head back here.

I would say that the night wasn’t quite what I expected, but it did confirm some things.

I know Tom is an alcoholic because I used to be one too. But he’s honest.

Ivan definitely grew up drinking vodka like it was water. But he’s committed.

And Coltrane? He’s taken shots in more ways than one. But he hasn’t let it define him.

You on the other hand? The jury is still out. Just how much of that stuff have you had already?”

We are back in the Airbnb. Or, perhaps, for now, the AirVV as Nathan Lake and Henry Keyes stand on opposite sides of the rental’s kitchenette.

“Hmm” Keyes muses as he takes a small sip of the Green Fairy from a rocks glass.

“Almost, but not quite enough, for a full evening, I'd say. Seems there’s fingers left for a cherry of some banter.”

Keyes pours a glass of the good stuff and slides it over to Nathan.

The Lighthouse sighs and shakes his head.

“I said I was an alcoholic. Not am. I’ve hit my ceiling for tonight.”

Keyes smirks.

“Meaning you’ve also hit your ceiling in Survivor.”

Nathan pulls the glass toward him and gives a snarky look to Keyes.

“What’s it to you whether I make it through or not?”

Keyes swirls his glass before setting it down on the marble countertop.

“I know you’ve been ‘training’ by drinking only water. Scott may have thought he was going shot for shot with you the other day, but I know. No shame in it - we all have our demons… but if you say you took a shot with Coltrane earlier? Then you can take one with me now.”

Henry takes a strong pull from his glass.

“With experience comes wisdom, maybe, and I've found that I only tend to enjoy the time that I spend with like-minded individuals. Wrestlers who understand the stakes, and press onward anyway. Is that you, I find myself wondering? Was the Crag a fluke, or do we have genuine guts on our hands?”

Nathan squeezes the glass, giving it a look, but leaves it on the counter.

“The last time I let myself drink something that strong I wound up nearly throwing myself off the roof of a hotel in Montreal the night before Ultraviolence.”

He looks down.

“Those intrusive thoughts started back up in Pittsburgh when I realized each of my tribemates had already beaten me in competition. And the rest of the teams filled with Hall of Famers? Five-Star champions? Hard not to feel like a pebble at the foot of a mountain of boulders.”

Keyes shrugs and nods, as if agreeing with Nathan.

"But then Ivan looked at me and asked what an Aggro Crag even was. And it made me realize maybe we're all figuring this shit out. But it doesn't mean we have to do it alone."

A smile.

"And with that in mind I managed to achieve a dream of mine since I was 10 by actually climbing the damned thing. I stood at the top, looking down and rather than feeling like I wanted to jump off I wanted to keep on climbing.”

Nathan lifts the glass to his lips, his face contorting at the black licorice scent.

“If drinking this is what it takes to prove that to you, or anyone else, then so be it.”

Keyes lets out a wry grin. “What young pluck,” one imagines him thinking to himself. “What young, earnest pluck.”

Henry finds himself searching for fresh glasses once again, this time also pulling a small green bottle out from a secret pocket.

Scott Hunter suddenly slides into frame, hands on his hips.

He takes in the scene.

Henry with the bottle.

Nathan with the glass.

Memories of bacon. Ass cracks. Jesters. They all flash through Scott’s eyes as the warning siren sound from Kill Bill plays in his head.

In a single motion, Hunter reaches toward Nathan and slaps the glass of absinthe out of his hand, sending it crashing to the floor.

Having slapped the glass away in one quick motion, he holds his Steven Seagal aikido bullshido style pose, staring at a forty-five degree angle toward the spilled beverage below.

Nathan blinks and looks down at the spilled glass before exhaling, grinning, and then looking back to Keyes.

“Well, shit. Now it’s on the floor. Guess I can’t drink it after all…”

“How convenient for you,” Keyes mutters under his breath.

“Good thing I was here to stop you!” Hunter says, voice raised. “I accidentally drank that stuff and ended up throwing bacon at people for an hour.”

Keyes squints and moves his head back and forth. “Well, you threw bacon… but at people?”

Scott ignores this.

“You wanna try something green that isn’t gonna ruin your evening? Have this…”

He opens up the refrigerator door and grabs a plate with something wrapped in foil on top.

Nathan Lake seems intrigued.

“I’m intrigued.”

A pause.

“What is it?”

Scott smiles as Nathan lifts the plate up.

“It’s a small delicacy from back home, a little secret no one else knows about.”

Scott leans in way too close. “Have you heard of… limes???”

Nathan looks at Henry, who gives a little nod like, yup, he’s serious. Nathan pulls the foil back.

Scott smiles.

“Start slow, you need time and experience before your body can handle two slices. If you eat too much too soon, you could come down with lime disease.”

Nathan looks at Henry again, who motions for him to try some.

“I think I’ll actually take time to enjoy this in my room. Alone. It’s been a long night.”

Keyes nods.

“That’s for sure.”

Scott reaches over to slide open a nearby drawer and hands Nathan a fork - prongs first.

“Absinthe makes you forget a lot of things, but you never forget your first Key Lime Pie.”

🔑 🔑 🔑

Sixteen years later a toned, but still nerdy young man from a small town called Montevideo had found his way to Chicago, Illinois, and into the third round of PRIME’s Survivor challenge.

Having conquered the Aggro Crag, taming the Queen of the Ring’s owls, and not making a fool of himself during a jousting competition, he should be feeling confident. Energized. Ready to take on the world.

But as he slid his plate of half-eaten Key Lime Pie onto the bedside table of his Airbnb room, Nathan Lake felt like he was back on the corner of Sunset and Wilcox doing impressions for loose change.

The bar crawl wasn't really what frightened him. It was what was waiting afterward.

Nathan reached into his travel bag, sifting around until he found what he was looking for. A small manila envelope.

He undid the metal bands holding the top down, slid his hand in, and pulled out the very first headshot he ever took in Hollywood.

Staring back at him was a face he didn’t recognize any longer. Long hair. A goofy smile. And… something sticking out of his shirt pocket. On the bottom of the picture was his name in bold lettering.

That’s when he felt something else in the envelope.

Nathan tipped it, revealing a familiar metal key that slid into his hand. He went to turn the photo over but it slipped, falling to the carpet below and landing face down.

On the back was a single phrase, in his handwriting:

"Remember: You are the key."

He reached down and grabbed the photo. As he lifted it, the light caught the paper. That's when he saw the words NATHAN LAKE bleeding faintly through from the opposite side.

At that moment, the young man clutched the key, pressed it against his heart, and closed his eyes.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.