Many Fingers, Many Pots

Henry Keyes stepped out the doors of the shop as a new man.

The repayment cash he got from Rob Williams after he beshatted all over his new clothes was more than enough to cover a few nice athletic-fit suits from the Lincoln Park location of State & Liberty. Stylish enough for Keyes’s preferred Big Zaddy energy, colorful enough to keep things eccentric, flexible enough to allow him to pick up and throw a fucker should the situation arise; in short, a few pieces to look and feel good while visiting the Second City.

He even had a little cash left over, and a little bit of extra time before he needed to get back to the AirBnB and touch base with Scott Hunter about training for this bar crawl. It occurred to him that there was an opportunity here to get Rob a little something; after all, he was allegedly sorry about the whole incident, and Keyes is nothing if not a keen observer of the human condition and a voracious opportunist when it comes to matters of strategy. A little gift now could go a long way down the line.

Henry took the Red Line to Berwyn and walked a few blocks; two quick pit stops to make. Walgreens, and Brown Elephant.

~~~~~~~~~~

First finger, first pot. Has to be done. I can’t eliminate six competitors in one week and leave it down to just me and Scott. This contest isn’t even half over, and more time is going to take more time. 

What is it he heard once? “People won’t remember exactly what you say, but they’ll remember how you make them feel.” These people are liable to misremember any exact quote out here, especially with alcohol involved, but they’re damn sure going to remember if the last time they saw you they were smiling or frowning.

It’s honestly the one downside to this sort of social warfare; wrestling is usually so much more straightforward. I hate you and you hate me so let’s fight; or I want to be the best and you want to be the best too, so let’s fight; or one of us has a title and the other one wants it so let’s fight; or a lifetime supply of pancakes is on the line and I don’t want to ever pay for another pancake again, so let’s fight.

You fight everyone all at once here, you’re done, the numbers are too great. I’m not in the business of picking fights that I know I’m going to lose - not for a long time now. No, this is a war of attrition, and the tentacles of the Kraken need time to slowwwwwwwly wrap around the field one at a time before I can pull them under. 

The more of them head into this bar crawl with warm and fuzzies about me and Scott, the more likely we will survive. 

It’s time to cozy up to these fuckers. 

~~~~~~~~~~

Keyes found a box that was the perfect size for his gift to Rob, and the two-dollarest wrapping paper he could get was covered with little Minions doing all sorts of annoying shit - “maybe Rob will laugh at this,” Keyes thought.

Inside the box, he placed his two purchases. First, from the Brown Elephant, he folded an XL-sized bright pink tuxedo tee shirt - he was guessing on the shirt size, to be honest, also to be honest, even the best thrift store in the city isn’t going to have a lot of sizing options. Second, atop the shirt, he placed a family sized bottle of Imodium.

After wrapping the gift, he pulled out the three-dollarest plain card and envelope on offer, and wrote a short note.

“No hard feelings. - HK”

He placed the box outside Rob’s door, dressed in one of his new suits, and headed out to meet Scott.

…

At the Addison Red Line stop, Henry grew concerned. Scott was staring at a wad of used gum for a loooooong time. For a moment, Keyes wondered if this was a lingering after-effect of the absinthe overdose of a couple weeks ago, like an acid flashback or something; or, worse, he wondered if this was going to be an Elf moment and Scott was going to pull this chewed gum off the railing and pop it in his mouth like candy.

It thankfully felt like Scott was just being Scott, something Henry was learning more and more to understand and appreciate. Scott never found a rabbit hole he wouldn’t at least consider diving down, and Henry honestly found that sort of unrepentant curiosity kind of awesome.

“You good?” Henry asked.

…

Neither PRIME nor Johnny Dorn had released the full bar list for this crawl, only that it was in Wrigleyville. As a former investor in the now-defunct Red Line Wrestling, Keyes had been to the neighborhood several times, and he always felt a little like a foreigner there; not because he was from San Francisco, but because he was about the complete polar opposite of a “bro”. It didn’t make him uncomfortable - why should he change if it’s everyone else who’s deficient? - but he knew it was going to take some drinking before he was going to loosen up properly.

Henry and Scott decided their first stop would be the Cubby Bear, figuring this is exactly the sort of spot that a guy called Wrigleyville’s Finest would call home. It was very full, but navigable.

“Shit,” Keyes silently thought to himself. “Tom’s here.”

He wasn’t upset to see Tom - quite the opposite, actually, they have had many lovely chats over the years about tigers and wrestling and otherwise bonding as veterans in their 40’s might. But there were three problems. He was sober, he wasn’t prepared to run into anyone else from the Survivor house yet, and if he and Scott both went over at once it might really feel like an ambush. That’s not what Henry wanted at all - he wanted his fellow Survivors to feel those warm and fuzzies.

Scott didn’t have any of these concerns and in fact seemed dead set on heading straight for The Anglo Luchador. “How freeing it must be to be that worry-free,” Keyes thought to himself. He put a hand on Scott’s shoulder and tried to telepathically communicate the idea that Henry’s going to need a minute before going over there.

Scott seemed to maybe halfway understand, or maybe he completely understood; Scott’s face can be hard to read sometimes. Either way, Hunter found himself headed over to TAL for drinks and a chat, and Keyes stayed behind at the bar and ordered a Goose Island.

And he watched.

~~~~~~~~~~

Second finger, second pot. Has to be done.

He really likes Helen, maybe that can be the launching point of an alliance? Ah, but who doesn’t love Helen? 

No, I can’t just say “hey, remember my really awesome large cat? She says we should work together.”

Actually, that would probably work. 

Hm.

…

This beer is ass, but I guess that’s on me for never being much of a “beer guy.” I just know that Dorn’s going to have a lot of bullshit drinks on tap for us. Beer and more beer, and probably shots, and probably Malort, which you just can’t train for because training with Malort will actually just hurt you.

Tom and Scott are looking pretty chummy over there. Good - oh, another round. Scott better not go too quickly, this is only our first stop. 

Wait. When did I drink three beers? Oh no, am I starting to like Chicago beer? Better switch to a cocktail. They won’t have absinthe here - a Manhattan, then. Looks classy.

Ohhhhh hell yeah - there’s trivia here. Time to dominate.

~~~~~~~~~~

By the end of the trivia contest, TAL and Keyes were absolutely giggling like children at the ridiculousness of their gameplay. They could have had a perfect score if TAL had listened to Henry on more than one occasion - but then again, if TAL listened every time, they would’ve gotten just as many wrong. Their team did not win and they did not receive free Cubby Bear merch, but it was fine.

The Anglo Luchador was happy and laughing as Vae Victis said their goodbyes. That was the important thing.

…

They went to a bar called Sluggers and Scott made another beeline upstairs because he heard he could actually hit things with a baseball bat there; Henry passed. It was interesting; he and Scott weren’t really sticking side by side and talking strategy at these stops, instead saving their conversations for the time between bars. They were very different people with very different ideas of what constituted a good time; Henry found the bartender on the lower floor insanely charming and couldn’t keep his eyes off of them, and if Scott was happy, Henry was happy down here.

More drinks passed and more drinks passed. Scott came down from the top floor and gave Henry the signal that he was very ready to leave. Henry looked back to see if he could catch the bartender’s name, but they were busy filling glasses for the other end of the bar; Henry decided to keep that interaction in his back pocket and hoped that maybe Sluggers would be on the Survivor route and maybe they’d cross paths again.

As they left Sluggers, Scott turned to Henry. He had run into Nathan Lake there. Keyes asked how it went, and Scott honestly seemed a little uneasy; a common thread was popping up throughout this bar crawl. Ivan Stanislav. TAL has his history, Scott has his history, and apparently Nathan Lake has been buddying up to the giant Russian throughout this competition, maybe, possibly, sorta - Scott couldn’t really put his finger on where that all stood.

Then Scott said something else - that it seemed like whatever Lake was drinking wasn’t affecting him, that he might be a real threat in this drinking contest. Henry absorbed this information and began background processing.

Henry and Scott were both a little more inebriated than they might have expected to be after two bars, which taught them two things: they absolutely need to figure out how to pace themselves better when it comes time for the real crawl, and also it’s better to call it a night and be within walking distance of a bed than it would be to keep this party going and set themselves up with a week-long hangover before the crawl. They headed back to the AirBnB.

Keyes tossed his suit jacket on the back of a dining chair and splashed some water on his face from the kitchen sink. He was hoping to have a more thorough debrief with Scott, and maybe there would be a chance to run into other Survivors here.

As if on cue, Coltrane Anderson walked in the house - and over his shoulder was a very large bag that Coltrane carried with absolute ease. Henry was really curious about this and had never really had the opportunity to chat with this PRIME newcomer, so as he dried his face and hands, he called out.

“Big man! Whatcha got there?”

Coltrane looked over at Henry, maybe a little surprised to see him there. “Oh, just a few things.”

Henry chuckled to himself and gave a look to Scott that read very get a load of THIS guy. “Oh yeah, just a few things, eh? Balloons? Cotton candy? Pillows?”

“Not exactly.”

By this point, with Keyes being set on staying in the rest of the evening, began searching for three glasses and a bottle of bourbon. He poured a couple fingers in each glass and set one near Scott and one near Coltrane. It was hard to tell if they noticed the gesture, because their attention was being grabbed by a Cubs game on the television. Henry thought to grab their attention.

“You know, ever since I saw you for the first time, I’ve been wondering - are you strong, or are you just big?”

With that, Coltrane turned and faced Henry with a wry grin. He dropped the bag on the ground.

THUNK

It sounded like a pallet of bricks just hit the floor, and for a flash of a moment, Keyes thought that the tile floor might have been damaged.

“You tell me.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Third finger, third pot. Has to be done. The good news is, this guy’s easy to talk to.

Everyone likes to talk about themselves if they’re talking about their awesome skills or intense interests. Coltrane Anderson, it turns out, is a strong-ass motherfucker. By the time he lifted an entire couch (with Scott Hunter on it) high enough in the air for Scott’s mullet to be within brushing distance of the ceiling, the verdict was in: this guy has something.

We’re only now just meeting him properly for the first time, but it really does seem like he could be a powerful friend. Or, framed differently, he could be a huge pain in the ass if he was a powerful enemy. 

I just have to hope Scott and I aren’t coming off like we’re blowing smoke up the new guy’s ass. The good news is, we have him laughing a little. Scott sang that Aladdin song when he was hoisted in the air like a little baby, which helped. 

He doesn’t have a heated rival yet. He doesn’t have the shared history against Ivan Stanislav that so many others in this house seem to have. It would be a hard sell to try to convince him to vote in any particular way.

Best to just make friends. Friends don’t eliminate friends, after all - something like that has never happened before in the history of reality competition shows ever.

…

~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a long, long, looooong day of drinking - the kind of day that Henry used to have quite a bit more often in his younger days, but age and wear and tear have ramped up the difficulty. “No matter,” Henry thought, “this is why we train.” Imagine feeling like this during ReVival and feeling surprised about it? That would be REAL trouble.

By now, the absinthe was out and Henry was in his cups with it. There was a lot to think about, but now was not the time for thinking - now was the time for drinking.

A few others may or may not have been filtering in and out of the kitchen and dining area - but apart from a few short pleasantries or laughing recaps of earlier encounters in Wrigleyville, conversation wasn’t flowing.

And then, Nathan Lake sat down on the other end of the table.

Maybe he wanted a good angle for watching the TV, or maybe all the other seats in the house were taken, Henry thought. Coltrane walked by and Keyes raised a glass, with “strong man!” as the toast.

Nathan then shared some of his interaction with Coltrane earlier in the night - karaoke, which Henry was genuinely sorry to miss. It was a funny story - and then, Nathan decided to veer it into a much heavier direction.

“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?” Nathan asked.

In another world, in another time, in another circumstance, or if Keyes allowed his old ways to take over, he would’ve taken this as an insult and probably cut a hellacious promo on the kid. But now isn’t the time and now isn’t the place for a proper fight, he decided.

He’s had almost enough for a full night, Henry said, and he offered Nathan a glass. It was refused. The absolute audacity - but maybe, Henry thought, this was a young gun trying to make a name for himself. Alright, Keyes thought - let’s pull that thread.

Nathan explained his refusal - about being a recovering alcoholic, about how low his struggles have taken him in the past, and ah - Keyes found a target to needle.

“I’ve hit my ceiling for the night,” Nathan finally said.

“Meaning you’ve hit your ceiling in Survivor,” Keyes heard himself blurt out, perhaps a little more aggressively than intended based on Nathan’s facial reaction.

He had met people like Nathan before - which is to say, he had met people who had become so damaged by drugs and alcohol through personal experience that they live in fear of it. His head understood it, even if his heart didn’t - these teetotallers always seem to make abstaining such a dominating force of their personality, rather than the fun things they DO engage with. Henry wanted to poke and prod to see if that was Lake’s way of living, too.

The background processing from his earlier chat with Scott had finished, and he finally understood what really happened with Scott and Nathan at Sluggers.

“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.”

One very long, emotionally vulnerable, and informative speech from Nathan later, and down the hatch went the drink he had earlier refused.

~~~~~~~~~~

Fourth finger, fourth pot. Had to be done.

I’m just proud that in my current state I haven’t been accidentally calling this kid Blaze Claymore. I still wonder what that’s all about - maybe there were too many swords in PRIME. 

At the very least, I know that this kid is a gamer - he won the Crag, he performed decently at Medieval Times, and he’s projecting to me now that willing to wade into waters that make him deeply uncomfortable if the time calls for it. Or, more callously examined, he’s someone I might now know how to egg on. 

He’s hungry, and ambitious. He doesn’t want anyone to tell him there’s a thing he can’t do, or a ceiling he’s reached, or an obstacle too big for him; he’s wired to prove people wrong. 

What I WANT to do is make him prove me wrong that he’s not a Red Army sympathizer being puppeteered by Ivan Stanislav, but that’s not for now. That’s for later.

Now is for making this kid think he’s earned some level of respect with me. A different warm and fuzzy than Coltrane or TAL or even Rob, but different recipes for different bakes. Different fingers for different pots. 

Oh god, Scott’s got a pie. Don’t throw it, don't throw it, don't throw it - oh, he’s offering Nathan a piece. 

Take it, Nathan. It’s fine. Pie is fine. Food is friendship. Food is a peace offering.

It’s important to keep the peace, for now.

~~~~~~~~~~

Henry took a slice of Key Lime Pie to his bedroom after saying his goodnights to the Survivors who were still awake. By the time he got to bed, he realized he had forgotten a fork - but he was very drunk, fairly tired, and didn’t want to awkwardly poke his head back in the kitchen after he had already said his farewells for the night. He decided to eat the pie with his hands, licking key lime filling off his fingers with each bite. It was sloppy, and crumbs definitely got on the sheets, but damn, Scott made a good pie.

He turned off the light and prepared to drift into a snoring boozy sleep, and he thought about the day - the people he met, the people we all talked about - but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was forgetting something.

And then, he sat up with a start.

“Kenny Freeman! FUCK!”

He had been so focused on the Ivan of it all that he lost sight of the fact that the Red Army had a second member in the house.

Then he thought about it some more. He thought about Kenny’s long, illustrious PRIME career. He thought about how little alcohol he was likely capable of drinking.

And just as suddenly as he sat up, he flopped back down into his bed and immediately began snoring.