The Roofer

“Babe, I think it’s time.”

Dateline, December 11, 2022. Thomas Battaglia had just turned 41, an inauspicious age for an inauspicious man. His family celebrated his milestone quietly, just his wife, sons, and parents, in his home, a monument to suburban sprawl in Chester County, PA. His wish as he blew out the candles on his Italian rum cake was the same as it had been for too many years to count now.

For his two boys to grow up healthy and strong and that he’d always be around to be their dad as long as they needed.

That’s when he saw the news in the trade papers. It had been over a decade since he’d stepped into the ring, but he kept tabs. Always.

That’s how he found out Seymour had died, how all the places he’d ever worked closed.

And it’s how he found out Lindsay Troy was reopening PRIME.

“I don’t know. I’ve been at home for how long? I’m gonna blow up as soon as I get done walking down the ramp.”

“Look,” Tam said as she was clearing cake dishes off the table, grandparents watching television with children in the other room, “I will never forget that you stayed home and raised the kids while I got ahead in my career. But I didn’t fall in love with an unemployed dad.”

“But that’s what I’m best at! C’mon, the kids are my whole life. I don’t need the road again.”

“Stop lying to yourself. I’ve seen the life drain from your eyes over the last god-knows-how-many years. You’re a wrestler. Go be a wrestler again. The boys are old enough. It’s time.”

-

Tom arrived at Rancho Mundo later than he’d wanted to, thanks to cancelled flights and road construction on the highways and byways between Philadelphia International Airport and this, ahem, quaint compound in the wilds of southwestern Michigan. He pulled up into the driveway and entered into the main building where the master of the manor was waiting.

“Namaste, sir.  How have the winds brought you here, are you lost or found?”

That’s when it hit Tom that Sage had never seen him without his mask on. So much of the roster already had, but he didn’t run in the same circles as the Bodhisattva. Or Blaze for that matter.

“Oh, sorry, it’s me, Tom. The Anglo Luchador.”

Sage’s face lit up.  Extending a hand of greeting, he popped open the front door of his cabin, guiding the man towards the relative cool of the interior.  The team captain looked at the surroundings–full boho hippie, as anyone could have guessed–but also took note that they were the only people inside.  “Hey. Where are the other two?”

“The universe dictates when Blaze shows up, which is something I can only respect.  The other is…taking it in, we’ll say.  Or maybe napping.  Wonderful hammocks on the eastern treeline.”

“If I know Lindz, she’s not in bed at this hour.”

“I would advise it if she asked. Smarter to get an early start tomorrow before the heat becomes too terribly oppressive. Ever built a house before?”

“No, but my uncle was a roofer…”

-

Dateline, July 23, 1999. A hot summer day in Philadelphia, and Tom Battaglia, five weeks before his senior year of high school was set to begin, wiped the sweat from his brow. He stood on the roof of one of a line of rowhomes somewhere in South Philly, assisting his uncle Giuseppe, hot tar bubbling behind him, and a pile of asphaltic shingles needing to be attached one-by-one. The labor was hard. In fact, “ball-busting” was the word Lorenzo used to describe it to his son before he took on the summer work for some extra cash.

Tom didn’t mind it though. He was built for it. After all, he’d already started training in a stuffy gym at night. At least the roofs were out in the open. Humid? Sure, but the air wasn’t stale like in Pedro’s school.

“Ey, Tommaso,” his uncle shouted to him. “I’mma gonna pick up your cousins afterwards and head down to the diner for supper. You’re welcome to join us.”

“I’d love to, Uncle Joe,” he replied, “but I got training tonight at the school.”

Giuseppe wiped the sweat from his brow and pinched his fingers together, shaking them to the sky. Classic Italian hand-language.

“Madone, why you wanna chase that fugazi-ass work? You never gonna put a roof over no-one’s head with that. Your dad, he’s one in a million. No one makes it.”

“I mean, I have to try, right? I’m young enough, and if it doesn’t take, then I can come back and work for you again.”

He picked up two shingles and brought them over to his uncle.

“But I think I’m gonna make it.”

“You-a got at least-a the right attitude. I respect that.”

-

The four divvied up major portions of the cabin, and Tom decided to put his experience on the roofs of South Philadelphia to use. Of course, the roof would be the last thing to go up, but he didn’t let himself slack in the meantime. Cutting timbers, carrying 2x4s, helping Lindsay mix concrete or Blaze measure floorboards. No task was beneath him, something that the foreman on the property noticed.

“You’ve a bit of the samurai in you.  Obsessive focus, but tempered with something a little more manic.” Sage remarked as Tom, in all his obsessive-compulsive frazzle, was in the process of measuring a potential wall stud a fourth time.

“Could say the same for you. My uncle knew a lot of lazy foremen in his time.”

“We aren’t friends, Tom.  I don’t say that to stymie conversation, more a simple statement of truth–we aren’t in the same social places.  From what I gather, though, from what people tell me, you’re an intelligent man who tried to do the right thing.  Laziness really isn’t part of my deal.  And I’m sure just as word of your intelligence and good graces have reached me, you’ve likely picked up on my willingness to get my hands dirty.”

“Exactly the reason why I picked you for this team.”

He finally had a measurement he could trust, so he marked the wood with his pencil and grabbed a saw.

“That alone, eh?”

Tom put the saw down and stood up to look Sage in the eye.

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get it twisted. I don’t think you’re one dimensional or anything, but the dimension I know, it’s something I can use. I’m a fighter for sure, but other than Ivan, what reason do I have to hit the other guys on that team?”

This causes a long stare and blink from The Bodhisattva, as if he was figuring out a way to explain the cycles of the day to an adult.

“It’s who you are, the locus of your being.  You’re a wrestler.  A combatant. ”

Tom shook his head.

“Other than that. It’s different on a pay-per-view. I can wrestle Tsonda or Neptune and go hard on ReVival, but this is where hate lives. I hate Ivan Stanislav. I have no reason to hold back. But I was teammates with Tsonda once. Brothers, even. And this Neptune kid, like, there’s no reason to want to gut him, because he has no real affiliation with Ivan outside of this match.”

He rolled his neck before crouching back down to make his cut.

“They’re good men, good wrestlers, yes, but good men too,” Tom continued.

“I see. And that’s where I come in?”

“Yeah. You won’t have a problem discerning between good men and scum. And I also think your ideas on what a good man is might be different from mine. I figure if I’m going to captain this team, I don’t want a crew of yes-men.”

Sage grinned coyly.

-

Dateline, February 1, 2006. St. Monica’s church in South Philly, a church filled with flowers and people dressed in black. Sounds of sobbing filling the low-ceilinged chamber. An open casket showing the neatly prepared body of a local roofer.

Giuseppe Battaglia.

Hymns were sung. A local restaurateur gave a stunning eulogy about all the fine work he did in the neighborhoods from Pennsport all the way to Grays Ferry. As they processed out of the church to their cars en route to the cemetery, Tom’s gaze did not break from the casket as he held Tam’s hand tightly. Behind them, Lorenzo and Joelle walked. Mom kept her head down, but Dad, oh, Dad looked like he had something he wanted to say.

And he did. As soon as they got outside.

“You know, South Philly is losing a hell of a roofer.”

Tom turned to his father.

“Yeah, and you a brother. I hope his kids follow up on that class action suit. He should still be with us.”

“Yeah, and you should be taking over that business instead of doing this frou-frou bullshit.”

“Lorenzo, not now,” Joelle scolded her husband.

“If not now, when? Giuseppe’s kids all went to college. They don’t work with their hands. For a couple of summers, he did. You could’ve literally been putting roofs over people’s heads.”

“I said that’s enough…”

“Mom, it’s okay. Let him lash out. Doesn’t change the fact that me and Tam are here for Uncle Joe.”

Tom and Tam walked away from his parents.

“If he really wanted to honor Joe, he’d maybe beat Sean Stevens once in awhile.”

-

“I always thought mesothelioma was just a thing they said on infomercials to scare people to give them money. And your uncle died of it?”

Blaze Claymore held the floorboards in place while Tom shot them into the bases with the nailgun.

“I know to a certain age demo it feels like a fever dream from daytime television, but a lot of those old school roofing materials had asbestos in it. Took us all by surprise.”

THWACK

“Nowadays, at least people give a shit about health and safety. Well, most people do.”

Blaze grabbed another floorboard and paused for a beat.

“Sorry about all those shots you had to get after the… bathroom incident” the Lighthouse said as he put it in place for Tom to nail down. Tom shook his head, chuckling. “We’ll call it even when we beat Ivan’s team.” “You think we can do it? Really?”

“I mean, Ivan is one guy. I still don’t know what his game is picking all those uncharacteristic teammates. Maybe he means them to be human shields.”

THWACK

Blaze laughed.

“I’ve been across the ring from him so I am not underestimating him, if that’s what you mean. As my mom would say, he’s a bit of a sledneck but he ain’t going to ruin the hotdish. Even Ivan has to know using Scott Hunter as fodder would just backfire. You’ve met him, right? He’s a human Looney Tune.”

Tom looked up at Blaze and had a little laugh himself.

“You can say that again.”

Tom sized up the floor as it was, standing on top of the already installed boards rather than on the foundation to get a better idea.

“I think we finally got this flooring down pat. Rough go at first, but nothing a little teamwork couldn’t fix.”

Blaze smiled and nodded. The silence hung in the air for a few tense moments before Blaze broke it.

“So, what’s the story for why you picked me to be on your team, Tom? I thought I left a bad first, second, and arguably third impression on you.”

Tom stood, his back facing Claymore, looking up at the still-open ceiling, sun shining down through the sparse canopy of trees that were peeking over the cabin site.

“You said Scott Hunter was a human Looney Tune, right?”

“Yeah.”

Tom turned around.

“People underestimate him. He’s one-half of the Tag Team Champions, but they still think he’s some himbo walking through life with a horseshoe up his ass. I don’t buy it. You know what I see?”

Blaze furrowed his eyebrows.

“I see a man who commands chaos. He acts oblivious. Hell, he may be oblivious. But he succeeds because he’s unpredictable. You can’t plan for him traditionally.”

Blaze cocked his head ever so slightly.

“Where do I come in then?”

“Don’t you see? They can’t plan for you either. Yeah, you don’t wear it on your sleeve like Hunter, but you think differently. Maybe it’s because you were brought up in Hollywood and not in a dingy gym, or maybe it’s because you’ve been to the hairy edge before coming all the way back. I don’t know how the gods built you, Blaze Claymore.”

Tom approached him and put his hand on his shoulder.

“But when they did, they broke the fuckin’ mold.”

Blaze’s face betrays his shock at the vote of confidence, just a split second, before the Lighthouse finally nods and gets back to grabbing floorboards to finish the job at hand.

-

Dateline, April 16, 2013. A normal Tuesday in the routine of a house-husband. His glory days as a wrestler disappeared over the horizon in his rearview long ago. His concerns weren’t sneak attacks or gladiatorial battles anymore, but five-year-old Zo prepping for his pre-K graduation and three-year-old Vinny running out of playdates because he had a proclivity for biting.

Yet, on a given day, Tom was way more tired than he would ever be after a show, no matter how fierce his opponent’s attack was or how hard they dropped him on his head. It wasn’t just running around to fill prescriptions or shop for groceries or keep a threenager busy.

A piece of his soul felt missing.

“Hey babe,” said Tam with exasperation in her voice as she trudged in the door.

“Hey, how was work?”

“Brutal. They hired this new guy, his name’s Edwards, and I gotta train him.”

“That bad?”

“He gives me creep vibes.”

Tom winced in solidarity with his wife.

“I’d ask how your day was, but you look like someone shot your puppy.”

“Nah, I’m alright.”

“No, you’re not.”

She sat next to Tom on the couch.

“What’s up, slugger?”

He chuckled a bit before answering.

“I just feel useless. Like, maybe I should have just not bothered with wrestling if I was gonna flame out before I reached my tenth anniversary in the biz. I should’ve listened to my dad. Become a roofer.”

She shot him the mightiest side-eye.

“What’s so wrong with you raising kids and letting me do the breadwinning? We’ve been surviving, and if I get this promotion, we can thrive, maybe move out to the suburbs.”

“Nothing’s wrong with it, and I love the kids and doing everything for them but…”

He trailed off for a moment before turning to his wife again.

“Something’s missing.”

Now it was her turn to laugh.

“No shit. Wrestling’s missing.”

“No, I have to raise the…”

“Shut up. I’m not going to have you talk about regretting wrestling because if you never became a wrestler, you’d never have met me. And you’d never have those two beautiful baby boys that you’re going to raise into fine young men.”

Tom nodded reluctantly. When she had a point, she really had a point.

“Look, I get that things didn’t work out how you wanted them. And maybe now isn’t the best time to go back because of how the finances are. I’m not sure we can afford daycare, even if you somehow got into High Octane.”

A chill shot down Tom’s spine, as if it was sent from the future.

“But never regret what you’ve done and who you are.”

Tom perked his head up, finally hearing a reassurance that made his malaise dissipate. And then he shot up from the couch because Vinny was climbing on the radiator again.

-

The sunset came too quickly for the time Tom had budgeted for the roof portion he wanted to get done that day. This kind of roof was not in his wheelhouse during his time on the tops of South Philly rowhomes. Those roofs were flat. This one was steepled. He worked from scaffolding with nails and boards rather than tar and shingles. The smell was more pleasant, at least.

“Need a hand?”

Lindsay Troy finished her ascent onto the top of the scaffold.

“Could always use one. And a beer.”

“Not at this height, you don’t.”

Tom chuckled as he threw his boss a hammer.

“I thought you were a roofer,” she said half-jokingly. “Job a bit tougher than you remember?”

“Not used to roofs like this, to be honest. And as hard as it is, it pales in comparison to what we gotta do at Culture Shock.”

Lindsay rolled her eyes and grabbed a board and nails. “Come on, Tom, we’ve been in matches like this before. And it’s not your first time facing the dipshit Russians.”

Tom sighed and shook his head.

“That’s the whole problem. Ivan’s not a dipshit.”

Lindsay expected the same snark back. They both shared disdain for the Bear and his utter disregard for anything that didn’t serve him directly.

“I know that, but I didn’t ever think I’d hear it from you.”

Tom put his hammer down and relaxed his shoulders, bowing his head.

“I can’t lie, not even as a joke anymore. It’s too much to bear. I respect him too much.”

She lifted an eyebrow and said nothing, waiting for him to continue.

“Yeah, the dickhead from Russia who has been nothing but a pain my ass ever since he stepped foot in this fucking company. I respect him too much.”

He lifted his head and turned to face Lindsay.

“And I hate that I do.”

For the first time in a long time, the Queen didn’t have a witty retort.

“I mean, what has that respect gotten me?” Tom continued. “I couldn’t beat him last month. I couldn’t beat him when I had a legitimate receipt to pay him. Fuck, I couldn’t even beat him with Youngblood in my goddamn corner.”

He paused for a beat and turned away.

“It’s Sean Stevens all over again. I came back just to be the bridesmaid for someone else.”

He stood up straight and arched his back.

“I don’t even know why I came back sometimes, just to get in the same rut, be the same guy who could get close enough but never over the finish line.”

Lindsay folded her arms and levied a glare at her long-time friend. “Well with that attitude, I’m starting to wonder why you did, too.”

Now it’s Tom’s turn to lift an eyebrow.

“Jesus, Tom. You’re one of the toughest, most persistent sons of bitches I know. You came back because that’s what you know how to do. You come back. Whenever you take a hit, or someone pulls some shit with your family or friends, you come back. You fight back. You wrestle because that’s in your blood, man, but you fight because that runs deeper than blood.”

He took a step back, truncated only by the rail on the scaffold.

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me, maybe ever.”

“Don’t tell people I say nice things, they’ll start to expect it. Besides, what I said is true.”

He turned to face his boss and friend.

“So you understand that because it’s in my blood, I have to do this. And that’s why I picked you first. Not FLAMBO, Diamonds, Clay. You’re the only one who understands enough why I am who I am.”

The Queen cracked a small but wry smile.

“Tam did too. She knew I needed this more than I did. But I would rather die a thousand times than let that lummox even come within an inch of her.”

“He wouldn’t. Not his style.” She looked at the cabin. “Are we going to finish this roof tonight, or what?”

Tom shook his head.

“Nah. I’ll just get up earlier tomorrow. Thanks.”

Tom started to climb down the ladder on the scaffolding, but stopped before his head went below deck.

“For everything.”

-

Dateline, March 15, 2026. Tom was clad with several bags on his way out the door to catch a rideshare to the airport when a voice stopped him.

“DAD! DAD!”

Vinny came charging down the stairs with all the momentum of a wrecking ball, barrelling into his father with a bear hug.

“Good luck kicking the crap out of Big John and that bimch Ivan!”

“Thanks, kid. I’ll be thinking about you and your brother the whole time.”

“I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too,” said Tom, tears welling up in his eyes. This ritual occurred every time he left for a show. This time was different. He turned around to look for his car when he saw a roofing truck crawl down the South Philly street.

For the first time in a long time, he thought to himself, man, I’m glad I didn’t become a roofer.