Life Story
"How are you holding up, man?"
The lake is a boiling -10 degrees. Mick dangles his workboot-clad feet over the edge of the dock before he answers.
"Pretty good; how the hell are you? I haven't heard from you since you got out of the hospital."
"Therapy's going well. This isn't about me. How are you doing?"
"I feel a little bit lost."
"Lost?"
"Like I need someone to tell me that I made the right decision."
A cough sounds at the other end. "You've got the best horse sense in the business, and you're asking me if you're making the right choice?"
He smiles mirthlessly. "You know my horse sense goes to shit when I get into that ring."
"Yeah, I know how that goes. Mick, you've got three kids."
"Four now."
"Really?"
"Yeah, we just heard last week."
"That's great news."
"Thanks. But that's now what you were saying."
"No, I'm saying you made the right choice for them."
He rubbed his burning eyes. "It's not like I have a lot of options. Tietem didn't sell too well..."
"...I heard it did well for a piece of fiction."
"Not in the era of JK Rowling."
"You're putting to much on your shoulders, Mick."
"I can't help it. I have to think of my kids."
"You know they'll be okay. I know how much you scrimped and saved, so you'd have a nest egg."
"But it's not enough. They deserve more."
"They deserve to have a living father. One that'll take them to DisneyLand."
"You mean this old sack of crap?"
"Don't talk about yourself like that."
"I can barely bend over anymore. A sack of crap is more flexible."
"I'm not going to argue with that, but you're still too hard on yourself."
He picks up an errant rock lying at his side and allows it to drop to the bottom of the lake. "On days like this, I wonder why I've been hanging on this long."
"Don't you think I wonder about that?"
"Oh yeah. We've all been there. But why do I keep going back?"
"Two words: the pops."
Mick chuckled. "Oh yeah."
"We both know what it feels like. It's our own special cocaine."
"The sort of cocaine that makes you shoot smack to forget the pain!"
"Too many people went down that road, my friend."
"Not us."
"Hell no!"
Energy seized him. "I'm not going to go down like that. I'm not gonna die face-down on a motel room bed."
"Me too. We're gonna be two old men, rocking on the porch down in Utica."
"It's Utica now?"
"I sold my dad's house. It has to be Utica now."
He suddenly remembered that others were in pain deeper than his own. "How are YOU holding up?"
"I'm living."
"Bret, that's not good enough."
"It's a lot to get over at once." The sound of a shifting. "My dad...I always thought he was going to be around forever, you know?"
"I feel that way about my own dad."
"I wish I had more time in him. But I'm lucky to be alive now. Mick?"
"Yeah?"
"Do me a favor."
"What?"
"Live. Live and keep living. Because you and me..."
"...We're going to McMahon's funeral together."
"In red."
"I still have my vest picked out."
The laughter came as a balm. He understood, suddenly, that he was doing something right. His kids would benefit from his being close to home, and there were those promises of a series. He would not bleed to death in the ring, or bleed to death out of it because something he did in some old arena had caused him permanent, irreversible harm.
"I'll hear from you at Christmas?"
"Yup."
"See you soon, man."
"Night, Bret."