The Moon and Saint Christopher
He crossed the laces of his high-top sneakers with mild irritation. He lacked in luck at that particular moment, but, feeling the tips of each lace nibble at his thumbs like errant, pearly teeth, he simply gave up, allowing the tips to dangle in the breeze.
Clicking open his laptop, the device auto-dialed its way to WWE.com. He patted it fondly, "My baby," he jokingly uttered, for his own benefit, "The menace of Usenet."
He spent a few hours pouring over the site's layout, making sure each featured he'd pre-arranged in production meetings still existed. Satisfied, but still annoyed that all wasn't quite perfect, he closed up the device and headed to the lockers.
A blast of steam brought back provocative memories; he and Chris had kissed here, once; and done much more. From the corner of his eye he could see towels whipping back into place around waists; the sickening odor of perfume in the air much stronger than his lustful memories.
But the memories clouded his vision, like a curtain of lotion sliding down the forehead; they had loved here, he was very certain, and if he closed his eyes he could picture kissing Chris, touching Chris, making love (not fucking; never fucking) to Chris.
Watching Chris kiss Booker.
That wasn't a vision; it was unfolding right in front of him. Chris had the taste to disengage himself from Booker's embrace and nod woodenly to acknowledge his old lover's presence.
"Hey," Shane heard himself saying, "Have you seen my sister?"
Chris' expression too-clearly betrayed his confusion, "In the showers, man?"
Shane allowed an urbane expression to wash over his featured, "Hasn't she picked up most of her lovers here?"
Chris began laughing, and Booker joined with him; they all ignored the ugly, hate-filled looks that were cast upon them.
"I thought I saw her by the administrative office," Chris said, grabbing a towel and patting at his dripping beard, "You can check there."
"Thanks," Shane announced, meaning that. He turned and walked from the room, only facing his old lover as he pressed his shoulder into the door to open it, "Watch out, Book; you could loose a ball in that beard." He said airily, knowing that his choice of words had been lame. He exited to the tune of Booker's howling laughter.
****
"We're not going to make it in the fourth quarter, Steph. Not at this rate."
"Don't worry about it," His sister announced, "I have everything planned out."
"So did dad. Look where he ended up."
Stephanie tutted him, "Just drive inside of the lines, Shane, and you'll be OK."
He shook his head, "That isn't funny, Steph," He sighed, "The split isn't working, We need something new, something big..."
"Something that doesn't involve you being the booker!" Steph shook her head, "Just leave everything to me on the creative end, bro."
"If I do, you'll explode from the stress."
She leveled him with a blunt gaze. "You already are. Now, go watch the show."
"You sound like mom."
"Now," She said sadly, "I'm afraid I am."
***
He clambered behind the bleachers, listening to the crowd scream for Scott Steiner as though the Second Coming had arrived. He peered through a keyhole-sized space between the supports holding the rink's movable sections of seating. Brock was holding his own, and a sensation of pride swelled within his chest.
Brock was undeniably beautiful, and undeniably off-limits. All married, straight men were.
It would be his luck, to fall for a man who had no interest whatsoever in his own sex, relationship-wise. Shane suppressed hatred for his own biology and slipped away to a better spot near the gorilla position, to watch the rest of the match.
His love for the business would have been a part of his life, had he been born in Siberia, or the son of a steelworker. Genuine excitement energized his body; he forgot the finish and his vibrant gestures began drawing attention.
"Hey, it's Shane McMahon!" He heard, and, smiling warmly, he acknowledged the voices. A few faces came surging out of the crowd, dangling programs; flashbulbs popped, stinging his eyes. He reached up to take the offered program when a beefy arm blocked his reach.
"Mr. McMahon isn't signing today," Brayed one of the security guards. Shane was ready to assert himself, and say that he was ready to sign, but then three more security people joined in, unwillingly protecting him. He gave a sad wave to his disappointed fans and walked backstage. But he didn't stop at the gorilla position; didn't stop until he hit a side door and a cool biting breeze informed him that he now stood outside.
Moments like these made him wish he were a smoker.
His life had warped, twisted, within only the span of a year. Always the golden child, with a gorgeous lover and a great position at the top of the company; never having to work for his next meal. The WWE's JFK Jr. Well, JFK Jr. died at the bottom of the ocean, and Shane's "golden" existence had died at the bottom of a bottle. Then his father had one Cosmopolitan too many and collided with a tree, killing him instantaneously. Linda had lost her mind within a week; he and Stephanie had been forced to arrive at a mutual decision and, in an odd, freakish twist upon an ancient storyline, had Linda committed to a mental institution.
Chris hadn't stuck around, and, while Shane was lost in a mess of bank statements and inheritance confusion, simply walked out on the relationship. He showed up with Booker one day. It was really Chris' only other option; no other openly gay men dwelled within the Raw roster.
All of this had happened within the span of six months, and he was only learning how to laugh about it now. Like coming out of a coma, or a very dark underground tunnel, traveling nocturnally like an ant in the earth's veins toward the moon, he could generally feel his former misery lifting.
Didn't mean that life was easy or perfect. At this point it was just about bearable. But he felt a sense of hope that kept the doom at bay.
His eyes went, not to the stars, but the black tarred rooftops of the New York skyline. His family never did worship the sun, the clouds, or stars. Always, had the mechanics of the modern world transfixed his family, and they prayed to the A-Line, to the Modern Museum, to the Vanderbilt Mansion. It had been that way since he could remember, since his father had murdered evil monsters in his closet so that he wouldn't scream at night.
For once, he counted the studs in Orion's belt. Counted the gray craters that pocked the moon. Then, emboldened, he returned to the calling that had enveloped him at an early age.
Orion remained where he always stood; in the sky, without a coffee break. His spear pointing forever upward.