Greg Gifune - Night Work

Despite the two drinks he'd had at the hotel, Frank still couldn't relax, and the drive to the venue turned out to be the longest thirty minutes of his life. Frank tried to distract himself by concentrating on the seemingly endless expanse of utterly flat land that surrounded them, but the foreign surroundings only served to heighten his discomfort.

He thought back to the hotel cocktail lounge. A flashy bar and a cluster of tables separated by a small dance floor and a riser on which live bands apparently played on occasion. Quiet, nearly empty, a young bartender worked busily, wiping down an already pristine counter. The only light came from the mirrored bar and candles encased in glass fixtures on each table, yet an overall element of darkness prevailed. Like wandering into a cave of sorts, Frank had thought. And upon seeing the patrons – the early birds, who by their very presence interrupted the sanctity of such a setting – he understood why. Those quiet moments before a bar is invaded with noise and too many people and everything that turns it from a sanctuary to just one more thing to run from was lost. The aging salesman slumped at the bar and staring down at his drink through already bloodshot eyes, suit wrinkled, body worn, doing time. The bored housewife with a new hairdo, pretending to be staying at the hotel, positioned at a table clearly visible to all who enter, her best and lowest-cut dress bathed in flickering candlelight, her smile coy but not too, for fear she might be ignored altogether. And Frank, just another customer at The Stereotype Bar and Grill, he'd thought. Yet sometimes such things were true. Fear, however played out or displayed, was as real as anything else.

They arrived at dusk, and drove onto the school grounds, past the football field. The ring had been assembled on the fifty-yard line and was surrounded by a sea of fans in folding chairs and crowded onto portable bleachers. The bright stadium lights cut through the haze of increasing darkness, casting a surreal glow over the entire area.

Frank drove behind the main school building and parked just outside the rear entrance to the locker room, where they were greeted and escorted inside by Charlie and Vincent.

"We were beginning to get nervous," Charlie admitted as he shook Strong's hand.

"All my fault," he said graciously. "I was running late."

"Welcome to the ECPWL," Vincent smiled.

"I appreciate you having me, brother."

"I need a favor, Nick," Charlie told him. "There's a group of kids here from some don't-drink-and-drive organization that wanted to know if you could make some time for them after the show. Just a couple pictures and autographs – nothing heavy."

Strong beamed. "Be happy to, man." He looked at Frank and winked. "Hell, I love kids."

"Terrific." Charlie took him by the elbow and led him off to meet Luther and some of the other boys. Vincent noticed something wrong in Frank's demeanor and remained behind.

"Everything all right?" he asked.

"Everything's fine," Frank said irritably.

"Then why do you look like you've got a bug the size of my fist jammed up your ass?"

"Don't I always look like that?"

Vincent glanced around, lowered his voice. "Seriously, what's the matter?"

"How long until we roll?"

Vincent dismissed Frank's reaction with a shrug and checked his watch. "About five minutes."

"I'm doing Time tonight. I'll see you at ringside."

Because there was a distance of more than fifty yards from the locker room to the ring, a fleet of golf carts staffed with drivers from Benny's security crew had been parked outside the school building to shuttle the participants back and forth. Frank declined a ride and took the long walk across the edge of the field and down the main aisle, feeling the eyes of thousands in attendance upon him. Several people waved banners and signs; others shouted to him, asking if Nick Strong had arrived yet and when the show was going to begin.

Frank moved across the grassy field to the table at ringside and took his seat in front of the bell and hammer he used to signal the beginning and end of each match. He leaned back a bit in his chair and scanned the crowd, unable to resist the lure of the electricity in the air, and wondered if this was the way he'd live his life forever.

In the opening bout, The Puma pinned Diablo Gonzalez as usual. A few matches later, the Mongolian Crusher nearly caused a riot when he was disqualified for hitting Private Sean Powers with a chair and splitting his head wide open. Delta Diamond whipped the crowd into a frenzy with a close but successful defense of her title, and Luther Jefferson followed suit, disposing of The Lariat in typical dramatic fashion.

Nick Strong was scheduled to square off against a veteran heel known as The Hangman. Both were known for their incredible stamina, and had met countless times in the past in bouts memorable for their constant action. Frank estimated the main event to run roughly thirty minutes, and had worked out a series of signals with referee Al Sawyer beforehand.

Because there were no score boards that displayed running time at wrestling events, the timekeeper used subtle hand signals to alert the referee as to the amount of time that had elapsed once a bout was underway. Throughout the course of every match there were various points where one combatant put the other in a hold and remained there long enough for both wrestlers to catch their breath. While this was happening, the referee glanced down at the timekeeper for instruction, who casually scratched the side of his nose with a single finger if five minutes had elapsed, two fingers if ten minutes had elapsed, and so on. The referee would then turn back to the wrestlers, position himself as closely to them as possible, and while pretending to check the hold, relay the appropriate information. If a match was running long and the timekeeper wanted it to end, he nonchalantly gave his earlobe a tug. The referee would then tell the wrestlers to take it home.

Many headliners in the independent circuit, particularly veterans, had a habit of working light, which meant their walk to the ring often lasted longer than the actual match. But, since this was Nick Strong's first appearance in the ECPWL, and because he had been paid nearly three times what most independent headliners earned, everyone at the ringside table settled in for a match they expected would be a lengthy but exciting finale to what had already been an action-packed evening.

The Hangman entered to a chorus of jeers, stepped into the ring and began pointing and hurling insults at various people in the crowd.

Charlie announced Nick Strong and Strong jumped from the golf cart and sprinted down the aisle dressed in red, white and blue trunks and a T-shirt with the Olympic games logo on the front. The crowd was deafening as he climbed through the ropes, gave his opponent a nasty scowl, then pulled off his shirt and tossed it to a young fan at ringside.

Just as the crowd began to die down, Strong clapped his hands, stomped his foot and screamed, "U-S-A! U-S-A!" In seconds, thousands of fans were doing the same.

Frank leaned over as Charlie took his seat at the table. "Is this guy ever gonna wrestle?"

"He's a pro, Frank. Look at the marks. They're wetting their pants."

Once Strong had milked his entrance for everything it was worth, Al Sawyer quickly checked his boots and trunks for any foreign objects, then looked down at Frank and asked for the opening bell.

The first five minutes of the match were spectacular, but to the crowd's dismay, the Hangman had had the upper hand from the start. He scooped Strong up, slammed him to the canvas, and then joined him on the mat so he could apply a headlock and get a quick rest. Al got down next to them on one knee, asked Strong if he wanted to submit, then turned and looked at Frank. "He says, no!" he shouted above the crowd. "Don't ring that bell!"