Steve Tem - Ugly Behavior

Then his opponent would get away, or, rather, The Crusher would release him, and there would be more dancing, and making faces, and doing these things with the eyes, kind of like two little boys in a playground, which is what the crowd really wanted to see, two little boys in a playground, even though they might not know it. The crowds didn’t want to see somebody really get hurt, even though that was the way it might look sometimes. But Jim could see right through that, and it kind of made him feel good about people. Although that never lasted too long.

So he tried to give the crowd what they really wanted. The dance and the tease, the tickle, and several hard embraces with dances in between. Then finally The Crusher, both his name and what he did at the same time. “Crush-er! Crush-er!” the crowd would shout, and they were calling out his name, but they were also telling him what to do, telling him how to end it. And he always obliged. He wrapped his arms around his partner and crushed, but he always held himself back a little. These were big guys up against him, but he still had to hold himself back. Lots of times they would pass out, and he’d step back a little, holding on to them with one hand so they wouldn’t hit the canvas too hard.

Sometimes a rib would end up getting cracked, and that always made him feel really bad. Then the next time in the ring he’d be too easy, and it wouldn’t be convincing, and the promoter would get mad, and then the time after that he’d squeeze harder, and it would be too hard and the guy would get hurt, and then Jim, aka The Crusher, would be miserable again.

He first started seeing the girl in the crowd up in Washington State. She was thin and pale, with hair so blonde it looked white under the lights. She was there at every match, and once he almost killed a fellow because he caught on to how intensely she was staring at him, and he found himself staring back, rock still with his arms around this guy, and before he knew it a couple of his wrestling buddies were there in the ring with him, trying to pry his arms from around the man’s gut.

He didn’t wrestle for awhile after that, didn’t even show up to watch. He’d take these long walks in the woods and he’d be so full of aches he’d think he’d pulled every muscle in his body. But he hadn’t pulled a thing, and no amount of heat or ointment was going to fix him. Sometimes he’d find a good-sized tree and wrap his arms around that, squeeze and crush and pretend he was pulling the thing out of the ground roots and all, and then sometimes the aching would go away.

The girl showed up again at a match in northern California. She looked the same but more so, her eyes noticeably red even from the ring, as if she’d been doing nothing but crying since the last time he saw her. That wasn’t likely, he thought, but the fantasy made him smile a little. He never thought of himself as having fans.

She was at every match in San Francisco, and he saw her at all the cities and towns all the way down the coast. That first night in San Diego she was waiting for him outside when he left the dressing room.

“Mr. Crusher,” she said, shyly, like a schoolgirl. It made him laugh, and then he saw this uncertain look cross her face and he felt bad.

“Jim. It’s my real name.”

“Sure.” She had inched closer, but he edged away. For some reason he was scared of this small and lovely person.

“I saw you wrestle tonight,” she said.

And dozens of times before, he thought, but said nothing.

“You’re very… strong,” she said. “It’s like you could break anything… that bothered you.”

“Some things you can’t break.”

“It’s like you could just crush it out of existence,” she said, as if she hadn’t heard him, and looking into her eyes he could tell she hadn’t. “You’re strong enough… you could just make it not be.”

He was embarrassed now. And he wanted her to stop saying what she was saying. “Do you want me to sign a picture or something?” he asked and immediately felt himself redden. Now she would think he was some sort of arrogant would-be celebrity. Some of the guys did think of themselves as celebrities, but Jim didn’t.

“If you want. But I would really like to take you out to dinner, if that’s okay with you.”

“I…” Jim couldn’t figure out what to do with his hands. Finally he let them grip and wrestle each other. “I usually…”

“I don’t know anyone here,” she said. “And I really find it depressing to eat by myself.”

Jim surprised himself by agreeing, even though the very idea terrified him. But telling this woman no, after the things she had just said to him, would have mortified him even more.

They took her car. Jim didn’t drive—steering wheels had never felt right in his hands.

It wasn’t until they got to the restaurant that Jim wondered how he was going to eat in front of this sweet young thing. He always ate alone, and almost never in restaurants. Sometimes when the bus stopped and the other wrestlers all went in to eat, together around some long table, Jim would order something to go, then eat it on the bus. Sometimes he would stare out the bus window, and into the restaurant where the others were, and pretend he was eating with them.

It was his hands, of course, that made him unsuitable for public dining. There was no way those massive hands and forearms could hold a fork delicately, or use a knife without bumping into the person next to him or sending his own food flying across the table. And those thick, long fingers of his were always getting in the way. They were like wandering roots, and he had no control over them. Sometimes he wouldn’t watch them for awhile, then glance down and they’d be wriggling in secret, anxious to touch and break something.

So he struggled through the meal and actually ate very little, dropping some of it on the floor, some into his lap. Finally so hungry he could have cried, he picked up a pork chop and stuffed the meaty side into his mouth, using the bone as a handle. He closed his eyes while he did this, not wanting to see her look at him. But she never said anything about it, or seemed to notice. Mostly, she talked about herself.

“My dad has this junk car lot outside Eugene,” she went on. “Andy’s, but that’s not his name. I don’t know who Andy is, or even if there ever was one. The place is full of rusted hulks, mostly, but he refuses to clean up the place or haul anything out of there. He always says he’s going to fix them up, even the ones so rusted through they don’t have floors anymore, and the seats are full of wild flowers. He lives there full-time in this shack. We moved out there when I was twelve, after my mom died.”

Jim put the piece of pork chop down, edged the plate away as if he could pretend he’d never seen it before. “I’m… sorry,” he said, and immediately felt stupid, clumsy. She’d been twelve. It was a long time ago. It was probably dumb for him to say “sorry” now.

But she didn’t seem to have heard him. “I used to watch him move pieces of cars and trucks around. He was big, like you. And he didn’t say much, like you. Like most of the wrestlers I’ve met, I guess.” He looked at her then, and when she saw that she acted suddenly nervous. “Well, I know you’ve seen me around the circuit. I go to lots of matches, especially when I see certain wrestlers and what they can do, well, I guess I follow them around to see what more they can do.”

Jim had no idea what she was talking about. He really wished he could eat some more, just to have something to do with his mouth and hands. He tried folding his hands together on the table, but didn’t know quite what to do with his overstuffed fingers. “Some of the wrestlers… they have lots of fans,” he said awkwardly.