Post by Johnny Reb on Jan 30, 2010 23:57:22 GMT -5
Hotel lobby bars are well-known places of assignation; where businessmen meet mistresses and cougars prowl for unwary young men. The clientele here, in the upscale bar of the Reading Crowne Plaza are no different, though fewer in number before sundown on a Saturday evening.
Johnny Reb sits alone in a corner booth, far removed from such pedestrian activities, nursing a glass of Southern Comfort. Reb’s championship belt rests on the table in front of him. His casual dress – faded blue jeans, a “Southern Discomfort” T-shirt, and a grey sport coat – belies the tension in his posture as he looks up, clearly intending to address his viewing audience directly.
Johnny: I gotta admit, you are a singularly confusin’ individual, Mr. Evans. Now, I applaud the fact that your motivations are, perhaps, a little more…idealistic than my own. But for me, this ain’t about foistin’ my own political ideology off on an unsuspectin’ public. For me…
Here, Reb leans in closer, nearly upsetting his drink on the table.
Johnny: …it’s about somethin’…a little different. I’m gonna share a story with ya, Mr. Evans, ‘cause I feel like you oughta know somethin’ about the man you’ll be steppin’ into the ring with tomorrow night. Well, that, an’… you’ve been so damn forthright an’ honest with me, I reckon I owe ya a little honesty in return.
The Inveterate Confederate smiles and settles back into his seat, taking a sip of his drink as he prepares to relate his tale.
Johnny: Y’see, it was the summer of 2000, an’ I was all of sixteen years old. Young, dumb, and full of…myself. You know that age, where you’re tryin’ so hard to prove your independence, an’ you’ll do just about anythin’ to set yourself apart… Well, let’s just say I lost sight of my priorities. Got into some trouble. Which is where she comes in.
Reb’s gaze softens as he recalls some pleasant memory from his bygone teenage years.
Johnny: Ah, Mrs. Robinson… She moved into the neighborhood that spring, with her husband and her kids. She was one of those wild, free-spirited, New Age kinda chicks. I mowed her lawn, an’ she always seemed to know when I needed a break. She’d come out with a pitcher of lemonade or sweet tea and a couple of glasses, an’ we’d just sit on the porch an’ talk all afternoon.
Mrs. Robinson was somethin’ else. It wasn’t like talkin’ to my mom, or even my friends’ moms, for that matter. She was different. She listened to what I had to say, took me seriously, treated me like an adult. It was Mrs. Robinson who helped me realize that wrestlin’ could be more than just a dream. Of course, Mrs. Robinson taught me a lot of things, that summer…
Johnny’s smile turns faintly salacious, his thoughts turning to those hot summer days and the things that Mrs. Robinson showed him. Then, slowly, the smile fades and his brow furrows as he recalls how the summer came to a close; how Mr. Robinson came home early from work one day, and the whirlwind of events that followed, culminating in the Robsinsons’ divorce. Both had moved away after that. Reb sighs heavily and, with some effort of will, he wrenches his attention back to the present.
Johnny: You understand, in a way, it’s all for her. She was my first love, Mrs. Robinson was. An’ when I look at this title here, I remember everythin’ she did for me.
The Inveterate Confederate rests a hand on his championship belt as he speaks.
Johnny: So when you ask me, Mr. Evans, how it felt all those months ago, when Torture stole the World Title from me, I can sum it up fairly succinctly: it was like losin’ her all over again. I had a long road to travel after I lost that title. It ain’t no secret my performance in the ring suffered for it. An’ now that I have gold again, I don’t intend to give it up so easily… or so soon.
Reb’s attention is caught by the sight of a woman walking by; a flash of chestnut-colored hair that reminds him of… He shakes it off, knowing the chances of her being here are astronomical. Even so, he watches the woman walk to the bar, then turns back to the camera.
Johnny: Tomorrow night, Mr. Evans, we will put our own motivations aside when we step into that ring. Our ideals won’t win either of us any matches. Skill alone will determine that.
Without another word, Johnny finishes his drink, picks up his title belt, and slips out of the booth. He starts toward the exit, then thinks better of it and doubles back toward the bar, curious about the woman. She turns to see him approaching, gazes at him speculatively for a moment, and smiles broadly….
Johnny Reb sits alone in a corner booth, far removed from such pedestrian activities, nursing a glass of Southern Comfort. Reb’s championship belt rests on the table in front of him. His casual dress – faded blue jeans, a “Southern Discomfort” T-shirt, and a grey sport coat – belies the tension in his posture as he looks up, clearly intending to address his viewing audience directly.
Johnny: I gotta admit, you are a singularly confusin’ individual, Mr. Evans. Now, I applaud the fact that your motivations are, perhaps, a little more…idealistic than my own. But for me, this ain’t about foistin’ my own political ideology off on an unsuspectin’ public. For me…
Here, Reb leans in closer, nearly upsetting his drink on the table.
Johnny: …it’s about somethin’…a little different. I’m gonna share a story with ya, Mr. Evans, ‘cause I feel like you oughta know somethin’ about the man you’ll be steppin’ into the ring with tomorrow night. Well, that, an’… you’ve been so damn forthright an’ honest with me, I reckon I owe ya a little honesty in return.
The Inveterate Confederate smiles and settles back into his seat, taking a sip of his drink as he prepares to relate his tale.
Johnny: Y’see, it was the summer of 2000, an’ I was all of sixteen years old. Young, dumb, and full of…myself. You know that age, where you’re tryin’ so hard to prove your independence, an’ you’ll do just about anythin’ to set yourself apart… Well, let’s just say I lost sight of my priorities. Got into some trouble. Which is where she comes in.
Reb’s gaze softens as he recalls some pleasant memory from his bygone teenage years.
Johnny: Ah, Mrs. Robinson… She moved into the neighborhood that spring, with her husband and her kids. She was one of those wild, free-spirited, New Age kinda chicks. I mowed her lawn, an’ she always seemed to know when I needed a break. She’d come out with a pitcher of lemonade or sweet tea and a couple of glasses, an’ we’d just sit on the porch an’ talk all afternoon.
Mrs. Robinson was somethin’ else. It wasn’t like talkin’ to my mom, or even my friends’ moms, for that matter. She was different. She listened to what I had to say, took me seriously, treated me like an adult. It was Mrs. Robinson who helped me realize that wrestlin’ could be more than just a dream. Of course, Mrs. Robinson taught me a lot of things, that summer…
Johnny’s smile turns faintly salacious, his thoughts turning to those hot summer days and the things that Mrs. Robinson showed him. Then, slowly, the smile fades and his brow furrows as he recalls how the summer came to a close; how Mr. Robinson came home early from work one day, and the whirlwind of events that followed, culminating in the Robsinsons’ divorce. Both had moved away after that. Reb sighs heavily and, with some effort of will, he wrenches his attention back to the present.
Johnny: You understand, in a way, it’s all for her. She was my first love, Mrs. Robinson was. An’ when I look at this title here, I remember everythin’ she did for me.
The Inveterate Confederate rests a hand on his championship belt as he speaks.
Johnny: So when you ask me, Mr. Evans, how it felt all those months ago, when Torture stole the World Title from me, I can sum it up fairly succinctly: it was like losin’ her all over again. I had a long road to travel after I lost that title. It ain’t no secret my performance in the ring suffered for it. An’ now that I have gold again, I don’t intend to give it up so easily… or so soon.
Reb’s attention is caught by the sight of a woman walking by; a flash of chestnut-colored hair that reminds him of… He shakes it off, knowing the chances of her being here are astronomical. Even so, he watches the woman walk to the bar, then turns back to the camera.
Johnny: Tomorrow night, Mr. Evans, we will put our own motivations aside when we step into that ring. Our ideals won’t win either of us any matches. Skill alone will determine that.
Without another word, Johnny finishes his drink, picks up his title belt, and slips out of the booth. He starts toward the exit, then thinks better of it and doubles back toward the bar, curious about the woman. She turns to see him approaching, gazes at him speculatively for a moment, and smiles broadly….