"Change" - An Introduction
Dec 18, 2013 0:56:00 GMT -5
Logan, Chelsea Armstrong, and 4 more like this
Post by Alaska Riley on Dec 18, 2013 0:56:00 GMT -5
“There comes a time in everyone’s life where there’s a choice to be made. You can either sit around and wait; wait for an opportunity to arise, an uncertainty that may never come… or take matters into your own hands. No great people ever had anything handed to them. Blood, sweat and tears are the foundation of achieving that one special thing that somehow always seems out of reach. Even then, nothing is certain. Not one thing. You see change and you can either cower in fear, or embody it. ‘Change takes time. It exceeds all expectations. It requires both now and then. And the truth is, you’ve got to have the balls to change.’”
Natural light is fleeting. Even with floor-to-ceiling windows, only just enough makes its way through the sheer white curtains onto the scuffed marley flooring. Mirrors line the perpendicular wall. Wooden ballet barres that would reach an adult’s bottom rib are on every side of the room, surrounding an Everlast punching bag that hangs in the center.
A figure with long wavy hair extends her long leg up to a barre in front of the window and leans into a deep stretch, her black leg warmer sliding gracefully, her hips squared. She sighs, her breath visible against the glass before her. Outside, snow falls heavily onto the streets of Portland, Maine. Six inches so far tonight, after a weekend of heavy precipitation. Winter wonderland doesn’t exactly describe it, at least until the roads have been plowed. Until then it’s more of a severe inconvenience, however pretty it may feign.
The figure lowers her leg and turns towards the center of the room. She stops and points her toe, and without hesitating leaps into a series of acrobatic tumbling. Each move is more elegant than the other as her body circles the punching bag. With a great battle cry, she seamlessly steps out of a back walk-over and swings her leg around, connecting heavily with leather. The sack of sand and saw dust swings, vulnerable to her strikes. She jabs and kicks with the ferocity of a cat stalking its prey. Quite the opposite disposition her body was giving off a mere 15 second before, she now appears to be a cold, hard fighter.
Her body stops and she hugs the bag, her head hanging in exhaustion. A long day of physical exertion is catching up with her. She walks back over to the bar and picks up a towel, patting her forehead as she peers out into the parking lot.
Suddenly, the lights above flicker and are quickly illuminated. The hum of fluorescents surprises her, and she turns to see a male figure. He’s handsome. 5’8”, not necessarily a stocky frame, with brown and blonde hair slicked back in that Great Gatsby manner that all the kids are into these days. He looks to be about 27; boyish, but his facial hair and chiseled jaw give him a few extra years. He’s got a brown leather jacket draped over his forearm. He’s covered in tattoos.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been here all day. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t broken your neck or something.”
“Your concern definitely seems genuine. If it were up to you, I wouldn’t be training at all.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair, Noah? Your complete lack of support for this thing, or your inability to let it fucking go already?”
NOAH: “Hey, don’t start attacking me. ‘This thing’ you speak of is really dangerous. It’s raw, it’s cutthroat, and I’m afraid that ‘this thing’ is going to end up putting my best friend in harm’s way. So don’t treat it like I’m being an asshole just because I voiced concern for your well being, Alaska.”
ALASKA: “You think I don’t understand the risk? This is what I’ve been working towards since before I can remember, and you never had concerns until it started to come into fruition.”
NOAH: “They’ve always been there, but up until now I…”
ALASKA: “You what? C’mon, say it.”
NOAH: (pause, sigh) “Up until now, it was a snowball’s chance in Hell that you’d hit it big. Not because you’re not amazing at what you do, but because of how competitive pro wrestling is. I always thought it was a pipe dream.”
ALASKA: “I get that. The pretty blonde wouldn’t stand a chance in the ring against a bunch of men, no matter how much heart she put into it.”
NOAH: “Don’t twist my words. No one can do what you can do. You know that, and I know that. But I just want you to be sure that you’re making the right decision. History repeats itself, and you already fell hard once.”
ALASKA: “Oh, don’t you dare bring that up and then try to be my big strong hero. I got injured, Noah. That could’ve happened to anyone.”
NOAH: “But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to you. And it almost killed you.”
Alaska stops. The memory of her one big shot in the WWE crumbling in the blink of an eye is one that doesn’t often leave her mind. Two years prior to this evening, almost to the day, a botched piledriver in a house card match cracked three vertebrae in her neck. The subsequent surgeries and physical therapy put her out of commission for over a year and a half, but this past August, she was given the green light to resume training. Her developmental contract had expired and the WWE wasn’t interested in the liability, despite the full recovery.
ALASKA: “I wouldn’t be trying again if I didn’t think I was ready. I am ready. Please, I need you to just believe me.”
NOAH: “I’m trying.”
ALASKA: “Show me. Show me that you’re trying and stop making me feel like I’m making the wrong choice. I need you to support me. I cannot do this without you.”
NOAH: “I will. But you have to promise me that the second it starts getting to be too much, you’ll do the right thing.”
ALASKA: “Fine.”
NOAH: “Good. Now come on. I bought a couple bottles of wine and some stuff to make dinner.”
——————
The open-concept studio apartment is dim, light dancing from a trio of candles on the coffee table. “Selfless, Cold and Composed” by Ben Folds Five plays softly from the stereo in the corner. Noah has his socked feet on the ottoman as he lounges in a pair of beat up sweat pants and a cerulean blue V-neck shirt. He scrolls aimlessly through Twitter on his iPhone, as though it’s a several-times-a-day routine.
Alaska emerges from behind a set of Japanese blinds wearing an oversized sweater with the neck all sorts of stretched out, and black boy shorts. On the way towards the couch, she grabs the open bottle of cabernet and her glass from the center island in the kitchen. She sips on her glass as she sits down and nestles herself under Noah’s left arm, which is draped on the back of the couch.
ALASKA: “Anything interesting on the Twitter front?”
NOAH: “Nah. I mean, unless you like hashtags and dick jokes.”
ALASKA: “My favorite.”
NOAH: “I figured. I wouldn’t even have Twitter if it weren’t for the band.”
Noah Hunter had a rough childhood. Raised by a single mom who had a hard time keeping a job and an even harder time staying away from hard substances, it’s remarkable he turned out to be a well-rounded man. He would escape from his home life by playing guitar, which led to forming a band when he and Alaska were still in high school. Nine years, countless tours and even more nights sleeping in a van, his efforts have paid off in the form of record label interest.
ALASKA: “When do you guys go back into the studio?”
NOAH: “Tentatively, next week. We have a meeting on Thursday with the suits to see what kind of budget they’re giving us to finish up the album.”
ALASKA: “That’s when I’m signing my paperwork for the WCF.”
He takes a sip from his glass and puts down his phone.
ALASKA: “If our teachers could see us now… we’re two of the least likely people to be hitting success from our graduating class.”
NOAH: “Ain’t that the truth. I feel like I can’t open up my Facebook without being bombarded with baby and wedding pictures. People owning property and raising families.”
ALASKA: “When did we become adults? And more importantly, how do we make it stop?”
NOAH: “You’re asking the wrong guy.”
ALASKA: “You’re right. I think that to qualify as an adult, you’d have to do laundry on a regular basis.”
NOAH: “Hey, shut it. Who needs to waste their time cleaning socks and underpants when you can just buy new ones?”
ALASKA: “You’re right. How stupid of me.” (rolls eyes)
The candles fill the room with the sweet aroma of cinnamon and spice. At least, that is until Noah lights a cigarette, filling his lungs before he slowly exhales a stream of smoke upward. Alaska sets her glass on the coffee table and rests her head on Noah’s chest. He settles into his role as a pillow and flicks his cigarette in the ash tray.
NOAH: “I do support you, y’know.”
ALASKA: “I know.”
NOAH: “And I appreciate the support you’ve always given me.”
ALASKA: “I know.”
NOAH: “I just want both of us to be comfortable. I’d hate it if either of us were to go and piss away a perfectly good opportunity on being scared of the consequences. I guess I’m just jilted from past experiences. You really are an incredible wrestler, and this new job could send you straight to the top. It scares the shit out of me, but I do support it. One of these days, we’re going to be on the cover of magazines and everybody who thought we were gonna fuck it up will see we actually did it. Just don’t make me go through what we went through two years ago. Okay?”
Alaska doesn’t answer. Noah looks down and sees that she’s drifted off into a comfortable slumber. He smirks and stubs out his cigarette, the happy expression on his face quickly dissolving.
NOAH: (softly) “And one of these days, you might see what’s actually in front of you.”
He stares forward, lightly running his fingers through his old friend’s hair as the scene closes.
Natural light is fleeting. Even with floor-to-ceiling windows, only just enough makes its way through the sheer white curtains onto the scuffed marley flooring. Mirrors line the perpendicular wall. Wooden ballet barres that would reach an adult’s bottom rib are on every side of the room, surrounding an Everlast punching bag that hangs in the center.
A figure with long wavy hair extends her long leg up to a barre in front of the window and leans into a deep stretch, her black leg warmer sliding gracefully, her hips squared. She sighs, her breath visible against the glass before her. Outside, snow falls heavily onto the streets of Portland, Maine. Six inches so far tonight, after a weekend of heavy precipitation. Winter wonderland doesn’t exactly describe it, at least until the roads have been plowed. Until then it’s more of a severe inconvenience, however pretty it may feign.
The figure lowers her leg and turns towards the center of the room. She stops and points her toe, and without hesitating leaps into a series of acrobatic tumbling. Each move is more elegant than the other as her body circles the punching bag. With a great battle cry, she seamlessly steps out of a back walk-over and swings her leg around, connecting heavily with leather. The sack of sand and saw dust swings, vulnerable to her strikes. She jabs and kicks with the ferocity of a cat stalking its prey. Quite the opposite disposition her body was giving off a mere 15 second before, she now appears to be a cold, hard fighter.
Her body stops and she hugs the bag, her head hanging in exhaustion. A long day of physical exertion is catching up with her. She walks back over to the bar and picks up a towel, patting her forehead as she peers out into the parking lot.
Suddenly, the lights above flicker and are quickly illuminated. The hum of fluorescents surprises her, and she turns to see a male figure. He’s handsome. 5’8”, not necessarily a stocky frame, with brown and blonde hair slicked back in that Great Gatsby manner that all the kids are into these days. He looks to be about 27; boyish, but his facial hair and chiseled jaw give him a few extra years. He’s got a brown leather jacket draped over his forearm. He’s covered in tattoos.
“What are you doing here?”
“You’ve been here all day. I wanted to make sure you hadn’t broken your neck or something.”
“Your concern definitely seems genuine. If it were up to you, I wouldn’t be training at all.”
“That’s not fair.”
“What’s not fair, Noah? Your complete lack of support for this thing, or your inability to let it fucking go already?”
NOAH: “Hey, don’t start attacking me. ‘This thing’ you speak of is really dangerous. It’s raw, it’s cutthroat, and I’m afraid that ‘this thing’ is going to end up putting my best friend in harm’s way. So don’t treat it like I’m being an asshole just because I voiced concern for your well being, Alaska.”
ALASKA: “You think I don’t understand the risk? This is what I’ve been working towards since before I can remember, and you never had concerns until it started to come into fruition.”
NOAH: “They’ve always been there, but up until now I…”
ALASKA: “You what? C’mon, say it.”
NOAH: (pause, sigh) “Up until now, it was a snowball’s chance in Hell that you’d hit it big. Not because you’re not amazing at what you do, but because of how competitive pro wrestling is. I always thought it was a pipe dream.”
ALASKA: “I get that. The pretty blonde wouldn’t stand a chance in the ring against a bunch of men, no matter how much heart she put into it.”
NOAH: “Don’t twist my words. No one can do what you can do. You know that, and I know that. But I just want you to be sure that you’re making the right decision. History repeats itself, and you already fell hard once.”
ALASKA: “Oh, don’t you dare bring that up and then try to be my big strong hero. I got injured, Noah. That could’ve happened to anyone.”
NOAH: “But it didn’t happen to anyone. It happened to you. And it almost killed you.”
Alaska stops. The memory of her one big shot in the WWE crumbling in the blink of an eye is one that doesn’t often leave her mind. Two years prior to this evening, almost to the day, a botched piledriver in a house card match cracked three vertebrae in her neck. The subsequent surgeries and physical therapy put her out of commission for over a year and a half, but this past August, she was given the green light to resume training. Her developmental contract had expired and the WWE wasn’t interested in the liability, despite the full recovery.
ALASKA: “I wouldn’t be trying again if I didn’t think I was ready. I am ready. Please, I need you to just believe me.”
NOAH: “I’m trying.”
ALASKA: “Show me. Show me that you’re trying and stop making me feel like I’m making the wrong choice. I need you to support me. I cannot do this without you.”
NOAH: “I will. But you have to promise me that the second it starts getting to be too much, you’ll do the right thing.”
ALASKA: “Fine.”
NOAH: “Good. Now come on. I bought a couple bottles of wine and some stuff to make dinner.”
——————
The open-concept studio apartment is dim, light dancing from a trio of candles on the coffee table. “Selfless, Cold and Composed” by Ben Folds Five plays softly from the stereo in the corner. Noah has his socked feet on the ottoman as he lounges in a pair of beat up sweat pants and a cerulean blue V-neck shirt. He scrolls aimlessly through Twitter on his iPhone, as though it’s a several-times-a-day routine.
Alaska emerges from behind a set of Japanese blinds wearing an oversized sweater with the neck all sorts of stretched out, and black boy shorts. On the way towards the couch, she grabs the open bottle of cabernet and her glass from the center island in the kitchen. She sips on her glass as she sits down and nestles herself under Noah’s left arm, which is draped on the back of the couch.
ALASKA: “Anything interesting on the Twitter front?”
NOAH: “Nah. I mean, unless you like hashtags and dick jokes.”
ALASKA: “My favorite.”
NOAH: “I figured. I wouldn’t even have Twitter if it weren’t for the band.”
Noah Hunter had a rough childhood. Raised by a single mom who had a hard time keeping a job and an even harder time staying away from hard substances, it’s remarkable he turned out to be a well-rounded man. He would escape from his home life by playing guitar, which led to forming a band when he and Alaska were still in high school. Nine years, countless tours and even more nights sleeping in a van, his efforts have paid off in the form of record label interest.
ALASKA: “When do you guys go back into the studio?”
NOAH: “Tentatively, next week. We have a meeting on Thursday with the suits to see what kind of budget they’re giving us to finish up the album.”
ALASKA: “That’s when I’m signing my paperwork for the WCF.”
He takes a sip from his glass and puts down his phone.
ALASKA: “If our teachers could see us now… we’re two of the least likely people to be hitting success from our graduating class.”
NOAH: “Ain’t that the truth. I feel like I can’t open up my Facebook without being bombarded with baby and wedding pictures. People owning property and raising families.”
ALASKA: “When did we become adults? And more importantly, how do we make it stop?”
NOAH: “You’re asking the wrong guy.”
ALASKA: “You’re right. I think that to qualify as an adult, you’d have to do laundry on a regular basis.”
NOAH: “Hey, shut it. Who needs to waste their time cleaning socks and underpants when you can just buy new ones?”
ALASKA: “You’re right. How stupid of me.” (rolls eyes)
The candles fill the room with the sweet aroma of cinnamon and spice. At least, that is until Noah lights a cigarette, filling his lungs before he slowly exhales a stream of smoke upward. Alaska sets her glass on the coffee table and rests her head on Noah’s chest. He settles into his role as a pillow and flicks his cigarette in the ash tray.
NOAH: “I do support you, y’know.”
ALASKA: “I know.”
NOAH: “And I appreciate the support you’ve always given me.”
ALASKA: “I know.”
NOAH: “I just want both of us to be comfortable. I’d hate it if either of us were to go and piss away a perfectly good opportunity on being scared of the consequences. I guess I’m just jilted from past experiences. You really are an incredible wrestler, and this new job could send you straight to the top. It scares the shit out of me, but I do support it. One of these days, we’re going to be on the cover of magazines and everybody who thought we were gonna fuck it up will see we actually did it. Just don’t make me go through what we went through two years ago. Okay?”
Alaska doesn’t answer. Noah looks down and sees that she’s drifted off into a comfortable slumber. He smirks and stubs out his cigarette, the happy expression on his face quickly dissolving.
NOAH: (softly) “And one of these days, you might see what’s actually in front of you.”
He stares forward, lightly running his fingers through his old friend’s hair as the scene closes.
