Page 13 of A Long Con

“Here.” He grinned, handing me the metal plates although he could’ve just as easily put them on a shelf. “You know who you look like? The Samoan Slammer.”

Hadn’t Royal just called himself that?

Before I could open my mouth, Royal was verifying his identity. “That’s me, brah,” he said, making the shaka sign with his hand.

“Oh, man!” cried Cloud. “You had a real strong storyline, but remember the time you reimagined some other superstar’s script? Someone was out with broken ribs.”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Royal, getting all worked up with his memory. “It was Salt Lake City.”

“Right! Right! You must’ve made bank because you could hold them in your palm, you should’ve seen this guy! Everyone was yelling, standing, applauding.”

“I played a heel champ that day,” said Royal, eyes gleaming with the memory. I saw how much it bothered him not to be able to wrestle. Like any sport that was taken from you, the buildup of adrenaline with no release could make you antsy, restless. “We had the big screen entrance with videos and fog machines.”

“You were a major heel champ,” enthused Cloud. “It was a gimmick match for the RAW tag team title.”

“Listen.” I clapped Cloud on the shoulder. “Royal’s got to get back down the street. Thanks for the switch plates, man.” I tried to steer him out of the room, but he was solid as a statue.

“You came out cloaked in darkness for your battle with Handsy Hank. You put him down with a stomp.”

“Right after an Alabama Slam, and a clothesline,” Royal reminded my best friend. “Come on. Berkeley wants us out of here.”

“Hey,” said Cloud as we exited the bedroom and the relative freshness of the air, “I left a bag of Doritos here when I was helping you remove those mattresses.”

“Yeah?”

“Do you still have them? I put them into your dad’s old liquor cabinet, over the fridge.”

“I’m sure they’re still here, if they’re not all chomped by rats. That was like a month ago.”

So that was the end of my first—and for all I knew, my last—encounter with Royal Palakiko. This shredded musclehead who pretended not to be gay, his gingerbread hair and dazzling smile. He mumbled something involving seeing me about paintings and that was it.

I had found that embarking on a mortal journey such as mine didn’t get rid of the tiny detail of evil, but it radically changed it. If we’d been involved in the arguments and debates that resulted in making and colonizing the world, then we’re not just helpless victims of fate. But participating doesn’t alleviate the horror of what we see—the roads not taken, the lovers passing in the night. God’s dismal failure to intrude is confusing. Sometimes my personal knowledge of loss and loneliness overcame me. But as long as I suspected I had a hand in my own situation, I gained confidence.

Like now, watching Royal saunter across the rocks in my front yard. What was his gig? He hadn’t fought me very hard when I’d shoved him to his knees. And his talent was such that it wasn’t his first time, or his first hundredth. So why then did he claim not to be gay?

“Wow, such a great wrestling talent,” marveled Cloud. “Too bad about that accident. What does he do now?”

“Sells paintings to dealers. Come on, let’s go find those Doritos.”