Post by Walls on Jan 30, 2022 23:30:13 GMT -5
Black.
"Daddy, why do you work late every night?"
Beat.
"Daddy, why do you seem sad?"
Inhale.
"Daddy, why is your beard so long?"
Exhale.
"Daddy, remember when you were on TV?"
Inhale.
"Daddy, how come you aren't famous anymore?"
Exhale.
"Daddy, if grandpoppy was so happy when you were wrestling, why did you quit?"
Inhale.
"Daddy, why don't you wear your green hat anymore?"
Exhale.
Beat.
Black.
In.
On a wooden step sits a large figure, his frame stretching against a flannel shirt and jeans. Work worn boot wrap his feet, a toe digging absent-mindedly into the dirt beneath it. Shaggy hair drops down the back of his head as he looks out upon a barren field wrapped in a barbed wire fence. A truck sits off to the side beside a weather beaten shed, tools scattered on top of it's rusted, open tailgate. Birds awake, sing-songing. A horse neighs somewhere unseen. The man reches up, rubbing an unkempt beard, pulling frustratedly on an ear. He sighs, wide back heaving with a long exhalation.
This is Shane Locke and Shane Locke has seen better days. He hears the voices still.
"Daddy when will..."
"Daddy you were pretty tough right..."
"Daddy what about..."
"Be happy, Daddy..."
Cherubic in their innocent questioning. Pestering? Sure. But innocent and true ringing in their validity. The mind of a child. Unfettered. Honest.
Locke's hands are thick fingered, calloused from work. Strong. Rip a phonebook in half strong. Crush an apple in it's grip strong. His veined forearms rise up to bulging arms and bouldered shoulders, book ending a bridge spanning back. This Shane Locke seems... bigger. Bestial. Concentrated in his effort. Something has happened. Something has changed. He seems to have dove into work.
His eyes show it. Sleepy. Half closed.
Haggard facial hair.
Mullet unchecked.
Awake early. Too early. Tools out and ready.
Everyone else is asleep. His twin girls. His wife. His baby. The rooster hasn't awoken. Up before dawn.
A trio of electronic beeps interrupts his reverie. He looks down and sees the glow of an active phone. Text message.
--Caff--
I'm tired of texting you. Answer for once.
--Then quit texting.
Battle Royale. Feb 17th. FFS Shane. I'm tired of your wife and family always texting me to convince you to come back. You're already up, already working. I know you. I know this. Quit it. Quit killing yourself for what? Because you should? Because your Dad shamed you into this? Your blood is a farmer, your heart is a wrestler.
Wrestle.
Shane?
FFS.
WRESTLE. I AM SENDING YOU A FUCKING PLANE TICKET.
--OK.
The phone goes down. His wife looks from the door, babe in her arms. Her eyebrow raises, seeing the texting.
He nods.
She smiles.
We fade.
"Daddy, why do you work late every night?"
Beat.
"Daddy, why do you seem sad?"
Inhale.
"Daddy, why is your beard so long?"
Exhale.
"Daddy, remember when you were on TV?"
Inhale.
"Daddy, how come you aren't famous anymore?"
Exhale.
"Daddy, if grandpoppy was so happy when you were wrestling, why did you quit?"
Inhale.
"Daddy, why don't you wear your green hat anymore?"
Exhale.
Beat.
Black.
In.
On a wooden step sits a large figure, his frame stretching against a flannel shirt and jeans. Work worn boot wrap his feet, a toe digging absent-mindedly into the dirt beneath it. Shaggy hair drops down the back of his head as he looks out upon a barren field wrapped in a barbed wire fence. A truck sits off to the side beside a weather beaten shed, tools scattered on top of it's rusted, open tailgate. Birds awake, sing-songing. A horse neighs somewhere unseen. The man reches up, rubbing an unkempt beard, pulling frustratedly on an ear. He sighs, wide back heaving with a long exhalation.
This is Shane Locke and Shane Locke has seen better days. He hears the voices still.
"Daddy when will..."
"Daddy you were pretty tough right..."
"Daddy what about..."
"Be happy, Daddy..."
Cherubic in their innocent questioning. Pestering? Sure. But innocent and true ringing in their validity. The mind of a child. Unfettered. Honest.
Locke's hands are thick fingered, calloused from work. Strong. Rip a phonebook in half strong. Crush an apple in it's grip strong. His veined forearms rise up to bulging arms and bouldered shoulders, book ending a bridge spanning back. This Shane Locke seems... bigger. Bestial. Concentrated in his effort. Something has happened. Something has changed. He seems to have dove into work.
His eyes show it. Sleepy. Half closed.
Haggard facial hair.
Mullet unchecked.
Awake early. Too early. Tools out and ready.
Everyone else is asleep. His twin girls. His wife. His baby. The rooster hasn't awoken. Up before dawn.
A trio of electronic beeps interrupts his reverie. He looks down and sees the glow of an active phone. Text message.
--Caff--
I'm tired of texting you. Answer for once.
--Then quit texting.
Battle Royale. Feb 17th. FFS Shane. I'm tired of your wife and family always texting me to convince you to come back. You're already up, already working. I know you. I know this. Quit it. Quit killing yourself for what? Because you should? Because your Dad shamed you into this? Your blood is a farmer, your heart is a wrestler.
Wrestle.
Shane?
FFS.
WRESTLE. I AM SENDING YOU A FUCKING PLANE TICKET.
--OK.
The phone goes down. His wife looks from the door, babe in her arms. Her eyebrow raises, seeing the texting.
He nods.
She smiles.
We fade.