Jobber

Look at him. Already out there in the middle of the ring, pacing around. Where’d he come from? He got no introduction, no walk-in music, no pyrotechnics, no fancy costume, no cool nickname. He appeared and no one noticed. Did you catch his real name, even? Paul or Dean or Richard, who knows? He looks like a Ron. So now it’s just Ron out there in some standard issue shin-high wrestling boots and tight baby blue trunks doing their best to contain the dough around his midsection from muffining over. His jaw is lined with pudge, cute, maybe, if you’re into that, or just punchable. Ron: the old jobber, what’s he doing out there? The ham & egger. The tomato can. Don’t you know? He’s out there to lose. He’s out there to get bulldozed. He’s out there to get jobbed. 

Everyone else knows it. His wife, Donna, who just estranged him an hour before the match, knows it. The audience filled with creeps and weasels and scumbags, including his agent, who years ago promised to make him a star, knows it, and his opponent, Hermann “The Hardbody” Hearst, the man who pretty much set the recent wife-estrangement situation into motion, definitely knows it. 

And speaking of The Hardbody, here he comes, down the aisle, from behind the curtain. Hermann, in his cape and his foppish hat, which spotlights that beautiful flaxen mane pouring down the back of his shoulders, is peacocking for the crowd, who is eating out of his hand. Cut the lights. Cue the electric guitars. Switch the strobe lights on. Prompt the announcer: Heeeereeeee coooooomeeeeesss Hermannnnnnn…The Hardbody…Heeeeaaaarrst! Light up the flame machines. Listen to the screams of all those who want to be with him, all those who want to be him. 

Don’t you know? This is Hermann’s first time back after his injury. Nine long months. It’s been bleak. Hermann’s the marquee wrestler of the federation. He draws the crowds. Keeps the lights on. Puts money in the pockets of his fellow wrestlers. You should’ve seen the kids in the crowd crying when Hermann tore something in his knee that December night long ago. What’d he tear? Doesn’t matter. It feels better now and knee braces today work miracles, so we’re all good to go. 

Hermann stops mid-aisle walk to give the crowd what they paid for, that is, he flexes. Veins like earthworms crawl up his forearms, biceps tauten, pecs bounce. Has The Hardbody been juicing? You’re asking the wrong questions, bucko. This is 1991. He has muscles and he knows how to use them and that’s all you ever need to worry about. 

Hermann’s never met Ron before. Hermann believes he’s great enough that these carpenter matches don’t need to be rehearsed—they can just improvise, call it in the ring: some tie-ups, arm twists, diving elbows, maybe a clothesline or a suplex, whatever. And Hermann’s right—he is great enough to call his matches on the fly, especially these kind that don’t really matter. The match is secondary. Hermann’s here to cut an in-ring promo, letting his fans know he is back and coming for Johnny Hot Sauce and the championship belt Johnny unceremoniously took from him nine months ago. This match with Ron serves as a little advertisement for the big pay-per-view event next month. If you’re lucky, Hermann might even pull out his signature move, the Rockcrusher, and use it on Ron as a warning to Johnny. 

A little more than an hour ago backstage, Hermann was going to find Ron in the locker room to tell him about the development, so he wouldn’t mess it up, but instead ran into Donna sitting on a folding chair, waiting just outside the open locker room door, fiddling with her new perm. She stood up quickly when she saw Hermann approaching. 

“Hello, Mr. Hardbody—I mean, Mr. Hearst.”
“Call me Hermann.”
“I like that.” 
Donna looked at the ground where she was tracing something with her foot while nibbling on her lip. “You’re fighting my husband today,” she said.
“Am I? That’s too bad,” Hermann said.
“Why?”
“I hate beating up husbands in front of their wives. Especially when they’re pretty.”

You know what happens from there. 

Ron does too. He heard the whole conversation. This would’ve made a great angle for a storyline, if Ron was actually a star like he set out to be. He loves wrestling, more than anything in the world. He thought that if he practiced in the ring extra hours, took acting classes for character work, wrote out his promos and set them to memory, and drank only the occasional beer or five, he would become a star. But his body won’t fully cooperate when he tries to mold it through punishing workouts. Ron’s moves are clean, convincing, and utterly unimpressive. As far as his character goes, Ron trotted him out once: a time-card-punching union man, just like Rocky or Jon Bon Jovi. His name: Tommy Striker. It went fine. In his promo as Tommy, Ron nailed the accent of an angry blue-collar East Coaster, but didn’t say anything memorable.

All of it was just enough. Just enough to land him an agent, just enough to attract someone like Donna, just enough to put him out here in front of 20,000 screaming fans where it’s his job to lose and disappear. He has done this work for so long that he has become his character: a worker whose talent can’t carry the day, but who is useful in other ways. A jobber.

But then again, Ron might have some surprises in store. 

As Hermann is given a microphone in the center of the ring, Ron broods in the corner, knowing what must be done. Hermann is the biggest opponent he’s faced in his ten years as a wrestler. 

About half an hour ago, Ron’s agent told him if he lost clean and quick the payday would be larger than any he has ever gotten. It would still be mid-tier level, but the best of mid-tier level. Ron should’ve been happy, but he knew, any minute, Donna was going to come busting in with some news of her own. 

Ron can now only think about one thing Donna said to him backstage as she was estranging him: “Let’s face it, this is the best it’s ever going to get for you.”

You know what? She’s right. 

Ron walks up to Hermann mid-promo and grabs the microphone. The look of surprise on Hermann’s face is so convincing because it’s real. 

“Hello, Cleveland,” Ron says. A little cheap heat. Nice. “Funny thing about The Hardbody,” he says in his the-world-is-pissing-me-off, Tommy-Striker voice. “He’s worried about Johnny Hot Sauce next month. He’s worried about his precious title belt. He’s worried about his big pay-per-view payday.” Ron pauses for dramatic effect. The arena is deathly silent except for the TV announcers, who are saying to each other, “Uh-oh. What’s going on here?”

“What The Hardbody should be worried about is the fact that he put the moves on my wife backstage.” A few whistles from the crowd. “He thinks I’m a nobody. He thinks I’m just going to roll over. And guess what? He thinks you’re all nobodies, too.”

“What?” the announcers say, shocked and appalled.

Ron’s going for a full-fledged double turn: make Hermann the heel and take his place as the face. A complete takeover. And Hermann’s getting pissed, which is exactly what Ron wants. 

“Don’t believe me?” Ron says. “See for yourself.” Ron points to the twenty-foot big screen above the aisle.

There’s footage? How did Ron get footage? Who did he pay off to get this played? No one knows. Hermann’s now on the big screen talking to Donna. 

“What are you doing after this?” Hermann says, leaning into her personal space. “As soon as I beat your husband’s ass let’s leave him here like the rest of the losers in this dump.”

“I’d like that,” Donna says.
“Yeah, you would,” Hermann says.

Some cinéma verité! The crowd boos! Who shot this? You couldn’t have scripted it any better! Hermann’s really pissed now. 

“That’s what I’m telling you, Cleveland,” Ron says into the microphone. “He thinks you’re all losers. He thinks he’s going to beat my ass.” Ron pauses again before debuting the catchphrase he once dreamed crowds would chant alongside him before he knew any better. He yells it now into the microphone: Whatd’ya say we just see about that? 

The crowd erupts! 

The announcers are saying, “Who is this guy?”

Everyone is going to find out. Ron is preparing for the beatdown of his life. Don’t get it backwards, The Hardbody’s bum knee won’t change the outcome of this one. Ron’s still going to lose. He’s still going to get bulldozed. Probably worse, now that he went off-script.  

Was that Ron’s plan the whole time? 

He plays his cards right—well, you just never know.

Whatd’ya say we find out? 

ERIK EVENSON has published works in PANK Magazine, Hobart Online and other magazines. He lives with his wife and two boys in Seattle.