Session #2 - The Change Curve Pt. 2: Anger

[Jerry]

Session #2 - The Change Curve Pt. 2: Anger

August 3rd, 2008 | 12:25AM

Blue paint had begun chipping away, exposing the true face of the rusted bars. Mold grew in the corner of the cell where a continuous puddle of water and piss pooled in the floor’s depression in front of the urinal. A rectangular concrete slab, bolted into the floor via its four legs, formed the base of the cot, complete with a slim lumpy mattress. Black tape scattered the top and sides of the pad, where the guards had periodically slashed it open during cell checks, looking for contraband.

The Miami-Dade Corrections and Rehabilitation Department operated the eighth largest jail system in the country. Between 4,300 and 4,500 individuals were housed daily in the jail’s four detention facilities. Many inmates were awaiting trial for their accused crimes while others had just gone through processing and hoped that family might come to their rescue with bail.

Anthony Rother, leaned back against the wall with his legs folded to his chest after inspecting the cot. He grimaced in irritation each time he heard the echo of water, dripping from the sink’s faucet, splattering against the porcelain base. He had hoped after a long inspection he had found the safest spot in the cell to settle in. His hopes were dashed as he flicked away a lone cockroach that had begun an ascent up the leg of his khaki pants. He sighed, wondering how long he might remain confined in the cell the guards had placed him in.

“Rother…Anthony Rother!” a voice called out.

He pushed himself from the pad and quickly moved towards the bars. He stuck his left hand through and waved in response.

“Right here!” he replied with relief.

About damn time, he thought to himself. He had called his brother to bail him out six hours ago, the only family he had in Miami. Even though he hadn’t completely alienated him, they had never been close. Rother had hoped that blood might garner enough sympathy in order to convince James to pay the fifteen hundred dollars needed for him to sleep in his own bed tonight. After being removed from the processing cell and placed in general population, he had his doubts.

The guard inserted the key into the slot, and turned the lock with a screech.

“You made bail,” he stated with indifference. “C’mon, let’s go.”

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Twenty minutes later…

“Six hours,” Rother began at the entrance to the jail. “Six LONG hours, James!”

James Rother had been born six years before his brother; however, you wouldn’t know it from their differing appearances. The younger Rother had lived a much harder life, and he had the greying, receding hairline to show for it. The deep wrinkles in Anthony’s forehead and around his mouth also aged him considerably compared to the smooth nature of his older brother’s complexion. Jame’s fatigued eyes glazed over as his younger brother chastised him for taking his sweet time.

“Do you know what can happen to a man in a place like THIS,” he pointed towards the entrance, “in six hours?”

“Did it?” James bluntly asked.

Rother squinted his eyes in disgust. “That’s not the point! The point is that when you get a call from your own brother telling you that he’s in jail, you’re supposed to drop everything and do what needs to be done. I would never allow you to sit in a place like this for SIX HOURS!”

“You don’t have fifteen hundred dollars to your name, let alone to spare to bail anybody out of jail. Now, can we go? Some of us actually have work in the morning.” James yawned and began walking down the steps.

“Is this about the MONEY?” Rother roared as he followed.

James gave no response and continued walking through the parking lot.

“It’s ALWAYS about the money with you, isn’t it? I get it, you have it and I DON’T. I TOLD you that this was just a temporary setback. When I find some new clients who are actually worthy of my guidance, I’ll pay you back.”

“I didn’t bail you out.” He quickly replied.

The two brothers momentarily stopped as James fumbled around in his pockets for the keys to his silver 2015 Ford Explorer. Anthony cocked his head to his left side with and his eyes narrowed.

“What…do…you mean you didn’t bail me out?”

“Christ,” James blurted as the keys fell to the ground. “What is it with you? Do you like being known as the disappointment in this family?” He shoved a finger in his younger brother’s chest. “Our parents had high hopes for you, you insufferable little maggot. They paid for your tuition, tried to get you in the best schools our family could afford, and you took that money and pissed it all away to do this-this WRESTLING crap! God, you really need to see somebody and get your life straight. You’ve got some deep-seeded personal issues.”

James bent over to grab the stray keys.

“Again, what do you mean when you say, you didn’t bail me out?”

“Jesus, just get into the car, Anthony.”

James unlocked the vehicle with the keypad and opened the driver’s side door. He placed his right foot in and suddenly paused.

“You owe mom the fifteen hundred dollars.” He finally answered, before getting in and closing the door.

“Mom…” Rother’s eyes widened. “You told MOM?” He scurried to the passenger’s side and opened the door.

“Does dad know?” He asked in a voice laced with genuine fear.

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”I tried to warn you,” Rother mockingly began with a raised voice, ”I tried to warn all of you on exactly what was about to happen in Frontier Grappling Arts.”

The dusk sunset fashioned a flame of orange on the western horizon that faded into shades of violet in the Tucson sky. Scattered clouds lazily drifted in the air over the large neon sign that vertically illuminated the word ‘FOX’. The Fox Theatre opened in 1930 in downtown Tucson to huge fanfare and showed many of the great films from the time. Ultimately competition from drive-in theaters and the advent of home television caused its closure in 1974.

After twenty five years of vacancy, the Fox Theatre reopened following a restoration project. Becoming a local landmark, the building now served as a center for concerts and other events. Anthony Rother stood before the classical ticket box office, dressed in a navy suit, white shirt, and patterned blue tie. Sweat glistened on his large forehead due to the immense heat from the Arizona summer. Even though the sun had begun to make its exit for the day, Rother donned a pair of sunglasses on his face. Conspicuous by their absence, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon, once again appeared to yield to their manager to speak for them.

”We were mocked,” he raised an index finger, ”we were laughed at,” his middle finger extended, ”and we were doubted by our opponents,” his ring finger joined the other two, ”along with all of the mutants who spent their hard earned cash to watch us fail.” Rother smirked and chuckled.

”Who’s laughing now?” he asked. ”All of the doubters,” he accusingly pointed, ”all of the critics, and all of the detractors were silenced in Amarillo, Texas as the team Suspects-Cochran came out victorious in a glorious moment.”

The right side of his lips curved upwards, forming a crooked grin.

”Oh, the look of shock and sadness on the face of those toothless rednecks in the front row,” Rother radiated with elation, ”when Jason Marx rolled up Ruby Tyler for that win,” he paused, raised his right arm, counted out with his fingers, and mouthed with emphasis, ”One…two…three…”

”It should have been our moment to celebrate, our moment to relish,” his voice echoed in anger. ”But no,” he screeched, ”somebody had to ruin our night of festivity by cracking me across the face with a right cross.”

He raised his right hand and extended his index finger to add emphasis.

”Unprovoked, I might add.”

”Ruby Tyler,” he somberly began, ”there seems to be a misunderstanding between us.”

”Look, I wasn’t trying to interfere in the match,” he dismissively waved his hands in defiance of such a thought. ”Talented athletes like Sara Cochran and the Suspects don’t need me getting in their way. Now, I admit…” he paused as he carefully thought out his next words, ”I may have gotten a little too close to the action in the ring, but it wasn’t to cost anybody the match. You see, the official who was refereeing our match spent some time with me in the back,” he remarked with a smirk.

”We had both just downloaded Pokemon Go,” he tried to sound convincing, ”I was letting him know that a notification had gone off on my cellphone that the Pokemon that he had searched for, for hours on end,” his voice raised with conviction, ”just happened to be over on the ring apron.” He paused once again, perhaps hoping the absurdity of his statements might go unnoticed. ”That was all.”

”Now that I’ve had a chance to explain myself,” he continued, ”don’t you feel ashamed, don’t you feel guilty?” he fiercely interrogated. ”You’re going to have to live with THIS,” he removed the sunglasses on his face to reveal a partially swollen and bruised eye, ”on your conscience now!”

”I know it’s gruesome to look at,” he continued in a shaky tone, ”and normally I wouldn’t want to subject anybody to such a horrid sight. However, this is proof that something needs to be done to protect those of us who are not competitors against the loose cannons who are running around in this company.”

He placed the sunglasses back on his face to hide the blemish.

”Innocent bystanders are continually being assaulted,” he stated as he paced, ”nobody’s nuts are safe around Annie Dupree,” he exaggerated, ”and our former World Champion is now waving axes around like he’s Jason Voorhees!” he stopped and swung an imaginary axe. ”Some crack security team you’ve hired, FGA,” he sneered.

”In any event, I want to thank Sara Cochran for her part in our victory,” he truthfully continued, ”and also for lending me these sunglasses so I didn’t have to walk around like some sideshow as we left that miserable hellhole, Amarillo.”

”Unlike Ruby Tyler,” he hissed, ”Sara Cochran has class.”

”Now, back to the business at hand,” he paced again, ”let’s discuss the question surrounding the current number one contenders to those glorious tag team titles.”

Rother stood still and continued with anger and conviction. ”I, like all of you, watched in utter disgust as our tag team champions had to endure Rubyway and Next Level interrupt their celebration speech. Each team failed horribly to make their case why they deserved to be the number one contenders for the belts.”

”How dare you, Kevin Hardaway and Ruby Tyler,” he scolded with his index finger pointed at the camera, ”base every reason that you should be in line for those belts, based upon an accomplishment that was achieved elsewhere.”

”How dare you,” his tone rose in frustration, ”throw it in everybody’s face that you won some huge tag team gauntlet, with over one hundred of the sport’s greatest tag teams that nobody has ever heard of,” he emphasized with embellishment. ”That’s like these morons who came out a few weeks ago and argued that Ichiro should receive recognition for the hits that he made in Japanese baseball to overtake Pete Rose in the record books,” he observed with a sneer.

”This is FGA,” he wagged his finger in a scolding manner, ”this is the major leagues,” his face wrinkled as the next words left his mouth, ”and from what I can tell the two of you haven’t accomplished dick together in an FGA ring.”

”Then there’s The Next Level, the former tag team champions,” Rother’s pulled his arms behind his back, almost as if he were standing at attention. ”Men who, by all standards, should contractually receive a rematch for those belts,” he painfully admitted. ”But ask yourself, is that something that we really want to see again?”

”Sequels can be a tricky business,” he motioned to the theater behind him, ”even for the most acclaimed box office hits.”

”Episodes One thru Three ring a bell?” he mockingly asked. ”I, for one, believe that Frontier Grappling Arts deserves better,” he asserted with a raised fist. ”I, for one, believe that there’s a better story to tell then one that’s washed, rinsed, and repeated like The Force Awakens. Just because something is popular with the mouth breathers,” he irritably stated, ”doesn’t mean that it’s great cinema, and just because the mutants may clamor for another Next Level – Status Quo match doesn’t mean that it should happen.”

”It appears that I’m not the only one who thinks so,” he smirked. ”Imagine how shocked and happy I was to hear that somebody in the front office decided to actually book The Usual Suspects against Status Quo.”

”The tag team champions,” Rother began in admiration, ”a team that has racked up an impressive record of five straight wins since they entered Dynamic Duos. This is everything that I could have dreamed of,” he raised both fists in the air in excitement, ”if it had been a match for the tag team championship,” they lowered back down in disappointment.

”Oh, don’t get me wrong,” he swayed a finger, ”I’m not going to come out here and demand that The Usual Suspects immediately get a title shot,” he shook his head. ”That would put us in the same lowly company as RubyWay,” he sneered. ”No, I understand how this sport works.”

”On one hand,” he cracked his knuckles, ”the Usual Suspects are the team responsible for Dynamic Duos even existing, The Usual Suspects are responsible for the fact that tag teams can call this company…home,” he said, laced with arrogance. ”In spite of all that, there is the proverbial ladder that you have to climb in order to get to the top. It’s the nature of how things work,” he finished with a shrug.

”My disappointment lies within the fact that this match should not be happening here in Tucson, Arizona,” his face wrinkled in disgust, ”a community that permeates misery and suffering on a daily basis. Just look at how hellish the weather is here,” he added with his arms raised.

”This is the place where deviants come to hide from the rest of society, or the place where the truly old and decrepit come to waste away in the unforgiving desert sands because their sons and daughters can’t bother to visit them in the nursing home,” he smirked. ”This is not the location that a truly smart company would decide to showcase a match such as this,” he defiantly proclaimed, ”Vertigo is not the event that deserves to hold a match such as this.”

”This should be on Pay-Per-View, where I can cash in on a purse that actually gets me food not on a McDonald’s dollar menu!” he shouted in anger.

”But no, FGA wouldn’t know anything about that; bang for your buck,” he mockingly chastised. ”So, Jason Marx and Chris Tryon will walk down the aisle in the Tucson Convention center and face off against the tag team champions,” he lowered down to the pavement on his knees, faking appreciation, ”the team that the mutants and the trolls lose their shit over, Status Quo.”

”And why wouldn’t the fans love the status quo?” he questioned. ”This is a term that breeds complacency, satisfaction with the system, and overall laziness,” he nodded in self-agreement. ”That is what this country has devolved into over the past eight years,” he rose back to his feet. ”Just look at the current political situation,” he hissed in revulsion, ”the trolls are undoubtedly going to vote for four more years of the status quo instead of doing something truly courageous,” Rother sneered, ”to Make America Great Again.”

Rother chuckled and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat that now poured from his forehead.

”But, this isn’t a story of politics,” he shook his head. ”This is a story of how one team has returned to reclaim their position at the top of FGA’s tag team division, and we,” he emphasized the last word, ”are surging faster for that spot than the idiots in the front office and the trolls on social media ever wanted,” he finished with a chuckle. ”On Saturday night, The Usual Suspects will enter that ring and show the mutants and the naysayers in the locker room that the status quo,” he paused for emphasis, ”is just unacceptable.”

”Dan Herrera and Cordy Stevenson,” he directly addressed them, ”I’m not going to discredit everything that you’ve done; that’s something that Anthony Rother just doesn’t do,” he lied through his teeth. ”Your run in Dynamic Duos was truly impressive, and you even capped it off by defeating Next Level at All-Star Showdown,” he stated with raised eyebrows. ”No, your work speaks for itself; however, the winds of change in FGA’s tag team division are now blowing a different direction. The Usual Suspects have returned to reclaim their rightful position,” he raised his index finger, ”this time on their own terms.”

”I’m sure that you’ve heard the murmurs in the locker room; nobody seems to be happy with Marx and Tryon right now,” he shrugged. ”In fact, don’t be surprised for the other teams in the division to being clawing at you even harder than they currently are,” he laughed in amusement.

”Our victory with Sara Cochran on Vertigo delegitimized those preposterous claims to the number one contender’s spot more than they already were. Their time is running out and so is yours,” he confidently smirked, ”even if you’re assured to walk out of Tucson with those belts in hand, no matter the outcome.”

Rother began to anxiously pace again in front of the box office, looking down at the sidewalk in Sara Cochran’s sunglasses.

”Saturday night, July twenty-third, The Usual Suspects will premiere a new blockbuster in front of the mutants. Trends will be started on social media by the trolls who wishfully predict our demise. Unfortunately for them all, they will be subjected to the same ending they endured on the last Vertigo; the Status Quo will be smashed!” he stopped and smacked a fist into his left hand.

”Because nobody,” Rother removed the sunglasses, ”survives…” he hissed through gritted teeth, ”the South Texas Death Ride.”

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August 2nd 2008 | 5:15PM

Fifteen dollars got you an autographed picture on this warm sunny afternoon in Miami, Florida. Fifteen dollars also bought the fans a few moments to relive the memories with some of their favorite wrestlers from the defunct South Florida Wrestling promotion. The money from the meet and greet, along with the proceeds of the upcoming reunion show, was all being donated to the Casey Rhodes Memorial Fund set up by Jason Marx.

Marx had hit the phones hard, and had called in every favor he had ever earned in his career. Thankfully, he had received more than enough confirmations to quickly put together the event that honored his former business partner. The question remained, though, would a gathering of the mainstays of a promotion that had died over four years ago pull in enough fans to assist with the funeral arrangements? Nobody had ever confused his former associate with a man who had planned for the future. No, “The Degenerate Junky”, as his friends had facetiously dubbed him, always lived in the here and now whether it was the latest designer narcotic to hit the scene, or a new racing toy that he recklessly raced in the streets.

Luckily the fans had arrived in droves to pay tribute to a man celebrated as a local rising star, and to reminisce with the former South Florida grapplers. Two rows of tables sat apart with former wrestlers and managers facing each other, divided by a sea of spectators that formed lines to meet and greet. Jason Marx had no less than twenty fans waiting in his line, but about four spots to his left sat Anthony Rother isolated from any fanfare. Rother had a noticeably large stack of flyers that showed him standing between Tony Faline and Rick West sitting in front of him. The photo was taken on the night that they had one the SFW Tag Team titles, each belt draped on Rother’s shoulders. He nervously tapped his unused sharpie against the table, itching to sign just one picture.

“Hey, hey,” he called to a pair of teenage boys.

They both appeared around seventeen. They stopped and eyed him with unfamiliarity.

“Look, I uhh know that you guys are probably here to see some of the other guys,” he stuttered, “but look at those lines.” He motioned to the other spots. “You’re not going to get anything signed anytime soon. So why don’t you two come over here and we can share stories?”

The two teenagers looked at each other and shared an unspoken shrug.

“Exactly…who are you?” One of the boys asked.

Rother chuckled, “Oh, I see. You boys are just here to see the show. You never actually watched South Florida Wrestling.”

“Ummm, no we did,” the other boy answered. “We just really have no idea who you are. My parents brought me to the shows all the time.”

“Mine too,” the other one added. “Don’t remember you.”

“Well,” Rother uncomfortably snickered, “I don’t like to brag or anything, but come over here and take a look at this picture.”

He motioned for them to approach, and as they did he held up one of the photos. They nodded in acknowledgement and smiled.

“Ohhhh,” one of the boys began, “I know them. That’s the Third School Collective.”

“Yeah, they were a great tag team,” responded the other one. “But…what are you doing with them?”

Rother stared with an open mouth, before asking, “You’ve got to be kidding me? You don’t remember who I am? Faline and West would have never MADE it in South Florida Wrestling without me. I’m the man who put the two of them together!” he pumped his right hand into the air with an extended index finger. “I’m the man who guided them to the tag team titles!”

“Ermmmm, I never really paid attention to the managers.” Replied one of the boys.

“Yeah, me either,” the other one added. “Now, the females,” he stated with wide eyes, “I paid attention to the female managers.”

“Oh god,” his friend started, “do you remember Dal---“

“YOU UNGRATEFUL LITTLE SHITS!!!”

Anthony Rother had never been described as athletic; in fact he looked anything but. Therefore, it had been easy for him to catch the two teenagers off guard as he dove over the table like lightning. He had grabbed one of the boys by the shirts with his right hand, still holding a photo in his left. After pulling his victim to the pavement he began shoving the photo into his mouth as other patrons stared on in amazement. Wrestlers and security scattered from their positions and descended upon the mayhem.

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Anger – After learning that this change is not going away, the next step towards acceptance is to go through the anger phase. At this point, people affected often feel helpless, often resorting to anger and bitterness.
My Advice: Involve yourself in therapeutic activities to take your mind off of your current situation. Give yourself time to understand the change, and how you hold the power to change with the change.

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