Session #3 - The Change Curve Pt. 3: Exploration

[Jerry]

Session #3 - The Change Curve Pt. 3: Exploration

December 1st, 2010 | 9:25PM

The bright neon lights of Fred’s Place penetrated the blanket of night with hues of pink and yellow. The rectangular box-shaped structure permeated all of the classic tropes of a retro-styled Fifties diner. The bottom half of the external walls were plastered with the accustomed black and white checkerboard patterns underneath squared windows framed inside of stainless steel. A small portion of the fluorescent lighting flickered at a steady pace, advertising ‘Best Burgers in Town’.

Slab steps ascended from the sidewalk to the entrance of the establishment where James Rother refereed a screaming match between his brother and one of the workers. The whites of his knuckles signified a tense situation as he gripped the railing tightly. The younger Rother stood at the foot of the stairs, bellowing at the top of his lungs, dressed in a pair of tan khakis and a black polo shirt.

“This is an outrage!” screamed Anthony. “That little shit had it coming,” he cried, “did you see the threatening expression on his face? That, my good sir, is what you call assault!”

“Jesus, Anthony,” his older brother pleaded, “can we just get the hell out of here?”

“I’m not leaving without my phone, they can’t keep my phone,” he muttered in defiance. “Give me my phone, now!” he demanded.

The employee wore a classic white chef’s coat and matching apron littered with grease stains. His body language said that the younger Rother had better prepare for battle if he attempted to re-enter the building. A female co-worker approached him from behind and discreetly passed him an object, which resulted in a smirk on the cook’s face.

“You want your phone?” he smugly asked. “Here’s your phone, asshole,” he said as he tossed the device.

Anthony Rother’s eyes widened in horror as his new iPhone floated over his head. He immediately sprang into action and moved uncharacteristically fast in his un-athletic frame. Resembling a Sportscenter baseball highlight, he leaped into the air like an outfielder stretching out for a pop-fly, he belly-flopped onto the sidewalk and flashed a triumphant smile. Unfortunately the sound of plastic and glass smashing a few inches away signified that he had actually missed his target.

“Serves you right,” the cook chuckled. “Now, get the hell out of here,” he continued sternly, “we notified the authorities, and they’re on their way.”

He turned to the doorway, before adding, “Although, I wouldn’t mind watching you get hauled away in handcuffs…make my night.”

Sirens screeched in the distance as James rushed to his brother’s side. He tugged at his shirt, struggling to pull him off of the concrete. Anthony shoved him away and crawled on his knees over to his shattered phone.

“Those monsters,” he whaled in anguish, “you can’t just toss a man’s phone like that.” He began gathering the shards of glass.

“Get a hold of yourself!” James nervously yelled. “Those sirens are getting closer, and I for one don’t feel like finding out what it’s like inside of a cell.”

Anthony struggled to fight back the tears as he realized his phone was beyond repair. He ignored his brother’s plea; he was in his own world and his world had fallen apart.

“Fine,” James angrily began, “but don’t you dare call me this time if you end up back in that place.”

James proceeded to scurry away from the scene of the crime.

“Don’t care what mom says,” he muttered to himself, “wasting her money on that loser…”

Anthony Rother curled up into a ball and rocked back and forth, the tears no longer held back, freely flowed down his face.

“That was my shot,” his whispered in a shaky voice. “That was my only shot to make my way back…”

- @#$@*$#@*#$*%@#$%^*@$#%^*@$#*%$@%#$%^@#$%^$@#%^$
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”Pride, honor, excellence,” Rother’s rough voice began, ”these should be the words used to describe the Usual Suspects.”

”Ever since Jason Marx and Chris Tryon made their shocking return to Frontier Grappling Arts, they have put on a wrestling clinic,” he stated with passion.

Rother brushed his hand across the maroon felt that topped the roulette table. He stood at the head of the table; a single hanging light fixture radiated a dull yellow tint from his normally pale complexion. Three stacks of clay casino chips stood in front of his thin frame, outfitted in a black button down dress shirt.

Jason Marx and Chris Tryon stood behind their manager; Marx dressed in an almost matching black dress shirt and Tryon in a casual black Star Wars t-shirt, complete with a silhouette of Boba Fett. Both men remained almost expressionless, and as per the new norm, seemed satisfied that their new friend loved the sound of his own voice. The backdrop of the casino floor behind them remained empty; none of the sounds that came from the joys of winning or the heartbreak of losing would interrupt Rother tonight.

”The tag team division has been turned upside down,” Rother extended his arms, ”courtesy of yours truly.”

”You would think that FGA would be happy with what Jason Marx and Chris Tryon have done for them!” he cried in frustration. ”You would think that the men and women in the locker room would be on their knees chanting their names! Attendance rates are up,” he raised his index finger, ”ratings have never been better, and even the trolls on social media are talking about the fierce competition between the teams in the tag division. All of this attention, the huge increase in ticket sales, growing advertising revenues, all of it means more money for everybody to take home.”

”So where’s the appreciation that they so rightfully deserve?” he asked with a shrug.

Rother began toying with a few of the clay chips, which meticulously clicked with each shuffle.

”Instead of receiving the adulation that they’re due,” he continued eying the chips, ”critics are unfairly putting the focus on me. I’ve been accused of taking shortcuts, distracting officials, and now I have had my good name drug through the mud by Dan Herrera’s eye candy who thinks she’s going to actually get called up to the main roster someday.”

”So, let’s clear the air, shall we?”

”Now, I promise all of you,” his eyes rose from the table, ”I’m going to be one hundred percent honest. I,” he began with a raised hand, resembling a swearing of an oath of testimony, ”Anthony Reginald Rother, in no way interfered in the Suspects match with Status Quo. Go back and watch the show if you DVR’d it. I dare you to try and find it!” he snapped. ”What you will see when you watch that footage, is the reason that FGA needs to institute a wellness policy.”

Rother’s mind quickly wove through the story that he had rehearsed since the accusations began on social media.

”The truth is that Dan Herrera was intoxicated!” he pointed an accusing finger. ”Don’t try to deny it, Dan! We could all smell the alcohol seeping through your pores! Some of the fans in the front row even told me that they could smell it on your breath when you were shouting insults to Peaches with your slurred speech! She didn’t deserve to be talked to that way; she was trying to help you! Dan had already drunkenly stumbled out of the ring,” he lied with a straight face, ”and she came over to check on him. I heard the berating insults directed at her coming from his mouth! Now, it’s true, I came over to their side of the apron,” he admitted, ”but I was only trying to do the right thing by coming to her defense! Those foul words spewing from your angry drunken mouth were absolutely disgusting, Dan!”

”Children began crying,” he embellished, ”parents rushed to cover their ears,” he lied, ”and even Cordy Stevenson looked at you with a raised eyebrow in shame,” he fictionalized. ”But that wasn’t the worst part of it,” Rother shook his head, ”not by a long shot.”

”By coming to the ring inebriated, you let down your tag team partner who has fought so hard to achieve championship status in FGA,” he clicked his tongue. ”Furthermore, your drunken stupor put my men,” he motioned to the Suspects behind him, ”my meal ticket, at risk of injury because of your clumsy stumbling in that ring,” he remarked in a slightly raised tone. ”Shame on you Dan Herrera, you could have cost everybody in FGA their jobs!” he screamed with a false sense of authority. ”Can you imagine the lawsuit that FGA would be liable for if you had vomited on some parent’s precious child? Sure, fine upstanding gentlemen such as The New Kings would land on their feet. Most of us aren’t earning the big payouts that they are,” he saluted in admiration.

”There you have it, the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.”

Rother tensely shuffled the chips again, habitually looking away, hoping that if those words hung in the air long enough, his fabrication might actually work.

”My detractors will lie, and claim that I somehow magically tripped Dan Herrera when digitally enhanced slow motion footage clearly shows that he stumbled over his own two feet. Did Marx and Tryon take advantage of it?” he paused. ”Yes, but don’t blame us for the poor life choices that Dan Herrera has made. They,” he motioned to them again, ”did FGA a favor, once again, by ending the match when they did.”

”But, instead of being lauded as the heroes that they are,” he sneered, ”the monkeys who run this company have attempted to screw The Suspects again. I’m not even talking about this joke of a match that they’ve booked for Vertigo,” he chuckled, ”I’ll get to that in a moment. I’m talking about the fact that, once again, the booking committee has left their best tag team off of Pay-Per-View. Are you idiots really trying to run FGA into the ground?” he questioned in anger. ”Or is this just some sick and twisted way to screw me out of another big money payout?”

”I’ve tried to play nice with you,” he spoke through gritted teeth, ”I even swallowed every ounce of my pride and whored myself out at FrontierCon to try and smooth things over after you illegally fined us. But this…” he paused and took a deep inhale, ”this is taking it too far! Don’t you realize that Jason Marx is up to his ears in debt,” he raised his right hand to the top of his forehead, ”trying to pay off medical bills from a neck injury suffered in one of your rings? I am in dire straits myself!” he shouted. ”Mother does her best, but we have to keep it under wraps so my wretched father doesn’t find out,” he smirked.

”These men behind me have been model citizens, and have tried to work within the system that you have created here. But now, now they’re going to play by my rules,” he thumbed his chest, ”and damn anybody who tries to get in our way. This goes for the jealous idiots in the locker room and especially for the jackasses who run this company. The Suspects are going rogue and they will assume their rightful positions as the tag team champions! We will make an impact at Above and Beyond, I assure you…” he hissed with foreboding.

”Of course, the first roadblock that they have to get through is RubyWay in a match that makes absolutely no sense,” he sighed. ”The Suspects already showed all of you what team hashtag was made of when they, along with Sara Cochran, crushed them and Ricky Valero in Amarillo. So now, FGA has decided to spice things up a bit in order to sell more tickets by using me as bait!” he cried with horror.

”I tried everything to get out of this,” he snapped. ”I even faxed over our contracts to the best attorneys that my mother’s money could buy. Unfortunately there were no loopholes that they could find. No problem, I thought…” he shrugged. ”I’ll just take the next show off; you can’t handcuff a man to the ring who isn’t actually in the building. Again, the jerks in the front office showed their bias against me by quickly letting it be known that I and the Suspects would be released from our contracts.”

”So now, it’s clear that I’m running out of options,” he admitted, ”and I came very close to doing something that I swore I’d never do. Appealing to the fans to make their voices heard and tell FGA just how cruel it would be to have me cuffed to that ring,” he loathingly confessed. ”Then I realized that Vertigo was being held in Las Vegas,” he looked over the empty casino behind him, ”the modern day Sodom and Gomorrah,” he wrinkled his face. ”Why even waste my breath? This is the city that’s very existence is owed to stealing the life savings of innocent people through a rigged system,” he paused to emphasize his next words, ”something FGA knows about with their unjust fines.”

”Packing the arenas with scum of the earth is something that I’m becoming accustomed to every time we enter the building, but Saturday is going to be even worse.”

”Oh, sure… When everybody thinks of Las Vegas they think of the glitz and the glamor of the bright lights,” he rolled his eyes, ”but when you look past the strip and the Wayne Newton shows, there’s a dark underside to the population that makes up Vegas’ citizenry. Drug users, criminals, and prostitutes…” he wagged his finger, ”and not the classy ones I may or may have not found on Craig’s List; we’re talking about the ones that spread diseases,” he shuddered. ”Everybody knows that the first thing a woman from Vegas does in the morning is walk home! That’s who is going to be filling the Orleans Arena this weekend – filth! Why on earth would those people try to fight for anything noble, like keeping me from being trapped next to that psycho-bitch, Ruby Tyler?”

”I’m sure that both of you are chomping at the bit to see me paraded down to that ring against my will,” his eyes narrowed. ”The funny thing is that you actually think that this is somehow going to create a different outcome than the last time Jason Marx and Chris Tryon were in the ring with you,” he confidently chuckled. ”Well, it won’t. This match is not about me as much as Tyler, Hardaway, or even FGA is trying to make it out to be. This is about the best tag team in our sport,” he thumbed toward Marx and Tryon, ”once again, dismantling two idiots who are only getting a title shot because of their social media savvy with a hashtag,” he mocked. ”Jason Marx and Chris Tryon are men of few words, but they go together like peanut butter and chocolate, like shore leave and bar room brawls; they are the perfect combination of speed and power and are the living embodiment of the sum being greater than the pieces.”

Rother placed both hands on the maroon felt and leaned forward, in some awkward attempt to display authority.

”So, I have to ask both of you,” he somberly began, ”what’s going to be your excuse this time when you’re on the losing end again? Are you finally going to admit that you were beaten by a better team, or will you try to make up some other fabrication of my involvement?”

His eyes widened, as if he just remembered the stipulation.

”Wait, that won’t work, I’ll be handcuffed to the ring.”

”I may not be able to move on Saturday, but I can still provide my priceless guidance to these great men. The trolls on social media can claim that I’m full of hot air, but they’ve already beaten one half of Next Level,” he emphasized with an extended index finger, ”they’ve already beaten RubyWay,” he raised his middle finger, ”and they’ve already beaten…Status Quo,” he raised his ring finger.

”They may not have the belts, yet but you cannot deny their results.”

”Oh, and you Ruby Tyler,” he hissed her name, ”I know that you’ve been frothing at your filthy mouth ever since you heard about this stipulation. This is the chance that you’ve been waiting for to try and conduct a second vicious assault on yours truly. Don’t count on it,” he shook his finger.

”I always have an ace up my sleeve…”

”On Saturday night, August 6th, under the bright lights of ‘Sin City’, the Vegas mutants will flock to the Orleans Arena hoping to watch a good upstanding individual with high moral standing, such as myself,” he thumbed his chest, ”face imminent danger at the hands of that foul mouthed jezebel,” his brow furrowed. ”They’ll stand from their seats like the mental slaves they are,” he mocked, ”not knowing why they cheer for team hashtag, they just do. They’ll be praying and hoping that Marx and Tryon suffer their first defeat since returning to Frontier Grappling Arts, and once again they will all go home disappointed!”

”It’s the RubyWay against the bad guys in black…” he glanced at both men in their black shirts, ”and I’m placing my bet on black,” he pushed all of his chips forward.

Marx stepped forward and spun the wheel in one direction, as Tryon spun the ivory ball in the opposite like a professional croupier; after the initial clang, it grinded as it traversed around the track before it stopped with a thud on 29 – black.

”Second verse…same as the first,” Rother confidently smirked.

”Nobody,” he hissed, ”survives the South Texas Death Ride!”

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Twenty minutes earlier…

“What do you want?” James Rother asked in frustration as he sat down in the booth across from his brother.

The open kitchen of the establishment was off to the left behind a red serving counter. Customers were sparsely seated along the line of matching red leather chairs, quietly dining away at their food under the globe lights that hung from the ceiling in extended brass fixtures. Anthony Rother confidently leaned back against the red upholstery of the booth and reached into his pants pocket.

“I’m telling you James, this is huge!” he gleefully screeched.

James rolled his eyes in annoyance as he had heard such claims before, only to watch his brother make a fool of himself. Anthony carefully placed an iPhone on the oak table between them with a self-satisfied smirk.

“Oh boy,” his brother mockingly began, “it’s an iPhone, how revolutionary.”

Anthony’s expression revealed a growing frustration building inside of him.

“Does Steve Jobs know that you obviously stole this from the R&D department out there in Cupertino?” He continued the sarcasm. “You’d better hide that thing, if the other diners see what you have, you’ll be mobbed. It’s not like anybody actually has one of these yet.”

“The phone is my vehicle you fool!” Anthony snapped back. “…my vehicle to make my way back to the sport that I’m destined to continue my greatness in; my ticket back to fame; the catalyst for my triumphant return.”

“What the hell are you rambling on about?” James regretted the question as soon as he asked it.

Anthony snatched the phone back up and began tapping and swiping. Once satisfied, he flipped the screen around to show his brother his new Twitter profile.

“It’s the new rage,” Anthony cheerfully remarked. “Social Media, James…this is my way back into professional wrestling.”

James narrowed his eyes as he slowly read off Anthony’s bio, “Anthony Rother…manager extraordinaire…guiding wrestlers to championships since 1988…free agent for hire…”

James looked his brother directly in the face for a moment and followed that up with laughter. The younger Rother’s eyebrows furrowed in frustration as he had hoped for more of a complimentary response to his exploration of social media. Acceptance and validation was important for the former manager, especially when it came from his family. Those feelings were never received when it came to his relationship with his father, and rarely from his brother. No, Anthony’s mother seemed to be the only member of the family who truly wanted to see him follow his passion.

“Go on,” he sneered, “laugh at me all you want, but I’m telling you this is going to work. I even sent out my first tweet!”

His phone vibrated resulting in an excitement as he frantically tapped at his notifications.

“I just got my first follower!” he exclaimed. “They just tweeted me back!”

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RealAnthonyRother@Rotherman
Yes, it’s true! I am officially on Twitter now!

Viper62@wrestling_connasieur
And nobody cares.

Viper62@wrestling_connasieur
You don’t need to put real in front of your name. Nobody’s trying to impersonate you.

RealAnthonyRother@Rotherman
There’s no need to be rude. People do care! I’m a legend!

Viper62@wrestling_connasieur
In your own mind maybe. You have one follower. #loser

RealAnthonyRother@Rotherman
Maybe right now. They will come.

Viper62@wrestling_connasieur
LOLOLOLOL!!!! Yeah, because irrelevant losers is a trend right now #clueless

RealAnthonyRother@Rotherman
Irrelevant? I was a star!

Viper62@wrestling_connasieur
Was being the key word dick-licker. I just followed you to laugh at you. #obsolete

Viper62@wrestling_connasieur
Your team dumped you. Went on to bigger things in Japan! #fuckingloser

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The last tweet cut through Rother like a knife cut through butter. He had wished his former clients failure after they had abandoned him when the promotion went under. It’s what he felt they deserved, but Faline and West had actually found success over in Japan. They had gone on to win their company’s tag team titles five times, and were known as one of the most dominate teams from the US to hit Japanese shores in the early 2000s. They had accomplished this without him, even though he had given them two years of his guidance; two years of his life. His anger began boiling over and his body began shaking with rage. A laugh followed by a comment startled him.

“He called you a dick-licker,” remarked the young boy who stared over his shoulder.

The boy, no more than 11, had overheard the conversation between the two brothers, and when Twitter was mentioned he couldn’t help himself from taking a peak. An embarrassed Rother moved before he could think, and his open hand landed across the boy’s left cheek resulting in a loud pop, followed by a shrieking.

“It’s not polite to read over someone’s shoulder!” Rother screamed at the crying boy.

James looked up from his menu in shock as the boy’s mother began yelling for help.

“Oh shit…”

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Exploration – It will eventually become clear that the change is here to stay. It is no fad and big changes in their lives may need to happen. At this point, people will often try to compromise a favorable outcome. Comments like, “what if I do this”, or “Can I adjust here?” or “Can I just do this,” will show promise and improvement.

My Advice: Encourage their involvement in exploration and provide positive feedback to their ideas.