288 Miles
David P. Barker
The engine of the plum-purple ‘62 Ford Galaxie Coup roared down the highway. The top was down and the West Texas night air was hot. “Rifleman” Ronny Rogers took a long drink from the beer he shouldn’t be drinking and threw the empty can onto the asphalt. It had been a long night preceded by a longer day and an even longer week and what felt like a month and year that would never end. “Pass me another.” Ronny said without looking at the passenger.
A fresh beer was shoved towards him and he took it. With practiced ease, he popped the top on the can and took another drink, killing half the can in a drink. “God damn, slow down.” Buck Smith growled at his tag partner and driver. Ronny shrugged his concern away.
“I’m thirsty.” Ronny said, expecting that to be that. He was the veteran and the wheelman. Buck’s job was to keep the beers ready and pass ‘em when he called for ‘em.
“We only got a six-pack. We gotta make ‘em last to Albuquerque.” Buck implored.
“We can get more on the way.”
“Fucking where?” Buck responded. He wasn’t wrong. The drive from Amarillo to Albuquerque was 288 miles straight west across straight shot highways through deserts. There wasn’t a lot on the way. A couple of filling stations. A whore house tucked away amid the ocotillo and tamarisks and hobbled mesquites where twenty bucks went far. Both men had spent some time there and neither would tell their wives about it -- but why would they? They were wrestlers. They lived by a different code and in a different sphere of society than the nine-to-fives and suit-and-ties. They weren’t blue-collar. They were outlaws and renegades. Misfits and vagabonds. Womanizers and addicts. Bullies. A fraternity of those who couldn’t exist in polite society.
“Fucking where.” Ronny repeated and then shouted it into the empty night. They had just wrestled at the Amarillo Armory. It was a crappy building but had a great crowd that was always rowdy and loud. An audience of old women who would cut you and cowboys who wanted to fight you and college girls who wanted to get laid. They had worked in the semi main for the Western States Tag Titles against Los Hermanos Vasquez. The Vasquez Brothers, Juan and Miguel, were super over in West Texas, hell, they were over all over the South West. They were handsome and flashy and bilingual and the vaqueros loved them. Ronny and Buck had ate at their fair share of taquerias with murals of the whole Vasquez family painted on them.
The match had gone to a double count-out when all four men brawled around ringside and didn’t listen to the referees commands to get back in the ring so he threw it out. It gave ‘em an out. It meant they could run it again next week with more heat on it. “Hell of a match tonight.” Ronny said as he took a shallow drink, wanting to conserve his beer since they only had six.
“Yeah. I thought that old lady was going to whack me with her cane.” Buck laughed. Buck was fifteen years Ronny’s junior. He’d been wrestling for five whereas Ronny had twenty years in the sport. It had been Ronny’s idea to partner with Buck. They had worked together in Kansas City back when Buck was working under a hood as one of the Headhunters. Ronny had needed something to freshen up his own act. At forty-two, he had more miles in his rearview than he did in front of him and if he wanted to extend his career he had to change gears. In his youth, Ronny had been a wild brawler. It was a different world back then. Back in the forties before there was TV. He’d wrestled all the greats -- been a top heel all over the country. He was a six-foot-four, two hundred-ninety pounds of physical dominance. He’d thrown guys from the ring and he’d pummeled them and gotten scathing write-ups in newspapers about being a scoundrel. He’d cursed in public and been banned from New York City and wrestled the Golden Greek in front of thirty thousand in Chicago and it was broadcast on the radio.
The fifties had come and with them television and Ronny was more popular. He wrestled on the Los Angeles show and then the Chicago show and the Dallas show -- never on the New York one. He was still banned from New York. He’d never been technically proficient, but he didn’t have to be. He was believable and rough and had won more bar fights than people could count but then his knees and back started to go. He couldn’t take the big bumps he took. He had had this one in his prime where he would get whipped into the corner and he’d hit it hard and let the impact drive him up over the ropes and to the floor. It was a common finish he’d use.
He’d get counted out from it. He had another spot where he would go for a flying tackle and the babyface would miss and he’d get wrapped up in the ropes and choke himself out. All big spots but when his body started to go, he had to reinvent himself. What better way than as a tag? That’s where Buck had come in. Young and good sized and technically sound, Buck could take all the bumps that Ronny couldn’t. Buck could bump and feed for the faces on the comeback. Buck could take the pin when they had to lose and Ronny could keep working. Could keep making money.
Ronny took another drink from his beer and suddenly can two was empty and out the car and smashed onto the pavement. He was pushing eighty. The engine humming. The radio was low. An old Hank song from the 40s about being in the doghouse. Buck was saying something but Ronny wasn’t really paying attention. There were two hundred miles left to Albuquerque. Two hundred miles of empty roads.
She warned me once, she warned me twice
But I don't take no one's advice
So scratch it on over (move it on over)
Shake it on over (move it on over)
Move over short dog cause a tall dog's moving in
Hank’s voice sang out into the night and Ronny thought about Eloise and the kids back in Dallas. He didn’t move ‘em around when he switched territories. Not anymore. Before the kids, he and Eloise would set up wherever he was getting booked. Then the first kid came and then the second and third and it was just easier to leave ‘em in one place. He liked working the South West. Dallas was a good city to base in. It had a major airport and big city amenities so he had bought a loan-to-own on a three-acre lot with grass so green it hurt your eyes. It had plenty of kids in the neighborhood to play with his and plenty of housewives to keep Eloise company. She probably deserved better than him. Someone who wasn’t doing two thousand miles a week and could be home every night. Someone who only had eyes for her and wanted to eat her meatloaf and drink lemonade on the front porch and entertain company and not scarf down a hot dog from a filling station while doing eighty on a state highway to make the next town.
“Ronny... You listening?” Buck said and Ronny was snapped out of his melancholy.
“Yeah. Sorry. Was just thinking ‘bout the match. Give me another.” Ronny held out his hand for his last of the six pack and Buck dutifully handed it over. Ronny let the beer rest between his thighs. “You did good out there tonight.”
“Thanks.” Buck said and took a sip from his beer. Still his first. He eyed his mentor behind the wheel. He was grateful for the opportunity to team with Ronny. When he was a boy, he had seen Ronny several times live in Tulsa. Ronny had been wild then. He had worked against Apache Joe, a terribly named fake-Indian that was a perfect dance partner for the big cowboy. Buck had been there when they had an Apache Strap Match -- it was just a strap match but they had to dress it up. Make it feel like it was something special. If Buck closed his eyes, he could still hear the leather slapping off flesh. He could see the welts on both men. His daddy hadn’t believed wrestling was real. He said it was a bunch of pansies play-fighting and conning people, but he had convinced his daddy to go to that event for his birthday and that strap match had changed his daddy’s mind. That was the night Buck knew he wanted to be a wrestler and now here he was. A wrestler. Tag team partner with The Rifleman himself.
“Tomorrow during the heat, try the leg choke on Juan.” Ronny made the suggestion. The leg choke was a simple heat spot. You draped a leg over the opponent’s throat and they thrashed about like you were choking them. The secret was that you had to argue with the official to distract him so you could get away with it and get the heat on you and not the official. That was the trick. You didn’t want heat on the ref. Buck needed the heat. The heat kept people coming back for more and it kept people buying tickets.
Babyfaces thought that they were the reason people showed up, but they weren’t. Not really. Sure, if one was white-hot they could pop a territory like that Irish guy in Boston but it was heat that kept them buying tickets. The fans had to hate the heels. They had to want to see them get their asses kicked and that made ‘em come back week after week, show after show, until they did.
“You want to give the heat to Juan and not Miguel?” Buck asked. Normally they gave the heat on the younger brother. Miguel was young and handsome and slightly smaller than Juan and could sell his ass off.
“Who gets more rats?”
“Hell, I don’t know. It’s got to be close.”
“Juan does.”
“Miguel’s better looking though.”
“But Juan’ll put his pecker in just about anything. So he gets more ass. Means there are more women there to see him because he’s probably done half of ‘em. That’ll get more sympathy and then the ones who want Miguel to give ‘em any kind of attention will want to see him kick some ass. So let’s put the heat on Juan.” Ronny described his logic and Buck finished his first beer and chucked it at the passing sign. Albuquerque, 125 miles.
“You don’t think Juan’ll mind? He usually gets to make the comeback.” Buck brought up a good point. Guys liked their roles. Juan had been the comeback guy. He made a good comeback too. He was all piss and fire. He had a dropkick -- which was a spectacular spot -- that looked like it could kiss the moon.
“We ain’t going to give ‘em a choice. We call the damn match. Not him. Our job is to make ‘em look good and that’s what we’ll do.” Ronny took his first drink from his third beer. He shut the radio off as it went to static out here in the middle of nowhere.
“You think anybody lives out here?” Buck asked. The only lights were the headlights of the Ford casting beams that cut through darkness. “Seems like a lonely place to live.”
Ronny shrugged. He had cut his teeth in the carnivals. Back then, you didn’t get to start in arenas. You started in carnivals and proved your mettle. Proved you were tough enough to make it. Those carnivals had taken him barnstorming across small towns over the mid and south west. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there was someone who thought he was tough enough to be a pro wrestler and Ronny had always been willing to let that person try to be right. “Quiet, sure. Lonely? I ‘unno. I’m sure there is a bar and if there is a bar you can’t be that lonely.”
They rode in silence after that. Road trips were where you learned the business. Buck had picked that much up. He and Ronny were in the car with each other every day doing two thousand miles a week. They talked about psychology. Why you should do something when something happened. How to really listen to the crowd. How to bring the crowd up and bring them down. When Buck messed up, Ronny told him why and how to not do it again. They booked different territories. They talked history. Ronny told Buck about the Garden and about the riot that got him banned. Ronny told Buck about the one time he had went to Australia and how the promoter had put a move on him so he left. They talked about World Title matches and thousand dollar paydays and big sold-out outdoor shows. Ronny told Buck about promoters he could trust and those he couldn’t. He told about fair payoff men and assholes who would stiff you. He told him about where to get the best blowjobs on the road or the best chicken fried steak or the diner that was all night or whatever.
Buck was aware of his role. He kept Ronny in the spotlight. They had main event programs in the South West because they were a duo. Had they not been? Ronny would be phased down the card and left a broken and battered cowboy still holding on to when he was a star. Together? Ronny was still a star. Buck also knew that he didn’t want to do this much longer. He’d gotten a phone call from New York. They needed a cowboy. Ronny was banned. Buck wasn’t. The Italian needed a fresh opponent and Buck had a good reputation as a good hand. A safe hand. He could brawl and he could wrestle. The New York office was certain that Buck would be big money for them. If Buck was big money for them, he’d get big money. Life changing money. It would be his break. As much as he liked teaming with Ronny, as much as he had learned… Ronny was on the wrong side of forty and trending down. Buck was twenty-five and had another fifteen years of money-making in him if he played his card rights. He’d already quietly given his notice to the Amarillo office. Albuquerque was his last shot. Ronny knew that Buck wasn’t booked on the next loop. Ronny just had singles matches. Buck had said it was something back home. A family thing he had to take care of. He hadn’t told Ronny the truth. Not yet. He was going to tell him after Alburqurque. After the match. After that last 288 miles.
David P. Barker is an American writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. During the day, he teaches middle school. At night, he writes stories exploring a wide variety of genres but consistently comes back to grit-lit. He lives with his wife and five animals.
David P. Barker
The engine of the plum-purple ‘62 Ford Galaxie Coup roared down the highway. The top was down and the West Texas night air was hot. “Rifleman” Ronny Rogers took a long drink from the beer he shouldn’t be drinking and threw the empty can onto the asphalt. It had been a long night preceded by a longer day and an even longer week and what felt like a month and year that would never end. “Pass me another.” Ronny said without looking at the passenger.
A fresh beer was shoved towards him and he took it. With practiced ease, he popped the top on the can and took another drink, killing half the can in a drink. “God damn, slow down.” Buck Smith growled at his tag partner and driver. Ronny shrugged his concern away.
“I’m thirsty.” Ronny said, expecting that to be that. He was the veteran and the wheelman. Buck’s job was to keep the beers ready and pass ‘em when he called for ‘em.
“We only got a six-pack. We gotta make ‘em last to Albuquerque.” Buck implored.
“We can get more on the way.”
“Fucking where?” Buck responded. He wasn’t wrong. The drive from Amarillo to Albuquerque was 288 miles straight west across straight shot highways through deserts. There wasn’t a lot on the way. A couple of filling stations. A whore house tucked away amid the ocotillo and tamarisks and hobbled mesquites where twenty bucks went far. Both men had spent some time there and neither would tell their wives about it -- but why would they? They were wrestlers. They lived by a different code and in a different sphere of society than the nine-to-fives and suit-and-ties. They weren’t blue-collar. They were outlaws and renegades. Misfits and vagabonds. Womanizers and addicts. Bullies. A fraternity of those who couldn’t exist in polite society.
“Fucking where.” Ronny repeated and then shouted it into the empty night. They had just wrestled at the Amarillo Armory. It was a crappy building but had a great crowd that was always rowdy and loud. An audience of old women who would cut you and cowboys who wanted to fight you and college girls who wanted to get laid. They had worked in the semi main for the Western States Tag Titles against Los Hermanos Vasquez. The Vasquez Brothers, Juan and Miguel, were super over in West Texas, hell, they were over all over the South West. They were handsome and flashy and bilingual and the vaqueros loved them. Ronny and Buck had ate at their fair share of taquerias with murals of the whole Vasquez family painted on them.
The match had gone to a double count-out when all four men brawled around ringside and didn’t listen to the referees commands to get back in the ring so he threw it out. It gave ‘em an out. It meant they could run it again next week with more heat on it. “Hell of a match tonight.” Ronny said as he took a shallow drink, wanting to conserve his beer since they only had six.
“Yeah. I thought that old lady was going to whack me with her cane.” Buck laughed. Buck was fifteen years Ronny’s junior. He’d been wrestling for five whereas Ronny had twenty years in the sport. It had been Ronny’s idea to partner with Buck. They had worked together in Kansas City back when Buck was working under a hood as one of the Headhunters. Ronny had needed something to freshen up his own act. At forty-two, he had more miles in his rearview than he did in front of him and if he wanted to extend his career he had to change gears. In his youth, Ronny had been a wild brawler. It was a different world back then. Back in the forties before there was TV. He’d wrestled all the greats -- been a top heel all over the country. He was a six-foot-four, two hundred-ninety pounds of physical dominance. He’d thrown guys from the ring and he’d pummeled them and gotten scathing write-ups in newspapers about being a scoundrel. He’d cursed in public and been banned from New York City and wrestled the Golden Greek in front of thirty thousand in Chicago and it was broadcast on the radio.
The fifties had come and with them television and Ronny was more popular. He wrestled on the Los Angeles show and then the Chicago show and the Dallas show -- never on the New York one. He was still banned from New York. He’d never been technically proficient, but he didn’t have to be. He was believable and rough and had won more bar fights than people could count but then his knees and back started to go. He couldn’t take the big bumps he took. He had had this one in his prime where he would get whipped into the corner and he’d hit it hard and let the impact drive him up over the ropes and to the floor. It was a common finish he’d use.
He’d get counted out from it. He had another spot where he would go for a flying tackle and the babyface would miss and he’d get wrapped up in the ropes and choke himself out. All big spots but when his body started to go, he had to reinvent himself. What better way than as a tag? That’s where Buck had come in. Young and good sized and technically sound, Buck could take all the bumps that Ronny couldn’t. Buck could bump and feed for the faces on the comeback. Buck could take the pin when they had to lose and Ronny could keep working. Could keep making money.
Ronny took another drink from his beer and suddenly can two was empty and out the car and smashed onto the pavement. He was pushing eighty. The engine humming. The radio was low. An old Hank song from the 40s about being in the doghouse. Buck was saying something but Ronny wasn’t really paying attention. There were two hundred miles left to Albuquerque. Two hundred miles of empty roads.
She warned me once, she warned me twice
But I don't take no one's advice
So scratch it on over (move it on over)
Shake it on over (move it on over)
Move over short dog cause a tall dog's moving in
Hank’s voice sang out into the night and Ronny thought about Eloise and the kids back in Dallas. He didn’t move ‘em around when he switched territories. Not anymore. Before the kids, he and Eloise would set up wherever he was getting booked. Then the first kid came and then the second and third and it was just easier to leave ‘em in one place. He liked working the South West. Dallas was a good city to base in. It had a major airport and big city amenities so he had bought a loan-to-own on a three-acre lot with grass so green it hurt your eyes. It had plenty of kids in the neighborhood to play with his and plenty of housewives to keep Eloise company. She probably deserved better than him. Someone who wasn’t doing two thousand miles a week and could be home every night. Someone who only had eyes for her and wanted to eat her meatloaf and drink lemonade on the front porch and entertain company and not scarf down a hot dog from a filling station while doing eighty on a state highway to make the next town.
“Ronny... You listening?” Buck said and Ronny was snapped out of his melancholy.
“Yeah. Sorry. Was just thinking ‘bout the match. Give me another.” Ronny held out his hand for his last of the six pack and Buck dutifully handed it over. Ronny let the beer rest between his thighs. “You did good out there tonight.”
“Thanks.” Buck said and took a sip from his beer. Still his first. He eyed his mentor behind the wheel. He was grateful for the opportunity to team with Ronny. When he was a boy, he had seen Ronny several times live in Tulsa. Ronny had been wild then. He had worked against Apache Joe, a terribly named fake-Indian that was a perfect dance partner for the big cowboy. Buck had been there when they had an Apache Strap Match -- it was just a strap match but they had to dress it up. Make it feel like it was something special. If Buck closed his eyes, he could still hear the leather slapping off flesh. He could see the welts on both men. His daddy hadn’t believed wrestling was real. He said it was a bunch of pansies play-fighting and conning people, but he had convinced his daddy to go to that event for his birthday and that strap match had changed his daddy’s mind. That was the night Buck knew he wanted to be a wrestler and now here he was. A wrestler. Tag team partner with The Rifleman himself.
“Tomorrow during the heat, try the leg choke on Juan.” Ronny made the suggestion. The leg choke was a simple heat spot. You draped a leg over the opponent’s throat and they thrashed about like you were choking them. The secret was that you had to argue with the official to distract him so you could get away with it and get the heat on you and not the official. That was the trick. You didn’t want heat on the ref. Buck needed the heat. The heat kept people coming back for more and it kept people buying tickets.
Babyfaces thought that they were the reason people showed up, but they weren’t. Not really. Sure, if one was white-hot they could pop a territory like that Irish guy in Boston but it was heat that kept them buying tickets. The fans had to hate the heels. They had to want to see them get their asses kicked and that made ‘em come back week after week, show after show, until they did.
“You want to give the heat to Juan and not Miguel?” Buck asked. Normally they gave the heat on the younger brother. Miguel was young and handsome and slightly smaller than Juan and could sell his ass off.
“Who gets more rats?”
“Hell, I don’t know. It’s got to be close.”
“Juan does.”
“Miguel’s better looking though.”
“But Juan’ll put his pecker in just about anything. So he gets more ass. Means there are more women there to see him because he’s probably done half of ‘em. That’ll get more sympathy and then the ones who want Miguel to give ‘em any kind of attention will want to see him kick some ass. So let’s put the heat on Juan.” Ronny described his logic and Buck finished his first beer and chucked it at the passing sign. Albuquerque, 125 miles.
“You don’t think Juan’ll mind? He usually gets to make the comeback.” Buck brought up a good point. Guys liked their roles. Juan had been the comeback guy. He made a good comeback too. He was all piss and fire. He had a dropkick -- which was a spectacular spot -- that looked like it could kiss the moon.
“We ain’t going to give ‘em a choice. We call the damn match. Not him. Our job is to make ‘em look good and that’s what we’ll do.” Ronny took his first drink from his third beer. He shut the radio off as it went to static out here in the middle of nowhere.
“You think anybody lives out here?” Buck asked. The only lights were the headlights of the Ford casting beams that cut through darkness. “Seems like a lonely place to live.”
Ronny shrugged. He had cut his teeth in the carnivals. Back then, you didn’t get to start in arenas. You started in carnivals and proved your mettle. Proved you were tough enough to make it. Those carnivals had taken him barnstorming across small towns over the mid and south west. Out here in the middle of nowhere, there was someone who thought he was tough enough to be a pro wrestler and Ronny had always been willing to let that person try to be right. “Quiet, sure. Lonely? I ‘unno. I’m sure there is a bar and if there is a bar you can’t be that lonely.”
They rode in silence after that. Road trips were where you learned the business. Buck had picked that much up. He and Ronny were in the car with each other every day doing two thousand miles a week. They talked about psychology. Why you should do something when something happened. How to really listen to the crowd. How to bring the crowd up and bring them down. When Buck messed up, Ronny told him why and how to not do it again. They booked different territories. They talked history. Ronny told Buck about the Garden and about the riot that got him banned. Ronny told Buck about the one time he had went to Australia and how the promoter had put a move on him so he left. They talked about World Title matches and thousand dollar paydays and big sold-out outdoor shows. Ronny told Buck about promoters he could trust and those he couldn’t. He told about fair payoff men and assholes who would stiff you. He told him about where to get the best blowjobs on the road or the best chicken fried steak or the diner that was all night or whatever.
Buck was aware of his role. He kept Ronny in the spotlight. They had main event programs in the South West because they were a duo. Had they not been? Ronny would be phased down the card and left a broken and battered cowboy still holding on to when he was a star. Together? Ronny was still a star. Buck also knew that he didn’t want to do this much longer. He’d gotten a phone call from New York. They needed a cowboy. Ronny was banned. Buck wasn’t. The Italian needed a fresh opponent and Buck had a good reputation as a good hand. A safe hand. He could brawl and he could wrestle. The New York office was certain that Buck would be big money for them. If Buck was big money for them, he’d get big money. Life changing money. It would be his break. As much as he liked teaming with Ronny, as much as he had learned… Ronny was on the wrong side of forty and trending down. Buck was twenty-five and had another fifteen years of money-making in him if he played his card rights. He’d already quietly given his notice to the Amarillo office. Albuquerque was his last shot. Ronny knew that Buck wasn’t booked on the next loop. Ronny just had singles matches. Buck had said it was something back home. A family thing he had to take care of. He hadn’t told Ronny the truth. Not yet. He was going to tell him after Alburqurque. After the match. After that last 288 miles.
David P. Barker is an American writer from Indianapolis, Indiana. During the day, he teaches middle school. At night, he writes stories exploring a wide variety of genres but consistently comes back to grit-lit. He lives with his wife and five animals.