BIG RIG
Shaun Jex
I was in a motel outside of Tulsa when I heard that Luke “Big Rig” Shepard died. It had been a few months since his last in-ring appearance. I watched that match with my boys, the three of us cheering as he and Corey Rannels tore each other up and left the ring painted with blood. My oldest got so excited that he leaped off the couch and knocked over the 2-liter bottle of soda we bought. It spilled on an open box of pizza, leaving little pools of cola inside slices of pepperoni.
I don’t see the boys often. Not since Sara and I divorced and I took a trucking job. I spend most of my time on the highway. 10 hours a day. Nothing to think about except the road in front of me and the sound of the tires on the blacktop.
Watching wrestling with them is a tradition whenever I’m in town. I pick them up and we hang out at whatever motor inn I’m shacking up at. We pick up cheap junk food and spend the night in front of the TV. Shepard was their favorite wrestler.
Sara kept the house after we split, and I didn’t bother getting another. No need. I’m never in one place that long. Shit, sometimes I just sleep in the truck. Showering in filling stations and dining on crap like beef jerky or hotdogs warmed under a heat lamp. Some folks might think that sounds like hell, but it’s not so bad. It beats holding still.
That’s one reason our marriage didn’t work. The house. Mowing the lawn on Saturday. Paying bills. Grocery shopping. Having neighbors over for dinner. It felt like being slowly strangled. After Sara got pregnant with our oldest, I decided I’d give it a shot. I made it work for a while.
After we finished watching Luke’s last match, the boys re-enacted it over and over. They used the motel bed as their ring and took turns being Big Rig. Instead of weapons like metal chairs, they hit each other with pillows. I got to be the referee, slapping the mattress for the three count and imitating the sound of a bell at the beginning and end of each bout. In between matches, they cut promos, scowling and doing their best to talk trash.
When I heard about Big Rig’s death, I figured I’d have to tell the boys. But when I called I could tell that they already knew. They were crying. I didn’t know what to say, so we just talked about his best matches.
Sara got back on the phone before I hung up.
“You know why he’s their favorite wrestler?” Sara said.
“Why?” I said.
“His name is Big Rig, idiot,” she said. “Think about it.”
She hung up and I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wall. I stayed that way for a long while. I remember reading that Luke had two boys of his own. I couldn’t imagine what they were feeling. But for some reason, I suspected that my boys probably could.
I picked my phone up off the bed and searched for Big Rig’s last match. I needed to watch it again.
Shaun Jex
I was in a motel outside of Tulsa when I heard that Luke “Big Rig” Shepard died. It had been a few months since his last in-ring appearance. I watched that match with my boys, the three of us cheering as he and Corey Rannels tore each other up and left the ring painted with blood. My oldest got so excited that he leaped off the couch and knocked over the 2-liter bottle of soda we bought. It spilled on an open box of pizza, leaving little pools of cola inside slices of pepperoni.
I don’t see the boys often. Not since Sara and I divorced and I took a trucking job. I spend most of my time on the highway. 10 hours a day. Nothing to think about except the road in front of me and the sound of the tires on the blacktop.
Watching wrestling with them is a tradition whenever I’m in town. I pick them up and we hang out at whatever motor inn I’m shacking up at. We pick up cheap junk food and spend the night in front of the TV. Shepard was their favorite wrestler.
Sara kept the house after we split, and I didn’t bother getting another. No need. I’m never in one place that long. Shit, sometimes I just sleep in the truck. Showering in filling stations and dining on crap like beef jerky or hotdogs warmed under a heat lamp. Some folks might think that sounds like hell, but it’s not so bad. It beats holding still.
That’s one reason our marriage didn’t work. The house. Mowing the lawn on Saturday. Paying bills. Grocery shopping. Having neighbors over for dinner. It felt like being slowly strangled. After Sara got pregnant with our oldest, I decided I’d give it a shot. I made it work for a while.
After we finished watching Luke’s last match, the boys re-enacted it over and over. They used the motel bed as their ring and took turns being Big Rig. Instead of weapons like metal chairs, they hit each other with pillows. I got to be the referee, slapping the mattress for the three count and imitating the sound of a bell at the beginning and end of each bout. In between matches, they cut promos, scowling and doing their best to talk trash.
When I heard about Big Rig’s death, I figured I’d have to tell the boys. But when I called I could tell that they already knew. They were crying. I didn’t know what to say, so we just talked about his best matches.
Sara got back on the phone before I hung up.
“You know why he’s their favorite wrestler?” Sara said.
“Why?” I said.
“His name is Big Rig, idiot,” she said. “Think about it.”
She hung up and I sat on the edge of the bed staring at the wall. I stayed that way for a long while. I remember reading that Luke had two boys of his own. I couldn’t imagine what they were feeling. But for some reason, I suspected that my boys probably could.
I picked my phone up off the bed and searched for Big Rig’s last match. I needed to watch it again.