Dating : The Bret Hart Short Story

Oscar sat down in front of the computer with fear and decided he would write a short story. He had come to his decision because he wanted to avoid writing the first draft of his novel. He had written one hundred and six pages for the first draft of his novel and he hated every word. He knew he could not give up on the monstrous task of the first novel. All first drafts are ugly, shitty little things. He knew this was the case because he had read about other writers and their struggles with the ugly, shitty little things. Nonetheless he sat at the machine with some newfound excitement about writing the short story.

‘What will I write about?’ He said aloud to no one but himself. He was thinking. Swimming through the great ideas that were resting in the subconscious. Oscar decided he needed to be in motion while finding the idea and he stood up to pace his small bedroom. The unmade bed, the bookshelf filled with works of true art, the Spanish acoustic guitar, and a pile of worn clothes in the corner were all lifeless witnesses. The idea process is the easy part, you have ideas, think you genius fuck- think!

He thought of a love story set in modern day Iraq between a young Assyrian man from the Diaspora and a young Assyrian woman born and raised in Nineveh. Their differences, and her tragedy would lay the foundation of a great love tale. No you dickhead. That’s the first novel. That story needs to be a novel, you have to write that important story as soon as you finish this short piece.

The second idea that entered his mind like a welcomed shooting star was a short story about wrestling. Oscar was obsessed with professional wrestling as a young child and well into his adolescence. The theater, the athletic drama. It all had him hooked. A total mark. Maybe the storytelling aspect of it had sparked his writer’s ambition. There was a short story in professional wrestling for sure he thought. Maybe a tribute to his favorite hero, Bret ‘The Hitman’ Hart told in first person with dramatic personal revelations. Bret Hart was a true champion, a hero, the underdog, a warrior who always gave his life in the ring and fought for what was right and true. Yeah, a tribute to my favorite wrestler, what a great story! When did he actually stop watching wrestling? He paced and flew back to the past. He remembered Bret’s younger brother Owen Hart tragically dying in the ring because of an ill planned stunt and how he started to hate wrestling after that. No no, this can be a longer novella. An exploration of my childhood, an ode to my innocence. My brothers and I, all hanging to the TV watching these glorious gladiators competing in a scripted drama. There is definitely something bigger there. He promised himself to explore this idea further after the short story, and the first draft of the novel had been written. There is definitely something there he thought again as he scribbled a few lines about the wrestling idea on a pad next to his computer.

A short story has to be like a knockout blow to the chest. Quick and hard. Short and painful. Violent and poetic. All in a few pages. Oscar paced as he contemplated and thought. Nothing came to him. He sat back down and as always the Law of Procrastination conspired to have his phone ring as soon as he was ready to type the first sentence.

Oscar answered like a bullet flying through the air. He hated that he answered so quickly as if showing he wanted the distraction. He shook his head in disapproval. I was just about to start a great short story. I will definitely enter that short story into some online competitions and win some money. Definitely.

‘Hey bro, what’s up?’

‘Nothing much bro, what’s up?’ Oscar replied.

The voice on the other end of the phone was familiar and casual. He would hear it every day as part of his professional life as a high school teacher, and very often afterwards in his non-professional life of being would-be-writer. It was a good voice, his friend and confidant, Harry.

‘I’m bored and lazy, wanna smash a gym sesh?’ Harry asked.

Oscar looked at the time on the bottom corner of the screen, it was one twenty eight in the afternoon. He could write the short story later. He could write the first draft of the novel later. After all he was on Easter holiday break. He still had ten days to write the great short story that would win competitions and the first draft of the novel that would evolve into a masterpiece depicting the strong story of the Assyrians tied around a great love story.

‘Yeah fuck it, let’s go.’ Oscar replied. ‘Meet you there in half an hour.’

Oscar hung up the phone, and looked around his room. What can I do in twenty minutes? He closed all the word processing software, and opened up an Internet browser. In a few clicks he was baited and nothing was achieved. After that he made his way to the gym having successfully avoided writing for another day.

At the gym, Oscar and Harry exercised with a slightly above moderate work ethic. They were both gym regulars since their early twenties. Now both thirty years old, they knew enough of what they were doing to be doing that. The two friends lifted heavy weights with good form and a sweet sweat was produced, it was enough to release the positive endorphins their bodies enjoyed.

‘What are you going to do after?’ Harry asked looking straight into the mirror stretching his arms out. Oscar stood next to him and looked back into the mirror.

‘Nothing planned man.’ Oscar answered and lowered to stretch his quadriceps and lower back.

‘Man, you know why we call each other that?’

‘Call each other what?’ Oscar asked, knowing what he meant, and knowing Harry was getting ready for one of his teaching rants. Oscar enjoyed the teacher rants.

‘Why we call each other man.’ Harry said and then bent over with a calm yogi sense into downward dog.

‘I’m guessing cause it’s another word to call each other, just like dude, bro, hommie, cuz and all that affectionate slash respect name calling us men have to have for ourselves.’ Oscar was proud of his answer as he too bent over into a downward dog position.

‘Yeah well it actually originated in black slave days. After the men would take beatings and work all day being called Boy by their white owners in an effort to break them down and establish that subconscious control. The men would call each other Man at night in their little free time. Like positive reinforce each other, ‘Like how you doing Man?’ and ‘Good job man’. Imagine being a slave, a hard-working man all day, being in your prime and slaving hard just to live and avoid a beating and then continuously being called Boy.’ Harry was passionate when he spoke and a true storyteller. Oscar liked him right away when they met in the lunchroom on Oscar’s first day as a high school teacher. Harry was just as passionate and informative when teaching other subjects within History. Oscar knew his friend was a talented teacher and he hoped one day he would be that passionate and effective as a teacher.

‘That’s pretty interesting.’ Oscar replied with a cheeky smile. Now sitting crossed legs and bending forward enjoying the spinal stretch. ‘But I don’t know, that sounds a bit hopeful. Have you fact checked that?’

‘Nope, not really, I heard it years ago when I was a teenager. My guitar teacher who was a real heavy American Blues man told me that. I guess I liked it, so I don’t want to know if it’s a hundred percent or not. I’m sure it’s true, it sounds right.’

‘A history teacher that doesn’t fact check.’ Oscar shook his head disapprovingly in mock tone.

‘Fuck off.’ Harry smiled, ‘yeah what was my point?’

‘How do I know?

‘Oh yeah, I was asking what you doing after, wanna have a coffee?’

‘Yeah off course, I thought that was implied Man.’ Oscar smiled.

The café was a few doors down from the gym. It was a successful cafe that catered to the hipster lovers of coffee, the gym heads and the bored housewives all in one setting without being pretentious or cliche. Oscar and Harry were often there and they had never referred to the place by its established name. They just called it The Cafe.

Oscar drank a black coffee, and Harry had an almond milk flat white. They sat outside and watched the people traffic. They often talked about everything that bothered them and everything they were interested in. Teaching and the pressures of the profession along with the attached politics did not dominate the conversations because they did not let those topics enter their outside world. There was a mutual understanding that they both loved their jobs, were passionate in their own way about education and teaching, and both had their struggles within their departments and day to day roles. However the understanding also extended to the fact they only would talk a little about these topics. Men only talk a little about everything.

‘So what have you been up to? How are the holidays treating you?’ Oscar asked as he saw a pretty girl in tight jeans walk past the cafe. He always appreciated pretty girls in tight jeans.

‘Not much, just hanging around. I’m feeling lazy and too much thinking.’ Harry answered honestly. He looked like he had stress weighing him down. He did not even notice the pretty girl in the tight jeans.

Oscar heard the tone in Harry’s voice. This guy needs to talk, he needs to get laid and try and enjoy this break from work. ‘What’s up bro? You alright?’

‘Yeah just thinking man. Holidays give me too much time to think. I’m beat from the job. Then I stay home and I rest and then the thoughts creep up. You know what I mean?’

‘Like what thoughts?’

Harry paused sipped his coffee looked away and then looked as if he would say something. He shrugged his shoulders and told his friend not to worry about it.

‘Look at this one, man she’s fit.’ Harry gestured his eyes at a young girl walking towards the café in trendy active wear. Oscar knew the subject had been changed and Harry did not want to talk. He would later regret not pushing it a little bit further. Maybe it could have made a difference. But men only talk a little about everything, including all the big things. We will talk later, I will ask him about it all later.

Oscar went home and thought about his friend Harry, the origins of the word Man and Bret Hart. He busied himself with television episodes of a mediocre sitcom he had already seen years before. He did not write. He had another ten days left. I will write tomorrow, I promise, tomorrow, that great short story is coming. I will write tomorrow.