Post by Jack Graves on Feb 24, 2022 8:39:50 GMT
Cozy Living Trailer Park
Nashville, TN
Fall 2001
It had been a surprisingly good Thursday night for young Jackie Graves.
At first anyways.
The smell of pot roast wafted through the stuffy two bedroom run down mobile home, and 12 year old Jack had just finished his nightly bath after wrapping up the day’s load of homework. He was now cozy on the couch, tucked in snugly under his Ninja Turtle blanket as he re-watched old recorded wrestling tapes on the shitty wooden paneled floor model TV and even shittier VCR that was known for eating tapes.
Jack knew the shows by heart at this point because he’d watched them so many times. All the promos, all the match choreography. Every second. But it didn’t matter because to him it never got old. It was an escape. He’d oftentimes imagine himself as the hero, out there in the ring putting the bad guys down for the count and becoming world champion. Other times he’d imagine himself as the bad guy, soaking in all the boos and working the crowd to reeeeally make them hate him.
It was a way to leave his shitty life behind. His stupid school where they bullied him every day, his stupid house and it’s stupid cockroaches, mold, and leaky faucets. His abusive, alcoholic father who found too much joy in beating the hell out of Jack or his mother for whatever reason, whenever he got a whim. All of it. He got to be someone different, and that gave him at least a tiny shred of solace in his otherwise tumultuous, and often volatile world.
This would never be happening if his father were here though. Jack watching TV?! HA! You’d have an easier time gettin’ blood from a turnip. He would’ve been lucky if he’d been let out of his room for supper. Every so often though, ol’ Porter Graves would disappear for a week at a time, and this is when Jackie really got to enjoy being a kid. He’d get to spend time with his mother without her walking on eggshells and cowering in fear, and most of all he’d get to play make believe with his cardboard championship belts and stuffed wrestling buddy pillows that had faded over the years of getting the shit kicked out of them by Jack and the washing machine.
Sometimes he’d wished that his father would never come back. That he’d drink one too many one night and that ride home would be his last. But it never happened. He always showed right back up, angry as ever, and for the life of him, Jack could never understand what he was so angry about. Why did he hate them so much? He’d spent his entire 12 years of living trying his best to do something, ANYTHING, to get his father’s approval and all he ever got was his hatred. He’d never understand why his mother just didn’t lock the door and not let him back.
Actually, maybe he did.
Because Porter Graves would see both of them dead before he ever let that happen.
“Jackie-boy. Supper is done. Come get your food.”
His mother's voice snapped Jack’s attention back to reality, and he pushed himself to his feet so he could begin to make his way toward the kitchen, that was until he heard a familiar voice on the TV.
Stone Cold Steve Austin himself. The toughest S.O.B in wrasslin’. He was someone Jack looked up to. Someone he wanted to be when he grew up, and even though he’d seen it a million times, Jack wheeled around and snatched up his empty coke bottle to use as a microphone as he went line for line with his idol. Delivering a promo for the ages in front of a sold out crowd.
In his mind at least.
"I said Ahemed Johnson was going to get his ass whooped, and that’s exactly what happened. As far as I’m concerned, he got off LIGHT! Because Jack Graves would’ve opened up the REAL can of whoop ass and served it to him on a spoon.”
Jack scooped his arm in sync with Austin, like he was serving someone a scoop of ice cream with a large serving spoon.
“If Ahemed Johnson can drag his ass back out here, I’m still ready to fight him. But if he ain’t, I’ll take on anyone in that dressin’ room. All you gotta do is come step through these ropes right here!”
Graves crossed the living room, stopping at some imaginary ropes to taunt his wrestling buddies as they watched him intently. His mother had found her way over to spectate the show as well, unbeknownst to him, and she couldn’t help but smile at her little boy’s charisma. Jack continued on for a moment, finally turning to see his mom but not missing a beat as he gave her the mini version of that same ol’ cocky ass Jack Graves grin…
“Someone come out, cause Jack Graves is ready to raise some hell. You can send any–”
It was at that moment that his drunk father came stumbling through the door, slamming it shut behind him. It was like the energy was sucked out of the room instantly. The smiles were gone. The good times? Gone. Hell, even the color in their faces was gone as panic and dread set in. Jack did his best to scramble to the TV as his mother greeted the man at the door, to provide a distraction most likely. Jack switched the TV off right away, and he hit eject on the VCR in an attempt to try and save his tape… but it didn’t help. It only brought Porter’s focus to it, as he pushed Faye aside and crossed the room to snatch Jack’s arm up by the wrist, making the tape fall to the ground. Porter took one look at the tape before stomping it to bits over and over as he roared at his "useless" son.
“What the fuck are you doin’ boy? Haven’t I told you to leave that damn television alone?! HUH?! IT AIN’T FOR YOU! NOW GO READ A BOOK AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT YOU WASTE OF FUCKIN' SPACE!”
Papa Graves flung him across the room like one of the wrestlers he’d just been watching. By now though, he’d long learned how to take a bump to avoid the brunt of the damage. This wasn't his first rodeo. So he hit the ground safely, and stayed still for a moment to make sure another attack wasn’t coming.
“I SAID GET--”
Jack bolted to his feet and made the all too familiar dash to his room in record time. His heart was thundering in his chest as he closed the door behind him and sank down with his back against it in the hopes he could block the man’s entrance if he followed. He didn’t though. Instead, he turned his anger toward his wife for letting Jack watch TV.
“AND WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING LETTING HIM WATCH MY SHIT THAT I PAID FOR?! HM? YOU JUST LET HIM DO WHATEVER THE GODDAMN HELL HE WANTS WHEN I’M GONE? HUH? DON’T YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH?!”
Jack knew what was coming. He knew that one or both of them would be covering up bruises for the next week and lying to their friends.
Unless this was the night he finally killed them.
Something inside of him forced him to push himself back to his feet at this thought, and he opened his door as slowly as he could. He could hear his mother crying already, and the sound of her misery made the blood in his veins pump harder with adrenaline. His sock clad feet made no sound as he crept down the hall, peering around the corner as he tried to will himself to do something. Stop him, call the police, kill him… All of these options ran through his mind as he saw his mother begging the man to let go of her hair.
“I’m going to teach you both a lesson. Yeah…because after I beat some sense into your ass… he’s coming with me and we are going for a little drive. I’ll stuff the little motherfucker in the trunk if I have to.”
SMACK
His backhand landed across her face, and Jack sprung into action. This time, he was tired of it. Tonight was the night that Porter Graves never came back. Jack Graves was ready to raise some hell.
The terrified twelve year old sprinted into the kitchen area, pulling open the silverware drawer to snatch up the biggest and sharpest chef's knife they had as another blow echoed out through the trailer. The sound of the cutlery rattling stopped Porter in his tracks though, and he stood and started advancing on his frightened son.
“How cute. You gonna defend your momma, boy? It’s about damn time. Look at you. Finally got some balls on you. Come on. Kill me. FUCKING KILL ME.”
His father knelt in front of him, bringing the knife to his own throat as he dared his son to do it and to this day, Jack still kinda wishes he had. But as he held his trembling hand there, with the blade pressed into his father’s larynx, he thought about how he’d spend a lifetime in prison, perhaps. That meant he never got to chase his dreams. All he wanted though was to make this man suffer the way he’d made them suffer all these years. But he couldn’t… because deep down he hoped it was just the alcohol. He hoped that one day this man would stop drinking and actually love them again, and he didn’t want to throw away a future by taking a life. Especially not his own father’s.
His brief moment of hesitation cost him though, as Porter twisted his arm aside violently, and in one fluid motion, snatched Jack up by his throat to pin him against the nearby wall. Squeezing wasn’t enough though. Naw, he had to make a statement. So he lifted his own child off his feet, hovering him there… much like grown Jack Graves had done to Dante Locke recently. Without the help of the wall.
That’s about where things got a little fuzzy.
One minute Jack had been looking into the eyes of his father, as Porter watched the life drain out of him. The next, he was waking up to the police carting his dad out of the kitchen with a bleeding head wound. There had been what sounded like the “thunk” of a cast iron skillet right as he’d passed out.. but he must’ve missed it.
Turns out though that ol' Porter Graves wasn’t just a drunk. He’d also been running heroin and meth through seven different states in the surrounding area. He’d been on a DEA watch-list for quite some time, and they’d chosen now to come a-knockin’. That being because apparently he'd just got back from picking up a shipment, and had enough smack in the trunk of the car to put him away for 30 years. So it was a mystery as to how he was going to even fit him in the trunk.
Talk about “Divine Intervention”, right?
Luckily, Mamma Graves had made things easy for them by cleaning his clock to save her baby boy. And that was the last time Jack saw, or thought about his old man.
Looking into his eyes as he choked the life out of him and then watching them carry him out the front door…
That was until 3 days ago when he’d gotten a letter from a corrections facility in Kentucky. A letter addressed to him from an inmate named “Porter Graves”. A letter from his “father”, who had seen him wrestling on TV and decided to reach out. He claimed to be sober now, and wanted to repair bridges.
Some bridges were just too burnt to repair though and some of them were meant to be burnt.
Pelham Park View Apartments
Bronx, NY
Current Day.
As Jack re-reads the letter, he sips at the bourbon in his glass to wash down the wave of mixed emotion he was feeling. Emotions brought up by the rehashing of the bottled up, painful memory he’d long filed away in his head.
With a click of his teeth, he downs the rest of the bourbon in the glass before setting it aside to pull his metal trash bin closer. He gives the letter one last once over, before igniting the corner with his zippo. As he watches it go up in flames, and the words begin to melt away, he feels a sense of relief. Part of him had wanted to reach out and get closure, but naw. This was closure enough. As far as he was concerned, the man didn’t deserve another chance, and if he ever saw him again he might finish the job he couldn’t do when he was a boy. He’d open up a CASE of whoopass and serve it to him with a spoon. Or he'd take the spoon and drive it right into his fucking eyeball, and scramble his brains..
As he watches the letter burn in the bin, Jack pours himself another drink from the bottle of Woodford Reserve and he raises it into the air as if he was raising a toast to someone.
“You deserved better and I promise I will never treat any woman or child of mine the way that bastard treated us. May he burn in hell.”
Jack once again downs the bourbon in a few quick gulps, and he pours the ice on the smoldering bits of the letter to sizzle it out. Once he’s sure all the embers have been extinguished, he turns to crawl up beside someone in his bed wrapping his arms around them to snuggle in close. The letter had brought up some old trauma and he’d relived it in the form of a nightmare. But now, the letter was gone… so were those demons.
At least for a moment.
Maybe he could finally get some rest.
Nashville, TN
Fall 2001
It had been a surprisingly good Thursday night for young Jackie Graves.
At first anyways.
The smell of pot roast wafted through the stuffy two bedroom run down mobile home, and 12 year old Jack had just finished his nightly bath after wrapping up the day’s load of homework. He was now cozy on the couch, tucked in snugly under his Ninja Turtle blanket as he re-watched old recorded wrestling tapes on the shitty wooden paneled floor model TV and even shittier VCR that was known for eating tapes.
Jack knew the shows by heart at this point because he’d watched them so many times. All the promos, all the match choreography. Every second. But it didn’t matter because to him it never got old. It was an escape. He’d oftentimes imagine himself as the hero, out there in the ring putting the bad guys down for the count and becoming world champion. Other times he’d imagine himself as the bad guy, soaking in all the boos and working the crowd to reeeeally make them hate him.
It was a way to leave his shitty life behind. His stupid school where they bullied him every day, his stupid house and it’s stupid cockroaches, mold, and leaky faucets. His abusive, alcoholic father who found too much joy in beating the hell out of Jack or his mother for whatever reason, whenever he got a whim. All of it. He got to be someone different, and that gave him at least a tiny shred of solace in his otherwise tumultuous, and often volatile world.
This would never be happening if his father were here though. Jack watching TV?! HA! You’d have an easier time gettin’ blood from a turnip. He would’ve been lucky if he’d been let out of his room for supper. Every so often though, ol’ Porter Graves would disappear for a week at a time, and this is when Jackie really got to enjoy being a kid. He’d get to spend time with his mother without her walking on eggshells and cowering in fear, and most of all he’d get to play make believe with his cardboard championship belts and stuffed wrestling buddy pillows that had faded over the years of getting the shit kicked out of them by Jack and the washing machine.
Sometimes he’d wished that his father would never come back. That he’d drink one too many one night and that ride home would be his last. But it never happened. He always showed right back up, angry as ever, and for the life of him, Jack could never understand what he was so angry about. Why did he hate them so much? He’d spent his entire 12 years of living trying his best to do something, ANYTHING, to get his father’s approval and all he ever got was his hatred. He’d never understand why his mother just didn’t lock the door and not let him back.
Actually, maybe he did.
Because Porter Graves would see both of them dead before he ever let that happen.
“Jackie-boy. Supper is done. Come get your food.”
His mother's voice snapped Jack’s attention back to reality, and he pushed himself to his feet so he could begin to make his way toward the kitchen, that was until he heard a familiar voice on the TV.
Stone Cold Steve Austin himself. The toughest S.O.B in wrasslin’. He was someone Jack looked up to. Someone he wanted to be when he grew up, and even though he’d seen it a million times, Jack wheeled around and snatched up his empty coke bottle to use as a microphone as he went line for line with his idol. Delivering a promo for the ages in front of a sold out crowd.
In his mind at least.
"I said Ahemed Johnson was going to get his ass whooped, and that’s exactly what happened. As far as I’m concerned, he got off LIGHT! Because Jack Graves would’ve opened up the REAL can of whoop ass and served it to him on a spoon.”
Jack scooped his arm in sync with Austin, like he was serving someone a scoop of ice cream with a large serving spoon.
“If Ahemed Johnson can drag his ass back out here, I’m still ready to fight him. But if he ain’t, I’ll take on anyone in that dressin’ room. All you gotta do is come step through these ropes right here!”
Graves crossed the living room, stopping at some imaginary ropes to taunt his wrestling buddies as they watched him intently. His mother had found her way over to spectate the show as well, unbeknownst to him, and she couldn’t help but smile at her little boy’s charisma. Jack continued on for a moment, finally turning to see his mom but not missing a beat as he gave her the mini version of that same ol’ cocky ass Jack Graves grin…
“Someone come out, cause Jack Graves is ready to raise some hell. You can send any–”
It was at that moment that his drunk father came stumbling through the door, slamming it shut behind him. It was like the energy was sucked out of the room instantly. The smiles were gone. The good times? Gone. Hell, even the color in their faces was gone as panic and dread set in. Jack did his best to scramble to the TV as his mother greeted the man at the door, to provide a distraction most likely. Jack switched the TV off right away, and he hit eject on the VCR in an attempt to try and save his tape… but it didn’t help. It only brought Porter’s focus to it, as he pushed Faye aside and crossed the room to snatch Jack’s arm up by the wrist, making the tape fall to the ground. Porter took one look at the tape before stomping it to bits over and over as he roared at his "useless" son.
“What the fuck are you doin’ boy? Haven’t I told you to leave that damn television alone?! HUH?! IT AIN’T FOR YOU! NOW GO READ A BOOK AND GET OUT OF MY SIGHT YOU WASTE OF FUCKIN' SPACE!”
Papa Graves flung him across the room like one of the wrestlers he’d just been watching. By now though, he’d long learned how to take a bump to avoid the brunt of the damage. This wasn't his first rodeo. So he hit the ground safely, and stayed still for a moment to make sure another attack wasn’t coming.
“I SAID GET--”
Jack bolted to his feet and made the all too familiar dash to his room in record time. His heart was thundering in his chest as he closed the door behind him and sank down with his back against it in the hopes he could block the man’s entrance if he followed. He didn’t though. Instead, he turned his anger toward his wife for letting Jack watch TV.
“AND WHAT IN THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING LETTING HIM WATCH MY SHIT THAT I PAID FOR?! HM? YOU JUST LET HIM DO WHATEVER THE GODDAMN HELL HE WANTS WHEN I’M GONE? HUH? DON’T YOU, YOU STUPID BITCH?!”
Jack knew what was coming. He knew that one or both of them would be covering up bruises for the next week and lying to their friends.
Unless this was the night he finally killed them.
Something inside of him forced him to push himself back to his feet at this thought, and he opened his door as slowly as he could. He could hear his mother crying already, and the sound of her misery made the blood in his veins pump harder with adrenaline. His sock clad feet made no sound as he crept down the hall, peering around the corner as he tried to will himself to do something. Stop him, call the police, kill him… All of these options ran through his mind as he saw his mother begging the man to let go of her hair.
“I’m going to teach you both a lesson. Yeah…because after I beat some sense into your ass… he’s coming with me and we are going for a little drive. I’ll stuff the little motherfucker in the trunk if I have to.”
SMACK
His backhand landed across her face, and Jack sprung into action. This time, he was tired of it. Tonight was the night that Porter Graves never came back. Jack Graves was ready to raise some hell.
The terrified twelve year old sprinted into the kitchen area, pulling open the silverware drawer to snatch up the biggest and sharpest chef's knife they had as another blow echoed out through the trailer. The sound of the cutlery rattling stopped Porter in his tracks though, and he stood and started advancing on his frightened son.
“How cute. You gonna defend your momma, boy? It’s about damn time. Look at you. Finally got some balls on you. Come on. Kill me. FUCKING KILL ME.”
His father knelt in front of him, bringing the knife to his own throat as he dared his son to do it and to this day, Jack still kinda wishes he had. But as he held his trembling hand there, with the blade pressed into his father’s larynx, he thought about how he’d spend a lifetime in prison, perhaps. That meant he never got to chase his dreams. All he wanted though was to make this man suffer the way he’d made them suffer all these years. But he couldn’t… because deep down he hoped it was just the alcohol. He hoped that one day this man would stop drinking and actually love them again, and he didn’t want to throw away a future by taking a life. Especially not his own father’s.
His brief moment of hesitation cost him though, as Porter twisted his arm aside violently, and in one fluid motion, snatched Jack up by his throat to pin him against the nearby wall. Squeezing wasn’t enough though. Naw, he had to make a statement. So he lifted his own child off his feet, hovering him there… much like grown Jack Graves had done to Dante Locke recently. Without the help of the wall.
That’s about where things got a little fuzzy.
One minute Jack had been looking into the eyes of his father, as Porter watched the life drain out of him. The next, he was waking up to the police carting his dad out of the kitchen with a bleeding head wound. There had been what sounded like the “thunk” of a cast iron skillet right as he’d passed out.. but he must’ve missed it.
Turns out though that ol' Porter Graves wasn’t just a drunk. He’d also been running heroin and meth through seven different states in the surrounding area. He’d been on a DEA watch-list for quite some time, and they’d chosen now to come a-knockin’. That being because apparently he'd just got back from picking up a shipment, and had enough smack in the trunk of the car to put him away for 30 years. So it was a mystery as to how he was going to even fit him in the trunk.
Talk about “Divine Intervention”, right?
Luckily, Mamma Graves had made things easy for them by cleaning his clock to save her baby boy. And that was the last time Jack saw, or thought about his old man.
Looking into his eyes as he choked the life out of him and then watching them carry him out the front door…
That was until 3 days ago when he’d gotten a letter from a corrections facility in Kentucky. A letter addressed to him from an inmate named “Porter Graves”. A letter from his “father”, who had seen him wrestling on TV and decided to reach out. He claimed to be sober now, and wanted to repair bridges.
Some bridges were just too burnt to repair though and some of them were meant to be burnt.
Pelham Park View Apartments
Bronx, NY
Current Day.
As Jack re-reads the letter, he sips at the bourbon in his glass to wash down the wave of mixed emotion he was feeling. Emotions brought up by the rehashing of the bottled up, painful memory he’d long filed away in his head.
With a click of his teeth, he downs the rest of the bourbon in the glass before setting it aside to pull his metal trash bin closer. He gives the letter one last once over, before igniting the corner with his zippo. As he watches it go up in flames, and the words begin to melt away, he feels a sense of relief. Part of him had wanted to reach out and get closure, but naw. This was closure enough. As far as he was concerned, the man didn’t deserve another chance, and if he ever saw him again he might finish the job he couldn’t do when he was a boy. He’d open up a CASE of whoopass and serve it to him with a spoon. Or he'd take the spoon and drive it right into his fucking eyeball, and scramble his brains..
“You deserved better and I promise I will never treat any woman or child of mine the way that bastard treated us. May he burn in hell.”
Jack once again downs the bourbon in a few quick gulps, and he pours the ice on the smoldering bits of the letter to sizzle it out. Once he’s sure all the embers have been extinguished, he turns to crawl up beside someone in his bed wrapping his arms around them to snuggle in close. The letter had brought up some old trauma and he’d relived it in the form of a nightmare. But now, the letter was gone… so were those demons.
At least for a moment.
Maybe he could finally get some rest.