Post by Immanuel Taylor on Dec 17, 2010 22:22:07 GMT -5
San Francisco.
“Did you know that in San Francisco there are more bike lanes in a little city that is only 7 miles wide than in all of New York City?”
The fairly attractive lady, clearly having mastered the measurements of bike lanes in San Francisco but not the essentials of grammatical speech, seemed to be happy. She definitely looks happy. Immanuel wasn’t sure if it was because of her position in San Francisco or if she was merely paid to be happy. Furthermore, Immanuel wasn’t sure what the presence of bike lanes would mean to him. Less obese people perhaps, yes, but would it warrant sufficient reason to live in San Francisco?
The red eye flight that Chad Kennedy, EUW’s official General Manager with a god-like arrogance, booked for Immanuel Taylor at the end of their disastrous interview was meant to be a lesson for Immanuel. Not only had Immanuel Taylor succeeded in imbuing a bad impression of himself in Kennedy, but he also managed to offend the EUW General Manager.
Immanuel didn’t like Chad Kennedy from the second he made his way into his office. For starters, Kennedy is loud and bombastic, and that is a sharp contrast to Immanuel’s shy, soft-spoken persona. Putting men of opposing, maybe even conflicting, personalities in a single room with the intention of engaging in a conversation is going to lead to inevitable friction. Immanuel had time during the ninety minute flight from San Diego to San Francisco, minus the lifting off and landing times, to reflect back on that interview.
Should he have made a story up? A heartwarming and naive folktale of a boy growing up in a small town whose love of professional wrestling enabled him to dream big? Maybe lose the “small town” part and go with a more pragmatic approach. Big City Liberal falls in love with Professional Wrestling at first sight? Immanuel did indeed grow up in a big city, Baltimore City, but the past has always been a nuisance for Immanuel Taylor. It wasn’t traumatic or bleak or anything like that but simply something that Immanuel had attempted to erase more than once. You see, it’s not about what happened but rather the mere existence of something. Just the implication of something is sufficient here.
The Gulf War part should have definitely been left out. Still, Kennedy could have easily made a few phone calls and found that out. And even if Kennedy didn’t make any calls, he would have easily seen it in Immanuel Taylor. The scar on Immanuel’s face, from his forehead to the left cheek, hinted strongly of any possible combat-esque involvement. That was the one thing Kennedy consistently came back to, the ugly scar on Immanuel’s face along with constantly mispronouncing “Immanuel”.
The aforementioned fairly attractive woman with the expert knowledge of San Francisco bus lanes had finished her segment and Immanuel Taylor made his way out of Best Buy, located on 1717 Harrison Street, and continued his frivolous venture in the Mission District portion of San Francisco. Immanuel willingly chose to remain in this area until his trial match at the EUW Headquarters which he could, at this very moment, indeed see with his very own eyes. GM Kennedy may have booked him a flight but he didn’t lift a finger to secure him shelter. Immanuel’s past life of nomadic residency, however, taught him how to carry himself as a stranger in a strange land. It was getting very dark now and Immanuel stopped to get one last look at the EUW Headquarters.
The EUW Headquarters in of itself is a lifeless and soulless embodiment of capitalism, Big? Yes. Expensive? Without a doubt, but other than that, it is nothing more. It is there and simply there, nothing more and nothing less. It deserves no further detail and neither does it possess the possibility for any.
San Francisco’s ok, Immanuel thought to himself as he strode on down the Mission District with his head down and his senses high and aware past adjourning businesses such as Sprint and Imperial Travel. Immanuel had been in many cities in the States, had strolled down many sidewalks, some clean and some appallingly dirty, had been to places that you should never ever go to and had passed the opportunity to go to places that could have been beneficial. He had seen the stereotypical image foreigners tend to have of big Western cities in the form of gangs, crime, and narcotics, and Immanuel had also seen the pleasant image of order. Gentlemen and Madmen. Immanuel saw them all.
Past the Mission San Francisco de Asis, Immanuel found an obscure, kept-to-itself little café that the passive bystander would have to struggle to notice. Immanuel found it more interesting than the soulless EUW headquarters. There were murals plastered, sprayed, colored on the walls and Immanuel had to tolerate their existence before he made his way into the faceless little café in colorful San Francisco.
Immanuel, head down and never making eye contact, quickly made his way to one of the empty, bland tables with the empty bolted down and bland chairs. He had a small bag over his shoulder, in it was his passport, a slew of documents he always carried with him, an expired Baltimore City Library Card, a pocketknife he recently purchased, a loaf of bread, a carton of milk, whatever money he had left with him and a tattered copy of Marcus Aurelius’ Meditations .
A middle-aged brunette in a waitress’ attire with a “Nadine” name tag above her right breast came over to the quiet man in the corner table with his head down, buried in the contents of the café’s menu.
“What can I get you?” she said, cheerfully.
“I’d like some eggs and coffee” Immanuel replied while pointing at a picture and when he raised his head, the ugly scar slightly caught Nadine off guard. She hoped he hadn’t noticed.
“You can have anything you want, sweetie”
“I’d like some eggs and coffee”
“How’d you like your eggs?”
“Uh….edible”
Nadine giggled a bit, failing to notice the solemn and sober features of that reply. She had a good body, Immanuel thought. Maybe she’s an aspiring actress, or perhaps a dancer, whose ambitions in life stretch far beyond the public service of waiters and waitresses.
Or maybe she just wants to be a goddamn waitress.
Here he was, Immanuel Taylor, in San Francisco, California. Sitting in some obscure little café with a shoulder bag and a past full of contradictions and ambiguity. Immanuel’s intention to apply to the EUW was very spontaneous, it literally came out of nowhere. He was in his sparsely furnished one-bedroom apartment back in Denver, Colorado, and it was the reflection of the flourscent bedside lamp on his skin that made him realize the reality we as humans must confront: Time.
Immanuel’s 42 years old and it was showing in his skin, which is far from the elastic kind one would normally find with the young and the reckless. Immanuel took one hard look at the back of his hand and reality became too much for him. Sweat rolled down his forehead, barely missing the scar, even though it was rather chilly in the room. Immanuel knew he was waiting for something, knew that something in life was going to happen to him. The problem is, he didn’t know what it was supposed to be. One day later, after the revelation of his aging, Immanuel’s eyes glimpsed an EUW flyer.
Immediately after viewing it, Immanuel quit his job at a frivolous Construction Site and, withdrawing everything from his modest savings account, put himself on the road to EUW. He had the body of a wrestler. Rigid training in the U.S. Military followed by a lifetime of jobs that involve physical labour had spared him any deterioration in his physical body that one might expect to face when aging. In addition, local gyms gave him the privilege of engaging in amateur wrestling. The only things blocking Immanuel’s path is his old age and his past. And now, it was Chad Kennedy too.
Kennedy, like many people, took Immanuel’s self-reserved nature as an insult. Immanuel didn’t mean it so even though he did find Kennedy to be banal, but that was what Kennedy saw and that is what Kennedy is going to remember from now on. The asshole named Immanuel Taylor sitting opposite to him and neither making eye contact nor showering him with deference or gratitude. The asshole named Immanuel Taylor with the ugly scar, the shady past, the Gulf War blemish on his resume, and the lack of social skills that we humans tend to take for granted. Immanuel Taylor, the freak you keep a distance from.
Immanuel couldn’t figure out why he was being given a trial match. He sure as hell fucked the interview up, yet here he was in some obscure, little café in the Mission District in San Francisco, California, blocks away from the EUW Headquarters, homeless and without any basis, awaiting the fateful day of the trial match. Was Kennedy really going to gamble on him? If Immanuel did indeed manage to dazzle and awe every trainer during the trial match, was Kennedy really going to green light his application? Or is this an elaborate “Fuck You” by Kennedy? Getting Immanuel’s hopes high before stepping on the man’s dreams thus sending a powerful message.
“Here you go, sweetie. Your edible eggs and coffee”
“Yes. Thank you” Immanuel replied in one breath without making eye contact. The eggs were scrambled and the coffee was freshly brewed, very strong in taste.
Immanuel did not know what to think about the upcoming trial match. It is what it is. A trial match. But what happens when Kennedy laughs and tells him to go fuck himself? Should Immanuel re-commit himself to the nomadic lifestyle that he embraced after returning home from Kuwait? Should he continue drifting endlessly with the ugly scar on his face from city to city, state to state, working and whoring himself out to employers in order to make a living until one day his hair falls out, his movements slow down, his body breaks down and he rolls over and dies? Is this what life has to offer Immanuel Taylor?
Immanuel wasn’t a saint. Far from it actually, but surely that kind of ending would be a sorry end for him. And what was Professional Wrestling going to offer him anyways? Immanuel didn’t have a concrete answer for that but he knew that it was the last place to look. He had no family, no friends and thus EUW might as well be the promised land simply because there are no other promised lands for Immanuel Taylor.
The eggs were done with, the coffee mercilessly consumed and the corresponding plate and mug were both empty and stained. Nadine, the waitress who may or may not be an aspiring actress in disguise, finished an order at another table and crossed by Immanuel’s table.
“You done with those, sweetie?”
“Yes. Thank you”
“You’re welcome” A giggle was audible. “Do you want the check?”
“Yea….uh….can I have more coffee instead?”
Immanuel’s metallic and rusty voice, due to elongated speech, caught Nadine by surprise. She stayed in control through. Kept her smile on and even mustered another “sweetie” in response. Immanuel did not know what to think of that, he didn’t know what to think of many things that were happening at this specific moment. EUW. The Trial Match. San Francisco. The Mission District. The soulless yet expensive EUW Headquarters. Chad Kennedy. What Chad Kennedy is capable of. Nadine the waitress who might or might not be an undercover aspiring actress. The oddly tasty freshly brewed coffee and the edible eggs.
Whether this was the beginning of something new in Immanuel Taylor’s cipher-like existence, whether it is the thing he has been waiting for, is unclear. All that can be done for now is waiting, waiting, waiting for the Trial Match in a couple of days. Whatever this thing is, it’s coming. It’s now a part of Immanuel’s life and its coming without any hesitation or impediment. That was one of the few things Immanuel Taylor was sure of.
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'There is no Triviality at issue here' he says, 'but a plain question of sanity or insanity'