Post by Casey Grey on Feb 19, 2018 0:45:43 GMT -8
The scene opens up on a small garage. It’s nearing dusk, and a series of plug in lights illuminate the garage’s interior. One hangs from the ceiling, one rests on a counter illuminating a wall of hanging tools while an old Walkman with a small speaker hardwired through the headphone jack supplies some kind of music. Whatever is playing at the moment is more than a match for the tiny speaker though, and the song itself can’t be made out. A third hangs from the open hood of a black 1967 GTO, restored and in immaculate condition, with a license plate on the front sporting the face of “Buttercup” from the Powerpuff girls. Behind the car, a squat tower, bench, and a rack of dumbbells.
Casey Grey leans over the side of the car, using a ratchet to tighten the carburetor. Her hands are cut, bloody, and covered with grease. Streaks of black are visible on her face, arms, and shirt as well. She finishes tightening the bolt and takes the one from her mouth. She lines it up, gives it a twist, and moves the ratchet into position.
The phone rings. She bumps the bolt and it bounces out of the hole, dancing along the intake before falling to the ground.
“Shit!” She looks over and walks to the table. She puts the ratchet down and answers the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m looking for a one Ms. Casey Grey.” Casey puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter before scooping some “Fast Orange” out of a tub.
“This is her.”
“Oh. Good. Ms. Grey, I am calling from Elysium.”
“I know who it is. How can I help you?”
“Well, we received a package from you.”
“Okay. Is there a problem? You need something else?” Casey asked, washing her hands. Her face twisted into a scowl as she scrubbed at the grease to get it off.
“No. Everything seems to be in order. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions though. Maybe get a glimpse of who is actually behind all of this paperwork?”
“Ask away,” Casey said, continuing to scrub her hands. She pulls her T-shirt off, standing in the garage in her sports bra as she fishes a black hoodie out of the car’s passenger seat.
“I guess the first thing I would like to know is why did you send this in? I don’t mean any disrespect, but tell me what makes you think you can fit in here with us?” There was a moment of silence before Casey answered.
“Well, first I watched the last Pay Per View. Well, my family and I did. I probably wouldn’t have sent the package at all, but I saw a couple of familiar faces there and when they did well in their matches I’ll admit that I was a little happy for them. I guess my Pops saw that and after the main event was over he pulled me aside and basically demanded I send you guys one. He doesn’t think I’ll ever be happy unless I’m in the ring.”
“And what do you think?”
There was no hesitation. “I don’t know what I think. I know I don’t know if I’m nearly as good as some think I am. I sometimes feel that I only got by on attitude and nerve. I think the fans responded well to that, and that was it.”
“What was it?”
There was hesitation this time. She had to think of something fast that didn’t involve vandalizing the venues. “Not sure. Just…me being me. The guys loved me, I would come in before the events and help them set up the ring or the concession stand. They were a good group. Real down to earth. I understood them.” She left out the part about her unauthorized selfish self-aggrandizement with the letters on the marquee and concession price lists or the beers at the bar after the events.
“I see. Well, that was magnanimous of you.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means kind. I guess my last question Ms. Grey is why should I put your package in the accepted stack and not the trash can?”
There was a moment as Casey pushed the sweatshirt’s hood off of her head and pulled her hair back behind her ears. “Why? Because you’ll miss out if you don’t. Because I’m going to go somewhere, and wherever I go I’m going to be stacking arenas and muzzling bitches.” Casey begins to get emotional. “Because I’m going to work, and I’m going to sell and the people that come to your events and watch at home are going to love me!” Tears, but she’s not crying. “Because I’m going to go somewhere! And someone is going to get me! I should be asking you why you think your fed is good enough for me!” Casey stares up at the light hanging from the ceiling. There is a long moment of silence.
“Okay. Well, thank you, Casey,” he said. “We…have your information and will be in touch with our decision.”
Click.
Casey finally lets go. She turns to the counter, sweeping all of the tools onto the floor and out into the yard. She slams her fists into the table surface, causing the disc to skip. She falls to her hands and knees and leans against her car. She cries freely. She knows she’s failed.
The song can now be made out. Sandi Thom. “House of the Rising Sun”. As the scene slowly fades to black the end of the song can be heard.
Casey Grey leans over the side of the car, using a ratchet to tighten the carburetor. Her hands are cut, bloody, and covered with grease. Streaks of black are visible on her face, arms, and shirt as well. She finishes tightening the bolt and takes the one from her mouth. She lines it up, gives it a twist, and moves the ratchet into position.
The phone rings. She bumps the bolt and it bounces out of the hole, dancing along the intake before falling to the ground.
“Shit!” She looks over and walks to the table. She puts the ratchet down and answers the phone. “Hello?”
“Hello. I’m looking for a one Ms. Casey Grey.” Casey puts the phone on speaker and sets it on the counter before scooping some “Fast Orange” out of a tub.
“This is her.”
“Oh. Good. Ms. Grey, I am calling from Elysium.”
“I know who it is. How can I help you?”
“Well, we received a package from you.”
“Okay. Is there a problem? You need something else?” Casey asked, washing her hands. Her face twisted into a scowl as she scrubbed at the grease to get it off.
“No. Everything seems to be in order. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions though. Maybe get a glimpse of who is actually behind all of this paperwork?”
“Ask away,” Casey said, continuing to scrub her hands. She pulls her T-shirt off, standing in the garage in her sports bra as she fishes a black hoodie out of the car’s passenger seat.
“I guess the first thing I would like to know is why did you send this in? I don’t mean any disrespect, but tell me what makes you think you can fit in here with us?” There was a moment of silence before Casey answered.
“Well, first I watched the last Pay Per View. Well, my family and I did. I probably wouldn’t have sent the package at all, but I saw a couple of familiar faces there and when they did well in their matches I’ll admit that I was a little happy for them. I guess my Pops saw that and after the main event was over he pulled me aside and basically demanded I send you guys one. He doesn’t think I’ll ever be happy unless I’m in the ring.”
“And what do you think?”
There was no hesitation. “I don’t know what I think. I know I don’t know if I’m nearly as good as some think I am. I sometimes feel that I only got by on attitude and nerve. I think the fans responded well to that, and that was it.”
“What was it?”
There was hesitation this time. She had to think of something fast that didn’t involve vandalizing the venues. “Not sure. Just…me being me. The guys loved me, I would come in before the events and help them set up the ring or the concession stand. They were a good group. Real down to earth. I understood them.” She left out the part about her unauthorized selfish self-aggrandizement with the letters on the marquee and concession price lists or the beers at the bar after the events.
“I see. Well, that was magnanimous of you.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It means kind. I guess my last question Ms. Grey is why should I put your package in the accepted stack and not the trash can?”
There was a moment as Casey pushed the sweatshirt’s hood off of her head and pulled her hair back behind her ears. “Why? Because you’ll miss out if you don’t. Because I’m going to go somewhere, and wherever I go I’m going to be stacking arenas and muzzling bitches.” Casey begins to get emotional. “Because I’m going to work, and I’m going to sell and the people that come to your events and watch at home are going to love me!” Tears, but she’s not crying. “Because I’m going to go somewhere! And someone is going to get me! I should be asking you why you think your fed is good enough for me!” Casey stares up at the light hanging from the ceiling. There is a long moment of silence.
“Okay. Well, thank you, Casey,” he said. “We…have your information and will be in touch with our decision.”
Click.
Casey finally lets go. She turns to the counter, sweeping all of the tools onto the floor and out into the yard. She slams her fists into the table surface, causing the disc to skip. She falls to her hands and knees and leans against her car. She cries freely. She knows she’s failed.
The song can now be made out. Sandi Thom. “House of the Rising Sun”. As the scene slowly fades to black the end of the song can be heard.
I’ve got one foot on the platform
And the other foot on the train.
I’m going back, going back, to New Orleans,
To wear that ball and chain.
Oh yeah!
To wear that ball and chain.
There is a house in New Orleans,
They call the Rising Sun.
And it’s been the ruin,
Of many a poor girl,
God only knows…
I’m One.
And the other foot on the train.
I’m going back, going back, to New Orleans,
To wear that ball and chain.
Oh yeah!
To wear that ball and chain.
There is a house in New Orleans,
They call the Rising Sun.
And it’s been the ruin,
Of many a poor girl,
God only knows…
I’m One.
