#swilder

“I think it was good tonight,” she ventures, wincing at the burn of the cheap liquor. “I’ll admit, I wasn’t sold on the whole riding in on a white horse thing when you first described it…”

“Told ya.” He drains the whiskey in a practiced gulp, looking back over at the bar rather than her. Onto the next fix. He remembers himself enough to raise a quizzical eyebrow at least: another?

She shakes her head. “I’ll let this one… settle first.”

Damned if she’s going to watch him at the bar like she has nothing better to do. Instead, her eye roves the rest of the dive-bar they’ve found. Somewhere—elsewhere—the rest of the GLOW crew are celebrating another successful week. She imagines it is more cheerful than this, with bottles of Budweiser and a jukebox playing synth-pop rather than fuzzing death-metal. She isn’t quite sure why they’re here instead. Debbie, maybe. There’s still an unspoken rule of avoidance in play there; maybe there always will be.

She suspects it’s more than that. Debbie has probably already gone home to Randy. Maybe it’s about staying in character. Zoya doesn’t have friends, only allies she hasn’t betrayed yet. Can’t be too close; can’t know all the stories and share all the jokes or she’ll lose her grip on that.

She finishes the bourbon; fire in her belly.

Maybe it’s not about Zoya at all – there’s another character in the ring here, after all. Plain old Ruth. She’s here because Sam is the only other person she knows who fucked up every good thing in his life without thinking too.

She frowns, spinning the glass in her hands. That’s not right either. They think. Think too much, perhaps, about the wrong things. The job, the story. Both of them so busy chasing a dream, a narrative, that they miss out on the flow of their own lives—

“Hey, I know you.”

“Hmm?” She glances up, half-smiling out of genial habit, at the slurring voice.

“Yeah. You’re her aren’t you? The Commie bitch from that wrestling show.”

Ruth cringes inwardly, shrinking away from the drunk. He’s tall and well-built, running to fat, sweating and bald. He’s every unwanted hand on her body in a club, every cat-call she’s ever shrugged off in the street. Ruth cringes away, but on the other side of a see-saw, Zoya rises up.

And Zoya has never cringed in her life.

“Da,” she affirms, as Ruth looks out from behind her icy eyes. “Commie bitch Zoya, that me. Who’s bitch are you?”

It takes a second for him to process. “The fuck you say to me?” he spits, and the horrible sticky table is flying before she even has time to flinch.

Time warps, glacier-slow. The table wasn’t for show; he was clearing a path. His fist swings back, unstoppable as a planet, and she’s frozen. Detached, almost. Watching dispassionately from somewhere else as her head is about to get punched clean off her shoulders. And like a magic lantern show flickering up to speed the scene unfolds, but not as she expects.

Something, someone, launches at her assailant with a yell. Half his size, but with a bantam-weight fury that takes the bully off guard; knocking him back a step.

“What the fuck man?!”

Sam. The world’s most unlikely knight in scuffed leather jacket, standing between her and three hundred pounds of rock-ape, with his fists balled.

She can feel her attacker’s confusion. The math doesn’t make sense. Sam is so much smaller, older, and somehow so much angrier. Hell, the whole room can feel it. Pin-drop silence; thirty pairs of eyes locked on their tableaux. The only movement in the room is the bartender surreptitiously removing a large baseball bat from under his counter.

Some kind of animal logic turns cogs behind those piggy little eyes; the certainty of the equation unfolding. A ham-like fist draws back again. It’s a wild haymaker and slow enough for Sam to duck. She expects him to drop, roll, run. Not to come up under the man’s guard and scrape together every bit of strength he has into a fierce uppercut. Rock-ape’s head is flung back and he staggers once again. One, two, three seconds of muzzy incomprehension. In her mind’s ear Keith counts down to victory.

Then he lands a return blow like the meteor-strike that killed the dinosaurs, and Sam goes flying. The rest of the room seems to fly with him; descending into a maelstrom of punching, kicking, testosterone fury.

She ignores the chaos, the stray kicks and knocks, scrambling to find him on the floor. He is curled around his stomach, unmoving. She drags him by the labels of his leather jacket through the door. He can barely stand; she can barely carry him. They are limping away by inches in the neon-lit mizzling rain, a cut-scene ripped straight from Blade Runner. At least until the body goes crashing through the bar window, crunching onto the sidewalk in an explosion of shattered glass and blood, and the fresh shot of adrenaline sends them both running.

She manages to pilot him to collapse on his couch, still clutching at his ribs like he’s been stabbed.

“We should get you to a hospital—” she tries.

“No,” he rasps. “I’ll be fine.”

“Harry Houdini died—”

“From a blow to the stomach,” he finishes. “I know.”  

Of course he does. She puts her head on one side, trying to puzzle this out. “You’re ashamed?”

“What? He had a hundred pounds on me—”

“Yeah, I saw. And about two decades less,” she shoots back.

He almost laughs at this, but thinks better of it. “Nice to see you extending your talent for making friends outside of the ring.”

“Well, what can I say? I’ve got a great mentor.”

He raises his hand in mock surrender, wincing at the pain. “You gonna stand there insulting me all night or—?”

“Or?”

He swallows, on the back foot now. “Fuck, I don’t know. Comfort me? I just took a pretty big punch for you.”

“Why?”

He blinks, like the question doesn’t make sense. “What do you mean, why?” Realising she’s serious, he pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ, Ruth. You’re more fucked up than I am. You make me laugh, and life feels less shitty when we hang around together. You need more than that?”

The conversation has pivoted once again back on her. She sighs dissent through her nose and goes to find ice in his kitchen, returning with a bag of sorry frozen peas and a wet flannel instead. “Here.” She folds his bruised hand around the freezer veg, tucks it back against his ribs. The wet flannel she uses to dab away blood in his eyebrow, cool an already purpling cheek.

It’s fine until she catches his eyes. Then the intimacy of the moment suddenly strikes her, stomach contracting sharply.

“You make me feel less… shitty too,” she admits, because she has to say something.

He nods. “Good. Um.” He makes a face. “You’ve got dirt on your…”  

“Oh, um…”

There is an awkward moment of gesticulation, until he solves the problem by reaching up, brushing his thumb across her cheek.

“Thanks,” she creaks. As if this is all completely normal. As if his fingers haven’t stalled in the stray hair by her ear; as if her flannel hasn’t stilled in its busy work.

He breaks the spell. “This is… this is a bad idea.” It half sounds like a question.

“Yeah,” she agrees, nodding like a fucking car ornament.

His moustache twitches with the wry grin underneath. “I mean, I’d only fuck this up. And people would talk…”

“It’d be a shame to ruin a friendship,” she adds.

“Yeah, yeah. I wouldn’t want people to think… you know… it wasn’t all earned through talent.”

“And after Rhonda—”

He flinches. “What?! Why the fuck would you bring her up?”

“I’m sorry! I thought we were doing reason why we shouldn’t—?”

“Well, yeah, but you know… nicely.”

She bites her lip in effort not to laugh in his face. “Nicely?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Nice reasons not to.” He catches her giggle, and immediately regrets it, wincing hard at the stab of pain from his ribs. “Fuck.”

Her smile twists in sympathy. “Can I see?”

“I thought we were agreeing not to take any clothes off?” he grumbles, but lets her pull his shirt up.

“Fuck,” she echoes, at the blooming flower of black and blue. She reapplies the sad bag of peas. “Thank you?” she tries.

She folds her arms. “Rare generally implies valuable.”

“Or fleeting.” He can see he isn’t going to win with threats, so leans forward conspiratorially instead. “Ok, ok. I’ll let you pitch two scenarios from the Wilder Binder of Wrestling Nerdery.”

She rolls her eyes. “Come up with a better name for my scrapbook.” Considering her position, she goes for broke. “Three scenarios. And one of them has to be a double-pager.”

“Done.”

“Well, that was too easy.”

“Way too easy.” Another cigarette sparks; he is still working his way up to actually asking her whatever’s so damn important. She raises an impatient eyebrow and he finally cuts to the chase. “I need a date. For a wedding.”

She blinks, nonplussed. “What, you want me to find…?”

“No. Jesus. I’m not that much of a charity case. Am I?”

“Paranoid much?” she snaps, covering her own confusion. “You want me…” And now the penny drops. “… as an actress?”

“Yes. Yes. In a purely professional capacity.”

She opens and closes her mouth a few times. “What could possibly be professional about you taking a fake date to a wedding? No, no. Don’t answer that.” She considers the problem further, frowning. “Wouldn’t Debbie or-or Rhonda be better for this, anyway?”

Now it is his turn to goggle. “Debbie’s way too high profile,” he says, which stings a bit, she can’t lie. “And Rhonda is subtle as a fucking brick. I’m coming to you for discretion. And, you know,” he shrugs, “because I thought you might like a day off from team pariah.”

She hesitates, still very unsure. “When are we talking?”

“This weekend.”

Damn. It would be interesting, after all. And what else is she going to fill the time between filming and rehearsal with, other the Not Speaking to Debbie? She narrows her eyes. “Who was your back up after me?”

“No one. Epic car wreck.” A lie, but at least he cares enough to bother.

“Fine,” she says, with the biggest sigh she can muster. “On one more condition. Tell no one.”

He rolls his eyes. “Like I was going to advertise this. Don’t dress like a fancy Mormon.”

“You have a different character in mind?”

“Average human woman? I appreciate it may be a stretch.” He is prodding at his storyboards again, thinking he’s won their war of words.

“What, that one would consider dating you?”

She beats a hasty retreat before he can think of another comeback.

In the Before—and that’s really how she’s started to think of it now; it deserves the capital letter—she would have been getting ready with Debbie. Borrowing make-up, maybe even a dress. Strategizing, laughing at how pathetic this really is.

Now the dress is a bronze shift borrowed from Jenny. Her palette of eyeshadow is cadged from Dawn, normally used to transform her face into Zoya’s. The room is quiet. Sheila is off on the hunt. Even the TV refuses to collude, providing nothing more than hissing static as background noise.

At least this way is efficient. She gives her costume a quick appraisal in the bathroom mirror. She looks fine, good even. Just not very like herself. Whoever that is. Sometimes, these days, she isn’t sure.

Outside the morning is warm with a faint smell of oranges in the breeze. She settles down outside the motel reception; doesn’t have to wait long before he pulls up.

“Hey,” he says, as she takes the passenger seat. “Good job on the whole normal human thing.”

“Same to you,” she shoots back. He’s even attempted a shave. The effect is frankly disconcerting.

“You still, uh… you still okay to do this?”

She thinks about it. “Yeah,” she says, “I’m okay.”

“Good. That’s good. I mean, I won’t be a dick about it—”

“Who is this wedding even for, anyway? Why is it so important you don’t come alone?”

He rubs his chin, seeming surprised himself at the absence of usual bristling stubble. “Chrissy,” he eventually volunteers.

“Chrissy the ex? Chrissy the relative? Chrissy the… network executive? Help me out here.”

“Not an ex,” he says, too quickly. “She was just a-a friend…”

Ah. A shade softer now, she presses on. “Chrissy the one that got away?”

“Yeah. Yeah, something like that. Happy now?”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“I know. I know. Sorry. Anyway, it’s her daughter’s wedding. And I’ve known her a long time.” He screws up his face. “Well, I’ve knew who she was a long time ago. We done?”

She nods, knowing his defensiveness will pass like a summer storm. “Shall we?”

He turns the ignition in reply.

There must be two hundred guests in the ballroom, dressed like frosted peacocks. Sam’s need for a companion makes considerably more sense in this sea of smiling, beautiful people. Oddly he seems more comfortable now, Bellini in hand. “Okay,” he says, “if I rub my nose like this it means I don’t know them.”

“Mm, subtle. I like it.” She drains her own glass for some liquid confidence. “You have to go along with whatever I do though. Right?”

He shrugs, takes another sip. “Right.”

She turns, opening their table to the throng. Smiles. The first fish takes the bait straight away; a middle-aged couple. Sam rubs his nose.

“Good afternoon,” says Ruth, in a cut-glass British accent. “Um, I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

“Oh, you’re English!” says the woman. “How charming! I’m Wendy and this is my husband Robert.”

“Very nice to meet you,” says Sam, sticking with his usual drawl. “My name’s Sam and this is my friend…”

“Eileen,” picks up Ruth, “Eileen Dover.” She ignores a slight choking noise from Sam, hiding his snort of laugher with a large gulp of cocktail.

“What are you doing over here, Eileen?”

“Oh, I’ve been in LA for a few years now. I teach yoga.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes, several classes a week. I’ve so many clients over here it really is quite a stretch…”

“Is that so?”

“I try to be flexible to accommodate, of course. Sam, darling, are you ok?”

“Fine, fine,” he wheezes, having breathed Bellini.  They exchange further pleasantries, until the lightly confused Wendy and Robert excuse themselves to talk to other guests.

“Okay,” he says, still struggling to hide his grin. “That was pretty funny.”

“Uh-huh.”

“You’re good at that English accent.”

The corner of her mouth twitches, a shy little half-smile. “Thanks.”

Next comes an older gentleman, for whom she plays the part of Texan belle Caroline. Sam then introduces her to a second couple as Norma-Jean, and actually has to duck away for a moment during her impression of Marilyn, to regain some composure. She drains her glass of cocktail and realises she’s enjoying herself, for the first time in weeks, outside of the wrestling ring.  

A handsome woman, almost a foot taller than she is, takes Sam’s absence as cue to approach. Ruth has her suspicions about her identity. “Hi,” she says, in her own voice, “I’m Ruth.”

“Chrissy,” confirms the woman. “Nice to meet you.”

She kisses Ruth, once on each cheek, Chanel perfume filling her nostrils. The woman is immaculate in navy blue, dark ringlets of hair cascading down her back. She radiates an aura of calm competence and effortless style. Something like the polar opposite of Sam, in other words, piquing Ruth’s interest. They might as well be from different planets, and she’s itching to know the circumstances of first contact.

“Thank you for inviting me to be part of today,” she smiles. “Sam said you’ve been friends for a long time?”

“We grew up together. How do you know Sam?”

She can’t help but admire the way Chrissy has flipped the interrogation. “We work together,” she replies carefully, “developing a new show for TV.”

There is something flinty in Chrissy’s eyes, for all her careful words. “You’re an actress?”

Ruth can see little point in denying it. “Yes—”

“And a writer,” says Sam, returning from what smells like a cigarette break. “All her own jokes.” He receives his own kisses warmly. “You look wonderful. As always.”

“Wish I could say the same,” Chrissy returns, still steely. Sam shrugs, faux apologetic, and the façade breaks. “Ah, I’m just kidding—”

“No, you’re not. I’m not ageing well, I’m coming to accept it.”

“You look fine, Sam. Very smart. Do I have Ruth to thank for that?

He shakes his head, and she is aware of words unspoken under the surface. “No, I actually dressed myself today. I manage that sometimes.”

Chrissy laughs; like everything else about her the sound is refined. Some of the tension seems to drain out of the conversation. “Well, make sure you get a seat near the front. Jessie will want to see you.”

“Will do.”  

Ruth waits until Chrissy has walked a long way out of earshot before daring to open her mouth. “She doesn’t like actresses?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “She doesn’t like me sleeping with them.”

“What, she wants you to be respectable?”