Serenity VII: ʙᴏᴍʙs ᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴛᴏᴋʏᴏ
Jul 25, 2021 12:19:47 GMT -5
Karlie Nash, Addy A, and 8 more like this
Post by Lissie Hope ♥ on Jul 25, 2021 12:19:47 GMT -5
The melting heat rebounding off the tarmac always felt the same, even if I’d gotten used to flying the jumbo airlines lately. The long walk down the twisting, air-conditioned corridor and being met with a smile was one thing, but that feeling of eminence as I climbed the stairwell up the private aircraft in the secretive airport hangar was something else entirely. I was cloaked under the shadow of the steel vessel, an architectural marvel painted with a glistening blue-and-silver Philidor Holdings logo, would soon plunge through the clouds and over the vast blues of the Pacific. Eleven hours of air-time, enough for a good book, if I could keep my eyes open that long.
These flights used to be peaceful. I still remember one of the last times I traveled globally, the quick turnaround from #WrestleSeason1 in Seoul to the UCI Reunion in Chicago. Well, I remember boarding the aircraft, seated next to a young business executive with a warm smile. But I’d popped a couple of oxys and swirled them down with a bourbon chaser, and the next thing I knew, I was being tended to by the staff as we landed in the states. It was an embarrassing end, but the journey was (un)comfortably tranquil.
sᴇʀᴇɴɪᴛʏ. Simple, sedated sᴇʀᴇɴɪᴛʏ.
But those days were over. I’d promised myself that I needed to feel again. And eight months later, I’ve learned to accept everything that comes with a clear conscience. I would feel hurt. Pain. Anger. Resentment. I would feel triumph. Intimacy. Exuberance. Even love. I wouldn’t let my days escape me like sunken treasures under the #deepbluesea, even if losing half-a-day on this flight. I was surrounded by my new tribe, a convoy of kindred spirits who’d guide the lost girl out of the hedgemaze. Even in failure, they wouldn’t leave me isolated and abandoned. I shared the plane with Saltair and Garvey. Ash and Carter. Adler and Mud. My agent Ian Cavanagh and Dr. Brower.
“What are you doing here?” I heard Jim Mud ask as he leaned closer to the crewmember, reading the names on the passenger list.
“I was invited,” Cassidy Adler answered, his eyes hidden behind Ray-ban’s but the smirk escaping the corners of his mouth. I listened cautiously and with deep intrigue over how this interaction would go. “My sister is on this flight, for fuck’s sake.”
Jim Mud located his name on the manifest, and nodded to the crew member with derision. Cassidy shoulder-checked him on the way in.
And all I wanted was a quiet flight.
I don’t usually enjoy wearing leather. It’s too tight, too hot, it doesn’t emphasize my best assets - it might be the only fabric I can wear that actually silences the misogynists who think I need double-D’s for their antiquated ideal of femininity - but otherwise? It’s a chore to wear it, and to take it off. A part of me appreciates those that are confident enough to pull off the impossible. Sweaty bikers. Fashionista sisters. Greasy metalheads. But then I think about meatheads like Der Metzger who use leather to hide faces, and all I can think about is how crusty and sweaty all that mess is beneath. It’s sickening. I do wonder if there’s a handsome man underneath, or if it’s not only his midsection that resembles Jabba the Hut.
But then I think about Japanese wrestling. The iconic ring gear worn by some of their most-respected, most-idolized female superstars - the neon-colors, the straps, corsets, bodices - the fabric of choice.
We’re in Tokyo fuckin’ Japan, performing for our international supporters in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The vibrant, effulgent, incandescent lights pouring from every building, and standing out on the garments worn by every young lady. I stand here at yet another fan expo, the meet-and-greets Action Wrestling host before every major event, and I wanted to do something special for the occasion. I wanted to honor the tradition of those Japanese wonders I’ve looked up to my entire career. But there was one in particular.
I arrived at the meet-and-greet draping my arms in lime green, yellow, and pink armbands, and on my shoulder, I’d sharpied the letters: H-A-N-A. Her loss to the wrestling industry a year prior had affected me deeply, and the crushing echo chamber of vulgarity and slander she’d experienced - I would soon learn the toll of similar degradation and humiliation just months later. I like to think of myself as someone who battled the same turmoil she did, but managed to rise from the depths of depressive isolation stronger. She’s a tremendous inspiration to me, and I wanted to honor her in front of those who idolized her.
The teenager in a neon-yellow skirt and bright pink halter-top cried out. Her green eyes pierced my soul, and I could see the lime-colored eye-shadow begin to run down her cheek. Two teen-aged boys flanked her - one pulled out his phone to record a TikTok, the other pulled his friend in to comfort her.
“Are you a fan?” I asked with a smile, pulling out my sharpie. The young lady turned her head into her friend’s shoulder.
I don’t usually enjoy wearing leather. It’s too tight, too hot, it doesn’t emphasize my best assets - it might be the only fabric I can wear that actually silences the misogynists who think I need double-D’s for their antiquated ideal of femininity - but otherwise? It’s a chore to wear it, and to take it off. A part of me appreciates those that are confident enough to pull off the impossible. Sweaty bikers. Fashionista sisters. Greasy metalheads. But then I think about meatheads like Der Metzger who use leather to hide faces, and all I can think about is how crusty and sweaty all that mess is beneath. It’s sickening. I do wonder if there’s a handsome man underneath, or if it’s not only his midsection that resembles Jabba the Hut.
But then I think about Japanese wrestling. The iconic ring gear worn by some of their most-respected, most-idolized female superstars - the neon-colors, the straps, corsets, bodices - the fabric of choice.
All-leather everything.
We’re in Tokyo fuckin’ Japan, performing for our international supporters in one of the most beautiful cities in the world. The vibrant, effulgent, incandescent lights pouring from every building, and standing out on the garments worn by every young lady. I stand here at yet another fan expo, the meet-and-greets Action Wrestling host before every major event, and I wanted to do something special for the occasion. I wanted to honor the tradition of those Japanese wonders I’ve looked up to my entire career. But there was one in particular.
I arrived at the meet-and-greet draping my arms in lime green, yellow, and pink armbands, and on my shoulder, I’d sharpied the letters: H-A-N-A. Her loss to the wrestling industry a year prior had affected me deeply, and the crushing echo chamber of vulgarity and slander she’d experienced - I would soon learn the toll of similar degradation and humiliation just months later. I like to think of myself as someone who battled the same turmoil she did, but managed to rise from the depths of depressive isolation stronger. She’s a tremendous inspiration to me, and I wanted to honor her in front of those who idolized her.
The teenager in a neon-yellow skirt and bright pink halter-top cried out. Her green eyes pierced my soul, and I could see the lime-colored eye-shadow begin to run down her cheek. Two teen-aged boys flanked her - one pulled out his phone to record a TikTok, the other pulled his friend in to comfort her.
“Are you a fan?” I asked with a smile, pulling out my sharpie. The young lady turned her head into her friend’s shoulder.
“I’m sorry…” I tried explaining, seeing that these weren’t tears of an overwhelmed fan, but of deep-seeded anguish. I’d cried those tears before. “I don’t… understand,” I said, looking around, hoping for someone to throw me a lifesaver.
“DISGRACE! YOU’RE DISGUSTING!”
The TikToker’s mouth bended into a smile, knowing he was going to have a hit. But the young lady’s pained cries truly affected me - I want to deliver an experience that the fans can look back fondly upon, but people are cruel. Demanding. They want what I can’t offer. I will not compromise my sobriety and my identity by abandoning the people who never abandoned me.
“Philidor Holdings is sponsoring this event--” I began, getting silenced with boos before the incoming trash pelted me. The water bottles and cups of alcohol followed, splashing at my feet. I knew that aroma anywhere. I was quickly whisked away by security, wondering where the fuck I’d squandered it.
The dead of night - four a.m., to be exact - and I was restless, unable to silence the musings bouncing through my brain. I escaped without waking him - he was starfish’d on the bed after stumbling up from the bar - and I punched the elevator button up to the top-floor. Sneaking through the stairwell, I wanted some fresh air, but the windows in the Aman Tokyo were glued shut. To my surprise, the door was wedged open, and I felt the cold breeze filter in.
As I crept towards the ledge, the neon lights of the concrete jungle glowed, illuminating me. I closed my eyes and let the winds wash over my face, the strands of my hair fluttering.
“Howie would’ve loved this view,” I thought to myself, leaning a little too (un)comfortably over the ledge. “It’s such a long way down.” But in my peripheral, that red hair was unmistakable.
What are you doing up here?
I hope you didn’t let the door close behind you.
I decided to approach. He was drenched, leaning on the railing, the trail of water dripping from the bottom of his jeans.
Smoke?
Johnny Bacchus offered me a Parliament.
That’s a gateway vice.
But I took it anyway. He leaned in with his lighter, cupping my hands.
With our luck, Maxy is gonna jump out from behind that pillar over there with his camera.
I choked on a puff of smoke; I wasn’t expecting that.
I saw what happened at the convention. That was harsh, you doing okay?
I’ve gotten used to it these days.
Still, you tried to honor her, and you don’t have to feel bad about that.
Thanks...
I was suspicious of him; I figured he’d pop champagne to my bouts of humiliation. But he was being nice.
What are you doing up here?
I needed to get away. Things were getting too real.
Yeah - I know the feeling.
I thought back to the fumes of alcohol emanating from his breath as he slept. He tried to fool around, but luckily, I only needed to protest for a second before the snores echoed off the walls.
What about you?
I couldn’t sleep. This city; it’s many distractions - yet I feel like I’m still missing so much of it. ...if that makes sense.
It makes perfect sense. Huge city - lotta directions to go with so little time. A pause. They got you on an itinerary?
It’s not like I’m not free to explore; I just worry what I’d come across if I do.
Johnny nods in understanding, but I noticed the haze in his eyes, as if he was floating on the clouds.
Don’t have anyone here, like a buddy system?
I’ve got someone…
Same guy you’ve been seeing for a month or so?
Keeping tabs on me?
You posted about it on Twitter.
Oh, right… I giggled in embarrassment. He’s just some fun. Nothing serious… at least, on his end. I don’t know; guess I’m bringing back ‘it’s complicated.’
I mean, you tossed the ‘L-bomb’ around in that tweet. Like, are you ‘okay’ - actually?
The wall went up.
Happiness is fleeting, Johnny. You should know that better than anything. I’m scared to be ’okay’ today, because I don’t know how long it’ll be till I’m not again. So I’ve got to enjoy it while it lasts; don’t fucking mock me for it.
Johnny raises his arms in protest.
I’m not mocking you! Just sayin’, if dude’s not reciprocal, you don’t need him. You’re Lissie Hope for god’s sa-
Am I? You’ve lead the charge of those saying I’m not anymore.
I admired you, Lissie. Dyed my fuckin’ mop red after Havoc because of you.
Johnny’s voice cracked and I took a second to internalize what he said. But I was too far removed.
Romping all night with my partner ain’t a good look. Flirty crosswords with Kat; bathroom visits with Olive - you really wanna be the old me so bad, huh?
Johnny flicked half of an unsmoked cigarette as it barreled towards the street below.
You’re a dick.
And then, he was gone.
“Your luggage is too large -- it’s not..” the flight attendant wrestled with Cassidy Adler as he attempted to place his oversized carry-on into the overhead compartment. “...going… to fit… SIR,” he said, exasperated.
“That’s not the first time I’ve heard that!” Cassidy answered, shamelessly. He looked around at the rest of my Philidor brethren expecting guffaws and howls of laughter. He was met with permeated silence.
“What do you mean I’ve got to find another flight?” I heard from the entryway. It was a voice I couldn’t place initially, as she’d been gifted at concealing her anxiety and frustration with a confident monotone, peppered with obscure pop culture references and subtle, antagonistic parting shots. But there was a genuine confusion in her broken voice this time. “I’m part of the organization!”
“There isn’t room for you onboard,” the crewmember repeated. “You’ve been removed from the manifest.”
“So who replaced me??”
Cassidy Adler joined the commotion, revealing himself to his sister. He made an L with his thumb and finger and stuck his tongue out to her from behind the crewmember. “Go ride with the rejects, loser!” he teased. A perplexed Jim Mud approached.
“Wait, I thought you said you were invited as a plus-one?” Mud asked.
“I was!” Cassidy answered confidently. Then he walked over towards me. “Scoot over, toots. This is gonna be a long flight.”
All eyes turned in my direction. Carter’s were deeply puzzled. Ash’s were uncompromisingly indignant.
But I took the window seat.
With Cassidy Adler by my side.
Our rules.
Our dreams.
We’re blind.
Blowin’ shit up with homemade dynamite.
