“And this…is one of our fine junior penthouses.”
Kenneth Bostom, he of the slicked-back hair and ostentatious suits, stretched his hand out to illuminate the skyline unfolding before him. It was easy to do his job, to sell real estate in New York. Every other day, some nouveau riche European was coming in and signing for one of his penthouses. Where the weakening of the American dollar had hurt some, it had only lined Kenneth Bostom’s pockets with gold.
“The view is pretty awesome,” Nibi Augustin replied. He anxiously grabbed the inside of his pockets. The tan Carhartt jacket had him sweating, but he’d staunchly refused Kenneth’s offer to hang it by the door. That jacket was one of the few Traverse City memories he carried with him.
It reminded him of the time, a year ago, when Alain TwoCrow had jumped him on the way to school (back when Nibi was still occasionally showing up to the rez school). For almost five minutes, Alain had wailed on Nibi for talking to his sister. For five minutes, Nibi had felt the vicious crunch of steel-toed boot against ribcage. For five minutes, Nibi had wondered if the Creator would take his life. And for five minutes, Nibi had worried about getting blood all over his new Carhartt jacket.
“One of the finest views in the world,” Kenneth replied. “What kind of work did you say you do, Mr. Augustine?” He wrongly pronounced Nibi’s last name like the saintly city in Florida. Nibi let it slide. “You’re an athlete?” Nibi knew that Kenneth had some misconceptions about him, but thus far, he’d felt free to be their beneficiary.
“Yep.” Nibi didn’t yet feel comfortable saying much in New York City. They spoke too fast and too wantonly here. On the rez, people had the luxury of choosing their words carefully.
In the pocket of his jacket, Nibi rubbed his small eagle charm. The metal was warm, despite the apartment’s air-conditioned interior. It had been a gift, and now it was a totem that thrust him back into his memories. The sequence started with his mother, Elinor, trying to smile as he returned the bloodstained jacket. And then there were only flashes of Alain’s comeuppance. Nibi had walked up to the TwoCrows’ front door and asked Mrs. TwoCrow if Alain could come outside to fight.
“Are you one of these new UFC guys?” Kenneth Bostom knew very little about anything practical, but he was a fad genius. If it’d been mentioned within the pages of GQ, on Perez Hilton’s blog, or by pop pundit Pat O’Brien, Kenneth knew about it. And he knew that “this MMA stuff” was taking off.
“Nope,” Nibi quipped. Kenneth’s smile leveled off, leaving a puzzled look in its place.
"Strikeforce Fighting?” Nibi shook his head, studying the splendid view of the Big Apple. He could see the Empire State Building, its spire ascending majestically in the midday sun. While Nibi didn’t recognize anything else, he knew that trillions of dollars were made, lost, stolen, and gambled every day in the buildings around him. He’d always known that the world was much grander in scope than Traverse City, but seeing the concrete titans of the free world’s capital hammered home that point.
“Nope.” Nibi had respect for those guys, guys who fought for a living. But having watched Jimmy Snuka, having seen the Superfly Splash (but never live, he lamented), he knew that there was something more that called to him from the squared circle. He would leave the mindless fighting to thugs like Alain.
Mrs. TwoCrow had been blindsided by Nibi’s request, on that hot day last summer. Dumbstruck, she walked into the nearby TV room and told Alain to come to the door. When Alain saw who was outside, Nibi didn’t have to ask politely again. Alain burst through the screen door, swung once, then received the same five minutes of hell that he’d given Nibi. Nibi even checked his watch; once the five minutes had elapsed, Nibi helped Alain waddle to his front door, and walked away without another word.
“So I’d be wrong if I guessed that you were a baseball player?” Nibi turned away from the cityscape, frowning at Kenneth’s unending questions.
“Yep,” Nibi replied.
“Mr. Augustine,” Kenneth started, his voice becoming cross, “exactly what do you do? You can’t be a day over twenty, you don’t seem to be involved with a major sports league, and you don’t say more than one word unless I beg you to. Who are you, exactly?”
“Nibi Augustin,” the youngster beamed back, pronouncing his name the correct way. Knee Bee Uh Gust Inn. It wasn’t a hapless, naïve grin, but his playful side shining through. Kenneth Bostom was finally realizing that the jig was up, something Nibi had known for nearly twenty minutes.
“Oh no,” came a voice from the adjacent hallway. Kenneth and Nibi both turned their heads to see the less maligned member of the TwoCrow family: Aurore.
“What’s got him smiling like that?” Aurore always carried a confident way about her, especially in her voice. Even seven hundred miles and thousands of social conventions away from home, her words demanded attention. Her turquoise jaguar eyes and boastful hips, they also demanded attention. There was more than one reason Nibi had fought Alain over her. “Do you have him smiling like that, mister?”
“Aurore, I was just telling Mr. Bostom that I’m the first professional wrestler to ever come out of Traverse City.” Kenneth lowered his eyes, his lip curling up in a truly hideous manner.
“Unless Traverse City is another name for El Dorado, I don’t think a professional wrestler,” he spat, saying wrestler in the same voice one might refer to a pedophile, “could afford living in the Fairhaven-Rookwood.” Where others might’ve been careful to stifle a giggle, Nibi laughed out loud at hearing the building’s name again. He didn’t even have enough money to buy all the vowels in Fairhaven-Rookwood, no less afford the lavish suites within. But when Kenneth Bostom had answered the phone enthusiastically about showing some apartments to a young “athlete”, Nibi hadn’t asked questions. He and Aurore had gotten a free lunch and a look around this beautiful high-rise.
“C’mon, mister,” Aurore playfully pleaded, “what’s the difference between Nibi and some UFC guy?” The glint in her eye had Kenneth going for a moment, and not only because his Jdate profile had yet to deliver any potential mates. That glint was well known on the rez as a male mind control device. Aurore, recently eighteen, had a virulent form of nubile sexuality.
Kenneth snapped out of it. He’d heard the horror stories. Wrestlers going crazy from steroids, killing family members. If it wasn’t steroids, it was painkillers. If not OxyContin, then booze. His sneer carried all the discontent he felt at being hoodwinked by this nineteen-year-old “wrestler.”
“The difference,” he scoffed, “is two or three zeroes, miss.” He folded his arms, signaling to the young couple that this tour was over.
Nibi didn’t need another invitation to head for the elevator. Aurore quickly moved in step, sneaking into the cozy, warm space under Nibi’s right arm.
“Why didn’t you tell him while I was looking around?” Aurore had to look up when she spoke to Nibi, being only 5’9.
“Was having fun,” replied Legion’s junior member. “I like the view,” he added, before clamming up. He scratched the side of his head, a sign Aurore knew none too well. He was sneaking off into his own head, often the only place he felt comfortable. She’d long ago come to grips with his internal mechanisms (everyone on the rez knew from the moment seven-year-old Aurore chased eight-year-old Nibi they were destined to chase one another forever).
“Whatcha thinkin’ about?” But she still always offered to listen, if he wanted.
“Nothing. Well,” he started, pausing as he came up with a way to say what he wanted, “you think we’ll be okay? We’re not s’posed to be out here. You’re not s’posed to be out here.” Nibi already felt a weight on his shoulders at having uprooted his girlfriend, taken her from the rez, and repatriated her in an alien city. While she’d been sleeping on the plane, he’d spent the ride wondering whether he’d ruin both their lives chasing a specter.
“Okay, new rule. Nibi Langlade Augustin, you don’t get to act like this is a captivity narrative. You didn’t steal me from Mama and Papa. I chose to come with you. This is your dream and I’m not waiting until you wake up to get my time in. So ha!” She punctuated this rule with an emphatic press of the elevator’s down button.
“’Kay, just sayin’.” Nibi liked to think that his general clumsiness with language was due to the clutter in his head. Currently, there were myriad threads of brain activity: finding an apartment, getting Aurore a job to supplant his Legion as-of-now-paltry Legion check, learning how to live independently, trying to teach himself all the things he’d be missing while Alain and dozens of others went to college for free.
But even though life was just beginning to set in, Nibi’s heart pounded at the thought of something else: the premier Battle Royal at the Church of Fight. He’d proved he was more than a regional talent, dismantling everything that Grand Traverse County Wrestling had to offer. He knew he deserved a spot in the ring. But, oh did he feel butterflies at the thought of making his own name, his own life, out of wrestling.
“Alright, well, we’ve got our first rule. Ready to go see what makes those hot dog carts so good that they need one on every corner?” Nibi offered a muted smile, actively admiring Aurore’s glowing enthusiasm.
Ding!
The elevator whooshed to a stop, the doors slipping open. Nibi grabbed Aurore’s hand, both of them stepping into the fine, marble-walled contraption. Nibi lost himself in his thoughts again, as Aurore peered around the elevator’s high five-figure interior.
“You think we could live here someday?” Ever the optimistic wonderer, Aurore was grinning when she finally caught Nibi’s eye. “Someday?”
Nibi nodded wordlessly.
