Cosmo by Spencer Gordon Page A

I hear the floorboards groaning over my head: Eddy’s heavy stomp down the hallway from his bedroom. And I hear a loud thud as he drops to the ground.
    â€˜ Listen to me. You never listen to what I’m saying,’ Keith says.
    Mom keeps crying. Then, suddenly, ‘Do not touch me!’
    â€˜I’m not doing anyth–’
    â€˜Stop touching me oh god don’t touch me.’
    In the world of professional wrestling, if a wrestler accidentally lands a blow or delivers a move with full force behind it, and subsequently injures his or her opponent, then this is called a potato . I guess you could say that I potatoed Eddy. Sealing him inside the chest was too much of a high-spot move; I should have known better. But then again, it was all in the spirit of the game – in other words, it was an accident. A typical wrestling match follows a vague script, ending with an agreed-upon outcome. And thus a typical wrestling match is called a work because everyone involved is working toward the same resolution. Eddy and I were working today – I never meant to seal him up, make him piss his pants or drive him crazy. I’m confident that I’ll be able to convince Eddy that we were only working , that it was all supposed to be fake. But the situation in the living room has surpassed the level of a work and entered into shoot territory: a scenario in which heat or animosity between two opponents is legitimate, unscripted. Real.
    â€˜You’ve got no right to touch me!’
    â€˜Oh my GOD !’
    I lift my hands out of the sink, dry them with the towel and walk as quietly as possible to the living room entryway. From where I stand, peering around the corner, I see Mom and Keith standing beside the coffee table, Keith’s meaty hands wrapped around Mom’s wrists. She’s staring up at him with her teeth clenched, her face red and mangled in anger. Keith stares back, jaw slack, eyes glassy with booze. Eddy sits cross-legged at the top of the stairs, shaking his head from side to side, making his blond mushroom cut flash clean and white in the amber glow of the hall light. He’s shaking and nodding robotically, his palms clamped over his ears, his fingernails digging into the skin of his scalp. Whenever he gets like this, you’ve got to hold his head in your hands to make him stop; you’ve got to hold your hands over his and say please, please , in a near whisper – you can’t be impatient because otherwise Eddy might be rocking for hours.
    â€˜Just go !’
    â€˜Where the fuck am I going to go?’
    â€˜Find somewhere, anywhere, just get out.’
    â€˜Would you just listen to yourself for once?’
    I’ve got my fingers wrapped around the door jamb. Anything could happen, and each low blow or ripping yank they trade keeps me riveted in place. I wipe the tears from my eyes. I don’t want to watch anymore, but I can’t resist an ending, even a dark one, that’s so close. There’s no wrestling match that can forgive this. No bout to make sense of it. All the cartoon heroes flicker out, light to dark, the TV gone black.
    They’re in each other’s faces, screaming nonsense, when Keith bangs his knees against the coffee table. In a split second he’s off balance, and then falling, hands still wrapped around Mom’s wrists. She follows, tripping against the sharp edge of the table, hands grasping at Keith’s crotch. And they go down, Keith dragging Mom to the floor. Cups and plates and cans fly in the air as they hit the surface of the coffee table. The table – cheap, shoddy wood – snaps down the middle. It’s an incredible noise, Keith splitting through the wood and Mom following after, sharp splinters and four table legs spiralling away across the room. Keith lies still, eyes fluttering, grip released on Mom’s wrists, as she tries to scramble to her feet. From the doorway I can see a spot of blood