Post by Constance on Jun 10, 2016 14:47:40 GMT -6
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
There’s been a question buzzing around in my head lately that I’m almost afraid to say aloud. Normally I don’t have a problem with questions; how else are you supposed to gain knowledge if not by asking smart questions to smarter people? Lately, though, all my questions are aimed specifically at the people who cannot help but to say ludicrous musings on social media and then have the gall to assume I’d be interested in reading it. Which is a rather roundabout way of saying that all my questions these days tend to be a combination of the simple ‘what?’ and ‘why?’.
But the question I’ve been kicking around is vaguely related to social media in the same sense that hooligans are related to football. I suppose the best way to work through this little dilemma, and that’s what it is - yet it’s one I can never ask another living soul for fear of blackmail and-slash-or credibility flushing down the drain - is by going through the motions and thinking about it at length as I am so fond of doing. Many of my problems have been solved through pen and paper; this is the fifth diary I’ve bought since starting to jot my thoughts down. I’ve probably used more ink, paper, and thought than any given novel aimed at dumb kids who need pretty people and a movie before picking up a book.
But I’m humble, of course.
What does it mean to be a celebrity? That’s the wonder that’s been keeping me awake at night, tossing and turning, sweat pouring cold as I’m plagued with not knowing. I suppose the best way to start is to ask just what is a celebrity, and you would think that that was a common definition but if you truly think about it...it’s quite a varied answer. Sure, obviously there’s the people that almost everyone knows, your actors that think they’re important because they lie for a living and get paid far too much for what is essentially playing pretend on the playground; there’s the musicians that people fawn over because they’ve mastered rhymes that make Dr. Seuss look like Robert Frost in comparison; and I suppose there are some in the field of athletics that could take the third place on the podium, though I suspect that the reason everyone wears clothes with the name of the quarterback is simply because no one can be arsed to care about the team as a whole.
No one ever talked about Nicky Butt but everyone knows David Beckham. Might be because of his wife.
But those people aren’t my celebrities and yet they are by the popular definition. Someone like J.K. Rowling was a celebrity until wizards stopped being cool, and even no she’s desperately trying to cling to what worked in the past. Authors are a fringe case anyway, I wouldn’t really call any modern author a celebrity. Not even Stephen King who might be the most well known author. At what point do the actors on that Thrones program become more well known than the boorish sort that wrote the source material? You don’t see his face on posters and television but the little person is getting cheers and awards taller than he is.
What is a celebrity anyway? And moreover, why are so many people in my particular field so obsessed with the culture and the lifestyle? Why do so many wish to be like the vapid, brainless people who assume that because they make millions of dollars for little effort that we should care what they think about every issue in the country. No one cares what the star of a cape wearing cinematic disaster has to say about foreign policy. Shut up and be a charismatic black hole for two hours. It’s true that so many people in this field wish they were famous and popular like any given celebrity; why else would there be so many clamoring for promotion and sponsorship deals? They post head shots to try and get noticed and then whore themselves out just for another zero on the check.
But when was the last time you turned on the telly or saw an advert with someone that gets tossed around and pinned for a living? When was the last time you saw a Casanova English or a Stacy Jones on the red carpet? We’re not celebrities just because a large portion of us have egos large enough to be one. So why this obsession? Why this constant need to be seen not just as a respected member of a roster but as some egotistical ass that’s meant for bigger and better things? I’ve said it before and I suppose it bears repeating but at times it feels more and more as if people only care about their own exposure. Everyone wants attention and will use whatever methods available to do it. The number of women in this business that will try and disguise a photo of them in bikinis as a ‘just workin out teehee hashtag gym’ is eerily large; we get it, you’re proud of your body, that’s well and good but cut the bullshit would you?
It’s a game of attention and everyone wants to be recognized, to be famous, to be a celebrity and I cannot fathom why. I’m content with my lot in life. I don’t need to be something I’m not. I’ll never be a star, I’ll never be stopped on the street by someone looking to take a picture unless it happens after an event and I’m walking out of the back.
I’m well aware that more often than not I’m bitching about the most pointless things possible, but I prefer to think of it as one take on the generation gap. I’m just shy of sitting on a rocker and complaining about the kids these days, but how can I be anything other than justified when the proof is in how seriously people take things that don’t matter. Having followers on your Instant Graham account has less to do with you being a great photographer and more to do with you having great abs or breasts. The President of the United States has fewer Twitter followers than someone whose claim to fame was singing a song about kissing a girl, as if that’s some novel concept. One of these people is important, and yet more people want to know about a one note pop act than the person running a country.
Granted, I’m also of the mind that the President of the United States shouldn’t have a Twitter account anyway but I suppose you have to get people to care about politics somehow.
Point is, celebrities are not something to aspire to and yet they are seen as people worth emulating. I don’t understand it, this desire to be famous and rich. How can people want to live in a world where stalkers and people with cameras are just looking for you to do or say something embarrassing? Celebrities aren’t seen as people. They’re zoo animals and now I’m actually starting to seem like I’m taking pity on them. I’m not. It’s all to do with finding the answer to the burning question of what it means to be a celebrity.
I honestly don’t know. In some way I probably rate as a celebrity to someone out there, some fan of the industry, but even then there are far more likely candidates to choose from. I’m probably the most disappointing ‘celebrity’ to be a fan of. You could also just take out ‘celebrity’ and replace it with person. I’m probably the most disappointing person to be a fan of. But at least I don’t aim above my means. I’m not trying to be some famous person, hell I’m still trying to just be a champion.
I suppose what I’m trying to get at is that celebrities are not to be emulated or role models. The world needs less of them anyway. I don’t know what it means to be a celebrity only that it’s probably not nearly as glamorous as people think. I’ve been thinking about this for more time than I’d care to admit. There’s a reason for it, as there always is, but I’m going to chalk it up to my thoughts being rattled after being brained by a bell.
I really wanted to make a bellend pun but no, instead I’m raving about things that don’t matter.
That’s the title of my autobiography right there. Raving About Things That Don’t Matter.
Everyone would buy a copy. And then I’d truly be a celebrity.
~
”It’s funny, isn’t it, the way time works? I say time but really it hasn’t been that long, weeks really, a month or two, and yet somehow everything feels like it's changed and not necessarily for the better. The last time I had to put my title on the line the actual match was something of a welcome distraction from my own inner panic and worry over what most people treat as a magical moment in their lives. I was a damn mess because I’ve come to realize that I hate change. Hate might be a bit strong...fear would probably be more accurate...I fear change because I’m so used to and content with settling; every time something around me changes, be it from my instigating it or from extraneous circumstances, I never end up benefitting. A monumental change in my life meant that a high stakes contest for a title I’ve grown a bit fond of was somehow the least stressful thing going on in my life.”
“And yet a short span of time later and things have certainly changed. Have you noticed them, Zahara? I’d hope so. Because I’m not talking specifically about me, or not exclusively anyway. Things have changed and in rather dramatic fashion which leads me to ask a simple question that I don’t expect you to answer...just to contemplate as you sink more and more into a stress filled hole.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Vague, isn’t it? Allow me some elaboration. It may be subtle but the two of us? We’ve changed and I’m not so sure I can say it’s for the better. Some might say that being engaged is what flipped my switch but I don’t agree with that. It was Windsor. You know it. I know it. Both of us left that night different people. Changed people. I smiled that night, which is something I don’t do. I barely offered a grin when she said yes and I don’t even know if I’ll smile after the vows are read or whatever the hell happens during the ceremony. But I stood in the middle of a ring, thousands of people as witnesses, and I bloody well smiled. I didn’t know it then, but it was a sign that...things were changing.”
“And they have. People might not have noticed, hell YOU might not have noticed, Zahara, but after that night? I’ve lost my edge. You obviously think I haven’t, given the state of mind I found you in on Breakthrough...but it’s true. The edge, that demeanour of uncaring, bitter cynicsm and stinging sarcasm hasn’t shown up since our match. I hate to use the ‘N’ word here...but I’ve become...nicer.”
“I was nice enough to treat Casanova English as an equal even as he wasted no time in taking me to task and spitting on my goodwill. I was naive enough to assume that he’d give a fair, honourable fight. I was nice enough to hold my tongue where before I would have leapt at the chance to engage in a verbal battle of wits the likes of which haven’t been seen since I angered the Jockey Lackey with a carefully aimed bullet of truth. And I paid the price for my softness, for my ‘niceness’ with a bell to the dome.”
“I was nice enough to wish you well even as others around you voiced concerns over your choice in significant other. Which, by the way, is no one’s business. On a good day I might even have treated you with familiarity rather than passing recognition. Hell, I told Elskerinne that I was afraid of her which might as well be me undoing any and all credibility I might have had. A person like me doesn’t DO things like this. I don’t smile and act nice and friendly towards people. I DON’T do these things. Or at least...I didn’t.”
“It all comes back to that smile, that one moment where I showed that yes, Virginia, I am a human being that has emotions somewhere deep down inside. I know, it’s hard to believe and I don’t like it any more than anyone else does, but what can I do other than admit when something is wrong. I never should have smiled, not because it wasn’t warranted, but because of the implication. Because of what happened after the fact. When someone as full of shit as Casanova English is remarking on my supposed lack of edge...then even someone with their vision impaired would be able to see it as well. But a broken clock is right twice a day and in this case English was right. I’ve changed because of that fucking smile and as I moved those lips upwards, the ‘edge’ that so many of my peers, yourself included Zahara, was pushed aside. The Constance Chapin that exists on this pedestal died with a smile.”
“It might sound as if I’m being a bit overdramatic, but that only means you aren’t paying attention. My words have been softer. My actions more carefree. Even in this upcoming rematch I’m not seeing you as a threat but as a damn friend and ally. I’ve given you advice and the ability to pick how our match plays out and it’s not due to me being that bloody confident in myself but because I was being nice. I was giving my friend a hand because she looked down and defeated coming off of a victory. You haven’t known me as long as some others, Z, but ask yourself when have I EVER done ANYTHING like that? Even when I bit the bullet and spent the night at Candi’s house - and this is a grown woman admitting to having gone to a sleepover - I wasn’t exactly there with my hair down and having a laugh. I made art films mocking my opponents for being too uncultured to understand me, I called out Ryder for being an idiotic ass and now I’ve turned around and been nice...ish to him.”
“That smile...that fucking smile...it ruined everything I’ve spent so long building.”
~
Clouds drift by overhead, ruining what was otherwise a bright, clear blue sky. A gentle breeze blew by but it did little to make the heat bearable; perhaps the coming of the clouds would mean a cooler front...or at least some shade if not rain. The warmth was not unusual for the time of year, though not everyone was glad for the pleasant spell. Chief among those that were unhappy were a small selection of grown men and women who were baking under the sun due to a variety of reasons: some forgot their visors or hats, others forgot sunblock, and some just gave up and decided not to bother seeking out shade. For those courageous sorts, their discomfort and slowly burning skin was less important than being there on the side of the pitch.
In the centre of a green field surrounded by sweltering, sweating adults, there were the sounds of screaming and clapping and bodies hitting bodies as girls, undeterred by the sun, were in the final moments of the most important game of their lives. The score sat at a close 23-19 with the attacking team needing just one more try to bring the game to a tie and as happens with close matches, volumes were high and expectations higher with none higher than the ones being shown by the defensive player wearing the number 8 on her uniform.
Number Eight was the tallest girl on the team and cut an imposing figure because of that. She was a bit awkward and broad and clearly cared enough for the whole team to be the most vocal member. She obviously wanted to win, to go home with the trophy and the glory, and to be rewarded with a fancy feast fit for victors. Her lightish hair was stringy and sweaty and sticking to her forehead, a consequence of throwing herself fully into each play. Number Eight’s affectionate nickname was the Wet Shithouse but no one ever called her that to her face. No one was that suicidal.
Number Eight was staring down the ball holder with narrowed eyes and a scowl, They had to be stopped, this was it; the attack could not succeed. Number Eight was not confident in her team to defend the conversion, which would give the attacking team the victory in the final moments. They were good, they had gotten to this stage in this regional tournament, but they weren’t that good. At least as far as Number Eight was concerned; in her mind the rest of these girls were carried here off her back. But she was allowed to think that, given that she was freakishly good at tackling the other team, to the point where she had often been threatened with eviction due to hurting the other girls.
But rugby was a full contact sport and there was no room for babies.
”I still remember the day she quit, how couldn’t I, I could feel blisters building on my calves and thighs. She wanted her gran to be there instead of me but gran was over in Sheffield and no one was going to take that train to pick her up. So I was there and so was her dad but he wanted to be watching football instead once he found out they didn’t have any beer.” A cheery British voice pipes in as the rugby teams prepare to begin their final moments.
”She was so excited. She hadn’t ever won anything on this level before. It was a bloody nightmare getting her to sleep the night before. Honestly she was a teenager but she was like a primary school girl. That excitement transferred to me, I suppose. If she was happy, so was I. That’s what being a good mum’s about, isn’t it?”
The play began and everything seemed to slow down for Number Eight as her eyes focused on the ball handler. She, that is Number Eight, was a prop, used as a battering ram in attack plays and as a wall in defensive...but Number Eight was not content with simply blocking. She wanted to stop the runner. She wanted to feel the body hit the ground and see the shaken fear in the eyes. There was a plan, of course. There was always a plan. The defense was going to hold the line, prevent the runner from moving up the field or from passing the ball and the clock would run out and the defenders would win. It was simple. It was effective.
It was boring.
Number Eight broke the rules. She deviated from the plan and instead of holding back the wingers she pounded her feet and made a charge for the ball carrier. She could hear some people shouting at her but they may as well have been mute for all she cared. She wanted this. She needed this.
Number Eight crashed into the attacker, knocking the other girl down to the grass hard. The two of them locked eyes and Number Eight didn’t see pain or fear in the eyes on the grass; she saw a smile, she saw joy, and then she heard the whistle. Number Eight shoved her way back to her feet and turned in time to see that a winger had gotten through, the agile player had been tossed the ball as Number Eight charged in...and the attacking team had closed the gap.
They even managed to convert, ending the game with a score of 25-23.
”It was a really exciting game and no one really had anything to be upset about. But she took the loss personally. Very personally. No one said so but she believed her team blamed her for their loss; but the way I hear it, the team never expected to place second in the region to begin with. The excitement she had was gone and I remember the look on her face as she retreated to the sides after the end. You’d think gran had just died.”
As the players left the pitch and the winners went on to receive their trophy and photograph, Number Eight couldn’t look her team in the eyes and they in turn were saying nothing to Number Eight. The mood in the locker room wasn’t overly excited, but it was brought down considerably by the frowning face of Number Eight, who was the last one in and the last one out. Her teammates took the loss well enough; it was great to even be in that game to begin with...but Number Eight had wanted to win. She needed to win. But they didn’t.
And it was her fault.
”That was the last time she played rugby. The next day she had taken down all the posters and photos of rugby players. It was a little extreme but I gave her some space. I thought she’d get over it. I remember on the way home me and her dad were telling her to be proud of the game they played. She looked down and said ‘second place is just the first loser’ which was not an outlook I agreed with.”
“If you ask me, that game made her into who she is today. Ever since I’ve never seen her get serious about anything. But that’s not what you asked me, was it? Well...the trip to the pitch that morning before the game...as she ran off to the locker room to prepare for the match that changed her life...that was the last time I ever saw Constance smile.”
“She was sixteen years old.”
~
Not every trip down memory lane is a good thing as Constance was now learning. She had assumed, as one does, that the recorded footage of that infamous rugby match had been tossed away; but of course her mother would keep something like that and of course her mother would jump at the chance to share the story (and footage) with anyone who asked. There was a lot left out of the story. As Constance remembered it, it was the fault of her team for not watching the wings or for even attempting to tackle her. Perhaps that was merely a way to shift the blame, but who hasn’t resorted to a little bit of scapegoating when the narrative suits them?
But even with clever editing tricks it was hard to deny what she had just seen and heard. That they lost the game was as much as Constance wanted to remember but there had to be an asterisk, a change; THEY didn’t lose so much as SHE lost. And that’s one way to be kicked in the head with reality. It would have been one thing if she was taking the trip by herself but what made it worse was the audience, small though it was. She couldn’t merely play it off now.
The audience, not counting Constance herself, consisted of the one behind it all, Caitlyn Caulfield, and an older, slightly round man with thinning hair and a suit that smelled faintly of outdated cologne. It was this man, currently nursing his fifth or so cigarette, that Constance was supposed to be sucking up towards, or so she was informed by the young blonde next to her. Jerry Hacker was sort of a name in certain circles though in person Constance wondered if those circles were among retirement home knitters.
It meant more to Caitlyn than anything else and it might well have been a sign of maturity that Constance was even entertaining the idea by attending this meeting. In some strange sort of way it could almost have been seen like a favor for a friend, but getting Constance to admit that in public would require a great amount of unsavory methods. So instead she preferred to think of it as simply chaperoning. Caitlyn was an adult, or if not she acted like one most days, but if the adults Constance knew were any indication...adults frequently needed chaperoning anyway.
”So….that was you?” Jerry asked without glancing away from the monitor where the paused interview with Piper Chapin had been playing. ”The one that lost?”
Constance quickly darted her eyes to Caitlyn who shrugged; she was out of her element in that the normally precocious and slick Caitlyn was too on edge, too afraid to say or do the wrong thing that she was miraculously silent.
”That’s right; that was me at sixteen.” Constance’s answer was almost robotic in delivery and she was kicking herself internally for playing along as if she had something to gain from this.
”You filled out didn’t you?” All Jerry needed to do was add a laugh and COnstance would have been properly skeezed out, but his comment was already making it even harder to tolerate.
”Well...that’s the good thing about puberty, isn’t it?” A touch of humor that went largely ignored left Constance feeling awkward in addition to annoyed. This was like a job interview only there was no job in it for her.
”I don’t get it.”
”Well, puberty is the part in a young person’s life where girls stop having cooties and boys are very confused about it.” A second stab at defusing the situation with humor got a soft smirk of acknowledgment from Caitlyn and an annoyed grunt from Jerry.
”Broads don’t do comedy for a reason.” Jerry shot back which put Caitlyn back on the path of fidgeting nervously. ”I mean this...this picture you’re trying to sell. I don’t get it.”
”It’s...it’s a documentary. A personal one rather than something larger in scope. Not every documentary has to be about politics or something.” Caitlyn spoke up but was very clearly choosing her words carefully. It was almost adorable in a way.
”I get that. But I don’t get the picture.” Jerry ashed his cigarette and finally turned to face the two women. ”Why should I care about some English broad that loses all the time? Where’s the value in that?”
”Well that’s the point, Mr. Hacker,” Caitlyn, it seemed, took issue when it came to talk about her long-term project. ”By showing Mrs. Chapin always at a low point it makes the moments in her life where she succeeds feel all the more powerful.”
”And that kinda thing might work in an actual movie, but this isn’t an actual movie. It’s a documentary.”
”Yes, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t adhere to structure. Documentaries tell stories just the same as movies, it’s just a matter of...fiction versus non-fiction. Both tell stories in different ways.”
Constance was actually getting impressed with how seriously Caitlyn seemed to be taking this; it was a welcome change from the normal sarcasm and smugness she normally expressed. She was talking about this silly thing the same way Constance would talk about a novel she loved but others didn’t care for. Though Constance would have been a lot more...vitriolic.
”Don’t you think that’s a little much for a documentary? Documentaries don’t draw audiences-”
”Which is why it’s structured more like a movie. It’s like King of Kong where there’s a clear protagonist and antagonist and it’s structured for simplicity.”
Constance assumed the things Caitlyn was saying made sense to Caitlyn; hopefully they made sense to Jerry as well otherwise what was the point of even being here.
”The subject matter has no draw. No one cares about some no-name British person.”
That one stung at Constance. She didn’t exactly disagree with him, but it still hurt to hear. It might’ve been the tone of voice.
”No one cared about Donkey Kong but that didn’t stop King of Kong. No one knew who Jack Rebney was but Winnebago Man came out. Catfish got that guy a television show. Just because there’s no obvious market doesn’t mean there ISN’T a market.”
Jerry’s gaze turned to Constance and she really wished he was looking anywhere else.
”You’re quiet now. You have anything to add?”
She honestly didn’t.
”I actually agree with you, Mr. Hacker, I’m an absolutely boring person and an even more boring subject for any sort of attention.” Constance’s honest admission turned Caitlyn’s head. Caitlyn had set up the ball and expected a score from Constance...expectations were always a bitch. ”...but I’ve never seen someone care this much about something so boring. Caitlyn,” As Constance pronounced her name correctly rather than the usual way Constance pronounced it, Caitlyn’s eyes went a bit wide. ”...Caitlyn was an unmotivated, uncaring, troublemaking kid when I met her. She found something she believed in and for some reason that something involved me. If that doesn’t warrant taking a chance on a long shot...then nothing does. What have you got to lose at this point, Mr. Hacker?”
Constance punctuated her thoughts with a shrug and a sideways glance towards Caitlyn. Caitlyn was staring towards Constance with eyes that said two words that Caitlyn could never say. Constance’s nod to the girl was a wordless response, a silent understanding of their similarities.
The two of them had their differences, but in this moment they were united in cause. One of them had saved the other. And now it was simply a matter of returning the favor. After all, what else were friends for?
And as odd as it was, Constance Chapin was friends with a teenager.
~
”But of course, it’s not just me that’s changed is it? You might not have noticed, Zahara, or maybe you have, the brain is a funny thing, but you’re not the same person you were in Windsor. That night changed you. I changed you. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I’m surely not the first one to notice it; I doubt I’m the first one to bring it up. Have you realized it? Shall I spell it out for you? Rhetorical questions, because of course I’m going to spell it out, who do you think I am?”
“You, Zahara, have lost your edge.”
“Specifically I’ve taken it from you, your edge. I don’t mean you were edgy or anything, you’re much more mature than that, but before our first match you had an air of confidence that wasn’t hopping the fence to arrogance - a line that is incredibly difficult to maintain - and it was honestly well deserved. You were sort of like Icarus but your wings were not prepared for the sun that was myself. I keep going back to some of the words you said to me in our first match, that faux humble praising of me before making it clear you had every intention of shutting me down and maintaining your streak…”
“I shattered your world view. I crushed your morale. And I feel like I should apologize. But not yet.”
“Because first I want to thank you.”
“You may not remember...though knowing you it’s probably on the back of your mind somewhere, but you said something that stuck with me. You said you believed in me. I hadn’t heard something like that in years, having someone honestly believe in me...when I was struggling with anxiety and worry, nervous that I’d never amount to much as a champion. But you believed in me enough to want to defeat me. Things didn’t go that way. Ironic, isn’t it, that your way of psyching yourself up to kill your idols wound up killing your psyche instead?”
“Remember when you were confident, Zahara? Remember when you felt untouchable? Well, maybe untouchable is a bit strong...but you clearly felt better...more positive… I said it to your face and I’ll say it again...I’ve never seen someone take a win so badly. You won against Elskerinne but you’d never have known from how you were so focused on our rematch, on treating me like some impassable hurdle...as if you were suddenly afraid of me because I was your first. Your first shot at a championship. Your first loss. Your first moment under the high stakes spotlight.”
“And you know what they say about firsts.”
“You’ve been so focused on me, on our match and this upcoming rematch that it’s alarming. Whereas I’ve been...nicer, you’ve been softer. Where before you earned your shot, now you’re upset that you were given a second shot...jumping the line as it were, as if you somehow didn’t earn it. I knew a girl who felt like she didn’t belong in a match...and that same girl went on to become a world champion by taking down three women who had all earned their spot. She jumped the line, but she proved she belonged there.”
“I’m not untouchable, Zahara. I’m not going to sit here and boast about how amazing I am or anything because that’s not the sort of champion I am. We already have English for that, and I mean...I have a victory against him so that’s how much boasting is worth.”
“But with the way you have been, the way you are now...the Xcel Championship or ANY championship will always be out of your grasp. If you’re here, in a match like this, it’s because you deserve to be, and I don’t want to defend my title against someone who’s coming down the ramp crippled with doubt. We faced each other at our best and anything LESS than that on this rematch is an insult to ourselves, the fans, and the Xcel Championship. We’re doing this old school, traditional rules and all; on paper it skews slightly in favour of me, what with the limited rope breaks and all. But I’m no prophet. I’m just someone who leaves everything on the mat so that I can never have any regrets.”
“I really hope you’re listening well to this, Zahara, because as unusual as this may be for a champion to say to the challenger...I want you motivated. I found you backstage at Breakthrough because I saw your mood. I’m speaking to you as friend, mentor, idol, champion, whatever title you want to put on me...buck the fuck up. See me on even footing and give yourself a damn chance.”
“I’ve been too nice lately and you’ve been too soft. Both of us left Windsor different people and it seems only fitting that we leave St. Paul the same way. I’ve given you every bit of advice and help I could think of because I don’t want a repeat of Windsor. I want to surpass it. I have every intention of walking home still holding my championship, and I want you to know that losing a title match isn’t the end of the world. It doesn’t make you worse. You’re not the same woman you were in Windsor.”
“You’re better than that.”
“We’re better than that.”
“Bring that confidence you once had. Bring every trick in your top hat, because I predict a magical encounter that no one will be prepared for.”
“Because you and I, Zahara? We’re both champions.”
~
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
Diaries of a Cynic coming to cinemas near you.
We’re workshopping the title.
I’ve become what I hate. It seemed inevitable.
There’s been a question buzzing around in my head lately that I’m almost afraid to say aloud. Normally I don’t have a problem with questions; how else are you supposed to gain knowledge if not by asking smart questions to smarter people? Lately, though, all my questions are aimed specifically at the people who cannot help but to say ludicrous musings on social media and then have the gall to assume I’d be interested in reading it. Which is a rather roundabout way of saying that all my questions these days tend to be a combination of the simple ‘what?’ and ‘why?’.
But the question I’ve been kicking around is vaguely related to social media in the same sense that hooligans are related to football. I suppose the best way to work through this little dilemma, and that’s what it is - yet it’s one I can never ask another living soul for fear of blackmail and-slash-or credibility flushing down the drain - is by going through the motions and thinking about it at length as I am so fond of doing. Many of my problems have been solved through pen and paper; this is the fifth diary I’ve bought since starting to jot my thoughts down. I’ve probably used more ink, paper, and thought than any given novel aimed at dumb kids who need pretty people and a movie before picking up a book.
But I’m humble, of course.
What does it mean to be a celebrity? That’s the wonder that’s been keeping me awake at night, tossing and turning, sweat pouring cold as I’m plagued with not knowing. I suppose the best way to start is to ask just what is a celebrity, and you would think that that was a common definition but if you truly think about it...it’s quite a varied answer. Sure, obviously there’s the people that almost everyone knows, your actors that think they’re important because they lie for a living and get paid far too much for what is essentially playing pretend on the playground; there’s the musicians that people fawn over because they’ve mastered rhymes that make Dr. Seuss look like Robert Frost in comparison; and I suppose there are some in the field of athletics that could take the third place on the podium, though I suspect that the reason everyone wears clothes with the name of the quarterback is simply because no one can be arsed to care about the team as a whole.
No one ever talked about Nicky Butt but everyone knows David Beckham. Might be because of his wife.
But those people aren’t my celebrities and yet they are by the popular definition. Someone like J.K. Rowling was a celebrity until wizards stopped being cool, and even no she’s desperately trying to cling to what worked in the past. Authors are a fringe case anyway, I wouldn’t really call any modern author a celebrity. Not even Stephen King who might be the most well known author. At what point do the actors on that Thrones program become more well known than the boorish sort that wrote the source material? You don’t see his face on posters and television but the little person is getting cheers and awards taller than he is.
What is a celebrity anyway? And moreover, why are so many people in my particular field so obsessed with the culture and the lifestyle? Why do so many wish to be like the vapid, brainless people who assume that because they make millions of dollars for little effort that we should care what they think about every issue in the country. No one cares what the star of a cape wearing cinematic disaster has to say about foreign policy. Shut up and be a charismatic black hole for two hours. It’s true that so many people in this field wish they were famous and popular like any given celebrity; why else would there be so many clamoring for promotion and sponsorship deals? They post head shots to try and get noticed and then whore themselves out just for another zero on the check.
But when was the last time you turned on the telly or saw an advert with someone that gets tossed around and pinned for a living? When was the last time you saw a Casanova English or a Stacy Jones on the red carpet? We’re not celebrities just because a large portion of us have egos large enough to be one. So why this obsession? Why this constant need to be seen not just as a respected member of a roster but as some egotistical ass that’s meant for bigger and better things? I’ve said it before and I suppose it bears repeating but at times it feels more and more as if people only care about their own exposure. Everyone wants attention and will use whatever methods available to do it. The number of women in this business that will try and disguise a photo of them in bikinis as a ‘just workin out teehee hashtag gym’ is eerily large; we get it, you’re proud of your body, that’s well and good but cut the bullshit would you?
It’s a game of attention and everyone wants to be recognized, to be famous, to be a celebrity and I cannot fathom why. I’m content with my lot in life. I don’t need to be something I’m not. I’ll never be a star, I’ll never be stopped on the street by someone looking to take a picture unless it happens after an event and I’m walking out of the back.
I’m well aware that more often than not I’m bitching about the most pointless things possible, but I prefer to think of it as one take on the generation gap. I’m just shy of sitting on a rocker and complaining about the kids these days, but how can I be anything other than justified when the proof is in how seriously people take things that don’t matter. Having followers on your Instant Graham account has less to do with you being a great photographer and more to do with you having great abs or breasts. The President of the United States has fewer Twitter followers than someone whose claim to fame was singing a song about kissing a girl, as if that’s some novel concept. One of these people is important, and yet more people want to know about a one note pop act than the person running a country.
Granted, I’m also of the mind that the President of the United States shouldn’t have a Twitter account anyway but I suppose you have to get people to care about politics somehow.
Point is, celebrities are not something to aspire to and yet they are seen as people worth emulating. I don’t understand it, this desire to be famous and rich. How can people want to live in a world where stalkers and people with cameras are just looking for you to do or say something embarrassing? Celebrities aren’t seen as people. They’re zoo animals and now I’m actually starting to seem like I’m taking pity on them. I’m not. It’s all to do with finding the answer to the burning question of what it means to be a celebrity.
I honestly don’t know. In some way I probably rate as a celebrity to someone out there, some fan of the industry, but even then there are far more likely candidates to choose from. I’m probably the most disappointing ‘celebrity’ to be a fan of. You could also just take out ‘celebrity’ and replace it with person. I’m probably the most disappointing person to be a fan of. But at least I don’t aim above my means. I’m not trying to be some famous person, hell I’m still trying to just be a champion.
I suppose what I’m trying to get at is that celebrities are not to be emulated or role models. The world needs less of them anyway. I don’t know what it means to be a celebrity only that it’s probably not nearly as glamorous as people think. I’ve been thinking about this for more time than I’d care to admit. There’s a reason for it, as there always is, but I’m going to chalk it up to my thoughts being rattled after being brained by a bell.
I really wanted to make a bellend pun but no, instead I’m raving about things that don’t matter.
That’s the title of my autobiography right there. Raving About Things That Don’t Matter.
Everyone would buy a copy. And then I’d truly be a celebrity.
~
”It’s funny, isn’t it, the way time works? I say time but really it hasn’t been that long, weeks really, a month or two, and yet somehow everything feels like it's changed and not necessarily for the better. The last time I had to put my title on the line the actual match was something of a welcome distraction from my own inner panic and worry over what most people treat as a magical moment in their lives. I was a damn mess because I’ve come to realize that I hate change. Hate might be a bit strong...fear would probably be more accurate...I fear change because I’m so used to and content with settling; every time something around me changes, be it from my instigating it or from extraneous circumstances, I never end up benefitting. A monumental change in my life meant that a high stakes contest for a title I’ve grown a bit fond of was somehow the least stressful thing going on in my life.”
“And yet a short span of time later and things have certainly changed. Have you noticed them, Zahara? I’d hope so. Because I’m not talking specifically about me, or not exclusively anyway. Things have changed and in rather dramatic fashion which leads me to ask a simple question that I don’t expect you to answer...just to contemplate as you sink more and more into a stress filled hole.”
“What the hell happened?”
“Vague, isn’t it? Allow me some elaboration. It may be subtle but the two of us? We’ve changed and I’m not so sure I can say it’s for the better. Some might say that being engaged is what flipped my switch but I don’t agree with that. It was Windsor. You know it. I know it. Both of us left that night different people. Changed people. I smiled that night, which is something I don’t do. I barely offered a grin when she said yes and I don’t even know if I’ll smile after the vows are read or whatever the hell happens during the ceremony. But I stood in the middle of a ring, thousands of people as witnesses, and I bloody well smiled. I didn’t know it then, but it was a sign that...things were changing.”
“And they have. People might not have noticed, hell YOU might not have noticed, Zahara, but after that night? I’ve lost my edge. You obviously think I haven’t, given the state of mind I found you in on Breakthrough...but it’s true. The edge, that demeanour of uncaring, bitter cynicsm and stinging sarcasm hasn’t shown up since our match. I hate to use the ‘N’ word here...but I’ve become...nicer.”
“I was nice enough to treat Casanova English as an equal even as he wasted no time in taking me to task and spitting on my goodwill. I was naive enough to assume that he’d give a fair, honourable fight. I was nice enough to hold my tongue where before I would have leapt at the chance to engage in a verbal battle of wits the likes of which haven’t been seen since I angered the Jockey Lackey with a carefully aimed bullet of truth. And I paid the price for my softness, for my ‘niceness’ with a bell to the dome.”
“I was nice enough to wish you well even as others around you voiced concerns over your choice in significant other. Which, by the way, is no one’s business. On a good day I might even have treated you with familiarity rather than passing recognition. Hell, I told Elskerinne that I was afraid of her which might as well be me undoing any and all credibility I might have had. A person like me doesn’t DO things like this. I don’t smile and act nice and friendly towards people. I DON’T do these things. Or at least...I didn’t.”
“It all comes back to that smile, that one moment where I showed that yes, Virginia, I am a human being that has emotions somewhere deep down inside. I know, it’s hard to believe and I don’t like it any more than anyone else does, but what can I do other than admit when something is wrong. I never should have smiled, not because it wasn’t warranted, but because of the implication. Because of what happened after the fact. When someone as full of shit as Casanova English is remarking on my supposed lack of edge...then even someone with their vision impaired would be able to see it as well. But a broken clock is right twice a day and in this case English was right. I’ve changed because of that fucking smile and as I moved those lips upwards, the ‘edge’ that so many of my peers, yourself included Zahara, was pushed aside. The Constance Chapin that exists on this pedestal died with a smile.”
“It might sound as if I’m being a bit overdramatic, but that only means you aren’t paying attention. My words have been softer. My actions more carefree. Even in this upcoming rematch I’m not seeing you as a threat but as a damn friend and ally. I’ve given you advice and the ability to pick how our match plays out and it’s not due to me being that bloody confident in myself but because I was being nice. I was giving my friend a hand because she looked down and defeated coming off of a victory. You haven’t known me as long as some others, Z, but ask yourself when have I EVER done ANYTHING like that? Even when I bit the bullet and spent the night at Candi’s house - and this is a grown woman admitting to having gone to a sleepover - I wasn’t exactly there with my hair down and having a laugh. I made art films mocking my opponents for being too uncultured to understand me, I called out Ryder for being an idiotic ass and now I’ve turned around and been nice...ish to him.”
“That smile...that fucking smile...it ruined everything I’ve spent so long building.”
~
Clouds drift by overhead, ruining what was otherwise a bright, clear blue sky. A gentle breeze blew by but it did little to make the heat bearable; perhaps the coming of the clouds would mean a cooler front...or at least some shade if not rain. The warmth was not unusual for the time of year, though not everyone was glad for the pleasant spell. Chief among those that were unhappy were a small selection of grown men and women who were baking under the sun due to a variety of reasons: some forgot their visors or hats, others forgot sunblock, and some just gave up and decided not to bother seeking out shade. For those courageous sorts, their discomfort and slowly burning skin was less important than being there on the side of the pitch.
In the centre of a green field surrounded by sweltering, sweating adults, there were the sounds of screaming and clapping and bodies hitting bodies as girls, undeterred by the sun, were in the final moments of the most important game of their lives. The score sat at a close 23-19 with the attacking team needing just one more try to bring the game to a tie and as happens with close matches, volumes were high and expectations higher with none higher than the ones being shown by the defensive player wearing the number 8 on her uniform.
Number Eight was the tallest girl on the team and cut an imposing figure because of that. She was a bit awkward and broad and clearly cared enough for the whole team to be the most vocal member. She obviously wanted to win, to go home with the trophy and the glory, and to be rewarded with a fancy feast fit for victors. Her lightish hair was stringy and sweaty and sticking to her forehead, a consequence of throwing herself fully into each play. Number Eight’s affectionate nickname was the Wet Shithouse but no one ever called her that to her face. No one was that suicidal.
Number Eight was staring down the ball holder with narrowed eyes and a scowl, They had to be stopped, this was it; the attack could not succeed. Number Eight was not confident in her team to defend the conversion, which would give the attacking team the victory in the final moments. They were good, they had gotten to this stage in this regional tournament, but they weren’t that good. At least as far as Number Eight was concerned; in her mind the rest of these girls were carried here off her back. But she was allowed to think that, given that she was freakishly good at tackling the other team, to the point where she had often been threatened with eviction due to hurting the other girls.
But rugby was a full contact sport and there was no room for babies.
”I still remember the day she quit, how couldn’t I, I could feel blisters building on my calves and thighs. She wanted her gran to be there instead of me but gran was over in Sheffield and no one was going to take that train to pick her up. So I was there and so was her dad but he wanted to be watching football instead once he found out they didn’t have any beer.” A cheery British voice pipes in as the rugby teams prepare to begin their final moments.
”She was so excited. She hadn’t ever won anything on this level before. It was a bloody nightmare getting her to sleep the night before. Honestly she was a teenager but she was like a primary school girl. That excitement transferred to me, I suppose. If she was happy, so was I. That’s what being a good mum’s about, isn’t it?”
The play began and everything seemed to slow down for Number Eight as her eyes focused on the ball handler. She, that is Number Eight, was a prop, used as a battering ram in attack plays and as a wall in defensive...but Number Eight was not content with simply blocking. She wanted to stop the runner. She wanted to feel the body hit the ground and see the shaken fear in the eyes. There was a plan, of course. There was always a plan. The defense was going to hold the line, prevent the runner from moving up the field or from passing the ball and the clock would run out and the defenders would win. It was simple. It was effective.
It was boring.
Number Eight broke the rules. She deviated from the plan and instead of holding back the wingers she pounded her feet and made a charge for the ball carrier. She could hear some people shouting at her but they may as well have been mute for all she cared. She wanted this. She needed this.
Number Eight crashed into the attacker, knocking the other girl down to the grass hard. The two of them locked eyes and Number Eight didn’t see pain or fear in the eyes on the grass; she saw a smile, she saw joy, and then she heard the whistle. Number Eight shoved her way back to her feet and turned in time to see that a winger had gotten through, the agile player had been tossed the ball as Number Eight charged in...and the attacking team had closed the gap.
They even managed to convert, ending the game with a score of 25-23.
”It was a really exciting game and no one really had anything to be upset about. But she took the loss personally. Very personally. No one said so but she believed her team blamed her for their loss; but the way I hear it, the team never expected to place second in the region to begin with. The excitement she had was gone and I remember the look on her face as she retreated to the sides after the end. You’d think gran had just died.”
As the players left the pitch and the winners went on to receive their trophy and photograph, Number Eight couldn’t look her team in the eyes and they in turn were saying nothing to Number Eight. The mood in the locker room wasn’t overly excited, but it was brought down considerably by the frowning face of Number Eight, who was the last one in and the last one out. Her teammates took the loss well enough; it was great to even be in that game to begin with...but Number Eight had wanted to win. She needed to win. But they didn’t.
And it was her fault.
”That was the last time she played rugby. The next day she had taken down all the posters and photos of rugby players. It was a little extreme but I gave her some space. I thought she’d get over it. I remember on the way home me and her dad were telling her to be proud of the game they played. She looked down and said ‘second place is just the first loser’ which was not an outlook I agreed with.”
“If you ask me, that game made her into who she is today. Ever since I’ve never seen her get serious about anything. But that’s not what you asked me, was it? Well...the trip to the pitch that morning before the game...as she ran off to the locker room to prepare for the match that changed her life...that was the last time I ever saw Constance smile.”
“She was sixteen years old.”
~
Not every trip down memory lane is a good thing as Constance was now learning. She had assumed, as one does, that the recorded footage of that infamous rugby match had been tossed away; but of course her mother would keep something like that and of course her mother would jump at the chance to share the story (and footage) with anyone who asked. There was a lot left out of the story. As Constance remembered it, it was the fault of her team for not watching the wings or for even attempting to tackle her. Perhaps that was merely a way to shift the blame, but who hasn’t resorted to a little bit of scapegoating when the narrative suits them?
But even with clever editing tricks it was hard to deny what she had just seen and heard. That they lost the game was as much as Constance wanted to remember but there had to be an asterisk, a change; THEY didn’t lose so much as SHE lost. And that’s one way to be kicked in the head with reality. It would have been one thing if she was taking the trip by herself but what made it worse was the audience, small though it was. She couldn’t merely play it off now.
The audience, not counting Constance herself, consisted of the one behind it all, Caitlyn Caulfield, and an older, slightly round man with thinning hair and a suit that smelled faintly of outdated cologne. It was this man, currently nursing his fifth or so cigarette, that Constance was supposed to be sucking up towards, or so she was informed by the young blonde next to her. Jerry Hacker was sort of a name in certain circles though in person Constance wondered if those circles were among retirement home knitters.
It meant more to Caitlyn than anything else and it might well have been a sign of maturity that Constance was even entertaining the idea by attending this meeting. In some strange sort of way it could almost have been seen like a favor for a friend, but getting Constance to admit that in public would require a great amount of unsavory methods. So instead she preferred to think of it as simply chaperoning. Caitlyn was an adult, or if not she acted like one most days, but if the adults Constance knew were any indication...adults frequently needed chaperoning anyway.
”So….that was you?” Jerry asked without glancing away from the monitor where the paused interview with Piper Chapin had been playing. ”The one that lost?”
Constance quickly darted her eyes to Caitlyn who shrugged; she was out of her element in that the normally precocious and slick Caitlyn was too on edge, too afraid to say or do the wrong thing that she was miraculously silent.
”That’s right; that was me at sixteen.” Constance’s answer was almost robotic in delivery and she was kicking herself internally for playing along as if she had something to gain from this.
”You filled out didn’t you?” All Jerry needed to do was add a laugh and COnstance would have been properly skeezed out, but his comment was already making it even harder to tolerate.
”Well...that’s the good thing about puberty, isn’t it?” A touch of humor that went largely ignored left Constance feeling awkward in addition to annoyed. This was like a job interview only there was no job in it for her.
”I don’t get it.”
”Well, puberty is the part in a young person’s life where girls stop having cooties and boys are very confused about it.” A second stab at defusing the situation with humor got a soft smirk of acknowledgment from Caitlyn and an annoyed grunt from Jerry.
”Broads don’t do comedy for a reason.” Jerry shot back which put Caitlyn back on the path of fidgeting nervously. ”I mean this...this picture you’re trying to sell. I don’t get it.”
”It’s...it’s a documentary. A personal one rather than something larger in scope. Not every documentary has to be about politics or something.” Caitlyn spoke up but was very clearly choosing her words carefully. It was almost adorable in a way.
”I get that. But I don’t get the picture.” Jerry ashed his cigarette and finally turned to face the two women. ”Why should I care about some English broad that loses all the time? Where’s the value in that?”
”Well that’s the point, Mr. Hacker,” Caitlyn, it seemed, took issue when it came to talk about her long-term project. ”By showing Mrs. Chapin always at a low point it makes the moments in her life where she succeeds feel all the more powerful.”
”And that kinda thing might work in an actual movie, but this isn’t an actual movie. It’s a documentary.”
”Yes, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t adhere to structure. Documentaries tell stories just the same as movies, it’s just a matter of...fiction versus non-fiction. Both tell stories in different ways.”
Constance was actually getting impressed with how seriously Caitlyn seemed to be taking this; it was a welcome change from the normal sarcasm and smugness she normally expressed. She was talking about this silly thing the same way Constance would talk about a novel she loved but others didn’t care for. Though Constance would have been a lot more...vitriolic.
”Don’t you think that’s a little much for a documentary? Documentaries don’t draw audiences-”
”Which is why it’s structured more like a movie. It’s like King of Kong where there’s a clear protagonist and antagonist and it’s structured for simplicity.”
Constance assumed the things Caitlyn was saying made sense to Caitlyn; hopefully they made sense to Jerry as well otherwise what was the point of even being here.
”The subject matter has no draw. No one cares about some no-name British person.”
That one stung at Constance. She didn’t exactly disagree with him, but it still hurt to hear. It might’ve been the tone of voice.
”No one cared about Donkey Kong but that didn’t stop King of Kong. No one knew who Jack Rebney was but Winnebago Man came out. Catfish got that guy a television show. Just because there’s no obvious market doesn’t mean there ISN’T a market.”
Jerry’s gaze turned to Constance and she really wished he was looking anywhere else.
”You’re quiet now. You have anything to add?”
She honestly didn’t.
”I actually agree with you, Mr. Hacker, I’m an absolutely boring person and an even more boring subject for any sort of attention.” Constance’s honest admission turned Caitlyn’s head. Caitlyn had set up the ball and expected a score from Constance...expectations were always a bitch. ”...but I’ve never seen someone care this much about something so boring. Caitlyn,” As Constance pronounced her name correctly rather than the usual way Constance pronounced it, Caitlyn’s eyes went a bit wide. ”...Caitlyn was an unmotivated, uncaring, troublemaking kid when I met her. She found something she believed in and for some reason that something involved me. If that doesn’t warrant taking a chance on a long shot...then nothing does. What have you got to lose at this point, Mr. Hacker?”
Constance punctuated her thoughts with a shrug and a sideways glance towards Caitlyn. Caitlyn was staring towards Constance with eyes that said two words that Caitlyn could never say. Constance’s nod to the girl was a wordless response, a silent understanding of their similarities.
The two of them had their differences, but in this moment they were united in cause. One of them had saved the other. And now it was simply a matter of returning the favor. After all, what else were friends for?
And as odd as it was, Constance Chapin was friends with a teenager.
~
”But of course, it’s not just me that’s changed is it? You might not have noticed, Zahara, or maybe you have, the brain is a funny thing, but you’re not the same person you were in Windsor. That night changed you. I changed you. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I’m surely not the first one to notice it; I doubt I’m the first one to bring it up. Have you realized it? Shall I spell it out for you? Rhetorical questions, because of course I’m going to spell it out, who do you think I am?”
“You, Zahara, have lost your edge.”
“Specifically I’ve taken it from you, your edge. I don’t mean you were edgy or anything, you’re much more mature than that, but before our first match you had an air of confidence that wasn’t hopping the fence to arrogance - a line that is incredibly difficult to maintain - and it was honestly well deserved. You were sort of like Icarus but your wings were not prepared for the sun that was myself. I keep going back to some of the words you said to me in our first match, that faux humble praising of me before making it clear you had every intention of shutting me down and maintaining your streak…”
“I shattered your world view. I crushed your morale. And I feel like I should apologize. But not yet.”
“Because first I want to thank you.”
“You may not remember...though knowing you it’s probably on the back of your mind somewhere, but you said something that stuck with me. You said you believed in me. I hadn’t heard something like that in years, having someone honestly believe in me...when I was struggling with anxiety and worry, nervous that I’d never amount to much as a champion. But you believed in me enough to want to defeat me. Things didn’t go that way. Ironic, isn’t it, that your way of psyching yourself up to kill your idols wound up killing your psyche instead?”
“Remember when you were confident, Zahara? Remember when you felt untouchable? Well, maybe untouchable is a bit strong...but you clearly felt better...more positive… I said it to your face and I’ll say it again...I’ve never seen someone take a win so badly. You won against Elskerinne but you’d never have known from how you were so focused on our rematch, on treating me like some impassable hurdle...as if you were suddenly afraid of me because I was your first. Your first shot at a championship. Your first loss. Your first moment under the high stakes spotlight.”
“And you know what they say about firsts.”
“You’ve been so focused on me, on our match and this upcoming rematch that it’s alarming. Whereas I’ve been...nicer, you’ve been softer. Where before you earned your shot, now you’re upset that you were given a second shot...jumping the line as it were, as if you somehow didn’t earn it. I knew a girl who felt like she didn’t belong in a match...and that same girl went on to become a world champion by taking down three women who had all earned their spot. She jumped the line, but she proved she belonged there.”
“I’m not untouchable, Zahara. I’m not going to sit here and boast about how amazing I am or anything because that’s not the sort of champion I am. We already have English for that, and I mean...I have a victory against him so that’s how much boasting is worth.”
“But with the way you have been, the way you are now...the Xcel Championship or ANY championship will always be out of your grasp. If you’re here, in a match like this, it’s because you deserve to be, and I don’t want to defend my title against someone who’s coming down the ramp crippled with doubt. We faced each other at our best and anything LESS than that on this rematch is an insult to ourselves, the fans, and the Xcel Championship. We’re doing this old school, traditional rules and all; on paper it skews slightly in favour of me, what with the limited rope breaks and all. But I’m no prophet. I’m just someone who leaves everything on the mat so that I can never have any regrets.”
“I really hope you’re listening well to this, Zahara, because as unusual as this may be for a champion to say to the challenger...I want you motivated. I found you backstage at Breakthrough because I saw your mood. I’m speaking to you as friend, mentor, idol, champion, whatever title you want to put on me...buck the fuck up. See me on even footing and give yourself a damn chance.”
“I’ve been too nice lately and you’ve been too soft. Both of us left Windsor different people and it seems only fitting that we leave St. Paul the same way. I’ve given you every bit of advice and help I could think of because I don’t want a repeat of Windsor. I want to surpass it. I have every intention of walking home still holding my championship, and I want you to know that losing a title match isn’t the end of the world. It doesn’t make you worse. You’re not the same woman you were in Windsor.”
“You’re better than that.”
“We’re better than that.”
“Bring that confidence you once had. Bring every trick in your top hat, because I predict a magical encounter that no one will be prepared for.”
“Because you and I, Zahara? We’re both champions.”
~
From the Diary of Constance Chapin
Diaries of a Cynic coming to cinemas near you.
We’re workshopping the title.
I’ve become what I hate. It seemed inevitable.
