The Nocturne Chronicles IV: All the Gold in California

The Aerie School of Professional Wrestling
Bel Air, Maryland
September 4, 2021, 9:47 a.m. local time

”California? Are you kidding me?”

”Afraid not, Ames. Level Up seems determined to do a west coast kick and now they’re in Los Angeles for the next show, and they want Nocturne there.”

”Terry’s going to kill me if I even suggest going out there. Especially now that he seems gung-ho to help plan this wedding by the end of the year.”

”About time he made an honest woman of you.”

Amelia chuckled, then focused back on the matter at hand. ”Still doesn’t help us with this situation though.”

”You leave that to me, Ames. One of our former students is working the very small-time indie scene around the area. I think we can convince her to take up the role for a show. That’s the whole point of having the mask after all.”

Amelia looked like she wanted to contest the point, but finally conceded it with a nod. ”All right, Will. You haven’t led us wrong yet with this endeavor. Make the call.”

Little did they know that this was about to change someone’s life completely….

~~ ** ~~ ** ~~ ** ~~

Residence of Amanda Sears
San Bernadino, California
September 6, 2021, 5:31 a.m. local time

I still can’t believe the call I got yesterday. Even as I run in the pre-dawn light, eyes constantly moving back and forth to keep an eye on my surroundings, I have to remind myself that yes, that phone call was an actual thing that happened. A year removed from graduating from The Aerie, and Will was still looking out for his students. Why he thought of me in this instance I’ll never know, given that there are a few better choices in the area alone. But I know better than to question it. God knows I could use the break.

As if summoned by that very thought, the reason for my missing the last show I was scheduled for flares up, sending pain down the outside of my entire left leg and forcing me to a stop for a few moments. I’m not sure if something is pressing on the sciatic nerve, or if there’s some soft tissue damage I’m aware of, or something else. But whatever it is happened thanks to some outfit called the Grappling Group of Hollywood—yeah, I don’t get it either—and it’s something that for right now, I have to live with as I shake my head and set off at the pace I was at moments before.

Mainly because I refuse to let anyone else know just how financially desperate I am right now. I know that many do this for the love of the sport, love of the game, whatever. While I love it too, I still need to make ends meet, and here in California, if you’re even an 8 on the scale, you’re not getting hired for anything more than retail. Which means two and three jobs to try to make rent—along with damn near everyone else in the same boat fighting you for those positions—and the absurdly high cost of living. It’s ridiculous.

But I know I did it to myself. I chose to move out here when my mother took ill, knowing that her financial situation was about as desperate as mine. So I knew I’d have no cushion to fall back on, and I did it anyway. Sometimes, what you have to do outweighs what you want to do. One of those life lessons that schools never seem to teach you.

Trust me when I say that this was far from a new situation for me.

So the phone call I got, which offered a thousand dollars to put over someone else in front of a streaming broadcast in the middle of Los Angeles? Manna from heaven, to use an old cliché. It would be enough to get us by a little longer, even if it was a drop in the bucket of what we were expecting to pay when my mother took the inevitable turn for the worse. It’s all I can do some days to not lose my temper over the lack of a good American healthcare system…which brings me back to my leg and working through the pain because I honestly can’t afford to be seen. Not with a lack of medical insurance anyway.

So all I had to do was get through a five to ten minute squash, collect my check, and be on my way? I could do that. Showing that I was a capable hand on a larger stage might open up future opportunities for me, too, for places that pay more than fifty bucks and an expired half-off-coupon at the local In ‘N’ Out. I wish I was joking about that.

The surroundings finally seem to filter through the busy traffic my brain is experiencing to realize that I’m coming back to the small place my mother and I are living in. Half of a duplex owned by a slumlord who hasn’t done any repairs to the place in years. The floor is sagging in places, as is the ceiling. The occasional leak finds a way through the roof when California can be bothered to get rain. Windows are drafty, and the lone air conditioner only seems to push hot air out anymore. All of this in a one bedroom, one bathroom place that we’re charged $1400 per month to rent.

I guess Larry Gatlin was right after all. All the gold in California is in a bank in the middle of Beverly Hills, in somebody else’s name. For everyone else, well…hell, I’ll say it if no one else will. All landlords are bastards.

As I walk up to the door, I see that the mail must have arrived after dark last night, as the mailbox has the usual assortment of late bills and threateningly-worded notices about people wanting to collect their pound of flesh for the sheer reason that I dare to exist. Two envelopes in particular stand out to me—one from the home healthcare place that has been looking after my mother, and the other, no return address, postmarked from Maryland. Dreading what I’m about to see, I open the first envelope from the healthcare place, and about ten seconds later have to catch myself against the side of the building in disbelief. I knew we were behind on payments—wrestling plus gig work in this part of the country wasn’t paying well at all—but I was beginning to think someone was playing a prank on me. How was our outstanding balance zero? Where did the other $35,000 come from? All I could see was that someone, somewhere, had posted a payment to the account for the entire balance. That still told me nothing.

Still in shock, I finally manage to walk into the house and sit on the couch/my bed. I’m not sure what else to expect as I look at the envelope postmarked from Maryland. That was the last bit of splurging my mother had done for me before she fell ill. She knew I wanted to get into the wrestling business—hell, we both had watched shows religiously for years. She had put together the funds to send me to The Aerie, to train under Will Prydor himself, and then hid the fact that she was becoming sicker by the day from me until after the courses had ended. That’s when I made the decision to go back, despite knowing that the odds were against me for trying to break into the business in such a crowded market.

I don’t even realize I’m already opening the envelope until my hands pull out one sheet of paper inside the envelope, and a smaller piece of paper flutters from the inside out of my reach and to the floor. The writing on the larger paper, while short, is in handwriting I do not recognize, though the name at the bottom certainly causes me to look twice.

From one Nocturne to another, one hard-on-her-luck woman to another. Will doesn’t need to know how bad the situation truly is right now. He wanted to handle the medical. I know there’s more to it than that from experience. All I ask is that when you can, you pay it forward.
–Amelia

“Pay it forward?” The hell? The smaller paper catches my eye again, and this time I bend down to pick it up, turning it face-up as I do. I very nearly drop it again. In my hands is a bank check in my name for an extra five thousand dollars, with a smaller note paperclipped to it: “For an outfit suitable for Nocturne.”

I feel the tears starting then, and I can’t help it as they start to fall. A lifeline…an answered prayer. I knew I could get the outfit done for much less. I’m sure Amelia knows it too, given the character was mainly her creation to start.

I will be damned if I let this chance go to waste. No matter what, I will do them proud. They deserve nothing less from me.

It’s time for Nocturne to shine in the California spotlight.

~~ ** ~~ ** ~~ ** ~~

Adam Miller.

Oh, how the mighty have fallen, huh?

Two shows into Level Up’s life you were facing the woman who is now the Final Boss. It’s a shame you peaked so early. After all, you fell from the top, only to have your arm all but destroyed by The Faction a few weeks later.

And now, people look at you as an afterthought when you feel like you should be better appreciated. I know, rich coming from a woman like me, huh? But that’s the thing, Adam. I already know I’m an afterthought. I’ve had twenty-five years in the school of hard life to teach me that. To some, I’m nothing more than a number, responsible for so much revenue to pay the government, or owing faceless corporations more than I could hope to earn in the next decade. To most, I’m not even worthy of a second look, just someone who a person might find mildly attractive in a city full of better-looking people. I hide anonymously in plain sight.

And I’m perfectly fine with that. I know my time will come and if not, no big deal. Not everyone is cut out to leave a legacy that will span years. Hell, most people will never see true success from the toils of their daily lives. That’s the nature of life.

You may think you deserve better, Adam, but let’s be real here. Your results certainly haven’t borne that any fruit. You’re barely a step above me, and to be honest, you’re even behind Dude Waluigi. I mean, even he beat a reigning champion in a match. Can you say the same?

So the way I see it, you have two choices. One is to just simply accept that yes, you’re nothing more than mediocre and learn to live with it. But I have a sneaking suspicion that’s not your style. So there’s always option B:

Step up and prove everyone wrong.

Choice is yours, Adam. Your move.