Post by laestrella on Aug 25, 2017 22:50:08 GMT -5
……………
The Mask Maker of Mexico steps back, pulling the bright red door open wider to allow his visitor entrance. Red front doors are common in Mexico, especially on the churches, stemming from an old tradition that still runs deep and strong through the culture of Catholic mysticism followed by the people in this country. The color red has powerful meaning in the Roman Catholic church but mainly to ward off evil spirits, to tell El Diablo and demonios are not welcome and cannot enter here. It signals that behind the doors one would find safety, protection, and refuge, both spiritually and physically. Some even say it represents the blood of martyrs and that shed by Jesus Christ to save us. There were even jokes from American tourists that said the mortgages were all paid off here.
Mr. Alvarez painted his front door red because he wanted to make sure evil had never entered his home and so far, it has worked out fine. Or, at least he hopes. He has no idea what he just let enter into his home when he invited in the young blonde woman hiding under the hood of her jacket, protecting herself as best she can from the rain. If anything, he has honored his Christian vow to give shelter to those who need it. In this weather, she needs it.
As his woman visitor steps inside the foyer of his home, he closes the door and locks it. With the metallic slap of the locking parts echoing throughout the front area of the house, a small but mighty moment of nervousness runs over this young woman.This stranger, older, stronger, and thinking God only knows what with a good looking woman standing in his home all but defenseless, could be anything and do anything. With the way he reacted when she first approached, she may say or do the wrong thing, cause his anger to explode and he would hurt her. The thoughts and feelings pass and she looks over the house as best she can from her position and with what little time she has.
It’s a beautiful home. Incredibly different from the cramped apartments she knows too well and has come to have a strong distaste for. But it’s a place with a roof, heated on cooler days and cool on hotter days, offering some kind of privacy, and filled with her stuff, her smell, or the warm, comfortable smell of her mother’s cooking. The house is bigger than she expected or at least it is to her. Wooden stairs lead to an upstairs that she can’t see anything of. Photographs and paintings line the light grey interior walls that open on both sides to lead into other rooms. From what she can see, to her left is the dining room and to her right, the living room. In front of her, a straight hallway that is a direct path to the kitchen. She wonders how many meals have been cooked in there and if they smell and taste as good as her mother’s. That leads her to think about whether he has a wife or if she has passed on, entering the next life and awaits him in heaven.
The Mask Maker comes around and stands right in front of her. He stares at her face, his eyes narrowing with close inspection. Having lived his life making masks, he spent decades studying faces for measurements, angles, curves, and little things that most people miss, all to make sure the mask fit perfectly, he cannot stop himself when he meets new people or is given the opportunity, he savors it. He can even see beyond the physical face, the flesh and bone parts, and look into the soul and what is trying to come out with the help of his creation. That is part of his skill - - finding out something that even the buyer and future wearer doesn’t even know.
Of course it makes the young woman feel uncomfortable but tolerates it for the mere fact that she believes it will in someway help him create the mask. She wonders if her father went through the same thing however many years ago it was. That alone can drive her forward and tolerate the man’s behavior and stares. At least his eyes haven’t moved downward, to her body, trying to examine her more private regions, the areas of a woman that make women women and men lose their good sense about them. Alvarez reaches out, removes the hood and touches her face. Gently at first, with the touch of a craftsman or sculpture manipulating soft clay in his more delicate areas of his piece, his calloused fingertips running over her chin and cheeks, feeling the hardness of bone and memorizing the curves. Then it grows more rough and forceful when it comes time to move her so that he can get a better look at areas covered by her hair or hidden from view.
Again she just goes with this, imagining her father having been through the same thing. That doesn’t mean she enjoys it any more. Her body is stiff, her arms hanging to her side limp but ready to go. Her body tightens up so much she fears she might have some kind of cramp or charley horse that causes her to fall flat on her face. He lets out a small sound, something like a ‘huh’ and ‘hm’ blended together as he lets go of her face.
“You’re Astro’s daughter?” he asks suddenly.
The young woman nods. “Yes,” she answers softly.
“I can see it,” he says, giving her face another good look. “You have his eyes and chin. Goodness, those eyes. Exact replicas of her father’s. It is as if God made an exact copy and gave them to you.”
She thinks about her father’s eyes. This is not the first time she’s heard that. All her life, anyone that knew her father and met her, they would always make comment about her eyes and his eyes. Her eyes are a sky blue with speckles of lighter blue and white, outlined by a blue so dark it almost appears black. To male admirers who gazed longingly into her eyes to create some kind of intimacy or charm, a summer sky filled with puffy, pure white clouds. To her, they were more like something from space, a glowing gas cloud that would soon come together to create a bright star. Some days they would look grey and others, that mesmerizing blue would come on strong and hard.
He shakes his head in disbelief, looking not into her eyes but at them, perhaps counting the little white and light blue flecks. “Well, you could fall into those and get lost, couldn’t you?” he mutters. He rests his hand on his chin, pondering, and takes a step back. Finally, after so long, he looks over her body. There is an almost laugh from him but it remains muffled and hidden. “I see you didn’t inherit his size.”
“No,” she quickly answers. “But that doesn’t mean I’m not strong or able. I’m fast. I can fly.”
Alvarez smiles, amused and charmed by her courageous and full attitude. “You certainly got your father’s attitude, that’s for sure,” he quips.
She considers showing him by fighting or at least taking a fighter’s stance, but the man before her is old and she notices he walks with a limp. Plus, manners get the better of her. Her thoughts quickly change when she realizes what he actually said. “You knew my father? Well?”
“Well enough,” he answers. “We got to know each over the years.” A smile crawls across his face as he remembers a memory from his time with Astro.
“What?” she asks. “What is it?”
“Just,” he starts, then stops and sighs. “You were your father’s favorite thing. He always wanted a little girl to spoil and dote over and then you came along and he could not have been happier. He would not stop talking about you. Every little thing you did. We’d be talking about something else and out of nowhere, his mind would go somewhere else and he’d bring up how you had laughed or said papa. I thought he was going to cry when he told me the story of how you ran up to him, reaching out for him, screaming papa over and over again when he came home one day. You were his little angel. The thing he lived for. The thing he worked so hard for.”
She lets out a breath, blowing it out slowly through her pursed lips, and then swallowing back the painful lump in her throat.
“I was sorry to hear about his illness,” he says, touching her upper arm with sympathy and comfort. It feels like nice, considering her father had been ill for sometime now, and growing more and more reliant on not just prescription medications but alcohol as well. His drink of choice being whiskey but he would take anything he could get any time he would get it. She knew why, too. He was sad, more than sad, depressed and drinking away his physical and emotional pain. Astro was no more. The character he had created and live since his teenage years had been put down and would never get up again thanks to his illness. The man who had only wanted to wrestle like his father could no longer doit. A part of himself was gone, lost, and it hurt him deep within his soul. It also meant he was unable to bring in income.
The two things he lived for, wrestling and his daughter, were well, gone. He couldn’t wrestle and he couldn’t take care of his daughter. It quickly became a vicious circle. The more he drank, the less he could tend to his daughter. This would make him feel horrible about himself and cause him to drink more. One domino after another. At least his daughter was old enough to understand some of it. It should also be noted that he was not an angry drunk, abusive or violent when drinking, no. He would simply retreat, hide away, spending all night in the local bar. Sometimes she would catch him watching old tape, sobbing, or looking over photo albums, sipping his whiskey or drinking a beer.
The young woman stares off, remembering something she wishes she had slept through. One night, at the height of his drinking, she had heard strange noises coming from below her window in the alley down below. Too loud to be one of the stray dogs, it had to be a person. Given the safety of her apartment, curiosity got the better of her. She crawled out of her bed to have a look and as her eyes adjusted to the darkness and sleep worked its way out, she could see a man standing near a fire contained in a trash can. It was her father, weeping and letting out a long string of swears and damnations as he threw things into the fire. In his most violent act, he picked up something - - his mask, tore it half with his bare hands, and threw it into the flames, growling.
Her pain and sadness in that moment was palpable. Watching her father burn his gear, the thing she had come to idolize about her father, and the hope she had for him returning to the ring soon broke her heart. She did not know what to do; she wanted to rush downstairs, barefoot in her nightgown, and stop him by hugging him so hard he couldn’t move his arms but she also couldn’t find the power in her legs. Finally her mother came down, said things, yelled at him in a hushed scream, and got him to stop. Afraid she might be seen and her legs growing weak from the pain, she threw herself into bed, hid under the covers, and quickly started to cry. Nobody ever spoke of it and she never brings it up.
“Come with me,” he instructs, walking and waving her forward. He leads her into the living, through the living room, and down a thin hallway. Before she can take anything in, he opens a door and they enter a medium sized room. A bedroom converted into an office or den or workshop or all three. It does have the markings of all three. There aren’t many books, but enough. Lots of trinkets and collectables and little things that act as reminders to things. So many framed pictures that the walls themselves are barely recognizable above a certain height. A desk and a matching chair. Two arm chairs that don’t match face the window.
The Masked Maker spends hours sitting in his chairs, reading books or just thinking, alone, drinking his milky coffee. On occasion, he sketches masks that were never made and will never be made. Mostly now, he spends his happiest moments reading the sports section of the paper or working out the lineup of his grandson’s futbol team and devising plays and skill runs.
“Sit,” he says, pointing at the red cushy arm chair. “I want to show you something.”
She does exactly that, falling into a chair, thankful to get off her feet and starting to warm up. The rain, no matter how light, has soaked her through and through and there is nearly nothing worse than damp clothing. She can’t help but look at the pictures on the wall, hoping to see one that she might be able to recognize in someway. Lots of black and white photographs from wrestling show, some with him it, and others of just the wrestler. Pictures of the masks he’s made or his favorite wrestlers. The man is clearly a fan of the sport as much as he is a maker of masks. There are even a few autographs - - signatures in black pen scribbled across tickets or scraps of paper and a few promotional pictures.
For a moment, she remembers her father having his picture professionally taken for posters, autograph signings, and of course, advertisements. The thing was odd and she remembers being hot and bored, watching her father stand in the same stance for what seemed like hours on end. She was about eleven or maybe twelve when she helped her mother set up a table near the entranceway of the arena and stack up his merchandise. It wasn’t much but what it was, she can recall how much each one cost and which one sold the most. Her mother had been the clever one who knew she would sell, regardless of whether or not they were a fan of Astro or not, hand fans with his face and name on them and they sold out almost every show. She wonders what happened to the t-shirts that never sold or the mementos her mother saved. She makes a mental note to ask when she gets home.
The man returns to her, a book in hand, and sits next to her. “I think - - I think,” he starts but has more concentration on turning the pages than his words. He finally finds the page he wants. A punch of photographs, polaroids, really. “There.” His curling, calloused finger touches the picture. “That’s him.”
There is a polaroid of Astro, her father, in his mask. A mask she doesn’t remember ever seeing in her life. She is mesmerized and growing more curious by the second. “Is that my father?”
Alvarez nods. “Yes,” he answers. “In the first mask I ever made him.”
She looks at the picture for a long time, burning it into her memory. Her father is standing in front of a bare wall covered in wood panelling, standing with his clinched fists held up and at the ready, a pose she knew all too well. It is the mask she cares about more than anything else, though. The leather, the fabric, and colors are hypnotizing. She’s stuck in it. The metallic swirls, the glittering stars and things that look like explosions, all on a blackish-blue.
He looks happy. Beyond happy, really. Close to ecstatic. A smile she hasn’t seen before. Sure she has seen him smile before, but not like this, not with his eyes. There is a sparkle in his eyes. Something that went missing so long ago. She misses that brightness in his eyes, that excitement and hope for the future. It went away and she wishes he could find a way to bring it back. Perhaps she is naive, but she thinks that by taking up the family tradition she can bring it back. Sure, her brothers are training to wrestle, but that is expected and they honestly aren’t all that good.
“Turn the page,” he tells her.
She does just that. A picture of her grandfather in his mask stares back at her.
“Made that one, too,” he says. “Family tradition, I see.”
She nods. “My brothers are training now.”
“I didn’t know,” he says and then chuckles. “How could I? I don’t make masks anymore and nobody comes for them.”
“I’ve come for them, one of them,” she quickly announces. “I want you to make me a mask. I want to follow in the family tradition and do everything right.”
He starts laughing.
“Don’t laugh,” she says, stern and offended. “I’m serious.”
“You little thing?” he asks, still laughing. “You cannot be serious.”
“Just because I am a woman,” she starts.
“No, no,” he interrupts. “It’s not because you are a woman. It’s because you are so small.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” he asserts. “There are plenty of small wrestlers who do just fine.”
“I suppose you are right,” he says, leaning back, looking at the photo album more. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t make masks anymore.”
“Please, Mr. Alvarez,” she nearly begs. “This is important. It could…”
“It could what, my dear?” she presses.
“It could save my father,” she answers. There is a long pause between the two. Someone knocks on the doorframe, distracting them. A woman stands there, smiling. She is plump, rounded at the middle, and surprisingly short. Pretty, though, even in her old age. She must have been rather arresting in younger years, to the right eyes, anyway. It’s Mrs. Alvarez, having come to ask her husband and his guest if they would like anything.
“How about something warm?” she asks the young woman, smiling pleasantly, noticing her wet clothing and the slight shiver that even the young woman doesn’t notice.
She does not want to impose but she also doesn’t want to be rude by declining the elder woman being a proper host. Honestly, she does want something hot as the chill has settled in deep and won’t break.
“Perhaps some hot chocolate?” Mrs. Alvarez asks.
“I’d like that,” the young woman answers, smiling. The woman nods and hurries off to the kitchen. Mrs. Alvarez misses making hot chocolate. The days have been warmer than usual and her grandsons haven’t been around since school started. Plus they’ve come to expect it now and it’s somehow lost it’s charm. Making a pot of hot chocolate and putting together a tray of cookies for this young woman who has come as a guest to her excites her.
It excites the young woman, too. She cannot remember the last time she had a cup of hot chocolate. Mr. Alvarez flips through the pages more, admiring the pictures that line each page. A massive collection he has amassed over the years. They once hung on the office walls in his workshop, taped up or stuck up with tacks. A resume in photographs. His lifetime of work gathered up and stuck behind cellophane sheets. What will become of his collection when he leaves this world? His sons will pack them up and forget about them. He hopes not, but what else is there be done with them.
Just like what is to be done with the young woman sitting in his chair in his office. Does he make the mask out of commitment to the family? She has come a long way and found him when he took a great deal of effort to be forgotten and undiscoverable. He knows how much effort has put into this and to do that, she must really want this. Does that qualify for him to break out his kit, purchase leather, and put his body through pain for her?
It would take a long time and cost money that she probably doesn’t have. Does he need money for it? So many questions rack his brain. He needs time to think. He will make time to think before giving this young lady an answer.
“What does your father have to say about this?” he asks.
The young woman doesn’t have an answer for him. If he told him the truth, he’d refuse, and if she lies, than she is a liar and for all the things she wants to be and can be, she doesn’t want to be a liar.
Like a savior, Mrs. Alvarez steps into the room with the hot chocolate and ample cookies. Before the elderly woman can put tray down, the young woman is reaching up and snatching a cookie. Mrs. Alvarez isn’t upset. She actually smiles, proud and happy at the eagerness of her young guest.
……………
La Estrella has been Las Vegas for close to a week now. It is so close to her homeland and given that she has a reason to be there, she is taking full advantage of the occasion. To her, Las Vegas is overwhelming and excessive, but she is enjoying and savoring it as best she can. With what little money she has, she has taken in a few shows and done all the free things a person can do. She even gambled once, playing a few hands of blackjack that actually won her some money. Being who she is, she spent it on a nice dinner and put the rest away in the kitty.
But even with all this, the bright lights and millions of things to do, she still finds herself drawn to the desert, especially at sunset. There is something so serene and peaceful about the sand, cactus, mountains, and yes, the sky. The sky is endless here and the light is almost nonexistent when the sun goes down. That means stars and more stars and of course, the very thing that La Estrella is after, that cloudy, colorful sight known as the Milky Way.
La Estrella: My father told me a story once, about why he wore a mask, why abuelo wore a mask, and why so many in lucha libre wore masks. I cannot speak as to if this is true or not, but it is probably just a story. There is a book, The Man in the Iron Mask. A prisoner is hidden away in a deep tomb, his face covered by an iron mask. That is where El Santo got his idea to cover his whole face with a silver mask. This isn’t why we wear masks. The story of El Santo is good nonetheless. No matter what, El Santo would not ever remove his mask. He would sleep in it, eat while wearing it, and even kissed pretty girls with it on. He was even buried in it. That is how important the mask is and how much devotion there is to our masks.
She smiles and gently tugs at her own mask, ensuring it is on snugly and in perfect position. It is a habit now just as it is a constant worry. One wrong move, too loose a knot, or torn stitch and her face will be exposed. To expose her face would be absolute disaster.
La Estrella: To remove them would break the illusion. Illusion is not the right word. Let me explain, please. When I put on this mask, I am transformed. I am always La Estrella, but without the mask, she cannot come out. I am no longer just a nina from Mexico City with a dream. I become a luchadora living her dream, I am La Estrella. All the problems of the world, de la vida real problemas, they disappear. All that matters is what happens when I am in the ring, what I do in the ring, and winning. I feel free in this mask, more like myself than I ever do. It’s where I belong and I’m doing exactly what I should be doing.
The Shooting Star looks up at the sky to watch some wispy clouds float above.
La Estrella: The masks that we luchadores wear, it dates all the way back to our Aztec antepasados. They would wear masks to allow the la alma, the spirit possess them. They would become that panther mask and turn into the panther. It made them warriors. I put this mask on, I become a warrior. That is what I must be if I want to win and be the competitor I want to be. It is what I need to be to become the Queen of the Ring.
She stands, inhales deeply, and starts to walk, pacing through the little area in the desert that has been designated a park.
La Estrella: There are many who do not think that I am a warrior. They do not think I can win Queen of the Ring. It is entirely possible that many do not think I can get past the first round with Stacy Jones, the woman who is enamored with lucha libre, calling it a style of wrestling. She has such a keen interest in it, studies it, right? To her, that is all it is - - a style. To me, it is a way of life. There is mucho más to it than that. I do not hold it against you or fault your ignorance. It is a very different kind of ignorance than the one that the blonde wannabe queen of Legoland. That I hold very much against her. There is no excuse for that. It is okay, though. Just like I did at the Rumble, if the opportunity comes, I will punch her in the face. Maldito gueras. Disrespectful, arrogant people like her always get what is coming to them. Trust me, she will get what is coming to her. Even if it is not me doing it, even if she does win this, I have great confidence that Amy Jo Smyth will hang that girl by her feet and show her what a fat mouth gets a person - - a fat lip.
She shakes her head and then hands, as if throwing something off.
La Estrella: That is bad energy, bad thoughts, and I do not need that. Nobody needs that, especially not L.A.W. With all the women in this tournament, the cream rises to the top as you Americans say, and she is not rising to the top. I believe I can rise to the top. I am not the same woman or competitor I was last year when I did this for the first time. Yes, I have experience in this and know how it works better than everyone but Abby Addiction. Abby Addiction did this with me last year and we both got bumped in the first round. Golpeó fuerte. At least I have the relief that I lost to the winner of it. Oh, how the mighty have fallen - - Crystal Millar is but a shell of her former self. No es diferente de Kate Steele. I do not think I am alone in saying, what has happened to Kate Steele? Many will say that I am filler but I have put up mucho mas of a fight than Steele has. It is like she did not even show up for the rumble but did. She was there in physical form, but her spirit, her el almo had not come with her. It will not come with her to Queen of the Ring, either.
La Estrella has a quick glance at the sky as she moves. The ground is a bit hilly but she manages to do just fine, even with her talking and love for the sky.
La Estrella: Part of winning, it comes from your el almo, of course. Mine is strong and just fine. Like I said, I am a warrior. A warrior ready to take on someone like Gabby Camacho and Kenzi Grey. Oh, Kenzi. She has a strong el almo but it is not focused or refined. We already know how easily distracted Grey is. I heard she is getting married this week. May I extend my congratulations to you and your consort in building brick spaceships in Legoland. Now, I admit, I have never been married before and it is a long way off. What I do know of it, it is a very serious thing and can estropear all kinds of thing. Especially abig wrestling match. This does not bode well for Legoland Lady and her puppy dog Kenzi. Distractions are not anyone’s friend and they never go well for those two ladies. The rumble serves as a ejemplo principal. Those two will take of themselves. Kenzi does not like me and that is okay. If she does not want to be a warrior, that is not my problema and she only has to blame herself for it.
She laughs to herself for that and starts to climb up a steeper hill, kicking rocks down the hill as she goes along.
La Estrella: If they do not want to concentrate on the here and now, the steps that lead to the top and only look at the top, that is also not my problem. Camacho has a lot of el almo but she is concerned with getting to back where she was this time last year. She has forgotten she must take it one step at a time. I do not take back what I said about her and my respecto for her. She has done a lot for L.A.W. and a lot in it. Can she go back to being the mandamás? Quizas si? Quizas no? She is certainly a favorite in this so who I am to say she cannot. I am the desvalido. I am used to this feeling, being smaller, shorter, and yes, weaker. But that does not mean I cannot win. I have won and I can win this. I am not filler. Perhaps Katalina Starr is filler.
Things get a little harder on the hill and she slips. La Estrella recovers quickly.
La Estrella: Listen, nobody here is filler. That’s not how this works. People who say so, tomarlo y empujarlo I almost forgot she was in this and she was not in the rumble that took place to give us all a taste of each other. I know nothing about this woman. Nada. That is okay. You are not filler, Starr. I think you have el almo but I don’t think you can win. That is because I think I can win and that means nobody else can win. Creo que lo puedo hacer. Belief in me. First I get through Stacy Jones and then it is up to the wrestling gods how this works out, but believe that I will be ready for whatever comes. Whether it is Legoland’s worst export or Camacho or Abby. I want to become Queen of the Ring and to do that, I have to be prepared. That is how it works. That is how you win.
La Estrella reaches the top of the hill and stands higher than she has ever stood before, looking down on mountains that she once looked up at.The sun is slowly dipping behind those same mountains. It won’t be long before the sun starts to go down.
La Estrella: Last year was last year. This is a new year. I’m a new woman. My goal has not changed, though. I’m still out to find my American dream. And now it has even more meaning than it ever did. Por mi padre. Por mi. I will be Queen of the Ring.
She folds her arms in front of her chest and smirks. The desert is vast before her and the shadows of the mountains and hills and tall cacti are growing longer and longer.
La Estrella: I will be Queen of the Ring just as I will see the Milky Way tonight.
After kicking around some rocks, she finds a flat spot on the ground. There is the sudden amber color in the sky, reflecting off the flat clouds. The half moon, though not glowing, can be seen hanging out in the sky, waiting for it's moment to shine. Just like La Estrella is waiting for her moment to shine.