![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
x_losA sample of the first two chapters of the Found Work within said novel
There is nothing that I can hide from you.
Stand ready—poised, primed, primped, and pumped. A shifting, shimmering sea of flashbulbs. Everyone wants a piece. A five-by-seven reminder of the night.
Who can blame them? There’s never been anyone. There never will be again.
I was eight years old when my family moved to the island of Hawaii. This really wasn’t all that big a deal to me, since I was accustomed to being uprooted on a regular basis, my father consisting of dozens of self-sufficient, self-governing territories.
Generally, at that time, guys would work for six months to a year, two years at most. They’d move in, get acclimated, make a name for themselves, and before long they’d wear out their welcome and have to move on. That’s just the way it worked. Everyone accepted the life. In fact, most loved it.
It was all I can remember.
I was a warrior from the very beginning. By the time kindergarten had started I had already lived in five states I don’t recall.
My mother, Ata, cheered every one of Rocky’s sensational athletic moves. My mom understood the sacrifices that were necessary. So she did what she had to do to keep the family together.
I still consider it my home. It represents so much, in an honest way.
One night, in a hotel restaurant, another wrestler had been making fun of my grandfather. Peter Maivia was Samoan, and as was the custom of his people, he liked to eat with his hands. We call it fa-a-Samoan. The Samoan way or custom. To this other wrestler, though, it was not a custom. It was something to mock. So the boys were all sitting at a table, surrounded by food, and he was insulting him, trying to get a laugh out of something that was actually quite honorable. My grandfather told him to show a little respect.
“Don’t make fun of me,” he said. “This is my culture.”
The other just laughed. My grandfather stood up, dragged him into the lobby and proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. My grandfather was an immense man. It ended when my grandfather lifted the other and tossed him through a window. He said “Now, just don’t make fun of my anymore.”
He was gentle and kind to my mother and me. He was capable of charming you. He and my grandmother, Leah, loved each other intensely. They fought all the time. They bickered constantly, and their arguments erupted into violence. She grew so tired that she’d collapse into him, completely spent.
II.
Blood tore my family apart.
Oh, he was sharp looking and all, very chiseled and athletic, and handsome! Rocky could be a charmer, and it wasn’t long before he and my mother fell in love and decided to get married. They’re as likely to go after me as they are my dad.
My grandfather knew all about the demons. He understood a few things that my mother did not. Like the fact that the boys are the boys.
He knew the temptations of the road. And the way separation had of making the heart grow colder and sadder rather than fonder.
And he didn’t want his daughter. Who could blame him?
His daughter may have been born into that world, but she didn’t have to marry into it as well. Ultimately, there was nothing they could do. It came down to a simple choice: We have one daughter and one daughter only, and we can either shelter her or we say, Hey, we’ll be happy for the course of a year.
There is nothing that I can hide from you.
Stand ready—poised, primed, primped, and pumped. A shifting, shimmering sea of flashbulbs. Everyone wants a piece. A five-by-seven reminder of the night.
Who can blame them? There’s never been anyone. There never will be again.
I was eight years old when my family moved to the island of Hawaii. This really wasn’t all that big a deal to me, since I was accustomed to being uprooted on a regular basis, my father consisting of dozens of self-sufficient, self-governing territories.
Generally, at that time, guys would work for six months to a year, two years at most. They’d move in, get acclimated, make a name for themselves, and before long they’d wear out their welcome and have to move on. That’s just the way it worked. Everyone accepted the life. In fact, most loved it.
It was all I can remember.
I was a warrior from the very beginning. By the time kindergarten had started I had already lived in five states I don’t recall.
My mother, Ata, cheered every one of Rocky’s sensational athletic moves. My mom understood the sacrifices that were necessary. So she did what she had to do to keep the family together.
I still consider it my home. It represents so much, in an honest way.
One night, in a hotel restaurant, another wrestler had been making fun of my grandfather. Peter Maivia was Samoan, and as was the custom of his people, he liked to eat with his hands. We call it fa-a-Samoan. The Samoan way or custom. To this other wrestler, though, it was not a custom. It was something to mock. So the boys were all sitting at a table, surrounded by food, and he was insulting him, trying to get a laugh out of something that was actually quite honorable. My grandfather told him to show a little respect.
“Don’t make fun of me,” he said. “This is my culture.”
The other just laughed. My grandfather stood up, dragged him into the lobby and proceeded to beat the living crap out of him. My grandfather was an immense man. It ended when my grandfather lifted the other and tossed him through a window. He said “Now, just don’t make fun of my anymore.”
He was gentle and kind to my mother and me. He was capable of charming you. He and my grandmother, Leah, loved each other intensely. They fought all the time. They bickered constantly, and their arguments erupted into violence. She grew so tired that she’d collapse into him, completely spent.
II.
Blood tore my family apart.
Oh, he was sharp looking and all, very chiseled and athletic, and handsome! Rocky could be a charmer, and it wasn’t long before he and my mother fell in love and decided to get married. They’re as likely to go after me as they are my dad.
My grandfather knew all about the demons. He understood a few things that my mother did not. Like the fact that the boys are the boys.
He knew the temptations of the road. And the way separation had of making the heart grow colder and sadder rather than fonder.
And he didn’t want his daughter. Who could blame him?
His daughter may have been born into that world, but she didn’t have to marry into it as well. Ultimately, there was nothing they could do. It came down to a simple choice: We have one daughter and one daughter only, and we can either shelter her or we say, Hey, we’ll be happy for the course of a year.
