Soul Survivor (a novel)

Daryl Stocks had been playing baseball since he was three years old, just old enough to run all the way around the bases when he played street ball with the neighborhood kids.  He grew up as one of a handful of African-American families in a small town in upstate New York.  Daryl made friends easily.  He could hit the ball with a broom handle as well or better than any high school kid when he was still in grade school.  By the time he was in high school he was being scouted by AAA teams, even as his teachers told him to focus on his studies and that the chances of his making it as a professional athlete were slim to none.

Daryl’s mother often told him whether or not he believed in himself would have more to do with his own success or failure than whether or not anybody else believed in him.  It was the memory of her words and the pureness of her love for him that enabled him to think straight even when he felt anger against those ignorant and sometimes racist teachers who worked harder to cut him down than to build him up all the way through high school.  He figured they’d settled for something less than their ideals and didn’t want some black kid showing them up by achieving his.  He kept his temper, did his homework and studied enough to pull B’s, while putting his heart, mind, and body into baseball practice and baseball games, and throwing and hitting with neighborhood kids when there wasn’t practice or a game.

Daryl took full advantage of the college scholarship he was able to get and stayed all four years, completing a degree in business at Syracuse University.  Then he went directly to the Yankees.  His first pro game was in Yankee stadium.  He hit two home runs and was immediately dubbed the King of the Rookies.  Ten years later he’d moved to the West Coast and was playing for the Dodgers.  He was in peak physical condition and a reliable home run hitter, often game-winning.  It was a shock for Daryl when Harvey Galvez, a player for the Arizona Diamondbacks, passed Daryl’s record-breaking home run hitting summer to set an even higher record for the number of home runs in a single season.  Daryl talked to his trainer, Cal Asher, about what he could do differently to win the title Daryl thought should rightfully be his.  Cal talked to Harvey’s trainer and came back with the answer.  Steroids.  Cal said all the heavy hitters in both leagues were taking them.

With Cal’s help, Daryl incorporated a daily injection into his workout routine.  In a few months Daryl was able to put on more muscle than he’d been able to in the past no matter how hard he’d previously worked out.  The home runs came easier and easier.  The next season, Daryl won the title he’d wanted.  The press loved Daryl’s perseverance, his new physique and his home run record.  As the next few years went by, Daryl set his sights on breaking career home run records he’d thought untouchable in the past.  Barry Bonds.  Babe Ruth.  Willie Mays.  Hank Aaron.  Daryl Stocks would replace them all as King of the Home Run Hitters for all time.  He’d make his mother in heaven proud of him and the life he was living on earth.  That was his plan; he’d poured all his life energy into it since he was five years old.

“Daryl Stocks, the Unauthorized Biography,” was written by two college friends, who set out to dethrone a hero and expose the dark underside of professional baseball, with hopes of making their names known and putting money in their own bank accounts.  They interviewed trainers and athletes from both teams Daryl had played for, the Yankees and the Dodgers.  They requested an interview with Daryl through his agent and were turned down, but not deterred.  They turned up at a few games and tried ambushing him as he came out of the locker room, coming up to him casually at a bar after a game, leaving notes with cell phone numbers for him at the front desk of the hotels he stayed at under an assumed name.  When the book was published, the authors were all over radio and television, being interviewed about the baseball steroid scandal they’d helped expose and which was now being investigated by the Baseball Commission and a grand jury.

Daryl had a different trainer by then.  His old trainer, Cal, started acting like Daryl owed him more than the contract specified.  Daryl came to the conclusion Cal’s goal wasn’t to make Daryl the best he could be but to get the most out of him for Cal’s benefit.  Maybe, if Daryl and Cal had worked out a new agreement, Cal wouldn’t have given up his secrets about Daryl’s training methods so glibly.  Now, even though Daryl continued to break records, the fans and the press didn’t respond in the same way.  The titles Daryl spent his whole life working towards attaining were tainted by his achieving them.  Daryl had always been so focused on his goals as an athlete, he never thought beyond achieving them to retirement.  Now he found himself feeling tired and fed up with it all.  He’d given baseball his best effort and been rewarded with distrust and shame for something lots of players were doing.  Harvey Galvez, the player who had initially bested Daryl in home run hitting, confessed use of steroids to the press and in front of the grand jury.

Daryl pictured his old high school social studies teacher, Mr. Resnick, using Daryl as an example in class, explaining to the students that some people, no matter what opportunities they were given or how hard they tried, couldn’t overcome the weakness of their own characters.  It didn’t matter that Mr. Resnick was long-retired or dead.  Daryl knew just what he would have said and could picture him saying it, standing in front of the class with his back to the chalkboard, using a piece of chalk in his hand to emphasize his point, shaking his head as if it was a real shame and everybody should know better than to think that Daryl Stocks could make something of himself.

Alecia had been content to be a housewife and mother from the time when her first child was born, eleven years ago, right up until six months ago.  Now the mother of three children, all girls, she found herself having the same argument with her husband, Henry, again and again and again.

Henry had worked in finance for fifteen years and had done very well for himself.  So well he’d given up his secure job at an established U.S.-based computer manufacturer to go work for a smaller microchip start-up venture which failed within a year of his joining.  Henry was able to get away with several months pay and insurance coverage, however, the time frame of that coverage was running out and Henry was having a difficult time finding another job.

At first he’d been happy to have the time off.  As the weeks turned into months, however, and the first interviews with various companies didn’t even lead to second round interviews, Alecia became increasingly concerned.  Alecia went from being glad to have more time with Henry to wishing he’d get out of the house and find a job.

As the months went on, Alecia and Henry switched roles.  It wasn’t deliberate on either of their parts, it just happened.  Alecia got a job as an assistant in a physician’s office.  Henry took over the responsibilities of cooking, cleaning and driving the girls to school, dance, girl scouts and various other activities.

Alecia enjoyed her work, however, demanding as it was, she knew enough about their finances to know the income her job provided was not enough to support their lifestyle.  Every day she scanned advertisements in the San Francisco paper hoping to spot an opportunity for Henry that would be the solution to their problem.  He searched the web.  He sent his resume in to Walmart in response to a web advertisement for managers needed in the mid-west.  When Henry told Alecia about that opportunity, they had another fight.

“What makes you think I’d move to the mid-west?” Alecia said.  “I like it here.  I want to raise our children here,” she said.

After that, Alecia scanned the ads more for herself than for Henry.  If she couldn’t trust him to prioritize staying where they were over a job, she’d have to find a way she could really support them herself.  She found herself resenting the large, beautiful house in the pristine, gated community they lived in.  She felt the house and everything in it were weights threatening to drown her and Henry.  At the supermarket, Alecia retrained herself to reach for store brands rather than the premium ones.  Henry hadn’t yet made even that simple adjustment.

Alecia ran six miles a day, immediately upon rising out of bed, before daybreak.  The running gave her a feeling of control, a constant in her life she could completely provide for herself and do well.  Running every morning felt good, not just at the moment she was doing it, but in the litheness of her body no matter what she was doing or the time of day.  She still got admiring glances from men, even though she was past forty.  Her legs especially got the lingering looks she enjoyed while pretending not to notice.  Alecia’s favorite item of clothing was a short cotton skirt that tied on the side and had a red print like a bandana.  It was comfortable and looked good on her.

Henry enjoyed Alecia’s fit build and worked to maintain his body as well.  He rode a touring bike he’d had since college.  He biked for miles with his daughters.  The older two, eleven and eight, had their own bikes.  Henry rode with the youngest, three years old, either in a trailer or a seat behind him.

When Henry and Alecia met in bed at night, they were partners accustomed to each other, yet unaccustomed to their new roles.  Now that Alecia was working, Henry hesitated to initiate intimate contact, thinking Alecia must be tired, or because he found himself unexpectedly exhausted from his day of laundry, dishes and running children from place to place.  Alecia often turned on her side and lay awake, thinking and worrying about their finances.  She wondered if Henry was doing the same when she heard him breathing next to her, sensing he wasn’t sleeping either.

If I wasn’t producing reality television I would probably be institutionalized.  I mean living in a home for the seriously deranged.  I like to eat bugs and other odd things, not normally considered edible.  Here are some examples of odd things I’ve ingested:  night crawlers;  sheep eyes; small Phillips head screws; a latex glove.

I rarely get sick from the things I eat.  It is amazing how resilient the human digestive tract is, can be, if you give it the chance.  Not just in my case, but especially in my case, given the practice I’ve given it.

My mother said when she was pregnant with me she craved laundry starch and ate it by the spoonful.  I don’t know if her eating laundry starch during her pregnancy with me gave me my taste for gastronomical oddities, or if my cravings, even as an unborn baby, are what drove her to eat laundry starch.  Cause or effect, it doesn’t matter, but most would agree there does seem to be a relationship of some kind between the two.

When I was in elementary and middle school, I’d take dares for money to eat things other kids wouldn’t eat.  I ate worms, raw eggs, a handful of dirt, broken glass from a car window.  I swallowed every denomination of U.S. coin, including a Kennedy half dollar.

By high school, I couldn’t make money eating strange things anymore because all the kids knew I liked to eat strange things.  They knew I’d do it whether or not I got paid to, and had wised up to giving me their money for no reason.  So I had to look for other work for spending money.

Growing up in Los Angeles, it wasn’t hard to find a connection to the television business.  I started out working equipment rental.  That’s how Scott and Tracey and I connected.  Tracey was reading scripts for a studio, producing a short film on the side.  Scott had a screenplay he’d written in college and was trying to get optioned.  Tracey and Scott ended up co-producing a portion of his script as a pilot.  It wasn’t very good and didn’t get any interest from the studios, but it brought the three of us together.

I’d seen Scott and Tracey come in a few times, thought they were nice and could tell they were hard working.  I didn’t know anything about their project but I gave them a tip about shooting at night as a way of saving some money.

“Rent the equipment for a day, keep it that night and bring it in first thing the next morning.  I’ll check it in like you returned it the previous day.  As long as everything’s in good shape, you get double the equipment for the same price,” I told Tracey.  Tracey is a smart business woman.  I knew she’d see the sense in what I was saying, and she did.  She thanked me for it, and invited me to the wrap party.

The party was outside, on the patio of a home in the Hollywood hills.  The crowd was thinning.  Tracey told me my name was in the credits of the short film they’d completed.  I was feeling good, and a little hungry.  I saw a moth hanging around a string of lights in a hedge.  I reached out, cupped the moth in my hand and popped it into my mouth.  I chewed and I swallowed.  Then I heard Scott behind me.

“No way!” he said, laughing.  As I turned around, he grabbed Tracey’s elbow.  “Tracey, you won’t believe what I just saw Mike do.  Do it again, will you?” Scott said.

I figured Tracey could handle it.  I was right.  She didn’t blink as I caught and ate another moth.

“How’s it taste?” she said.

“Dusty.  Dry,” I said.  She handed me her champagne glass.  I washed the moths down.

“I like the texture,” I said.  “The wings are a little a hard to swallow.  They stick to your tongue.”  Tracey laughed.

Later that night the party was down to just the three of us.  I passed a joint to Scott.  He took a long drag and said, “Mike.  If you eat moths because you like the texture, what do you eat when you get the munchies?”

I just smiled.  I didn’t answer.  I figured it was too soon in our relationship to give Scott and Tracey the full view of my taste.  I figured if we ended up becoming good friends, there would be plenty of time for that.

And there was.  That night the three of us took turns telling each other what we really wanted to do in Los Angeles.  What we wanted to accomplish.  Scott wanted to be a full time writer and see his words come to life on the big screen.  Tracey wanted to be a major studio big shot, with an office, assistants and a hit show or shows.  I wanted to have a good time, traveling to exotic locations, working tech.  As the sky went from dark to light that night and into the next morning, we came up with a plan for each of us to get what we wanted by working together.  Scott said he’d write it up and Tracey said she could get us a meeting to pitch the idea.  My role was to do what I liked to do and to get other people to try it too.  I would also provide the equipment we needed to shoot and edit the footage we would show at the pitch.

We advertised in the Hollywood Reporter for “attractive, adventurous, physically fit people who weren’t afraid to take risks.”

We held the auditions in Griffith Park.  The candidates signed a release when they checked in and we filmed them, getting footage we were able to use in the pitch.

“Your Worst Fear,” evolved out of that rough concept.  It began just by getting other people to do something I liked to do that they found disgusting:  eating gross things.  That was the first of our reality television shows.  It put us on the ratings map and gave us enough money and clout to develop other programs.

I love my job.  As one of the founders of “Moth Productions,” I get to work as Producer in Charge of Edible Challenges.  The only part I don’t like is working with the Risk Assessment Team our lawyer made us hire when we incorporated and went into production.  The Risk Assessment Team is two outside attorneys and a physician who analyze the risks associated with the challenges I come up with before we try them out on any contestants.  The Risk Assessment Team’s tolerance for risk is way below my own.  Even when I demonstrate a challenge by doing it myself right in front of them, like eating a length of wire or certain bug or rodent species, the fact I am able to do it with no observable ill-effects isn’t always enough to convince them others can tolerate it without being permanently injured.

At our last meeting, I got fed up.  “Look,” I said, “these are supposed to be challenges!  We’re not working our butts off here coming up with things normal people want to eat.  It should be a struggle!  That’s the idea!  Most normal people should throw up!”  I’d just demonstrated eating a live baby eel.  I wasn’t able to convince them this particular challenge was a good idea for our program.

“Maybe you can come up with another way to use eels without eating them live,” Tracey said after the meeting.  “There’s a good idea there.  Come up with another way to use it.”

Now I e:mail Dr. Cunningham of the Risk Assessment Team a list of ideas I’m considering so he can let me know whether or not he has medical objections before I get too far with a single idea.  Sometimes, though, I try something even if he has medical objections, just to see if I can prove him wrong.  I’ve never gotten so sick I had to be admitted to the hospital or be operated on to remove anything, although I have had more than one chaser of medicinal charcoal in the Emergency Room.