“That is why we need Eddie Van Halen!”
Hey, look, it’s the other story that I wrote for my class my first semester in college and the other story I wrote that was heavily inspired by Mario. This one, however, wasn’t inspired by Mario Kart. It was inspired by the greatest iteration of Mario to ever exist: Lou Albano.
I like this story. I like it a lot. It’s been spinning in my mind for many years now, long before I had ever actually written it down. I still like it quite a bit.
“Jump,” by Andy Sima (2018)
I popped another silver coin into the greedy mouth of the arcade machine as the radio over the loudspeakers sang something about jumping. The screen in front of me booted up a new, vivid blue round of a game I had played hundreds of times before but just couldn’t get enough of. My friends stood next to me, some on their tiptoes and some trying to cram themselves onto the stool I was using. They all hoped that I would get the new high score.
The catchy opening jingle of the game played, and soon I was frantically twitching the joystick back and forth in order to avoid whatever hazard happened to fall my way, from flaming barrels to neon-colored ghosts to locomotive peppers to some other kind of pixelated insanity that only made sense in our imaginations.
“He’s gonna beat the high score!” someone hollered behind me as I climbed another virtual ladder and wiped my real sweat.
“Not even!” someone else said.
“Even!” was my reply as my ship rocketed into the next level and I prepared myself for the boss stage. “Here we go!”
“I’ve never even seen this level before!” someone said.
“It isn’t pretty,” I said. “Trust me.”
The level-start music played, and then the intensity began. But it didn’t last nearly as long as I expected it to, because just as I was about to make a gnarly dodge, the arcade’s loudspeaker radio suddenly exploded from the ceiling in a screaming advertisement.
“HEY YOU! YEAH, YOU! GAME STRENGTH MAGAZINE IS HOSTING A CONTEST, AND YOU COULD WIN!” the radio shouted, and I jerked my hand in the wrong direction. The little guy on the screen collided directly with one of the vicious aliens, and it was game over at that point.
“Dang it,” I said, under my breath. I hopped off the stool and turned around as the arcade machine went back to its standby mode. Winners don’t use drugs! blazed across the screen.
“You were so close, Eddie,” someone said to me, and patted me on the back before immediately hopping up on my decrepit throne. “My turn!”
The radio continued to yell some nonsense, but then something caught my ear, and the ears of my friends around me, and we began to listen. My irritation at losing the game soon drained away as I realized what I was hearing.
“…SECOND PRIZE WINNER GETS A ONE-YEAR SUBSCRIPTION TO GAME STRENGTH MAGAZINE, FREE OF CHARGE. FIRST PRIZE WINNER GETS A BRAND NEW GAMING ENTERTAINMENT SYSTEM AND STRENGTH SOCK™ PERIPHERAL. GRAND PRIZE WINNERS GETS ALL OF THE ABOVE AND GETS TO MEET PROFESSIONAL WRESTLER SALTO UOMO IN A SPECIAL VIP CEREMONY!”
“Game Strength magazine! For free!” one of my friends chattered.
“A brand new GES!” someone else said.
“Professional wrestler Salto Uomo!” I yelled.
“Shh! Listen to the radio!” a kid elbowed me in the ribs.
“SEND AN ESSAY TO OUR OFFICE ABOUT YOUR FAVORITE ARCADE GAME AND YOU MIGHT JUST WIN!” the radio continued. “A WINNER IS YOU!” And then radio returned to its regularly scheduled programing, singing a song about taking someone on.
“That’s incredible!” I said. “I gotta win that contest!” I made up my mind right then and there that it was my destiny to succeed. I had to. Meeting Salto Uomo would be the chance of a lifetime.
“Nuh-uh,” someone else said. “I’m gonna win and meet Salto Uomo myself!”
“You don’t even know who Salto Uomo is,” someone jabbed the other kid in the back.
“I guess you’re right,” the kid admitted. I turned on him, smiling devilishly.
“You don’t know world-champion wrestler Salto Uomo?” I asked, placing my hands mockingly on my hips. “The Mob King of the Ring? The Mediterranean Menace? The Italian Stallion?”
“Ew,” someone muttered.
“I’ve heard of him. Mostly from you, Eddie,” the kid said. I shook my head and smiled knowingly.
“What kind of American are you?” I laughed as I made my way to the front of the arcade, where the greasy arcade owner sat behind his counter.
“The kind that doesn’t watch wrestling,” he said.
“You can say that again,” I said, and walked up to the counter. I pulled a sweaty quarter out of my pocket and handed it over. He looked at me and smiled, oily hair framing his face.
“The usual?” he said.
“The usual,” I agreed.
The owner handed me a candy bar from under the counter, and I peeled it like a banana. Taking a gob out of it, I walked out the door and jingled the bell overhead.
“Hey, Eddie, where you goin’?” someone yelled as I passed out of the door and into the sunny afternoon.
“I’m going home!” I shouted back. “I have an essay to write!”
“Dork,” someone shouted, and they all laughed. I couldn’t help but smile, and as I hopped on my bike and pedalled for home, I heard someone say, “Dibs on his stool!”
***
“Hey mom,” I said as I swung in through the door. She turned to me from her spot over the bubbling cauldron of soup on the stove and waved.
“You’re home early,” she said.
“I have some work to do,” I replied.
“Over summer break?” she asked, turning back to the soup.
“It’s for a contest,” I said. “I’m gonna write an essay.”
“I’m sure you’ll do great, honey,” she answered, and stirred the pot gracefully.
I trotted through the living room on my way to the stairs, and noted that my older brother was busy lounging on the couch, watching TV. As usual.
“Hey, loser,” he shot, not even looking up. He was taking up more space on the sofa than should have been humanly possible for someone so skinny, and his head lolled upside down like he was dangling from a tree. His eyes remained glued to the television.
“Hey, Steven,” I said, stopping just for a moment to see what he was watching. It was another rerun of that same movie he liked, with the pirates and the goofy-looking fellow. “This again?”
“Yes, this again,” my brother said. “At least it’s better than your stupid arcade.”
“You may call it stupid,” I humphed, “but that arcade is going to win me a ticket to meet Salto Uomo!”
“And how’s that going to happen, golden boy?” he snorted.
“I’m going to win a contest by writing an essay,” I said, turning defiantly to the stairs, hoping to avoid any further discussion.
“You dweeb,” Steven said. “You can’t even spell essay.”
“Can even!” I said, and hurdled up the stairs as fast as my legs would carry me. If I was going to meet Salto Uomo, I had a lot of work to do.
Writing an essay on my favorite video game was harder than I thought it was going to be. The hardest part was picking just one game, but eventually I settled on my favorite, the one I had been playing when I first heard the announcement. Once I got into it, the words flowed like music, and I ended up writing through dinner. By the time I finished and put it in an envelope, it was dark out and my soup was cold.
I licked the envelope’s glue seal shut, and as I folded it into place, I stared up at the various posters that dotted the walls of my room. Big-name movies, upcoming video games, and my favorite wrestlers stared back down at me. But none more intensely than the man himself, Salto Uomo. So strong, and so noble, defeating evil wrestlers in the name of truth, justice, and fans everywhere. His mustache simply screamed tough, bushy and black and stylish, and his thick New York accent only made him seem tougher still. And now I would meet him, and he would read my essay and he would say, speaking through the coarse hairs on his upper lip, “Eddie, paisano, you’re a real good kid, you know what I mean?” And then he’d sign my poster and we’d take a picture together for the next issue of Game Strength magazine, and Steven would never call me a loser again. If he did, Salto Uomo would beat him up for me. I was sure of it.
Thinking those sweet, sweet thoughts, I put the envelope, full of my hopes and dreams, underneath my bike helmet to remind myself to mail it tomorrow. I could barely contain my excitement as I fell into a blissful sleep.
***
Weeks passed after I had mailed my essay, and I began to worry that it had been lost in transit to the Game Strength headquarters. Or maybe that they had misplaced it somewhere in their offices. Or maybe, even worse, they didn’t like it. Each day that passed without a letter from the magazine people was a day that felt agonizingly empty. But, finally, my mother told me I had a letter in the mail.
“Let me see!” I shouted, and flew into the kitchen. I ripped open the envelope with flying fingers, and quickly scanned the stationary bearing the symbol of Game Strength Magazine.
“Dear Eddie Salzberg,” I read aloud, trembling hands and quivering lips. “We are pleased to inform you that your essay has been chosen as the GRAND PRIZE WINNER for our arcade game contest! Your magazine subscription and Gaming Entertainment System will be arriving in the mail shortly. Please find enclosed with this letter an invitation to Game Strength and Salto Uomo’s press conference in your town.” There were some other words of congratulations and a bit of legal gibberish, but I quickly skipped to the closing. “Best regards, Hester Philip, Game Strength Editor-in-Chief!”
“That’s amazing, honey!” my mom said, and hugged me and swung me around our kitchen. “I’m so proud of you!”
I was about ready to burst out of my skin at that point; I could barely wait for the meeting with Salto Uomo. I felt like my head was on fire, but in the best way possible. A winner was me.
“It was probably a random selection,” Steven said, passing through the kitchen on his way out the door. “Your dweeb head can’t spell press conference.”
“Steven!” my mother snapped.
“What?” he asked, flicking his hair over his eyes and adjusting his jean jacket. “It’s the truth.”
I ignored him as best I could, instead focusing on the letter in my hands. I could barely believe it was really happening. It was too incredible to be real. But it was. Boy, weren’t my friends going to be jealous.
***
Unlike the previous few weeks, the upcoming days flew by like a super-powered hedgehog, a blue blur of excited talk with my friends and joyous dashings about in the arcade and the streets of our town. Even though things flew by so quickly, they weren’t quick enough for me, and I crossed off each day on the calendar, waiting for the big moment to arrive. And, when it finally did, my mom spiffed me up in my nicest suit and combed my hair.
“Aren’t you such a handsome young man,” she said. “The cameras will love you! You’re becoming more like your father.” I didn’t care about the cameras. I just wanted to meet Salto Uomo.
My mom drove Steven and I in our station wagon to the local auditorium, where we got out and were immediately met with the buzzing of camera workers and news writers. Judging by their shirts and name tags, they were split evenly between writing for Game Strength and Salto Uomo’s wrestling producers, though I saw one person from the town’s local news station.
“Isn’t this so exciting?” my mom asked.
“It’s a thriller,” Steven said, drably.
“Steven! Be nice!” my mother scolded.
“Why’d you drag me into this, mom?” Steven scowled. “I ain’t even into wrestling.”
“You’re here to support your brother. And because I said so,” my mother said.
“When’s the last time you made the little twerp come to one of my baseball games?” Steven said.
“Shush, Steven!” my mother reprimanded.
I ignored both of them, eyes scanning the crowd outside the auditorium for the man I knew had to be here. Salto Uomo.
The scene was hectic, with reporters and producers running in and out of the town’s tiny auditorium and with people lugging heavy lights and microphone stands to and fro like a trail of ants. Someone, eventually, came up to us; a tall, thin man with a slick black mustache and a pencil stuck in his ear, giving him a decidedly insectoid appearance.
“You must be Eddie Salzberg,” he said, looking closely at me, forehead sweaty. “A pleasure to meet you. I’m Mr. Uomo’s manager.” He grabbed my hand and shook it, his fingers clammy and awkward. He turned to my mother and said, “You must be Eddie’s mother. Please, come this way.” He briefly shot Steven a glance, and then directed my family between the throngs of people and into the inner sanctum of that holy building.
We wove in and out of doors and halls and groups of people chatting away until the manager pulled us into a back room, behind the main stage. It was brightly lit with portable stage bulbs, set up at various intervals and trained on mirrors so that the actors could put on their makeup. I thought for a second that we were in the wrong room, until I saw him standing at a mirror in the back.
Salto Uomo was staring deeply into the reflective surface before him, shaving away the stubble that had grown on his chin. He slumped forward to get a better look at himself, and after he had finished shaving, the manager ran over to him. He whispered something in Salto Uomo’s ear, and the burly man turned around. Salto Uomo blinked once, heavy, and nodded. He turned and started walking towards me.
I could barely hide my sheer excitement as that mustachioed hero approached me, rubbing his eyes and starting to form a small, haphazard smile. His facial hair hid most of his emotion, but it looked to me like he was happy to see me. With his manager trailing behind, he was close enough to speak.
“Hey, are you Eddie Gralzberg?” he asked, leaning close to me. His eyes, I noticed now, were a bit red and rimmed with a lack of sleep. His manager whispered something in his ear. “Eddie Salzberg?” Salto Uomo asked. My enthusiasm slipped a bit.
“That’s me!” I said. “I wrote the winning essay, and now here I am!”
“That’s great, kid,” Salto Uomo said, and he stood up. He stroked his mustache as he stared down at me. “So, do you want me to sign something?”
I froze, realizing that I had forgot my poster at home. I gasped, and looked my mom, horrified that I could have forgotten something so vital.
“I, I was going to bring a poster, but I, well, I, you see,” I stuttered.
“Come on, spit it out,” Salto Uomo said, leaning in close to me, apparently to hear better. His breath smelled of something foul and of someone intoxicated, a scent I vaguely recognized from family parties.
“I forgot it at home,” I finished.
“Oh. I see. That’s a shame,” he said. He glanced back at his manager, who seemed to be rummaging in a bag that was on a nearby table.
“Here, Mr. Uomo. Sign this for Eddie,” the manager said. He pulled a poster out of the bag he had been searching in, and opened it up flat on the table. I was disappointed to see that it was the poster I already had hanging up in my room.
“Alright,” Salto Uomo said, holding the black marker that the manager had also produced from the bad. The wrestler leaned over the table, and I peered over his shoulder to watch. “To Eddy.”
“With an I-E.” the manager and I corrected him at the same time. Salto Uomo stopped for a moment, then continued writing.
“To Eddie,” he said. “My favorite little pizzolino. King Salto Uomo.” And he rolled the poster back up and handed it to me, his face locked in some sort of half-grimace. I took the poster, and stared at him for a minute, confused.
“Thanks,” I said, slowly, and handed the poster to my mom. She glanced by Salto Uomo to his manager, her face a mask of bewilderment, and the manager shrugged apologetically. His face of quiet defeat told me this wasn’t his first rodeo, so to speak. Steven, behind my mother, seemed to be greatly enjoying himself, as if he found a kindred spirit in Salto Uomo.
“So,” Salto Uomo suddenly clapped his hands. “Do we take a picture now?”
“Yes, yes, that’s right,” the manager said. “This way, please, Eddie. This way, Mr. Uomo.”
“Okay,” I muttered. The manager took me by the hand and lead me to a wall in the corner that had been covered in a black screen. I stepped up onto a box, and then the manager positioned Salto Uomo next to me.
The big man dropped his arm around my shoulder, and it felt like a ton of bricks. His palm was sweating profusely and began to stain my suit jacket as the salty liquid dripped down my arm. Startled at the suddenness of it, I glanced up at Salto Uomo. He was staring at the camera the manager was holding.
“Smile. Look at the camera,” Salto Uomo said. And when I didn’t react immediately, he squeezed my shoulder. Squeezed it much harder than he needed to. “Look at the camera,” he said again, through his mustache.
“Say spaghetti,” the manager said, once he saw that my attention was as much as it could be on the camera lens, given the bruising pain spreading through my upper arm. I held back a whimper.
“Spaghetti,” Salto Uomo and I said at the same time, and the camera flashed once, twice, three times.
“Wonderful,” the manager said, and beckoned for me to come over to him. “We’ll send you signed copies of these photos once they develop.”
“Thanks,” I said, looking up at the manager. I didn’t need to see the photos to know that my face would be one of incredible discomfort.
“Alright, sfigato, let’s get going,” Salto Uomo said to the manager, stepping up behind me. He patted me on the shoulder, the same one he had just gripped so forcefully. “Freddie, paisano, you’re a real good kid, you know that?” he said. And then he walked away, out the door that lead into the hall and the stage of the auditorium. The manager went to follow him, but my mother grabbed his arm.
“That’s it?” she asked. I looked down at my feet.
“That’s it, I’m afraid,” the manager said. “Mr. Uomo is very busy.” Salto Uomo was ambling slowly down the hall, and I glanced up from my feet long enough to watch him leave.
“Mr. Uomo is a piece of work, is what he is!” my mother hissed to the manager, daring him to contradict her. His apologetic smile told me that he no desire to argue, and in fact probably had nothing to make an argument with.
“I’m sorry,” the manager said, pulling his arm away from my mother. “I have to go.” And he hurried down the hall, out of the room, after Salto Uomo. The manager glanced back once and mouthed what looked like words asking for forgiveness.
We stood there a moment, my mother, my brother, and I. I was formulating an idea in my mind, one that came to me in the spur of the moment. “Wait here,” I told my mother, and hurried off down the hall after Salto Uomo and his manager.
“Eddie, no, stay here,” my mother said. But, to her dismay, Steven held her back.
“Hold on,” I heard him say. “Let the loser go if he wants to.”
I power-walked down the hall as quickly as I could, hoping that there was still time for me to catch the pair of them. If I could just talk to Salto again, maybe I could see that things weren’t as bad as I thought. Everything would be fine. I took the hall and rounded the corner, where I saw the two of them standing, just outside the auditorium stage door. I was about to run up to them, but something made me stop. Salto Uomo was speaking to his manager.
“You’re a joke,” he said, words slurring together. “Why do I have to do these stupid contests and these stupid press conferences?”
“Because if you want a paycheck, you have to,” the manager said, picking nervously at his tie.
“Bullshit,” Salto Uomo said. My ears burned. “You’ll pay me when I tell you to pay me.”
“You have to do these things, fratello, for mamma, and for me.” the manager said.
“I don’t have to do shit,” he said.
“Do it for mamma, then. Besides, If you don’t do these things you’ll just be another sfigato,” the manager said. There was a pause, and Salto Uomo’s eyes went wide. And then, without any further warning, Salto Uomo pulled his hand back and slapped his manager square across the face.
The thin man fell back into the wall behind him, leaning on the bricks for support. He rubbed his face tenderly.
“Never call me that again,” Salto Uomo said. “You’re the sfigato, the loser, not me, you understand that? Mamma should have fed you to the wolves.”
“I’m, I’m sorry, Salto,” the manager said. A pointed stare from Salto Uomo got his point across further. “Mr. Uomo,” the manager corrected.
“I don’t know what she ever saw in you, mamma,” Salto Uomo shook his head. “The bambino d’oro. Hmph. Golden boy my ass.”
The manager seemed to notice in that moment that they were being watched, and he glanced briefly in my direction. We made eye contact, for only the slightest of seconds, and then he looked away, into the stage area of the auditorium, and pulled himself up from the wall. “Come on, Mr. Uomo,” the manager said. “We need to go.”
“Whatever you say, sorella,” Salto Uomo said, and he, too, looked at me. Again, there was eye contact. But, instead of looking away in shame or embarrassment, he simply stared, almost defiant, and gave another half-grimace. Then he walked away, into the auditorium, with his brother trailing in his wake.
I stood there for a moment, in the hall, processing slowly what I had witnessed, and what their words had meant. I must have been standing there for longer than I thought, because soon my mother and brother rounded the corner and found where I was standing.
“How did it go?” my mother asked, hugging me about the shoulders.
“It was okay,” I said. I stared off at the door that lead into the auditorium, where the press conference was to be held. “Can we go home now?”
“Sure, honey,” my mother said. “Maybe we can go see a movie. I hear there’s a nice new family one by that spooky clown author you like.”
My brother snorted. “Don’t bother with that one. It’s trash.”
I turned away from the door to the auditorium and looked up to my brother, who was staring straight ahead at nothing in particular.
“Maybe it isn’t trash,” I said. We started walking towards the car, the three of us.
Steven looked down at me, and smiled maliciously, as we continued walking. “You probably can’t even spell trash, you loser.”
I rolled the word about in my mind. Loser. And then I rolled about its Italian equivalent. Sfigato. I looked up at my mother, whose hand was resting on my shoulder. She smiled down at me. She smiled at Steven, too, but he didn’t notice. Or maybe he just chose not to see. I blinked, and looked at Steven with fresh, stinging eyes.
I said nothing for a while, and we passed by the door to the auditorium without bothering to look inside. “Can even,” I whispered.
