Benny Jay: Mickey Rourke

All day and into the night, the picture of Mickey Rourke sits on the living room table and looks at me.

It’s a shot from the DVD cover for The Wrestler. I planned to watch it last night – had it in the DVD player and everything. In fact, I was standing in front of the TV, channel changer in hand ready to push the start button, when my wife says: “I’m scared.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Cause, it’s really sad….”

“Sad? I thought it was a dark comedy – like the Coen brothers….”

“No — it’s sad….”

“Why did you tell me to get a sad movie? You know I hate sad movies….”

“I didn’t tell you to get it – you got it….”

“Don’t give me that. For months, you’ve been bugging me: Get The Wrestler, I wanna watch The Wrestler….”

The front door opens and my younger daughter walks in from a baby-sitting job. “Hey, guys,” she says. “Wanna watch Saturday Night Live?”

Phew, saved by the bell….

That was last night. Now it’s daytime, sunshine streaming through the windows. Got a steaming cup of coffee in my hand. Sad doesn’t seem so bad when the sun’s shining.

I consider my options.  I could read the Sunday papers or….

I put on the movie.

“You’re watching a movie,” says my daughter.

“Yeah,” I say.

“In the middle of the day?”

“Shh.…”

“That’s weird….”

“You should watch it with me. It’s sad. You can learn from sad….”

Mickey Rourke plays this washed-up, fifty-something-year-old wrestler, who’s wrestling in these shitty little venues in crummy little towns somewhere in New Jersey. He should quit, but he can’t cause he doesn’t know what else he can do. So on he plows, popping pills and shooting up steroids to cut the pain.

The parts that really get to me are the scenes of him walking about his day. He doesn’t walk so much as trudges with his shoulders bent and his back, chest, ankles, knees and neck screaming in agony.

I don’t know why but it speaks to my current condition. And when I turn off the movie something happens and I become Mickey Rourke. This is not that unusual, by the way. I spent the better part of the 1970s being Peter Falk from Columbo and then Jack Nicholson from Chinatown. I must have smoked a million imaginary cigarettes during my Nicholson phase. It’s a wonder I didn’t get sick….

But, now, I’m Mickey Rourke. I slowly rise from the couch and limp up the stairs to the bathroom. My foot hurts. I knock back a couple of Ibuprofen, look at myself in the mirror and sigh.

Moving gingerly, I put on my sweatshirt, hat and thick winter jacket. I take forever to snap the buttons, then I wearily leash the dog and trudge up the street to Dark Star, the video store.

Got my head down. Every step hurts — I wince as I walk. Every now and then I hack, like I got a cough that won’t quit.

I enter the store and walk to the front. Mike, the owner, is not behind the counter. But his brother is.

“Hey, man,” I say.

“Cold – huh?” he says.

“Yeah.” I plop the movie on the counter.

“Did you like it? he asks.

“Yeah,” I say, conveniently leaving out that I was too scared to watch it at night.

I hack. For a while my wires cross and I start doing Nicholson and I light up an imaginary cigarette.

“See ya’, man,” I say as I head for the door.

Down the street I trudge, hacking, wincing, moving slowly. I climb the steps to my house and fall out the couch. A football game’s playing on the boob tube. I stare at the screen and fall asleep.

When I wake, it’s over — I’m not Mickey Rourke anymore.  Just good old Benny Jay, lounging in the living room on a Sunday afternoon, watching a football game on TV – like every other schlub in America…..