My Coworker Told Me He Was Quitting to Become a Professional Wrestler
Our accounting office was the kind of place where color went to die. We sat in rows of gray cubicles that smelled faintly of old carpet and burnt coffee. Every day was a cycle of spreadsheets, tax codes, and the low hum of the printer. I had been there for four years, and I had mostly forgotten what it felt like to be excited about anything. Then there was Gary. Gary was a walking neon sign in a room full of shadows. He wore shirts in shades of electric lime and hot orange that felt like an assault on the senses. He didn’t walk; he strode. He didn’t just type; he hammered the keys like he was participating in a percussion competition. For a long time, I just thought he was eccentric. Maybe he was just trying to keep his brain from turning to mush under the weight of quarterly reports. I kept to myself, and Gary usually kept to his corner, but we had a mutual understanding that we were both just trying to get through the day. That particular afternoon began just like every other. The air conditioning was buzzing, the clock on the wall seemed to be stuck, and I was deep into a reconciliation project that was giving me a headache. Gary suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. He wasn't wearing his usual neon shirt; he was wearing a tight, black athletic top that showed off muscles I didn’t know he had. He looked intense, his jaw set, looking at me with a gravity that made me think he was going to tell me the office was on fire. He leaned in close and whispered, asking me to follow him to the breakroom. I thought he was finally going to complain about the subpar coffee machine again. Instead, he sat me down at the laminate table and looked me dead in the eye. He told me, with complete sincerity, that he was quitting. He wasn't taking a job at another firm. He was going to become a professional wrestler. For a split second, I stared at him. Then, I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh. I assumed it was the ultimate prank, the kind of office legend people would talk about for years. I asked him where his mask was, expecting him to join in on the joke. He didn't blink. He pulled out his phone and swiped through a few menus. He shoved the device in my hands and hit play. The video was shaky, filmed in what looked like his garage. The lighting was poor, but the subject was unmistakable. There was Gary, slathered in baby oil, wearing shimmering gold spandex trunks and a pair of wrestling boots. He was shouting at the camera, his voice raspy and loud. He called himself The Account-Annihilator. He launched into a monologue about how he was going to put the soul-crushing weight of the tax code into a submission hold. He threw a folding chair against the wall and flexed, his face contorted in a mask of pure, unadulterated passion. I watched the entire thirty seconds in silence, stunned. I looked up at him, and he looked back with such hope that my mockery died in my throat. I didn't know what to say. I just handed him his phone back and muttered something about how he was quite talented at flexing. When I walked back to my desk, my heart was racing. I couldn't keep it in. I whispered to Sarah in the next cubicle, then Sarah told Dave, and by the time lunch rolled around, the entire floor knew about The Account-Annihilator. We spent the whole lunch hour laughing until our sides hurt. We made jokes about him body-slamming the copier or putting the boss in a sleeper hold during a budget review. It was the most fun we had had in that office in ages. We were all convinced it was a temporary breakdown, something he’d get over after a weekend of sleeping on it. But that day came, and Gary was strangely quiet. He didn't make any jokes. He just methodically cleaned out his desk. He took his stapler, his framed photos, and his neon-colored pens. The tension in the room was thick. That morning, right after our department meeting, Gary walked straight into the boss’s glass-walled office. We all stopped working. We watched through the blinds as Gary set his ID badge down on the mahogany desk. There was no screaming, no argument. He just stood there for a long moment, bowed deeply to our boss, and turned around. When he walked out, he looked lighter than he ever had before. He didn't look at any of us. He just walked to the exit, pushed open the heavy glass door, and disappeared into the sunshine. The office felt empty for weeks afterward. The gray walls felt grayer. Every time I looked at his empty desk, I felt a pang of sadness mixed with something else. It has been months now, and I still check on him from time to time. I found his social media page, where he posts videos of his matches. They aren’t high-budget events. He wrestles in small gyms, sometimes in church basements, in front of a handful of people. His form is shaky, and he’s clearly not the next big thing in the industry. But the energy he has is undeniable. In those videos, he is completely alive. Sometimes, on the days when the spreadsheets are endless and the light outside is fading, I find myself pulling up his videos. I watch him dive off a plastic-covered rope or shout into a cheap microphone, and I feel a sudden, sharp ache of jealousy. It isn't that I want to be a wrestler. I just want to feel the way he feels. I want to have something that makes me want to throw my badge on a desk and walk out into the unknown. He chose a path that most people would call ridiculous, but he is doing it. He is actually out there, chasing his dream with everything he has. In the middle of our predictable, boring, spreadsheet-driven lives, that feels like a superpower. He might not be famous, but he owns his life. And whenever I feel trapped by the rows and columns, I think of The Account-Annihilator, and I realize that even if I’m not ready to leave yet, at least I know it is possible to change the script.