John Cena's Arc

Chapter 6 of 6

Friday came in clear and cold. Cena did not go to the council building. Triple H had told him plain that being in the room would look like pressure, so Cena waited at the arch instead. He stood under the chains and watched the blank panel turn in the wind. His phone sat in his coat pocket. He kept his hand off it. A council clerk walked out to the arch a little after ten. She carried a leather book against her chest, the cover worn soft at the corners. Pressed pine needles showed between two of the pages where she had marked the day's entry. She stopped a few feet from Cena and opened the book so he could see the line. Five yes. Zero no. She read the names of the five members aloud, then closed the cover and held it flat in both hands. Cena asked her to read it again. She did. He thanked her and looked up at the panel above him. The wind moved it on its chains. The clerk said the mason would come in the afternoon to take the panel down for cutting. She said the stone would be back on the arch by Monday. Then she walked back toward the hall, the book against her chest. He drove to the council steps after she left. A small crowd had gathered between the two old pillars at the entrance, maybe twenty people, some he knew from the charity event and some he did not. One of the council members who had voted yes stood at the top of the steps with her hands in her coat pockets. She nodded at Cena once and went back inside. Triple H was not there. Cena understood why. He shook the hands that were offered and did not make a speech. A reporter asked him what he would say to the man who had told him entertainers were a distraction. Cena said he had nothing to say to him. He meant it. By Monday morning the panel was back. The face had been cut clean and the letters filled with gold. Moss had already started to creep around the base where the masons had set it into the frame. Cena stood under the arch for a long time and read his own name. The vote was won. The stone was hung. But his retirement match was still nine days out, and the dedication ceremony had not been scheduled, and the council clerk had told him at the steps that the date would depend on whether a quorum could be held next week. He walked back to his truck and wrote the clerk's number on the back of a receipt. The name was on the arch. The day to stand under it was not yet his.