The other Hulk Hogan
Christened Nicholas, the young Nick Hogan was at primary school in the early nineteen nineties, around the time that satellite dishes began appearing on the sides of the large executive homes that comprised the estate the he lived on. As such, the nickname “Hulk” was pretty much inevitable. He didn’t share the fascination that his classmates had for WWF wrestling, and figure of Hogan, with his blonde moustache and outsized muscles, terrified him.
But, as a shy, quiet boy, and one not prone to answering back, he accepted the name with good grace. Early in life he’d learned the value of self-deprecation, so he didn’t try to fight it. His older sister was a high achiever, a talented musician and an excellent student; she was very much the star of the family, when relatives had finished admiring her achievements and asked him how he was doing at school, he’d always reply “Oh, you know”. His sister, Catherine, also called him Hulk, and smiled at him as she did so. His mother hated the nickname, his father didn’t understand it. As he attended a nearby secondary school with many of his primary classmates, the name followed him all the way into adulthood.
By this time, his introversion had largely taken over his life, to the extent that he couldn’t face taking up the place at University which had been offered to him. The thought of being surrounded by more people his own age, having just spent the last sixteen years surrounded by people his own age, horrified him in a way that he couldn’t properly explain. His parents’ disappointment was palpable but for once he proved intractable.
He took to taking long walks on the shingle beach a mile from his house. He loved the way it stretched flatly out until it melted into the horizon. He loved the way that he could walk for hours and not seemingly have moved. He particularly enjoyed walks there at night, when the lights of the oil refinery on the other side of the estuary blazed like a city from a science fiction film.
He found a number of things on these walks. Toys, mermaid’s purses, driftwood riddled with boreholes, ancient bottles, lumps of anthracite polished by the action of the waves and sand. He would take these items home and place them in a glass fronted cabinet in his bedroom. Once, he found a locket, a cheap, mass-produced brass locket. He spent months wondering whose it was, the picture inside was of a young man in military uniform, and he imagined that it was a long-lost keepsake. The locket didn’t go in the cabinet, he kept it with him as he walked, working up a rich backstory for the young soldier and his lost love. His troop-ship had been torpedoed in the first months of 1945, tragically close to the end of the war and his fiancé, distraught, had come down to the shore to cast her locket in as an offering to the sea to give him up again. When he didn’t return to her, she forswore the love of any man until the day she died.
It was only when he heard story about these lockets appearing up and down the coast that he realised that his experience was far from
unique. The local paper’s “History Matters” section carried an article about a container ship, the Gross Indifference, running aground some winters before. Amongst the containers lost had been a consignment of costume jewellery, the young man in the photo was a stock picture. For weeks readers wrote in saying they’d found one. He didn’t.
For some reason he never fully understood he found this to be an immense relief. The thought of the woman’s grief for her lost love had been weighing heavily on him so much that it had become tangible. That autumn he finally took his place at University. The first night, in the student bar, he acquired the nickname Hulk.
But, as a shy, quiet boy, and one not prone to answering back, he accepted the name with good grace. Early in life he’d learned the value of self-deprecation, so he didn’t try to fight it. His older sister was a high achiever, a talented musician and an excellent student; she was very much the star of the family, when relatives had finished admiring her achievements and asked him how he was doing at school, he’d always reply “Oh, you know”. His sister, Catherine, also called him Hulk, and smiled at him as she did so. His mother hated the nickname, his father didn’t understand it. As he attended a nearby secondary school with many of his primary classmates, the name followed him all the way into adulthood.
By this time, his introversion had largely taken over his life, to the extent that he couldn’t face taking up the place at University which had been offered to him. The thought of being surrounded by more people his own age, having just spent the last sixteen years surrounded by people his own age, horrified him in a way that he couldn’t properly explain. His parents’ disappointment was palpable but for once he proved intractable.
He took to taking long walks on the shingle beach a mile from his house. He loved the way it stretched flatly out until it melted into the horizon. He loved the way that he could walk for hours and not seemingly have moved. He particularly enjoyed walks there at night, when the lights of the oil refinery on the other side of the estuary blazed like a city from a science fiction film.
He found a number of things on these walks. Toys, mermaid’s purses, driftwood riddled with boreholes, ancient bottles, lumps of anthracite polished by the action of the waves and sand. He would take these items home and place them in a glass fronted cabinet in his bedroom. Once, he found a locket, a cheap, mass-produced brass locket. He spent months wondering whose it was, the picture inside was of a young man in military uniform, and he imagined that it was a long-lost keepsake. The locket didn’t go in the cabinet, he kept it with him as he walked, working up a rich backstory for the young soldier and his lost love. His troop-ship had been torpedoed in the first months of 1945, tragically close to the end of the war and his fiancé, distraught, had come down to the shore to cast her locket in as an offering to the sea to give him up again. When he didn’t return to her, she forswore the love of any man until the day she died.
It was only when he heard story about these lockets appearing up and down the coast that he realised that his experience was far from
unique. The local paper’s “History Matters” section carried an article about a container ship, the Gross Indifference, running aground some winters before. Amongst the containers lost had been a consignment of costume jewellery, the young man in the photo was a stock picture. For weeks readers wrote in saying they’d found one. He didn’t.
For some reason he never fully understood he found this to be an immense relief. The thought of the woman’s grief for her lost love had been weighing heavily on him so much that it had become tangible. That autumn he finally took his place at University. The first night, in the student bar, he acquired the nickname Hulk.
posted by Matt at 10:52 AM
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