Living the Gimmick

  “’Night,” I said to the concrete, its surface now absent of darkness. But there were still all the beer cans. I got up and made it my mission to capture them all. I collected them quickly, crushing each one very carefully before stuffing it into the empty box. Their sides split open and leaked stale beer; precious aluminum corpses. With all but one accounted for, I looked around for many seconds before realizing it was in my hand, still half-full. I downed it, crushed it, and put it in the box.

  I stared at the box full of empty beer cans for a long time until I realized I was crying. All it was was a box of empty beer cans. I wanted it to be more. A casket of dead soldiers, a cachet of rare jewels, anything rare and holy. But it was a box of beer cans that would be recycled and bought and recycled again until one day they would simply be thrown away and buried somewhere deep in the earth or burned. I dropped the box and hurried inside, where I took a Valium and passed out.

  The next morning I couldn’t really recall the feelings of the past night. No matter, I didn’t have time to worry about them. In four days, I had to be ready to face the WWO.

  “Crusher Crews” was a living legend, known throughout the pro wrestling business as the last of the true mercenaries. Both the WWO and ICW wanted him, but he sneered at the idea of selling out and staying in any one territory for too long. He wrestled independently, going wherever the dollar was highest, and in the process acquiring a reputation for brawls with fans and fellow wrestlers as well as for his extraordinarily bloody matches. Throughout locker rooms across the world, wrestlers spoke in awed tones about the time Crews had once wrestled a bear on a card in the Pacific Northwest, beating the animal in less than three minutes. Some stories had him choking the bear into submission while others gave credit to his softball-sized fists, which they said he had used to pummel the bear’s face in. All versions ended with tearing the unconscious bear’s head off and parading around the ring with it impaled on a sharpened cedar branch.

  The night after my talk with B.J., I pulled into the parking lot of Mid-South Coliseum and was jarred by the marquee’s message of: Tonight: Special Appearance of Crusher Crews vs. Wandering Wildman in a Steel Cage. Alarm ripped through my body. I tracked down Rampart in his dressing room.

  “I’m supposed to be wrestling Jesse James tonight,” I told Rampart. “What gives?”

  “Crews was coming through,” Rampart said with a shrug. “He wanted to wrestle. I figured it would be a good experience for you.”

  “Experience?” I shouted. “For what, a prison riot? The guy never sells a move, and you want me to go into a cage with him?”

  “You still work for me,” Rampart smiled, “and I’m the booker. That clear?”

  “As a fuckin’ bell,” I snarled. Wildman was taking over. I stomped into the hallway where I collided with none other than Crusher Crews.

  “Watch it!” he shouted, glaring down at me as though I were something distasteful he had just stepped in. He was at least 6'5" with the kind of frame that could fill an entire doorway. His shoulders and chest thrust out from his body like the head of a hammer. Stringy black hair fell back from a forehead littered with long jagged scars from razors, beer bottles, and (if one particular rumor was to be believed) a restaurant plate glass window through which he had thrust his head when he was told the restaurant was closed.

  This creature appeared very capable of ripping a bear’s head from its shoulders. I found myself scanning his body for scars which might belong to a bear claw. “Mister . . . Mister Crews.” I extended my hand. He glanced at it with flickering disgust. “I’m Wildman.” I coughed and found the rough tone I was looking for. “Wandering Wildman,” I repeated.

  “You’re the punk that’s goin’ to WWO, huh?” he sneered, “Rockart’s a fag. Logan’s a fag. They’re all fags up there. They must be lookin’ for some young boys to molest.”

  With that, he stalked into Rampart’s dressing room and slammed the door. I went into the other dressing room and sat, pressing my back against the two walls meeting just behind me.

  As the time for my match approached, Jesse came by and kneeled down beside me as I laced my boots. “Hey, Wildman,” he said quietly, “be careful out there.”

  “Yeah,” I snarled, trying to get into character, “I can handle Crews.”

  “I shouldn’t be tellin’ ya this . . .” He sighed, speaking with a quiet urgency. “But this has happened before. There was this young dude once . . . Pud Gatorbear . . . Indian gimmick. Rampart gave him a real nice push. Six months later, Gatorbear announced he was goin’ to Japan. Rampart got a little pissed.”

  “Rampart sounds like he’s got some attachment issues,” I commented.

  “Uh . . . yeah,” Jesse replied blankly. “So, he brings in Crews and sends the kid against him in a dog collar match. He tells Crews that Gatorbear’s gonna go over. That pissed Crews off.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “So Crews broke both Gatorbear’s arms, then laid down in the middle of the ring and pulled the kid on top of ’im for a three-count,” Johnny said.

  “Fuck this.” I launched up with my boots still untied. I grabbed the torn straitjacket that I wore to the ring and threw it on. The mirror on the wall featured a jagged crack in it, and I positioned my face safely away from it so I could have a clear uninterrupted reflection of my snarl. “I’m the Wandering Wildman,” I reassured myself.

  When I barged into Rampart’s dressing room, he was in the process of shaving his forearms. “What the hell?” he yelled. “You never come in here without knocking!”

  “What the hell’s the idea, Billy?” I shouted back. “You wanna see me crippled?”

  He set the razor down as his lips wandered into a cocky grin. “What are you talking about?” he asked.

  “Crews,” I intoned. “You brought him in here to try and take me out, didn’t you, asshole?”

  “Just a second, you little prick.” Rampart stood. “I made you what you are. That Wildman gimmick was my idea!”

  “It’s mine now!” I shot back.

  “Like hell it is,” he sneered. “You’re already actin’ like a WWO clown. If you’re such a wildman, get in the fuckin’ ring with Crews and stop whinin’.”

  “The guy wrestled a bear, for chrissakes!” I yelled, ashamed of my reference to a tale that was most likely untrue. “He’s gonna shoot on me and try to tear me apart!”

  “Then I suggest you shoot back,” Rampart drawled. He picked up a towel and began wiping the shaving cream off his forearm. “Hard,” he added.

  My entire world broke into a maddening buzz. “Fuck you!” I howled, shoving him to the ground. The action felt good, igniting the same improbable wonder I had when I approached the ring before each match. I picked up the stool and slammed it against the mirror. Pieces of the room’s reflection erupted and fell to the floor, revealing a patch of unpainted wall.

  “Put down that fuckin’ stool, you asshole!” Rampart’s voice pulled at me. I turned to face him while I licked the saliva running down my chin. In his hand was a small dark pistol. He had shown it to me once before, bragging that he sometimes pulled it on overeager marks.

  From the way he was aiming the gun at me, I was certain that he was going to pull the trigger. Fear spurred me in his direction. Before he could move, I snatched the gun out of his hand, then swung it back in an arc and slammed the handle into his left temple. He collapsed to the floor in a moaning heap. There was a scraping behind me.

  I whirled around and trained the gun on Crusher Crews, who was busy righting the stool. He sat down and gave me a bemused look. “Don’t try anything,” I growled. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Then why are you holdin’ a gun on me?” he asked simply.

  It seemed a fair enough question but I only snarled: “Don’t try and stop me!”

  “I won’t,” Crews drawled. “I know you’re scared enough to shoot me.” I felt more eyes from the doorway and saw that several of the wrestlers had gathered there. Crews had insul
ted Wildman in front of all of them.

  Pull the fuckin’ trigger and take this asshole off the earth! Wildman screamed.

  For a terrifying instant my finger tightened sharply. Then a wave of fear consumed my body like a fever, and I snapped the gun down to my side. All the guys at the door backed away hurriedly as I charged out of the dressing room. The hallway went by in a blur, and then I was outside in the parking lot. A swell of cheers cascaded into the humid night through the walls of the arena. There was a winner being announced, but I couldn’t decipher the name. I pointed the gun in the air, closed my eyes, and pulled the trigger.

  All that resulted was a sharp momentary click. I opened my eyes and regarded the empty barrel of the gun in amazement. After a minute or so, a door slammed behind me. I looked over, feeling a dull certainty that it would be Crews brandishing a bloody bear’s head on a stick. B.J., his hair matted with sweat, rushed up with my duffel bag in hand. “I heard what happened,” he panted. “They told me about it as soon as I came backstage.”

  “Forget it,” I croaked. “I’m outta here.”

  “So am I, doc,” he laughed. “Rampart knows we’re buddies. He’d try and fuck me over to get revenge for you cracking him.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Damn,” he said, grinning. “Did you really clock him over the head with that thing?” He pointed at my hand. I looked down and was surprised to see I was still holding onto the pistol.

  “Yeah,” I replied, then hurled the thing into a pool of darkness just beyond the marquee’s dull blaze.

  “Damn,” he repeated wistfully.

  “I’ve gotta get outta here.” I winced, blinking back tears.

  “We better take my car,” B.J. suggested. “Rampart was talking about going to the cops. And he knows what your car looks like.”

  “He knows your car too.”

  “He didn’t see me leave, though. It’ll take him a little while to figure out I’m gone.”

  Thirty seconds later we were pulling out of the parking lot in B.J.’s car. We drove in silence as he sped along the road that would lead us back to Tower 99.

  “I’m quitting,” I blurted out.

  “Duh,” he said, laughing, “but you gave Rampart something to remember, the cocky litt—”

  “I’m quitting wrestling,” I announced. “Period.”

  These words were flung out with defiance. A silence followed, during which every bump and rattle became unsteady pulses. I glanced over at B.J.’s impassive face. I knew I wanted a response, but I wasn’t sure what kind.

  It came. “Whatever it is . . . ,” he said, “if you quit now, you’re gonna let it win.”

  “Let what win?”

  “You know what.” He smiled, perhaps to put me at ease, “You’ve got something. I don’t know why you do the things you do. Touch yourself and what not. Tap things. But whatever it is, it’s gone away since you’ve come here.”

  A bewildered shame invaded my chest and soon spread to my forehead. The only time B.J. had pointed out my habit to me was during that one workout, a year ago, in southern California. But he had obviously been watching me throughout our time spent together. How many others had noticed and never said anything? Had Shawna?

  Probably. People rarely reveal all they know.

  B.J. was staring at me now. His eyes held a relief I wanted to share. I turned to the houses and mailboxes hurtling by. I tried to imagine who they belonged to and what their families did every year at holidays or whatever, but they were going too fast and I eventually surrendered to a gentle weariness. I was tired enough to be honest.

  “It’s still there,” I told B.J. “It’s like I’ve got this thing inside me—inside my own body. Myself. It’ll tell me to touch this or that. It’ll tell me to look at things a certain way. But when I’m in the ring, when I’m someone else, it’s got no power.”

  B.J. stopped at a light and turned to me. “That is a fucking trip,” he said. Then he started laughing, but quickly stopped himself. “Sorry,” he said, “but—”

  “It’s all right. I know it sounds silly—”

  “Don’t ever say that. It sounds real. And when something like that is really happening, it’s not silly. I’m sorry for laughing.”

  “B.J.” I swallowed. “B.J., I was so fuckin’ scared tonight. I’m still scared. What the hell am I doing going to the WWO? I can’t—”

  “Bullshit,” B.J. spat out, putting the car in motion. We drove in silence until he turned right on to our street. He stopped the car abruptly. A police car sat parked in front of the Tower 99 front entrance. “Wonder who they’re looking for?” B.J. sighed, his face deadpan. We cruised slowly past the car, and from my slouched position I could see it was empty.

  “Probably inside waiting to beat the shit out of me,” I said grimly.

  B.J. stopped the car. “If you’re gonna quit, you might as well do it now, doc,” he said.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  He hit the horn. The blasts hammered the night, attacking the still darkness of the street so arrogantly that they might as well have been the preceding notes to a cavalry charge. Even the stars seemed to dim in response to the disturbance. My mouth tried to form words: “Wha’re yu—”

  “What’s it gonna be, Mike?” he asked in a singsong manner. “You gonna strap on a set of balls and hit the WWO, or are we gonna end it right here?”

  He mashed the horn again. In a matter of seconds four cops would be storming out of there. The police car itself was tingling ominously only six feet away from us. A flash of movement to my right made my heart jump. It was an old man walking a dog.

  “I’ve got the Wandering Wildman down here, officers!” B.J. shouted at our building. The street was suddenly alive with motion. Leaves chuckled in wind, electric wires bulged on the verge of explosion, and shapes spun in and out of Tower 99’s windows.

  “Damn it, let’s go!” I shouted at B.J. “I’ll go to WWO! I’ll go, all right?”

  “You promise?” B.J. demanded, shifting his voice low.

  “Yes, I promise! I swear to—”

  B.J. was already pulling away. I exhaled but still watched anxiously as Tower 99 and the police car were sucked deeper and deeper into the rearview mirror until B.J. turned the corner. Then the mirror blinked, and our old street was replaced by another.

  “Well, it was nice to get that settled,” B.J. said, smiling.

  I shook my head at him. “I think you’re the one that’s nuts, brother.”

  “Fuck it,” B.J. said, laughing. He seemed happier than he had been in weeks. “What do we have back there?” he asked.

  After thinking about it for several seconds, I joined in B.J.’s laughter. The truth was I had nothing back there. Though I had purchased numerous decorative additions for my costume I wore to the ring as Wandering Wildman, I hadn’t accumulated one piece of furniture to add to the basic furnishings the apartment had come with. The only things I brought into that apartment were wrestling magazines, bottles of Valium, and beer. I either ate on the road or had take-out delivered once a week. The oven and stove were as clean as the day I moved in; I had wandered through that apartment like a displaced ghost.

  “Nothing,” I answered B.J, “nothing really.”

  “All I got are some pictures of Terri and stuff. Since I’m gonna be seeing her in person, they’re not that important anymore.” B.J. shrugged. “So let’s get outta this state before Rampart has us lynched. And remember,” he added, “a promise is a promise.”

  “I know,” I said, squeezing my forearm even though I knew B.J. was watching, “I’m going. I’m going to the WWO.”

  As we entered Arkansas I tried to focus on the rice fields I knew surrounded us, but the sun had set hours ago and taken all light with it. All I could see whipping by outside the window was an untraceable darkness similar to that which Motley Mick Starr had seen in the desert with Shawna.

  I awoke with a start. As usual, my body’s many aches cried o
ut immediately. I fumbled in my wrestling bag and popped two Valium. I swallowed them without water, and only after ten seconds was I able to gaze at the small portable clock B.J. had taped to his dashboard. I squinted the numbers into gradual focus: 8:07.

  I got out of the car and inhaled; the crisp country air bit my lungs.

  We were parked at a roadside diner. Fields of pleasant green occupied all the available land around us, turning the parking lot into an island of exotic gravel. The assorted pick-up trucks in the lot boasted Arkansas license plates. I heard B.J. moan from inside the car. “Lordy,” he exclaimed, “I forgot how miserable sleeping in a car can be.”

  “I forgot how miserable that damn passenger seat can be,” I groaned.

  “Quit your bitchin’ and shoot me a Valium,” he said with a laugh.

  We straggled into the diner, which was packed with truckers and several people clad in hunting fatigues guzzling coffee and eggs. B.J. and I each downed a Sunrise Plate Special of grits, eggs, sausage, and grease. Then, with B.J.’s anxious eyes following me, I shuffled over to the pay phone on the back wall. Just above the phone was a stuffed owl, its wings flared, looking ready to pounce.

  I placed a call to WWO corporate offices and went through two secretaries and a head of promotion before finally getting to Thomas Rockart Jr. “Michael, where are you?” he asked cheerfully.

  “Somewhere in Arkansas, I think,” I said. “Listen, there’s been a slight change. I’ve left the SWA earlier than I thought.”

  “Hey, terrific,” Rockart said. “We’ve got a show in Kansas City tonight. Think you can make it?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t have a car.”

  Rockart laughed. “What are you, on the run or something?” he asked. My stomach issued a sour rumbling as it did battle with the Sunrise Special I had just inhaled.

  “Well,” I mumbled, “there may be assault charges pending.” After hearing my brief rundown of the story he broke into howling laughter.

  “Great job, Michael!” he exclaimed. “That fucking Rampart’s known for being an asshole. About time somebody laid him out. With that kind of aggressiveness, you’ll do fine with Staffer. Just fine.”