Living the Gimmick

  Her lip begins to quiver, then slowly melts away. The rest of her face follows. Her skull, white and unimpeded by flesh or muscle, swivels atop a body still melting. Now she is nothing more than bones given the gift of movement. I look away quickly, but all around me skin is dissolving. Rivers of burnt flesh run down the aisles. All that remains are cheering skeletons. Then like stars dying before twilight, their cheers vanish. The skeletons are collapsing into piles of dust. One by one.

  My own flesh is gone. Terrified, I look around to see how many skeletons are still left in the audience. About half. When they all fall to dust, it will be my turn.

  I bellow against this fate but cannot hear my own voice.

  The champion’s music bursts my silent bubble. The audience’s reaction is an intense tidal wave of sound that fills the air so thoroughly I have trouble breathing. But it is all right. I will not die. The audience has been made real once again by the promise of the champion’s entrance.

  I stand in the ring, ready to battle the man who has just brought me back from the dead.

  Chuck Beastie’s death was ruled “accidental,” even though it was determined he had struck the table headfirst. Chuck had been in the business for eleven years and knew how to absorb a fall and how not to. To his fellow wrestlers, it was obvious he had chosen not to.

  Two days after the “accident” Rockart called me in to New York. Predictably, a limousine was waiting for me at the airport. When I got inside, I was a little surprised to see Thomas Rockart Jr. sitting in the backseat. “Hello, Michael,” he greeted me smoothly. After a few minutes of standard small talk, it became apparent the limousine wasn’t going to move. “How are you, Michael?” he finally asked me, his tone reflecting that we had now moved past the introductory chitchat. I listened to the rain assaulting the roof and watched it run down the windows. It looked like transparent blood.

  “I’m all right,” I lied.

  “Good to hear,” Rockart said, nodding. “I’ve watched you the past couple of years. You’re the kind of person we would like to have around. How you handle this is very important.”

  His words landed like tiny jabs against my mind.

  “I understand,” I said and nodded blindly.

  “I’ve booked you for three title matches with Logan,” he said. “We’ll see how they go over. Then we’ll see about giving you a push for a series of matches with him.”

  “When?” I asked, trying to feel excited.

  “Starting tonight in Boston,” Rockart said. “Then for the next two nights in St. Louis and Baltimore, respectively.”

  “Chuck’s funeral is two days from now,” I pointed out.

  “True, but we need you wrestling in Baltimore that night,” he said mildly.

  “You know how much Chuck meant to me, Thomas,” I said, a nail of rage pounding through my voice. “You knew from the very beginning,” I shot.

  “He finally told you about Stratford, huh?” he said, with the easy chuckle of a parent who had just discovered his kids indulging in predictable mischief. I wanted to kill him. “I’ll be honest, Michael. I didn’t know how long you were going to last. He had as much faith in you as you seem to have had in him. And now is the chance for you to confirm that faith. We are in the business of sports entertainment. Now the key word there is business; no one gives a damn anymore if pro wrestling is real or isn’t. The vast majority of the American public takes it for granted that it’s not. It’s our job to provide them with the best product available. I can’t afford to play favorites—”

  “I’m not asking you to,” I snapped. “All I want is for you to let me—”

  “Wallow in Beastie’s death, Michael?” he asked. I seethed, but remained silent. “I know what you’re going through.” Rockart squeezed out the words. “Believe me, in my own way I know.” He coughed and regained the confident timbre that was his trademark in the announcer’s booth. “Chuck Beastie will be given a proper tribute by the World Wrestling Organization.”

  “Another fallen product, huh, Thomas?” I sneered, a little amazed at my own willingness to offend the one man who held the key to my childhood dream.

  “Look here, Michael,” Rockart said. “‘The American Dream’ Sonny Logan sells ten million dollars worth of T-shirts, visors, mugs, vitamins, and other assorted merchandise a year. But before he joined our company he was Steve Strong, a bulky tan body builder from Venice with thinning blond hair. I made him what he is. He may have done a hell of a job with the role provided to him. But I’m the one that gave him his gimmick. He is the trademarked property of the World Wrestling Organization. And so are you.” I could see this sonofabitch envisioning himself as the head of a Hollywood studio, all his stars flexing and screaming and ranting within the confines of his uncalloused palm.

  “I’m looking for loyal people to guide this company into the nineties,” he said to me, his tone shifting into an earnest pitch. “If you can—”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “Just give me the address of the funeral home where I can send flowers.”

  “Done.” Rockart confirmed with a nod. I opened the door to get out without waiting for him to end the meeting. I stepped out of the car, slammed the door, and paced carefully across the slick pavement back into the airport to catch a flight for Boston.

  Before my first title shot against The American Dream, I shaved the front of my head and bleached the remaining strands of hair in order to match both his hair color and his premature baldness (due mostly to roids, he had once admitted. “Hell with it, brother,” he smirked, raising and flexing one of his arms. “I think these cannons are worth losing a few hairs.”)

  In addition to adapting a facial look similar to Logan’s, I came out to his theme music wearing one of his tank tops that boasted his trademark phrase American Dreamin’. I tore it off with the same exaggerated show of strength he always displayed, then throughout the match tried to ingratiate myself with the crowd using his spastic appealing gestures.

  But after a few matches it was painfully clear that it wasn’t working. All my moves in the ring were forced; I sure as hell didn’t feel like a hero. The crowds were lethargic during our matches, as though they shared in my confusion. With no persona to guide me through my moves in the ring, I was lost, trapped by the dread an alcoholic finds the day he drinks and drinks and nothing happens.

  Meanwhile, all hell was breaking loose in the world of professional wrestling. ICW (International Championship Wrestling), the WWO’s main rival, had been purchased a few weeks ago by a mogul named Brad Burner; Burner had made billions of dollars by launching cable channels that featured cartoons, world news, and sports. The history of the feud between Rockart and Burner reportedly dated back to their days as kids growing up in the same Connecticut suburb. One afternoon Thomas had supposedly refused to let Brad have a swing of the baseball bat, or some believed it started when the two future tycoons were pre-teens and Brad hadn’t let Thomas have a ride on his new motor scooter. Whatever the first occurrence, it quickly grew into a heated rivalry. In high school, they had run against each other for student body president, with Rockart winning narrowly. The two had lost touch when Burner went on to college and Rockart had started in the pro wrestling business. By the time Thomas Rockart Jr. was buying the WWO from his father, Brad Burner had begun introducing cable channels. He had casually called Rockart and asked for some WWO footage for a sports channel, thinking their shared past could serve as sufficient payment. Rockart, however, had demanded top dollar. This infuriated Burner and succeeded in rekindling their war. Now, three years later, Burner had achieved enough financial success to spend ten million dollars to take over ICW and attempt to exact revenge by raiding the WWO of its talent. To accomplish this, Burner was offering large contracts to several WWO superstars.

  This was all explained to me in Buffalo on the afternoon before my fifth match with Sonny Logan. I arrived at the hotel to find Ricky Witherspoon in his room packing a bag. Apparently, he had arrived at the hotel an h
our ago, and as he was unpacking had received a phone call from ICW. He had accepted an offer over the phone and was leaving for Atlanta right away. After filling me in on the battlefield that served as the backdrop for Rockart and Burner’s current war, Witherspoon revealed the terms of his new contract.

  “One point two million dollars for two years,” Witherspoon recited, sounding a little dazed as we zipped down to the lobby in the mirrored elevator. “That’s what they offered me,” he continued. “I have to be in Atlanta by eight o’clock to sign the contract.”

  “Wow,” I remarked, fighting an inexplicable twinge of sorrow for Ricky. “Rockart doesn’t know?”

  “Nope,” he said. “I feel a little bad, but what the hell. Business is business. And Ricky Witherspoon goes where the money is.”

  Before I could make a comment about living the gimmick, the elevator halted and the doors opened to the lobby.

  “Darren Domino is on his way, too,” Witherspoon informed me as we drifted through the lobby. “And supposedly Burner’s gettin’ ready to make Sonny Logan an offer he won’t be able to refuse.”

  “Sonny?” I questioned sharply. “He won’t go. No way.”

  “We’ll see,” Ricky said. “I can put in a good word for you over there. They may make you an offer anyway, but, you know . . .” He let his voice fade and be swallowed up in the din of pedestrian traffic shuttling through the lobby.

  “I don’t know,” I said, reaching up to massage my temples. “I don’t really know what my plans are right now,” I specified.

  “Yeah,” he said quickly, “I can understand. How’re you doing . . . ?”

  “I don’t know,” I repeated.

  We emerged from the doors and were immediately hit by the crisp raw air so prevalent in late afternoons during the tail end of winter. A limousine was already at the curb. It was a longer one than Rockart had and this elongated style gave it the air of a confident predator. The bellman, outfitted in a blue suit and top hat, hustled up to us. “Sirs? Did you call for a limo?” he asked.

  “I did.” Ricky Witherspoon smiled, then turned to me. “Christ, I think I may just buy myself one of these. I’m gonna be able to afford it now, that’s for damn sure.”

  We shook hands. “See ya in Atlanta,” he said and grinned at me as he got in the limo. I watched the beast glide away, smiling as the breeze stroked tears to life in my eyes. I suddenly pictured Richard Turkin as a little kid, identical to the one he had paid a hundred dollars to jump into a pool. As much as Witherspoon liked to think of himself as a tycoon, he would probably always be that little kid, forever jumping in and out of pools for the highest bidder in search of more money. I waited until the massive limo became lost among the river of taillights hustling toward the airport in the sharp dusk chill, then turned and walked back into the hotel.

  That night at the arena was my worst match with Logan yet. The crowd was hostile toward the very idea of someone mimicking Logan. Many shouts of “Stupid!” and “Boring!” rang out. Obviously, The Chameleon gimmick was wearing thin.

  After the show, Thomas Rockart Jr. met with me backstage to discuss what he termed a “necessary shift in direction.” Also present at the meeting were Hippo Haleberg and Rob Robertson. As Rockart justified the growing need to alter my Chameleon gimmick, I was almost ashamed at how respectful I was of his poise. Hanging over this man’s head was Burner’s blatant intent to bring down the company he had spent his life building, and yet his manner remained coolly focused on business at hand. During the past week he himself had been present backstage at all house shows, like a general reinforcing his actual existence among his troops. He had taken Ricky Witherspoon’s pre-show defection in stride, and already knew about Darren Domino leaving and claimed to be unconcerned. He also had to deal with the paradoxical opportunities that Chuck Beastie’s death offered. Although Rockart had already assembled a tribute to “The Stud” that would air on all of the WWO’s television shows, there was a wordless desire to further capitalize on (while at the same time not appearing to exploit) Beastie’s death to hype the upcoming SlamFest.

  But if any of this was causing Rockart stress, he kept it well hidden as he spent a half an hour patiently expounding the many indications that signaled my current gimmick had run its course. “Nobody really feels connected enough with The Chameleon enough to love or hate him,” he concluded.

  “Happens to the best of ’em,” Hippo boomed reassuringly as he plunged his hand into a bag of potato chips.

  “Remember ‘Breakout Jones’?” Robertson tittered, then turned to me. “This was when rap was hot for . . . oh say, fifteen minutes. We had this guy who used to rap in the ring. Well, of course when rap went out, the gimmick was kaput. So what happened? We threw a skull necklace around his neck and pushed him as a voodoo master from Africa. He’s wrestling as ‘Black Magic’ now, as over with the marks as a sheet over a Ku Klux Klanner.”

  “We stick by our workers,” Hippo confirmed, and shook a potato chip at me in the same manner a judge would wield a hammer. “Gimmicks come and go, but if you stay loyal, we’ll always have a spot for you in the company.”

  “I’m thinking . . .” I coughed, then winced as my ribs throbbed with the effort. “I’m thinking I may need a week or so off.”

  A cool distrust leaked into Rockart’s eyes. Robertson issued a tired sigh. “How much did Burner offer you?” Hippo demanded.

  “Nothing,” I answered. “Nothing yet. And that isn’t even what this is about. I’ve gotta go . . .” Their six eyes regarded me carefully with a stillness that was marred only by Hippo’s methodical chewing. “I’ve gotta go find a gimmick that I can . . . live with.” I stopped briefly, and was ready to continue when Rockart cut me off with a sharp cough.

  “Where are you going to find it?” he asked. I patted my chest gingerly.

  “In here,” I said.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake.” Robertson groaned. “If you’re going to ICW, at least have the courtesy—”

  “Quiet, Rob,” Rockart commanded. Robertson immediately became silent. “Okay.” Rockart nodded slowly. “Do what you have to do. But I want you back in character in no more than two weeks. We’ll be doing a live TV simulcast from Chicago. Call me in a week. We’ll need to get your costume designed and set up a storyline to bring you back in.”

  “How do we know he won’t just sign with ICW?” Robertson protested.

  “He won’t.” Rockart shook his head smoothly, and our eyes locked in a shared knowledge of yet another confession I had made in the application to Shane Stratford’s wrestling school—that my ultimate reason for becoming a pro wrestler was to become the World Wrestling Organization Heavyweight Champion. It was the WWO I had seen in my dreams as a child, and Thomas Rockart Jr., with characteristic certitude, was sure that I still wanted to be that child.

  Staring into his eyes, I began to fear that he knew me better than I knew myself.

  I drove west for four days, stopping at chaotic intervals to eat at local diners and sleep in anonymous rest stops. I called B.J. from Nevada on a Friday afternoon and spoke to Terri. She told me that B.J. was working an afternoon shift at the distribution warehouse where he had recently been promoted to loading supervisor. When she learned I was just roaming around in Nevada, she ordered me to come for dinner that night. Six hours later I was turning down B Street in a subdivision of Lancaster. The layout of B Street was identical to the layouts of the other twenty lettered streets that surrounded it, dual rows of houses identical in both structure and color. Tract homes, the kind my grandfather had viewed as an insult to those who lived in them.

  “You sonofabitch!” B.J. whooped, throwing open the front door of his house and wrapping me in an embrace. His body, no longer inflated by steroids, was now smaller but tighter. Oddly, his face seemed to have grown. There was a completeness to it, as though life had been filling in imperceptible gaps.

  A shriek from inside the house broke our hug. “Joey!” he turned and hollered gleefully, ?
??what kind of nonsense are you into now?” He turned back to me and smiled with proud annoyance. “Joey,” he said in way of explanation.

  Joey was his two-year-old son. Although still chubby, his coordination was already impressive. The one feature on the child that clearly belonged to B.J. were his ears. Like B.J.’s, they were lean and plastered tightly against his scalp. Throughout a dinner of spaghetti and garlic bread, Terri rubbed Joey’s ears frequently, as though they provided her with proof of motherhood. The child giggled delightedly whenever his mother touched him. B.J. occasionally patted the boy’s head, and Joey stared at his father with wide awestruck eyes.

  The assemblage of houses known as Lancaster was about fifty miles north of Covina, home of the junior high school building where they had first met, and therefore some distance away from the town where they had originally dreamed of settling down. But, as B.J. explained to me while we drank beer out on the porch after dinner, property prices were cheaper out here.

  “With a family and all, well . . . ,” he said, shrugging. I nodded eagerly. “It’s good to see you again,” he said.

  “You too,” I agreed, wanting to say something more but unable to articulate what it was. I had no more phrases to fall back on. So I just sipped my beer and stared out at the neatly trimmed bushes crouching in the darkness.

  “He’s not mine, you know,” B.J. said suddenly. I just looked at him. “I . . . we couldn’t have any.” He sighed. “I guess it was the steroids . . . the doctor said maybe, maybe not.”

  “I’m sorry,” I managed at last, pushing the words hopefully into the silent night.

  “Yeah,” he said, “we did it with artificial insemination. Went to one of those banks. I remember I used to joke about goin’ and getting paid fifty bucks to whack off.”

  “You did that?”

  “Yeah. Twice,” he said. “Back when I just turned eighteen. Before I started takin’ all that shit.” He grinned with a tired humor. “I always like to think that maybe I got my own sperm, you know?”