Chapter 6: A MARK LEARNS A LESSON

I showed up like the guy told me. Six sharp. Mama didn't notice I was gone. She was passed out in front of the TV with her buddy Jack Daniels watching wheel of misfortune. Daddy didn't notice I was gone. Dead people don't have a tendency to pay much attention to the living.

The dude's name was Leon. Pussy name and he agreed but didn't hold it against me for saying so. He went by the name Road Angel. Again, pussy name. But he did know that chokeslam move, which kicked ass.

I was fifteen and was already six feet myself. I asked him to teach me that chokeslam so I could kick ass. He tells me to keep my dick in my pants and learn the basics. You have to learn to bump. You have to learn to lock up. You have to learn to sell. You have to learn to dance. You have to learn to not get hurt. You have to learn to not hurt someone else.

I was confused. Whatta ya mean not hurt someone else? He'd wiped out two guys last night and they looked dead as shit. He chuckled, whistled and called two names. The two guys that had been in the ring last night came trotting over from doing push ups.

"Do they look dead to you, Mark?"

Alive and kicking. Damn. What gives?

"What you need to realize, Mark, is that wrestling is very, very real and its very, very fake."

Leon has gone Kung Fu on me. Walk on rice paper leave no trace motherfucker. And what the fuck is this Mark shit?

"What that means is we work very, very hard to make it LOOK incredibly real. To the point of actually getting hurt sometimes. But when we're doing our job right, we can do this." Leon threw a punch at the guy on his left and the guy staggered back, then walked back. "And nobody is hurt. We do it wrong and people REALLY get hurt. Sometimes they get dead."

"So what gives?"

"What gives is called selling. That's something you'll learn later. For now I want you to give me ten push ups."

I eye this guy with suspicion. Push ups? Oh brother.

"First tell me why the fuck you keep calling me Mark. My name is Max."

"I called you Mark cause that's what a fan is that doesn't know that what were doing isn't real. Its real fake. Or fake real. Whatever. Now give me ten."

I drop and give him ten.

"Now give me another ten."

I give him another ten.

"Now give me another ten."

I give him ten.

"Another ten."

Another ten.

"Another."

How bout you blow me? I give him five good ones, three mediocre ones, one bad one, and one that sucked dick.

"Ok, that gives me a timeframe. Get up and run to that wall and back. Go!"

I get up. I run. I return.

"Do it again. Faster this time. Go!"

I run. I return. I gasp for air.

"Do it again. Pretend I'm running after you. I'm gonna rip your balls off and feed 'em to my dog. Go!"

I run. I stay on the far side of the room. Leon is starting to freak me out. More than a little bit. Leon is orbiting Neptune as far as I'm concerned.

"Get back over here!"

"FUCK YOU!"

"Max, come on. Come back here."

"And the horse you rode in on!"

Leon drops his head, put his hand over his face, shakes his head. I cant tell if hes laughing or crying.

"Max, come here please." He beckons to me with a thick-gloved hand.

I slowly make my way back over to Leon, making sure I stay out of arm reach of this tattooed ogre that stands before me.

Leon hunkers down a little and looks me in the face. At first he doesn't say anything, he just looks at me. I stare back at him, defiant, self sufficient, a punk kid in sweat socks and holey jeans.

"Max, listen. Im sorry. I don't mean to ride you so rough. I'm used to breaking guys a lot older than you, teaching them that the ring isn't their thing. You. You're different. You ever seen wrestling on TV?"

I tell him I sometimes watch the late Saturday night matches sometimes when Mama's passed out already.

"Good enough. Surprised you haven't seen me on there. You basically think it's real, don't you?"

"No... Yeah... I dunno."

"It's not real like boxing and football and baseball and soccer and golf are real. Pro wrestling is more like a soap opera than a sporting event. A comic book. There's good guys and bad guys. Faces and heels. Sometimes the good guys win, sometimes the bad guys win. But it's never the guys that are actually wrestling that decide that. That's done by a booker. He decides who wrestles who and who wins and who loses. If you lose, it's called doing a job, or jobbing. We don't worry about win or lose. We worry about pop. Pop is crowd reaction. The bigger the pop, the more you get over. Getting over is what we work on. And you get over by doing incredible things in the ring that make people stand up and scream their heads off or by being the heel and pulling heat by doing bad ass things behind the refs back, but letting the crowd see you do it. Being nasty. But the only way you're going to experience that pop is if you get the basics down. Then the middle ground. Then the hard stuff.

I was in awe. I wanted that. I wanted the noise and the thunder and the sweat and the blood. I wanted it so bad I could taste it.

"You ready to work for it? You ready to bleed for it? You ready to get hurt going after it? That pop? That flash? The crowd screaming? Girls begging to bang you in the back alley after the show? Guys spitting on you, telling you you ain't so tough? You ready for that? Then run to that wall and back again. Go!"

I ran. I returned. I did it again. And again. And again.