“It’s beautiful,” I admitted.
“Dusk or dawn,” she stated, holding the poster out to me. I took it.
“Damned if I know,” I said.
We paused at the door. I wasn’t sure at all what to do. She held up her hand in a motionless wave. I did the same. We held those positions for a ridiculously long time before she issued a chuckle and let her hand drop. “All right,” she said. “Whatever happens or doesn’t happen, I’m glad I told you.”
I nodded, a statue granted only slight movement. My hand remained suspended. “Good luck, Michael Harding,” she said softly. “Have a good journey.”
She was still standing on her porch, framed in my rearview mirror as I drove away.
14
MR. MICHAEL HARDING
The champion parts the curtain. He strides out facing backward, his back a huge inverted triangle of flesh. His mammoth arms are raised toward the sky, like an orchestra conductor’s. After a few yards he swings around and continues down the aisle, his blond hair snapping behind him.
He reaches the mini-ring in the aisle and gazes incredulously at this obstacle. The crowd cheers him on as he tips it over and storms ahead.
Jesus, he’s big.
By the time he makes it to the ring, the air is filled with eighty thousand voices chanting his name. I glance over at the four guys who were chanting earlier. Their mouths now move silently, just four more parts swept up into the sum of the crowd’s worship.
A crushed aluminum can misses my head by a few inches. I whirl around, but it is impossible to tell where it came from. Hostile eyes stare back at me. The champion’s presence has transformed me from a young man with a dream to a destroyer of idols. I look for the woman with the blue hair, but can’t locate her. Maybe she got out. Just as well. I’ve seen crowds like this rip unpopular signs to shreds and threaten those who made them.
I stare across the ring at the referee holding the ropes open for the champ. The champ slips through and parades around the ring, eliciting cheers from all. He makes it look so easy. Could I really take this guy’s place? A vague guilt knots my stomach. If I beat him, I will upset the natural order of things.
If I were out there in the audience, I would be booing me.
As though some invisible hand had protected the buildings from either renovation or decay, the quiet Chicago street I grew up on looked exactly the same. The street’s gutters even seemed cluttered with the same moderate amount of trash. A fresh smoky smell from a rooftop barbecue traveled through the air.
My door was opened by a short squat man with a tuft of black hair poking up from a swollen cherry of a face.
What happened to Irling?
“Hi,” I said, “I’m Bonnie’s son.”
“Who?”
“The woman who lives here,” I said, mentally double-checking the address that had always been stored in the recesses of my mind as home.
“Bonnie!” he exclaimed. “She sold the place to us about three months ago.”
“Oh,” I said. He was studying me. “Do you know . . . where she went?” I asked.
“Nebraska, I think,” he said, “but she left something for you. Said you were on the road all the time.” His eyes clicked into sharper focus and he snapped his fingers excitedly. “You’re oneathose pro wrestlers, right?” he exclaimed.
Was I? I still hadn’t called Thomas Rockart Jr. “Yeah,” I managed, “I’m kind of on vacation right now.”
“You mean you’re not wrestlin’ at the Horizon tonight?” he asked.
So it was Friday. Two weeks to the day after I had set out from Buffalo on the search for a new gimmick. “No,” I said, “I mean yeah.” From the way he was peering at me I could’ve been growing horns right on his front porch. “Yes,” I finally concluded, “I’ll be there.”
“What’s your name?” he inquired. “I’ll look for ya.”
“Not sure yet,” I mumbled, “We’re trying out a new . . .” My voice trailed off before I could get out the word gimmick. “Did you say my mom left something for me?” I asked.
“Oh. Yeah, wait. I’ll get it.” He turned, then glanced over his shoulder. “I’d invite you in, but me and the wife were just gettin’ ready to take a bath. Conserve water, ya know?” he added with a wink.
Soon he was back with two envelopes. I wished him a happy bath, and he winked again and guaranteed that it would be. After he closed the door, I turned and sat on the stoop. One of the envelopes was stamped and addressed to me, while the other simply had “Michael” decorating the envelope in looping writing I immediately recognized as my mother’s. The note inside was on stationery dotted with planets:
Dear Michael,
As you probably discovered by now, we’ve moved. We’re going to be living just outside Lincoln, Nebraska. I’ll call you with a phone number as soon as we have one. I’ve also sent a letter to your apartment in Brooklyn, but since you never seem to be there, I thought you might try and call or come by before you actually received it. I really enjoyed your last visit—it seemed to be the calmest and warmest time we’ve had together in quite some time. Shawna is a wonderful person, and I wish you all the best with her. Irling says hi as well.
Love, Mom
The other letter read:
Dear Mike,
Seems funny to be addressing this letter to you. I’m not even sure if you go by Mike or Michael. Anyway, I wanted to write to you and say that if you’re blaming yourself for Chuck, don’t. These things do happen. Been doing some reading lately, in addition to running my gym. Came upon a great saying: “Death tweaks us by the ear and says, ‘LIVE—I am coming.’”
Back a while ago, that idea would have depressed the hell out of me. But now I see it as a challenge and an invitation. Hope you feel the same. Take care, buddy. Meredith, Dawn, and Elektra all say “hi.” Helena says “da.”
Still a human (not a slab of metal),
Trevor
I stood and slowly descended the steps. On the way to my car, there was once again the scent of burning charcoal. I looked over and glimpsed a small army of ashes being whisked through the air. I thought of my grandfather, and although I knew they were from the barbecue, I reached up and let them touch my hand.
I had visited my father’s grave only once before in my life. After wandering among the gravestones for almost a half an hour, I was ready to give up. The place was too damn quiet, I told myself angrily. But then at the end of a plot I spotted the name Steven Harding. Once I stopped walking I was able to pick up the trilling of birds coming from somewhere.
I read and reread the inscription: Alive in Our Hearts and Memories Always.
I crouched down and ran my palm along the marble, smearing the residue of ashes across this message. For the first time in my life, it was true. He had been real, a person with dreams and aspirations, some of which he had met and conquered but some of which must have remained undisclosed or perhaps undiscovered. Had he ever considered the possibility of dying so young?
I wanted to proclaim something, go on a rant of some kind. But with the tips of my fingers shadowed by ashes that had been blowing in the Chicago winds, I thought of my grandfather’s advice: “Keepin’ your mouth shut is the best way to keep your options open.” So that’s what I did.
When I was ready, I whispered, “I miss you, Dad. I love you.” As I stood, a flock of birds rose from the oak trees that bordered the row of plots and flew into the sticky air. I walked off, still confused but no longer hating the silence that had reclaimed the cemetery.
When I got to the Rosemont Horizon, a few fans were already gathered by the tunnel that led to the backstage area. I strode past and half-listened to their bewildered whispers as they tried to place me as a wrestler they recognized.
The first person I saw backstage was Sonny Logan. He was touching his nose delicately with one hand and clutching a newspaper with the other. “What’s up, brother?” he greeted me. “Where have you been? Tom is goin’ crazy. He’s sure you signed with Burner.” He
gave me a slim conspiratorial smile.
“Nah,” I replied, as we exchanged a soft handshake. “I went and got lost for a while.”
“Did you see this yet?” He shook the newspaper at me.
“What is it?”
“Shit,” was all he said as he handed me the copy of The Tribune. I glanced above the fold that had been creased by his grip. It was an editorial by a local sports journalist. The heading read: No Hero’s Death for a Local “Beastie.” A burning erupted on my forehead and got hotter as I read more:
When hometown boy Charles Clifton, known in the bawdy world of professional wrestling as Chuck “The Stud” Beastie, fell to his death last week during a professional wrestling match in Boston, it was indeed a tragedy.
It was not, however, a sports-related tragedy.
Professional wrestling is, and always will be, an odd curiosity in the parade of never-ending fads that contribute to that vague semblance of “Americanana.” The World Wrestling Organization would like you to believe Clifton died the death of a sportsman. He did not. He died in a freak accident during a rehearsed move, the same way a stuntman might perish in a botched stunt. For the WWO to somehow assert that this death was the result of combat is ludicrous. Noble? Perhaps. But Charles Clifton’s death will do nothing to alter the general public’s attitude regarding pro wrestling.
It can then be seen as a shame. Pro wrestling is cheap, often exploitative (Clifton’s death being no exception) entertainment, but represents no kind of athletic contest. To compare Beastie’s death to those of men who have died on a football field or a racetrack is absurd. It is an ironic tragedy that young men are willing to take such risks in the name of a wanna-be sport.
But there is a truer tragedy: that of Chuck Beastie, a character who died in vain as a wanna-be athlete, not even bearing his real name.
I tore the paper in half and stormed up the stairs. Thomas Rockart Jr. was hunched over the public-address system, going over the music and lighting cues with the engineer. As soon as he saw me, his lips tightened. “Where the hell have you been?” he demanded. “Why haven’t you called?”
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” I replied. “I had to work some things out. And I’ve got an idea,” I announced before he had a chance to respond.
He tilted his head curtly. “Give me a live interview tonight,” I said.
“What are you going to say?” he demanded.
“I want to try something,” I urged. “Trust me.”
His features pulled back in thought. After a minute they assumed their usual structured confidence. “You’ll get two minutes just before intermission,” he told me. “And it damn well better be good.”
“It will be,” I promised, turning around.
“Wait!” he shouted. “We’ve gotta get you a costume! We’ve got to—”
“No costumes,” I said. “I’ll be in the audience. Just introduce me and I’ll come up to the platform.”
Excitement awakened in Thomas Rockart Jr.’s eyes, as though an infallible inner sense had just been positively stoked. “Okay.” He nodded. “What do we introduce you as?”
“Michael Harding,” I replied. I descended the same narrow passageway where Sonny Logan had first shook my hand, then strode out through the tunnel. After buying a ticket, I milled about in the anonymous sea of marks. Two young boys were performing wrestling moves on one another, and people shot them bemused glances as they filed inside. Soon it was show time, but the boys were still wrestling, lost in their own world. I hung around, waiting to see who would win. Soon I realized the show had been going on for twenty minutes already and hurried inside just as one of the kids wrapped the other in a Boston Crab.
My seat was in the middle of one of the corner sections. When the announcer called my name, I was ready. I ambled down the rows of seats and climbed over the barricade. Security guards escorted me to the podium, and once there I took hold of the microphone and gave a speech that would be replayed many times on WWO telecasts over the following weeks:
“The fans of the World Wrestling Organization have been watching me wrestle for years but almost none of them know who I am. Up to this point I have been The Chameleon. Two weeks ago, I was in a cage match with a man named Charles Clifton, known to millions of fans around the world as Chuck ‘The Stud’ Beastie. He was an amazing athlete and, more important, a great human being. He was not a character; he was a man with many different facets to his personality. He was also a true hero not only to millions of fans but to me. He taught me many things, and his death taught me the most important thing: that it is time to shed my skin. My name is Michael Harding. Period. I came into this sport for one reason: to become the World Wrestling Organization Heavyweight Champion. And that’s what I’m gonna do. As myself! This is no script. This is no character. This is one man going after a dream. And I will not rest until that belt is mine!”
“Immediate” and “unbelievable” were the two adjectives Thomas Rockart Jr. later used to describe the crowd’s reaction that night. He sent me out to work with Officer O’Malley, who was one of the WWO’s most popular wrestlers. It was an assumption that since I had all but challenged Sonny Logan, the fans would treat me as a heel. But as the name “Michael Harding” boomed out of the Horizon’s scratchy public-address system, the crowd launched into cheers. Then as the match progressed, it became more and more apparent that I was the fan favorite.
During live events, the referee always wore a small flesh-colored earpiece that enabled him to receive any changes from backstage. While we were in a rest-spot (O’Malley had a headlock clamped around me in the middle of the ring), the referee leaned in close. While he pretended to test my arm for consciousness, he whispered frantically, “The big guy just came through . . . said to change the finish.” The finish had called for me to gain a cheap victory over O’Malley by pinning him with my feet on the ropes for support. “Big guy said O’Malley should do a clean job,” the referee whispered.
“All right.” Officer O’Malley nodded, then said to me sotto voce, “How do you wanna beat me, Mike?”
Several blank seconds followed; for more than a year my moves in the ring had been limited to the ones used by whomever I was working with. Then I recalled my last glimpse of the two boys outside. “Boston Crab,” I whispered.
“Ah, a traditionalist,” O’Malley laughed approvingly. And that was the way it happened. Five minutes later I wrapped him in a Boston Crab, and his face strained in mock struggle until he finally indicated that he was beaten.
The referee rang the bell, and as he raised my arm in victory the chant began: “Har-ding! Harding!” In the midst of it all a plane soared overhead. I listened and hoped that wherever those two kids were, the building was trembling for them too.
“Amazing,” Thomas Rockart Jr. claimed, adding a third adjective to what he was calling “the Harding phenomenon.” He was seated in his office, surrounded by letters and cards. In the last two weeks I had been working as Michael Harding, nearly 40,000 responses had poured in supporting my quest for the WWO title. T-shirts had been printed with Michael Harding on the front and Period on the back. They were selling out at every house show. Upon seeing the sales figures for the week, he had immediately doubled the order for T-shirts, Michael Harding cups, baseball caps, and key chains. The highest compliment a wrestler can be paid by a promoter is to be called a commodity. Sonny Logan was a commodity. “Bad Boy” Benny Flare, the Champion of WWO’s rival ICW, was a commodity. Now I was a commodity, and Thomas Rockart Jr. wanted to make my name a trademark owned by the World Wrestling Organization.
“Absolutely not,” I told him, when he brought it up casually. “My name is my name,” I said, getting a kick out of the momentary uncertainty in his eyes. It was the first time I could remember seeing that, or at least noticing it.
We finally agreed that the WWO would introduce me as “Mister Michael Harding.” That would be the trademarked name, and the WWO’s exclusive license on that name would expire upon my depar
ture from the company.
“Which will never happen anyway,” Thomas Rockart Jr. stated with an assured smile. “Not when you hear this latest offer.”
Because of some “tax maneuvers,” Rockart explained, he wanted to renegotiate my contract to cover only the next two months leading up to SlamFest. I would receive a substantial raise, earning $40,000 each month. The updated contract also contained a clause that stated if I left the WWO, I couldn’t work for another wrestling organization until a full year had expired. With this safeguard in place, Rockart felt secure that I wouldn’t hop from the WWO to ICW after the two months ended. What Hippo later told me was that Rockart wanted to throw this money at me for two months while making sure that the “Harding phenomenon had legs.”
“Any moron can be popular for a few months,” Thomas Rockart Jr. was fond of joking. “It takes a real moron to connect with pro wrestling audiences for longer.”
That week the card for SlamFest, the WWO’s annual “Night of Titans,” was announced. In the main event, “The American Dream” Sonny Logan would defend the World Wrestling Organization Heavyweight Championship against “Mister Michael Harding.” Thomas Rockart Jr. informed me that our match would end with a Logan victory by default. I would juice and bleed so profusely that the referee would be forced to stop the match. This could then set up a feud that would carry Logan and I through a summer of main events.
As the weeks counted down to SlamFest, the WWO hype machine launched into overdrive. I was engaged in a series of “face versus face” matches with Scotty “The Body” Fitzman, who had been working an all-American fitness gimmick the past five years. Our matches were purely scientific, meaning neither of us resorted to cheating. I always pinned him cleanly, and we shook hands at the end of every match. The purpose was to establish me as a legitimate contender for the WWO belt. Also, by having me take on a fellow face, Rockart was preparing the fans to witness me take on Sonny Logan, the ultimate face, at SlamFest.