A Bad Idea I'm About to Do

by Chris Gethard

  “This is amazing,” I gushed.

  “Come up with a character,” he instructed, “and I’ll call you back around seven tomorrow night. I’ll be on three-way with Carmine.”

  I spent the evening cycling through some of the alter egos I’d created during my youth. There was no way I could pull off my two favorites—the Japanimal and the Haitian Sensation—due to the obvious racial implications. I had to leave my childhood wrestling fantasies behind as I made the transition to my adult wrestling reality. By evening’s end, I’d come up with the most despicable persona I could muster: White Magic, an arrogant pimp dressed in a smoking jacket and top hat who would tout his money and girls to the very working-class wrestling fans he was paid to incite and degrade.

  Standing in front of my mirror, I took a quick assessment of myself. I weighed 135 pounds. I was pale, and had huge glasses and a bowl haircut. White Magic would be everything I wasn’t: smooth, a ladies’ man, cocky, and quick with an insult. This was the first chance I’d ever had to redesign myself, and my instincts led me to instantly embrace a character that was in every way my opposite. After all, the dream of being a professional wrestler had never just been about professional wrestling; it was more about having the traits wrestlers had that I didn’t—strength, resiliency, and the ability to wear who you are on your sleeve.

  By seven fifteen the call still hadn’t come, and I began to feel the sinking sensation of despair. I was heartbroken. Maybe Eddie had overstated his influence with the owner, maybe he was just playing a prank. Maybe the agoraphobic was in a particularly fearful mood and couldn’t even manage to talk that day.

  Just as I was about to give up hope, the phone rang.

  “Hello?” I answered, trying not to sound too eager.

  “Chris,” Eddie said, “I’m on the line with Carmine.”

  “Hi, Carmine,” I said.

  “Hi,” he said, tersely. “Real nice to meet you.” He sounded terrified.

  “Thanks for this opportunity,” I said. “This would really be a dream come true.”

  “Why don’t you tell me about your character?” he said.

  “I’ll call myself White Magic,” I began. “A smooth-talking showoff pimp.”

  I could tell the gears in Carmine’s head were already turning.

  “Could you tell me a little bit about what you look like?” he asked. He had the cadence of an early-era Marlon Brando, if Brando had spent his entire life indoors and was convinced that the world was out to get him.

  “Well,” I began, “I weigh 135 pounds. I have glasses—”

  “Say no more, my friend,” Carmine interrupted. “I can see how that would get a crowd real hot. Why don’t we do some role-play?”

  “Excuse me?” I asked.

  “WHITE MAGIC! You sorry son of a bitch,” he began. “Where do you get off coming ’round these parts?”

  I was thrown, but recovered and dove into character.

  “White Magic come ’round any parts he wants,” I told him. “ ’Cause I got hos in ALL THE ZIP CODES!”

  “Well, you need to step off—’cause around here, nobody messes with me,” Carmine bellowed. For an agoraphobic, he was turning out to be awfully aggressive.

  “Nobody messes with you? I mess with who I want,” I yelled at him. “Yo momma. Yo momma’s momma. Even yo baby daughta if I feel like it. I’m White Magic, baby—casting pimp spells and raising pimp hell!”

  Carmine didn’t answer. After a pause, I heard him giggle and I knew I was in.

  He explained that there was an event being held that Saturday in an auditorium at Seton Hall University in South Orange. I’d be managing a man named Vicious Vin who, like me, would be participating in his first match ever. He was scheduled to go up against a local indie wrestler named Flash Wheeler, who had been around for a while. I had a few days to get an outfit together and come up with a routine that would get the crowd to absolutely hate me.

  As luck would have it, I happened to have a top hat that I previously wore to my junior prom (I was that guy). My friend Andy had a Hugh Hefner–style smoking jacket, because he was a classy dresser with an appreciation for the finer things in life. Down the hall lived John, a fellow wrestling fanatic and a graphic designer. He took a white T-shirt and painted the words “White Magic” on it in an obnoxious font. Inside the pocket of the shirt I pinned two Phillies Blunt cigars. The master touch was a mahogany cane. I looked in the mirror and realized that I fit the part. I was on the precipice of living my dream. I was giddy, nervous, and overwhelmed. I needed support, but this situation was ludicrous. My next step was to call the one person I absolutely knew would back me up.

  “Gregg?” I asked when my brother picked up. “Are you sitting down?”

  “Yeah,” he answered. “Is everything all right?”

  “I’m going to be a manager in a pro wrestling league on Saturday,” I told him.

  He paused.

  “I’ll be there,” he said. “I’ve never been more proud of you in my life.”

  I glanced back at the mirror. I was fired up. I was dressed correctly. I was ready.

  I was White Magic.

  On the day of the event, a handful of people I knew came to watch. My brother was there to witness a dream fulfilled, sitting next to my girlfriend Veronica. John came to see how the outfit he designed played to the crowd. All of them knew how much this meant to me.

  Before I left them to get ready, my brother turned to me. “Dude, you’re in,” he said. “Make it happen.”

  “Thanks, man,” I said.

  My girlfriend said nothing. At the time, I assumed it must have been because she was overwhelmed with pride. I was too young to realize it was probably shame.

  Eddie was in a cordoned-off corner littered with equipment, going over the lighting design with a handful of technicians.

  “Eddie,” I said as I approached. “Thanks for having me, man.”

  “It’s gonna be great,” Eddie said. “I’m glad I get to be here for your debut.”

  He directed me to the changing area, which actually wasn’t even a room—just a corner of the auditorium partitioned off with a large freestanding wall and a number of attached curtains. There, I met “the boys.”

  As I entered, I was struck with an overwhelming dose of reality ; this was really happening. It was the culmination of every childhood fantasy I’d ever had. Even if it had been your average low-rent local wrestling card it would have been emotional. But this introduction was particularly awe-inspiring. In addition to the local wrestlers, there were some bona fide wrestling legends present.

  The massive, bald-headed King Kong Bundy, a villain I had watched since my youth, sat in one corner. Marty Jannetty of the Rockers walked in behind me, and former WWF world champion The Iron Sheik made his entrance a few minutes later, already wearing his curlicue-toed boots when he got there. ECW wrestler Skull Von Krush, whose gimmick was that he was a neo-Nazi, sat talking with Ring of Honor standout Low Ki.

  I stared out at the arena. It was nothing special—just a multipurpose room with a wrestling ring set up in the middle and a hundred folding chairs around it. It was the equivalent of going to see a Single A minor league baseball game. But to me, with my idols present and a lifetime of fantasies coming to fruition, it was the big time.

  Eddie grabbed my arm and pulled me out of my daze. He directed me to a corner where Flash Wheeler and Vicious Vin were discussing the mechanics of our match.

  “For the storyline we’re building,” Eddie told me, “we need Vin to win.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Since Vin clearly doesn’t have the chops Flash has, we need to figure out a way that the crowd will buy it,” Eddie continued.

  “Makes sense,” I responded.

  “And that’s where you come in.”

  Eddie informed me that I would use my cane to bash Flash Wheeler over the head. This underhanded cheating would allow Vicious Vin to pin the more experienced wrestler without the crowd ques
tioning the outcome. My mouth went dry. I was under the impression my job was to get people riled up, not to get physically involved in the match.

  Flash grabbed me and sat me down. His muscular hand wrapped around my entire bicep, and when I looked into his eyes I saw the empty expanse of a man with no morals. “Listen the fuck up,” he said. “I’ll spin my finger in a circle and bounce off the ropes.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “When I do, you jump up,” he barked. “Hit me with that cane. I’ll go down. Then I’ll let fucking fat ass pin me.” He motioned to Vin, who looked as intimidated as I felt.

  As soon as Eddie walked away, Flash Wheeler turned to me again.

  “I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said, staring me dead in the eye. “You have no training. You’ve put no time in to deserve being here.” He paused to make sure I was paying attention. Needless to say, I was. “And if you hit me with that cane the wrong way and injure me,” he continued, “I am going to fuck you up.”

  I was terrified. Before I had time to digest his words, someone grabbed me and pushed me toward the curtains. It was time for my dream to finally come true.

  I strutted out with my top hat and cane, and got the exact reaction I was hoping for. The sight of a nerdy kid acting like a high-status lothario immediately drew ire from the angry mob. Thanks to their reaction I snapped out of my Flash Wheeler–induced fear and came to life. Insulting white-trash wrestling fans came naturally to me—as naturally as anything ever has. I was in the heart of North Jersey, just a town away from where I grew up. The fans who showed up that night were obnoxious locals who reminded me of the bullies I knew as a kid. Being encouraged to insult them was permission to take out all the aggression that lived inside me.

  “You can’t be a pimp,” one man in the first row shouted at me. His kids laughed as he pointed at me. “To be a pimp, you actually have to talk to a girl once in a while.”

  I sprinted over to the railing in front of his seats.

  “Shut up, idiot!” I shouted at him. “I don’t want to have to slap your mouth in front of your daughter.” I said it loud enough for everyone to hear. “Anything else you want to say?” I said, raising my arms and leaning in close to him. He didn’t answer.

  The crowd loudly jeered. I was a villain in their eyes. I was White Magic.

  Another guy pointed at me. Just as he was about to yell something, I cut him off. “Old man,” I said, in a tone loud enough to get him to freeze in his tracks. “Sit the fuck down before I come over there and smack those last two hairs off your ugly bald head!”

  I climbed into the ring and strutted around. The verbal sparring continued. I had them in the palm of my hand. I was controlling their emotions. I was exhilarated by the level of control I was able to wield while inciting such chaos. When the bell rang, I rolled out under the ropes and continued jawing with spectators as the match got under way.

  I watched Vicious Vin and Flash go at it. As someone who has seen thousands of wrestling matches, I knew it was bad. Vin was confused. His movements were halting and unconfident. Flash’s irritation at the plummeting quality of his match led to overaggression, and that only exacerbated the problem. He was throwing his shots harder and wilder. It scared me, knowing that I’d soon have to jump in and contribute.

  All I could think about were Flash Wheeler’s words of warning. I was getting cold sweats. Despite my success at riling the crowd, I knew Flash was completely correct. I had no right to be there. And my lack of training could hurt him. Vicious Vin’s bad timing alone had Flash visibly infuriated, and he was hitting Vin with open-handed slaps that left red welts on the fat rookie wrestler. If I fucked up hitting him with a thick piece of wood, I could be in some serious shit.

  The match flew by. And eventually, the signal came. Flash looked down at me and circled with his finger. He sprinted across the ring, bouncing off the ropes toward me.

  This was it. A moment I’d dreamed about since I was five years old. The moment I became a wrestler. Up until then, I’d been a part of things, but really I’d been standing just outside a wrestling ring shouting insults while wearing a funny outfit. Now, I got to leap to the edge of the squared circle and participate. It was a coming-out ceremony for me, the fulfillment of a lifelong dream.

  I froze.

  Flash hit the ropes in front of me and nothing happened. He ran back in the other direction, and Vicious Vin made eye contact with me, making a distinct What the fuck are you doing? face. Flash bounced off the ropes and awkwardly came back in my direction, as if a single Irish whip from Vicious Vin was powerful enough to cause him to run back and forth three entire times without being able to stop himself.

  I knew I had to fulfill my duties. I jumped up on the ring apron, raised my cane, and swung.

  In that moment, I had the opportunity to act on any number of impulses.

  I could have smashed the cane over Flash’s head extra hard as retaliation for being a terrifying asshole to me earlier.

  I could have used this act of violence to affirm that I had what it took to live this dream, no matter what my parents thought.

  I could have searched out my brother in the crowd and hit Flash as a sign of solidarity between us.

  I could have caught eyes with my girlfriend and hit him in an impressive display of masculinity.

  If any of these impulses had run through my head I would have been grateful.

  Because what actually went through my head was blinding fear and nothing but: both a general fear of having the spotlight on me and a specific fear of screwing up and having Flash Wheeler deliver his promised ass kicking afterward. That fear paralyzed me during my big moment, and it would be an understatement to say that I choked.

  The hit I delivered to Flash Wheeler with my cane wouldn’t have fazed a ninety-year-old man with brittle bone disease. Doctors slap babies harder than I hit Flash with my cane. Orchestra conductors tap their music stands harder than I hit him. I’m a natural weakling. So for me to not put any effort into it was a sham. I lightly grazed the top of his head with the cane and then immediately leapt off the ring apron.

  To his credit, Flash sold the move. He fell down, holding his head, thrashing about as if he was in extreme pain. For a moment, I thought things had turned out all right.

  Maybe people will believe, I thought to myself, that my cane has some sort of magical powers. That within it are superhuman levels of strength, and the cane is powerful, even though I am a visible coward.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t happen. The crowd laughed and booed me. They knew I botched the ending of the match. My mystique as a smart-mouthed asshole had been stripped away by my pitiful physical display. For a few fleeting minutes, I had lived my dream. Now, as that dream fell apart around me, I faced a tidal wave of scorn and disrespect.

  A group of preteens jumped the railing, and one pushed me as hard as he could.

  “Stop, kid!” I shouted.

  “Who’s gonna make me, faggot?” he yelled back at me. One of his friends snuck up behind me and stole my top hat.

  Earlier I’d been quick with my verbal sparring. The best I could muster as this teenaged hooligan ran off with my hat was a meek “Hey! I need that!”

  Someone grabbed my arm. I turned to see that it was a wrestler I hadn’t been introduced to yet. In the melee, I had forgotten that there was supposed to be a brawl in the aisle after our match. I looked into his eyes and saw the unmistakable look of Don’t fuck this up too. The unnamed wrestler whipped me back toward the dressing room.

  I hit the freestanding wall that marked the border of the dressing room face-first. The impact forced the structure to wobble back and forth. It tipped toward me, then away from me, and finally fell toward the dressing area, dragging down curtains on the way and exposing a group of very shocked, partially dressed professional wrestlers.

  The wall crashed to the ground six inches from King Kong Bundy. He looked down, then raised his bald head and made eye contact with me. Seei
ng the enraged, murder-hungry eyes of a professional wrestler six times my size filled me with an icy fear that has yet to and likely never will be equaled.

  I had arrived to live out a childhood dream, to become a conquering hero who claimed my destiny while (as all heroes do) proving my father wrong. Instead, I came inches away from killing a 400-pound behemoth I’d been watching on TV for as long as I could remember, and who now wanted to unleash the very moves I once cheered for to destroy my scrawny body.

  The staff hoisted the wall back up. Before it was fully righted, I ducked behind it. No one would even look at me. No one except for Skull Von Krush, who wandered over to where I was cowering. I thought he was going to console me, to tell me everyone makes rookie mistakes.

  “You almost killed Bundy!” the neo-Nazi shouted, holding his face inches from mine. “If you had hurt Bundy, we woulda fucked you up. Maybe we still should, huh?”

  “Bundy’s fine!” I squeaked. “He’s out there wrestling his match right now!”

  It was to no avail. Von Krush stayed in my face. He was mad, and he was not backing down. People gathered around to watch the verbal beatdown. I was being laughed at by the wrestlers—a group I’d come into the evening hoping to impress.

  And then, mercifully, the fire alarm went off.

  Everyone jumped up and ran to peek out of the curtains. I stayed slumped in the corner.

  “Bundy got slammed!” someone yelled. “He’s so heavy, it set off the fire alarm!”

  The wrestlers panicked. The confused crowd slowly filtered out of the auditorium. I slipped out the back door and ran to my car. My brother was there waiting for me.

  “I grabbed it from those kids,” Gregg said, handing me my top hat before patting me on the back. We sat silently, in a rare moment only brothers who once fought until their bones were broken can experience. We exchanged a look and understood that the dream was over.

  I learned a hard, valuable lesson that night: childhood fantasies should remain fantasies. In the end, wrestling did little more for me in life than break my shoulder as a child and shatter my ego as a young adult. I would never tear my clothing before amazed audiences. I would never do backflips off the ring’s ropes. And while learning that meant I had to live through a heartbreaking and humiliating night, in the end that would have to be fine. At some point we all have to learn to live as who we are and not as who we wish we were.