Up Up, Down Down

by Cheston Knapp

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  Contents

  Epigraph

  Faces of Pain

  Beirut

  Learning Curves

  Far from Me

  Mysteries We Live With

  Neighborhood Watch

  Something’s Gotta Stick

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  For A, E

  I owe you.

  O me! that being what I have been I should be what I am.

  —Samuel Taylor Coleridge

  There was I: a stinking adult.

  —John Ashbery

  Faces of Pain

  Bell time for the Keizer Klash was 7:30 p.m., sharp, and Scott and I had arrived early according to plan, after the hour drive south from Portland. It was October and already dark out and GPS directed us down the kind of driveway I thought only existed in horror movies—murdersome’s the word. But there at the gravel’s eerie end we found the Lions Club. A beat-up moving truck was parked next to the entrance, and by the halogenic glow of an exposed bulb we could see that its side was stenciled with DOA PRO WRESTLING. Turns out the acronym doesn’t stand for “Dead on Arrival,” as I first assumed, but “Don’t Own Anyone,” which, although it has a certain Wild West and existential laissez-faire, primarily refers to the promotion’s business model, the fact that it doesn’t put the talent under contract and so doesn’t limit where they can wrestle. With at least three other professional wrestling organizations in Portland, not to mention those up in Seattle, the wrestlers hereabouts have options. But boasting is a big part of the business and when we spoke with them, the managers of DOA were quick to assure us that theirs was the “premier” outfit in the Northwest. One went so far as to call their competition “just half a step better than backyard.”

  We made our way into a spacious wood-paneled hall that was haunted by the smells of America’s past, an olio of boiled hot dogs and stale Hydrox and orange-flavored Tang. Scott affixed a flash to his camera and started to work the scene. He’d been talking about this for months, about how we should team up on a project, a combo of words and pictures à la the Agee-Evans opus Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. Thanks in large part to my reluctance—I’d settled into a prevailing MO of irresoluteness—this had all remained remote and abstract, idle chatter after tennis, that is until a few days before, when Scott put the screws to me and convinced me to attend the Klash.

  “It’ll be fun,” he said. And after a lengthy silence, he added, “At very least it’ll be an experience.”

  I stood off to the side and made some notes while Scott orbited the hall. He shot the swag table, the staff, the gathering crowd. He shot the ring, which sat under a ceiling low enough to preclude top-turnbuckle action, it seemed to me. Empty though it technically was, you couldn’t help but feel it was full of promise, potential. It teased the imagination like a missed opportunity, like preingested drugs. The wrestlers themselves were out of sight, behind a makeshift screen of black fabric hung across an oversize portable clothes rack, on top of which were perched an assortment of party lights that looked like they’d been bought on clearance at Spencer Gifts. In 1999.

  The card for the Klash looked promising. There was Draven Vargas, “the Plus-Sized Playboy,” vs. CJ Edwards, “the Little Chocolate Drop.” Rockin’ Ricky Gibson was set to tussle with Eric Right. For the heavyweights, J_SIN Sullivan was tasked with wrangling Dr. Kliever, “the Lean Green Love Machine.” And a tag team match would end it all: the Left Coast Casanovas vs. the Illuminati. It was struggle enough to keep one’s imagination from overheating.

  We were then met by a member of DOA brass. He referred to us as press and we soon found ourselves being escorted through the black fabric and into the Lions Club’s kitchen, which is to say: backstage.

  Not counting my elementary school plays, I’d never been backstage at anything before, and I immediately understood the thrill. The wrestlers were giddy, full of antic aggression. Every couple minutes one of them would peek through the screen to check on the crowd filling the hall and then he’d beat his chest or beat the chest of a compatriot or jump up and down or jump into another wrestler or pump his fist. One rapidly slapped his head with both hands like I’ve seen legit Greco-Roman wrestlers do, in high school and the Olympics. Watching them amp themselves up, I remembered I’d experienced something similar back when I played lacrosse, when my teammates and I would bang our helmets together and roar testosteronic roars while listening to backward-R Korn—in what feels like, and what I often wish were, another life.

  Maybe it was because we were in a kitchen, but after the initial thrill wore off, I started to feel less like I was backstage and more like I was at a Halloween house party. Or in the Castro. Or at a Halloween house party in the Castro. J_SIN Sullivan’s baggy pleather pants had flames down the sides and he was wearing a T-shirt that read GLADSTONE RUB-A-DUB, which I learned was an allusion to an old-school Northwest wrestler and not a business that specialized in car washes and hand jobs. Rockin’ Ricky Gibson dressed like he was in a Twisted Sister cover band. They’d both bleached their hair the way skaters I hung out with in the nineties used to. “The Plus-Sized Playboy” Draven Vargas’s face paint smacked of the Insane Clown Posse and he’d brushed his hair forward and styled it into a fine fin that rose from the front of his head. Bald but for a sad little island of hair at the top of his forehead, “Loverboy” Nate Andrews, the other half of the Left Coast Casanovas, had also styled what hair he had into a fin, which you could see only in the right light, at the right angle. Wearing a shiny pleather pin-striped blazer, a purple-sequined shirt and matching hat, and googly black sunglasses, Mister Ooh-La-La, their manager, looked like a cartoon villain. Dr. Kliever lists his weight as “242 lbs of surgical steel and sex appeal,” and his signature moves include the Autopsy, the Wheelchair Bound, and the Morphine Drop. He had a Marvin the Martian Mohawk so thick and meticulously coiffured that I swear you could do trigonometry on it. It was dyed a shade of neon green I’ve only ever seen on psychedelic posters and maybe, for that matter, on certain psychedelics. Somehow even those who weren’t seemed shirtless.

  Scott focused on Dr. Kliever. When “the Lean Green Love Machine” noticed the camera, his arms shot up reflexively, as though an electric charge had passed through him. He flexed his muscles in the classic strongman pose and smiled a smirky and startling and weirdly handsome smile. “The World’s Sexiest Doctor” was missing prominent teeth.

  “Don’t get a picture with me and him together,” J_SIN said, pointing at Dr. Kliever. “We’re wrestling tonight.”

  Wouldn’t want to spoil the notion that the show’s all real, not staged and scripted. Not a “work,” as they say. In the world of pro wrestling, sustaining this illusion of reality, this suspension of disbelief, is called “kayfabe.” The word’s etymology is uncertain but it’s often said to be a corruption of the Pig Latin for “fake,” and all the accounts I read traced it back to carny culture, in which professional wrestling has its historical roots. The opposite of a work is a “shoot,” as in “straight shooter.” The improvised moves and holds the wrestlers perform on one another in the ring, that is, the pain they inflict and endure—that’s the shoot. The tension between this reality of the match, the shoot, and what the public knows or believes to b
e an angle, the work, is an integral part of the audience’s fun. A fan who cannot or does not distinguish between the two is called a “mark.” As in, “Guy there with the foam finger and nacho cheese goobers in his goatee, he’ll believe anything. He’s an easy mark.”

  I peeked through the screen myself and counted seventy-five people in the crowd, give or take. The adults who’d come alone outnumbered those with kids, I noted. And people were still arriving, finding their spots on the collapsible steel chairs set up around the ring—steel chairs that you could just tell everyone present wanted to see used later as weapons.

  An “experience.” I wasn’t entirely sure what that meant anymore. What’d always been an obvious idea had become a kind of phenomenological conundrum for me. A very simple part of the problem was wrapped up in the fact that, in English, we have a single word for two ideas. On the one hand, we register the sensational intensities of the world around us, and this is accomplished through perception of a prereflective sort. What senses we have build us a world. Immediately, automatically. And on the other, we gain experience over time. It’s an aggregate of everything we’ve gone through, which, with reason and memory’s help, implies a learning process, the development of wisdom, at least of a sort. The Germans, unsurprisingly, distinguish between these ideas. They call the first one Erlebnis, which contains their root for “life,” Leben, and the second Erfahrung, which includes their word for journey, Fahrt, as in Ralph Waldo Emerson’s famous dictum “Life is a Fahrt, not a destination.”

  My misgivings started with a vague intuition that my Erlebnis machine had malfunctioned. I wasn’t experiencing the immediate world as I once had. I was a newlywed and had recently bought a house and been transferred at work and my puppy had grown into a dog and the grass I’d planted had come in thin and patchy and I was startled to discover I actually cared about that and I was about to turn thirty and had all those clichéd and ramifying little anxieties that attend turning that age and my face was looking increasingly like my father’s face and my parents had shocked the family by separating after more than three decades of marriage. All the things of promise in my life had become some version of what they’d promised to become, and something about the way these possibilities had resolved into reality had turned my days palpably strange. New and foreign names populated my inbox. Furniture that my wife, Alexis—Alexis: my wife?!—and I had brought to the relationship didn’t fit in our new house. I wasn’t a hundred percent on what all my light switches controlled. It unnerved me. Felt like I was living my life in translation. And having lost a handle in this basic way, I found myself having doubts of the Erfahrung variety, getting caught in eddying and abyssal questions I thought I’d put behind me. Real ponderous things like “How did I get here?” and “What’s it all mean?” Because outside the obvious temporal continuity, I didn’t sense there was any narrative coherence to my life. Events from my past were punctuated by a question mark, an interrobang. Were any the result of my having made a concerted effort to “become someone”? To “make something” of myself? Or had these things just like, you know, happened? In other words, there seemed to be unproblematic and “authentic” experience out there in the world to be had, of both the Erlebnis and Erfahrung sort, only not by me.

  During the worst of this, I went to a barbecue at my buddy Kyle’s house. Kyle casts an unmistakable aura. When you’re around him, you begin to feel that life has a certain texture or grain or weave that otherwise—for me, at least—doesn’t exist. He always seems so full of fucking life. It’s intoxicating. So many people come to his BBQs that his backyard starts to look like the thoroughfare of a shantytown. That night, I wandered around talking to Kyle’s friends, people who play in bands and make art and casually know all about good music and movies and books, people who ride their bikes everywhere they go, even if that means they show up a little sweaty, people who are apparently so at home with themselves that they’re unbothered by the fact that they show up places a little sweaty. My mind felt buffered, as if it were in a padded cell, and I was hounded by a passage from The Ambassadors, in which Lambert Strether says, “Live all you can; it’s a mistake not to. It doesn’t so much matter what you do in particular, so long as you had your life. If you haven’t had that, what HAVE you had?” By which I really mean to say I was hounded by that part in Dazed and Confused when Matthew McConaughey says, “You just gotta keep livin’, man. L-I-V-I-N.” I ended up in a corner of the backyard, by the chicken coop, wondering what instinct tells a baby chicken to peck free of its shell, while Kyle moved from group to group and high-fived all the handsome guys and hugged all the pretty girls and told jokes and laughed and talked plans for his bike crew and his many bands. Everyone looked like they were having the time of their lives.

  Kyle and I ended up at a twenty-four-hour Mexican restaurant not far from our houses. It was two in the morning. We got our food and sat at a booth in the big front window and we could’ve been in a Hopper painting, except we were in Portland, at a Mexican joint, so Hopper would’ve had to paint us on velvet. Kyle was about to start a new job working for a high-end bicycle company, what he called the “Rolls-Royce of bikes,” doing a mix of advertising and publicity. For as long as I’d known Kyle, he’d managed a bike shop, and for exactly that long he’d talked about doing something else—whatever they’re doing, twenty- and thirtysomethings in Portland are always talking about doing something else. Kyle’s dream job was to work in a room with a whiteboard, beanbag chairs, and maybe a beer fridge or kegerator. Ping-Pong or foosball or arcade games or all of the above. An ideas room. And for five years he’d worked toward making this happen. He talked about the choices he’d made and would make, changes out on the horizon he’d set a course for—what an enviable sequence of cause and effect his life seemed.

  “So what about you?” he asked when he was done. “What are your plans for the future?”

  For as long as I’d known Kyle, I’d worked as the majordomo of a summer camp for writers and as a magazine editor, and for exactly that long I’d talked about writing myself. So I said I’d probably continue to look for ways to prioritize that. But really I wanted to say that the future, like everything else in my life, wasn’t quite what it used to be.

  Listening to Kyle talk, I knew, at least intellectually, that I too had a history. A history of decisions, decisions that lacked the fundamental sense of choice but were decisions nonetheless, that ended with me moving to Portland, many thousands of miles from my home in Richmond, Virginia. A history in libraries and with books that had landed me a job at a literary magazine. A history of love affairs that’d ended in a marriage. An accordion-like history that would continue to open out and to end in this moment and this one and this. Only this history, this quasi-chaotic chain of events that stretched behind me through time, didn’t feel like mine.

  In addition to advertising “Live Pro Wrestling,” the flyers for the Keizer Klash indicated that the event was a benefit for a kid named Hunter. Hunter’s dad is the manager of a local Jiffy Lube, where “Loverboy” Nate Andrews works when he’s not wrestling professionally. Backstage, Nate said that everyone at work, their hearts really went out to his boss and his family. They felt his pain. And he wanted to do what he could to help them.

  Hunter has a rare condition called paroxysmal skew deviation, a term all the wrestlers said with studied nonchalance, though none of them could tell me what it meant. What they knew was they were there for him, “the sick kid,” and that the night’s proceeds, including their pay, would go toward sending him to the Mayo Clinic.

  Before the show, Scarlett, the DOA ring girl, whose breasts and bottom looked as though they’d been inflated and who seemed almost criminally sweet and caring in her role as Team Mom, invited the family into the ring.

  She handed the mike to Hunter’s mother, who explained that something was wrong with her son’s brain. His brain stem. Doctors didn’t know much about his condition, including the cause, but it affected Hunter’s eyes, his vision
and ability to focus. One eye would sometimes move spontaneously upward, against Hunter’s will, and roll away from the other in what essentially sounds like a lazy eye from hell. Worse still, sometimes it’d happen to both eyes at once. Hunter, who was maybe ten and stood between his mom and dad with his hands buried deep in his pockets, frequently suffered headaches of such terrifying acuteness that they reduced him to tears. He experienced blurred vision and general fatigue. Seizure activity hung about him as a when-not-if. And he rarely slept through the night because of all the pain, which had also forced him to be homeschooled.

  “That’s the story,” she concluded. “The short story,” she added, giving a sense of her exhaustion, her own pain.

  I’ve lived pretty much my whole life with a tacit yet strict understanding of pain: at all costs it is to be avoided. Fuck pain, really. Fuck physical and emotional pain. Fuck spiritual pain. Pain hurts, after all. The assumption here was that the opposite of pain is pleasure or joy, and that if I minimized the former, I would, ipso facto, maximize the latter. But while pleasure may be pain’s antonym, it’s not its lived opposite. That’d be something more like nonfeeling, a value-neutral blankness. And by so vigilantly avoiding pain, I wasn’t being prudent, as I thought, but timid, maybe even cowardly.

  Which brings me to this: When I was around Hunter’s age, I overheard an argument my folks were having. They fought infrequently enough then for their fights to be memorable mostly by virtue of their strangeness. An electric and dangerous mood would settle on the house and my brothers and I would sit where we’d been caught when it all started and we would listen. This one, I was in my room, and I put my ear to the door I’d closed when I knew things were going to get worse before they got better. One of my brothers or I must’ve lately been fussing, because Dad said we were getting to be too sensitive. That Mom was ruining us with her coddling. He accused her of turning us into mama’s boys. Dad grew up on Long Island and, despite the fact that he’d been in Virginia longer than New York, continued to valorize northerners for what he held to be their chief characteristic: they were hard, “tough as nails.” A characteristic sorely lacking from southerners, who were, by his estimation, duplicitous and weak. The syllogism he must’ve feared isn’t hard to complete: southerners are weak, my sons are southerners, ergo my sons are weak. As a way of combating this, he didn’t brook any complaining or crying when it came to frustration and pain. We were to have a “stiff upper lip,” to “act like a man.” “Yes, sir,” we were to say. “No, sir.” His philosophy seemed to be that pain was no more than a problem of perspective, its severity (or very existence) hanging on how (or whether) you chose to acknowledge it. And as I backed away from the door that afternoon, I tried to act accordingly, tried to forget what I’d heard, to go on acting like I’d never heard anything at all.