“Fine,” she answered wearily. “Whatever you want to do.”
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” I said, trying to help the situation. “We can all sleep late if we want.”
“No, we can’t,” said my mom. “I’ve made plans for us.”
“What plans?” asked my father.
“I’ll tell you when we get to the restaurant.”
Turning to his friend, my father asked, “How about it, Carlitos? Want to join us for dinner?”
“Gracias, pero no, Mark,” he said. “I’ve got to get on the road.” Carlos lives in New Braunfels, a small town near San Antonio. “I’ll see you Monday morning.” They shook hands. Carlos Montoya took my mom’s hand and kissed it again. “Hasta luego, señora Baron.”
After we left the airport, we drove to a nearby restaurant—an open twenty-four hours, hole-in-the-wall place called Lorenzo’s Grill. I was a little surprised that my father chose that place. It wasn’t the type of restaurant we generally eat at. Perhaps he picked it because it was one of the few restaurants in the area still open, and he was too tired to look for another one. I was also surprised that there were so many customers eating at that hour. The place was alive with loud voices, banging dishes, and clanging metal trays. An old jukebox near the entrance blared out a twangy country and western tune.
A man I guessed to be the manager or the owner or both greeted us. He led us to a red vinyl booth at the back of the restaurant. We sat next to a loud, rowdy party of men and women. With them was a little girl who couldn’t have been more than five years old. She had fallen asleep in her chair. At the head of the table sat a fat, bald, man with a thick, grayish, walrus moustache. He was drinking a large stein of beer. The man was telling an apparently hilarious story that made his table convulse with laughter.
“Molly, about your plans for tomorrow, I don’t know what you have in mind, but I’d really just like to stay home,” said my father, exhaustion from his earlier bout, the plane trip, and the whole week sucking the energy out of his voice. “I’ve been on the road almost every night for the past month.”
My mom sat her menu down. “That’s just it, Mark. You hardly ever spend any time with us. I thought we’d do something together as a family for once.”
He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “All right, what did you have in mind?”
She forced a smile. “I spoke with your mother this morning. I’ve invited your parents to go with us to take Jesse to tour the Alamo tomorrow. He still hasn’t seen it. Anyway, we could make a whole day of it. Afterwards, we could have lunch at the Riverwalk, maybe even do some shopping.”
“ . . . and then he says to me, ‘You can’t drive through here. This is private property.’ And I say, ‘Oh, yeah? Watch me!’” The fat man’s voice at the table next to us grew louder. “So I give it the gas and . . . WHOOSH! I run my pickup through the gate. Chickens and feathers fly every which way. Ol’ Grady’s eyeballs pop out of his head like Jackie Gleason’s on The Honeymooners.” The fat man’s eyes widened comically. He guffawed hysterically and the others at his table laughed with him.
“Sure, okay, that’ll be fine,” my father said. “I’ll sleep in on Sunday, then.”
“I was hoping you’d join us for church on Sunday, Mark.”
My father rolled his eyes. “Come on, Molly, you know I’ve got to leave early Monday morning for the TV tapings in Philadelphia.”
She threw her hands up in exasperation. “Oh, what’s the use? Can’t I get it through your head that we need you here? Jesse needs you!”
“What do you want me to do, Molly? Give up my career? Is that what you want?”
My father kept his voice low so as not to attract attention, unlike the man across from us.
“All right, I’ll march into Frank Collins’ office on Monday morning and tell him I quit. And after he sues me for breach of contract and we’re completely broke . . . ”
“Um, pardon me, sir.”
My father glanced up. A young waitress with blond hair stood over him.
“Are you . . . ? Oh my gosh, it is you!” she squealed. “You’re the Angel of Death, aren’t you!” She turned around and yelled at the other waitresses, “I told you it was him!”
Three waitresses and the manager-or-owner-or-both instantly surrounded our booth.
“I recognized you even without your face paint,” the waitress said. “I told Wanda, ‘That’s the Angel of Death from ACW over there.’ She thought I was crazy, but I knew it was you the minute you walked in. Is this your family? Hi. I absolutely adore your husband,” she told my mom. “Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like that. It’s just that I never miss Monday Night Mayhem. Of course, I work on Monday nights, but I set my VCR to tape it. Then I watch it as soon as I get home.” She whipped out a pen and a slip of paper from her apron. “Could I please have your autograph? My name’s Delores.” She pointed to her name badge.
My father nodded. “Sure.”
He never refuses to sign an autograph for a fan. “They’re the reason we’re in this business in the first place,” he says. My mom, on the other hand, prefers that they just leave us alone. All this unwanted attention was only aggravating the friction between them. She sat there, staring down at the tabletop, seething. She hadn’t wanted to come here in the first place. Now all this.
“Listen,” said the manager-or-owner-or-both. “Dinner’s on the house. Anything you want.” He smiled cheerily.
“Thank you,” my father said. “But that’s not . . . ”
The manager-or-owner-or-both snapped his fingers. “Say, I just remembered. I’ve got a camera in the office. Hold on, I’ll go get it.” He dashed off and disappeared through a door behind the counter.
My father signed autographs for the other waitresses.
A moment later, the manager-or-owner-or-both reappeared. “I’ve got two shots left,” he said, waving his camera in the air. “I hope you don’t mind. I’d like to take a picture of me and you shaking hands.”
“Don’t forget about us, Walter,” one of the waitresses said. “We want to be in a picture with him, too.”
My father rose from the booth and posed for two photographs—one with the manager-or-owner-or-both and the other with the waitresses hanging all over him like they were his girlfriends or something.
By this time the rest of the customers in the restaurant had become our audience. Based on the staff’s reaction to my father, they figured he was somebody important, even if they didn’t recognize him.
The fat man at the table next to us rose and staggered over. “You’re a rassler, ain’t you?” His enormous belly hung over his belt, challenging the buttons on his sweat-stained plaid shirt.
“He’s the Angel of Death from American Championship Wrestling,” the manager-or-owner-or-both said proudly.
The fat man snorted. “That stuff’s all fake, ain’t it?” he said. “Not like in boxing where boxers really hurt each other. You rasslers dress up in girly tights and dance around the ring like a bunch of ballerinas, play fightin’.”
My father ignored him and sat down. The waitresses and the manager-or-owner-or-both returned to their duties, but the fat man remained standing by our booth. He glared at my father.
“Lessee if you can take me in a arm rasslin’ contest,” he said. His speech was slurred from the beer.
Without looking up, my father said, “Why don’t you go back to your table, mister?”
“Whassa matter?” The fat man grinned. His two front teeth were missing, and the others looked like brown tree stumps. “‘Fraid I’ll beat you?”
He stooped down and plopped his elbow on our table. A whiff of armpit odor wafted in my direction, assaulting my sense of smell.
“C’mon, let’s see how strong you really are.”
Having gone through similar idiotic challenges throughout his wrestling career, my father was not about to be goaded into some ridiculous display of strength with a man who’d obviously had too much to drink.
“Look,
friend,” my father said, “I’m sure you can beat me in arm wrestling. But right now, I’m trying to have dinner with my family, okay?”
The man remained hunched over with his elbow on our table. “C’mon, just one time. Lessee what you got.”
“Barney!” A woman from the fat man’s party called out. “Leave those people alone.”
The fat man didn’t budge. “I will, as soon as he armrassles me!”
“Mark, let’s go,” said my mom. She’d had more than enough of Lorenzo’s Grill, and we still hadn’t eaten a thing.
My father readily agreed. “Excuse me, mister, we’re leaving.” We slid out of the booth.
“I knew it,” the fat man growled. “You’re a phony!”
“If you say so,” my father muttered, unperturbed by the insult.
We headed toward the door. The manager-or-owner-or-both hurried up to us with a worried expression on his face. “I–Is something wrong, sir?” Then it dawned on him. He slapped his head. “Oh, please forgive me, folks. Somebody will take your order right away. I–In fact, I’ll do it myself. Please have a seat. Don’t forget. It’s my treat,” he said, reminding us of his earlier offer.
“No, it’s not that,” my father told him. “It’s been a long day and it’s late. We need to get home.”
“A–Are you sure?” the manager-or-owner-or-both sputtered. “All right, I understand, but please come back soon.” He opened the door and let us out.
We headed for our car.
“I’ll make you a sandwich when we get home, Mark,” my mom said. “And I think we have a can of chicken noodle soup in the pantry.”
“Yeah, sure, that’ll be fine.”
But a sandwich and a bowl of soup are no substitutes for the rib eye steak and baked potato he had talked about ordering.
“Hey!” a voice from the darkness rang out. The fat man and two of his friends were standing outside the restaurant doors. “We know you can fake fight in a rasslin’ ring. Lessee what you can do for real.” The fat man grinned his broken windows grin. Images of Manny, Chester, and Hugo instantly popped into my head.
My mom spun around. Panic and fear swept through her. “Jesse! Run inside and tell them to call the police!”
“No,” said my father with amazing tranquility. “Both of you get in the car.”
“But, Dad!” I protested.
“Do what I said,” he ordered, never taking his eyes off the men.
Reluctantly, we got in.
From the window I watched the silhouettes of the three men slowly waddle toward our car. I knew my father could easily take on the fat man if he had to. But I didn’t know what would happen if he fought all three of them at the same time.
My mom gripped my wrists tightly, terrified of what might happen next. My heart pounded fiercely. Throbbing pain bounced against the walls in my head. Why hadn’t we just gone home from the airport like my mom had wanted? And of all the restaurants in San Antonio, why did we have to stop at this seedy place?
My father stepped away from our car. With a menacing scowl on his face, he stretched his six-foot, seven-inch, three-hundred-twenty-pound body to full height. He thrust out his arms, like a gunslinger getting ready to draw.
The men froze momentarily.
“You boys go back inside to your families,” he said, in that deep, robot-like, Angel of Death voice. He didn’t blink or take his eyes off them.
Inside the restaurant, sitting down, being made a fuss over by the waitresses, my father looked misleadingly disarming. But out in the parking lot, late at night, with his black leather jacket covering his towering, muscular body, his long black hair flowing in the breeze, and the full moon glistening on his face, he looked every bit the part of the Angel of Death, the “emissary from the lower regions of the Netherworld.”
“Go on,” he commanded in that same ominous tone. He took a single step forward. Nervously, the men retreated back a couple of steps. He continued to stare at them for what seemed an eternity. It was eerie watching him, as if he were hypnotizing them. Finally, without saying another word, the men turned and reentered Lorenzo’s Grill. With his eyes still focused on the restaurant doors, my father slowly opened the driver’s side of the car and slid in.
He drove off, leaving the men wondering what would have happened had they tangled with the Angel of Death in the Lorenzo’s Grill parking lot. I couldn’t help wonder what would have happened, too.
CHAPTER NINE
“Wake up, champ.”
My father rested his huge hand on my shoulder and nudged me. I cleared the sleep out of my eyes in rapid blinks and glanced up.
“Morning, Dad.”
He sat on my bed and brushed my hair out of my face. “Sleep well?”
“Yes,” I lied.
When we arrived home last night, I had a hard time falling asleep. At first, it was because I was still pretty worked up about the confrontation at the restaurant. After that, it was my parents’ talking that kept me awake. Even with my bedroom door shut, I could hear their voices, which, at times, grew to near shouts.
“How are things at school?” he asked.
“Fine.” Another lie.
“Mom told me about your teacher’s visit the other day.”
I sat up, propping myself on my elbows. “Honest, Dad, things are fine,” I said, wondering what my mom had told him.
He chuckled. “I’m sure they are. I thought your teacher’s visit was pretty funny, to tell you the truth.”
“You did?”
“Jesse, wrestling fans will do just about anything they can to meet their favorite superstars.”
“I tried to tell Mom that,” I said. “My teacher didn’t come here because she was worried about me. She came because she wanted to meet you. But Mom didn’t want to hear any of it. That’s why we’re going to the Alamo today. Mom thinks going there will help me in my history class.”
“Well, it can’t hurt,” he said. “Besides, you’ve wanted to see it ever since we moved here. Now you’ll have your chance.”
He picked up the Angel of Death action figure from my headboard shelf and scrutinized its exaggerated features. He’s always thought the toy manufacturers get carried away with adding muscles and ripples on the toys’ bodies he knows he doesn’t possess.
“Dad, were you really going to fight those guys at the restaurant last night?” It was a question that had haunted me all night.
He laughed. “Jesse, those men didn’t want to fight. Not really. They were more interested in trying to scare me.” He placed the action figure back on the shelf. “That’s usually the case with bullies. They’re control freaks. They try to intimidate you into thinking they’re tough. But once they see you’re not afraid of them, once they lose control of the situation, they generally back off. Anyway, I could sense that they had more bark in them than bite. More beer, too,” he added with a smile.
I wasn’t sure what to make of what he said. I don’t know if Manny and Chester and Hugo would back away from me, no matter how much bravery I displayed. I sure hadn’t scared them off the other day.
There was another question that had been bothering me. But up until now, I hadn’t had the nerve to ask him or my mom.
“Dad, are you and Mom going to get divorced?” The question slipped out of my mouth before I had a chance to think about whether or not I wanted to ask it.
“What?” He sat up straight. “Is that what you think, Jesse?”
I pulled myself out of the covers and sat next to him. “It’s just that you and Mom argue a lot, Dad, and . . . well, she left you once before. I–I’m not sure what to think.”
He wrapped a heavy arm around me and kissed me on the top of my head. He hadn’t kissed me since I was maybe in the second grade.
“Jesse, a wrestling career is strenuous on any marriage. Being on the road is just as difficult for me as it is for you and Mom. I wish things were better, champ, I really do. But to answer your question, Jesse—no, Mom and I are not going to get di
vorced. I love her and you more than anything in the world, and I’m not going to lose what I’ve got.”
It sounded strange hearing him say he loved me. I mean, I know he does. After all, he is my father. But he never actually tells me he loves me. I guess he just assumes I know. Still, it’d be nice if he said it more often, for no special reason.
“I’ll let you in on a little secret, though,” my father continued. “All couples argue. For a million different reasons. The barber argues with his wife. The lady at the checkout counter at the grocery store argues with her husband. We all have disagreements of one kind or another. That’s life. Anyway, I don’t plan to continue wrestling much longer.”
I gazed at him, confused. “You don’t?”
“I’ve had a great career, Jesse. And despite the problems that go with it, I wouldn’t trade my job for anything else. Still, I’m not getting any younger, and my knees are pretty banged up. There’s a year and a half left in my contract that I’ve got to honor. But after that . . . we’ll see.” He shrugged. “I’ll let you in on another little secret,” he added, smiling. “The Angel of Death is going to meet with a ‘serious accident’ at The Final Stand.”
“You’re dropping the belt to Prince Romulus?” I asked, shocked at the thought.
“Are you kidding? Half the locker room would pitch a fit if Frank Collins allowed that to happen.”
I didn’t doubt that for a second. Most wrestlers backstage don’t think the Prince has been in the business long enough to represent the ACW as its champion. The only reason the promoters have given him a title match is to offer my father a different type of opponent than the usual contenders for the belt. Also while Prince Romulus may not be ready to be the next ACW heavyweight champ, he does put on a terrific performance in the ring.
Prince Romulus isn’t really a prince. Nor is his name Romulus. His real name is Scott Blanchard, and he’s originally from Detroit. But on American Championship Wrestling, he’s Prince Romulus, the nephew of Il Gran Mephisto, a wealthy tycoon from the island of Sardinia. Except that he’s not related to Il Gran Mephisto, either. And Il Gran Mephisto’s not really a wealthy tycoon from Sardinia. Outside of the ring, Mephisto is Joe Di Paolo from Topeka, Kansas.
My Father, the Angel of Death Page 6