“Okay,” I said. “The reason he can shoot flames with his hands is because . . . Mephisto . . . eats a jarful of jalapeños and drinks a dozen bottles of Tabasco sauce every night before he climbs into the ring.”
“Oh, brother,” groaned Terrance.
“Come on, Jesse,” begged Goose. “Tell us how he really does it.”
“Don’t you believe me?” I asked. “Why don’t you try it and find out?”
“I think it’s true,” said Ronnie Brisco. “I had a cousin who tried something like that once, and—”
“Aw, shut up,” said Wendell. He hit Ronnie over the head with a throw pillow. Ronnie picked it up and flung it back at him. Other pillows flew through the air. We laughed like crazy.
These guys are my friends, I thought. I felt a little ashamed that it took me so long to realize it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The siren’s blare made me jump. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of red, shiny, flashing lights. I hopped back on the curb, wondering if I had been caught jaywalking or something. The police squad car slowly pulled up to me.
“Jesse!” Sara called out as she rolled down the window from the passenger side.
“Hi.” I approached the car, wondering what Sara was doing in it.
“Jesse, I’d like you to meet my dad, David Young.” She turned to the police officer. “This is Jesse, Daddy, the wrestler’s son.”
The police officer, a slender man with sandy-colored hair and wire-framed sunglasses nodded. “Nice to meet you, Jesse. Sara’s told me quite a bit about you.”
“Nice to meet you too, sir.” I reached across Sara and shook his hand.
“We watched your father on TV last night,” he said. “I’d like to meet him sometime.”
“I talked my parents into watching wrestling because the Angel of Death is our new neighbor,” Sara explained when she saw the puzzled look on my face.
Her father didn’t comment on the show. I couldn’t tell if he liked it or not.
“Hop in. I’ll give you a ride home,” he offered.
As I slid into the backseat, Sara said, “Daddy’s taking me to the pet salon to pick up our dog. I’m walking him home from there. It’s not that far. Would you like to go with me?”
I shrugged indifferently. “Sure.” I didn’t want to give Officer Young any indication that I was interested in his daughter.
“Sara tells me your father once considered joining the San Antonio P.D.,” said Officer Young.
“Yes, sir. But that was a long time ago.”
He turned off the flashing lights and pulled away from the curb. “I’d like to invite him over to the station one of these days to give him a tour of the place,” he said. “The guys would love to meet him. Some of the officers there are big wrestling fans.”
“I’ll tell him that, sir.”
He still didn’t give any hint of what he thought of the show.
A few minutes later he dropped us off at a place called The House of Wags.
Sara greeted the clerk, then produced a slip of paper.
“Haircut, shampoo, a cream rinse, and a fluff dry,” the clerk read aloud from the receipt. “Nails clipped and ears cleaned. Gotcha. Back in a sec, hon.”
She disappeared behind two double doors. Shortly, she returned with a tiny, white toy poodle.
“Here you go, hon. Clean as a whistle.”
The dog instantly leaped into Sara’s arms.
“This is Alaska,” she said, cradling it.
“Hi, Alaska.” I tried to pet the dog, but it growled at me.
“Alaska! That’s rude,” scolded Sara. “Jesse’s my friend.”
I don’t think Alaska was convinced I was. She continued to growl until I backed away. Sara paid the clerk. She hooked a leash on Alaska’s collar. Then we headed out the door.
“What did your dad think of the show last night?” I asked as we strolled down the sidewalk.
Sara tugged at the leash, pulling Alaska away from an empty beer can it was sniffing. She hesitated. Finally she said, “He really does want to meet your father.”
“I’ll buy that,” I told her. “But what did he think about the show? Really.”
Sara giggled nervously. “Well, to be truthful with you, Jesse, he told my mom that it was the worst acting he’d seen since they attended the Ed Wood Film Festival.”
“Who’s Ed Wood?” I asked.
Sara shrugged. “I don’t know, but my mom seemed to understand what he was talking about, because she laughed and nodded.”
“Oh, well. They’re entitled to their opinions,” I said, dismissing the criticism. “So why does he want to meet my father?”
“Actually, my parents want to meet your father and your mother. After all, they did buy the Bennetts’ house. They’re curious about who Mr. and Mrs. Bennett sold the house to. You know, they’re being . . . ” Sara pointed at her nose. She frowned, then whispered, “Nosy. Also, my dad knows your father is a celebrity. I think he wants to be able to tell his friends he knows the Angel of Death.”
“But he doesn’t even like wrestling.”
“I’m not so sure he doesn’t,” said Sara. “After your dad’s interview, he sent me upstairs to get ready for bed. But he kept the TV tuned to channel 36, and he and my mom watched the rest of the show.”
We turned the corner and cut through the park. Alaska pranced to a nearby tree, sniffed it, and did her business.
From a short distance away, I spotted a familiar figure. The paletero was stationed under a large pecan tree. It was the same old man from whom Sara had bought the ice creams the other day. He was surrounded by a mob of little kids.
“Want an ice cream?” I offered. “My treat.”
“Sure,” said Sara.
We made our way to the paletero. “Dos de sandía, por favo r,” I said confidently. I hoped Sara would be impressed with my Spanish. The old man produced two watermelon-flavored ice creams from inside his cart.
After I paid him, Sara and I sat on the swings and ate our ice creams. She tossed her wrapper on the ground for Alaska to lick. The dog appeared to like watermelon-flavored ice cream as much as I did.
“Are you sure they don’t have paleteros in St. Louis?” Sara queried. “Because if they don’t, they’re missing a piece of heaven.” She bit the tip of her ice cream and slowly savored it.
“I never said St. Louis didn’t have any paleteros. I just never saw one,” I told her. “But then, we didn’t live there that long, anyway.”
“Oh? Where did you live before?”
I rolled my eyes. “A better question is, where haven’t I lived.”
Sara gave me a puzzled look. “What do you mean?”
“What I mean is, we’ve lived in just about every city in the United States.”
I tossed my ice cream wrapper next to Alaska. The dog eyed me suspiciously for a moment before deciding that it was safe to lick it.
“Okay, I’m exaggerating, but there have been times when I’ve felt like it.”
Sara smiled. “All right, let’s start from the beginning. Where were you born?”
“Actually, I was born in Dallas, but we moved from there when I was about six months old. My father had just begun his wrestling career, and the company he wrestled for, a small outfit called Southwest Wrestling Association, soon folded. He and some of the wrestlers from the SWA joined another independent wrestling organization in Phoenix called National Pro Wrestling. But that one shut down, too. After that, he wrestled for the Universal Wrestling League. That one went under in less than two years, and my father had to find another job.”
Sara furrowed her brows. “How could these organizations go out of business? I would think that with all the people who love wrestling, they’d be booming.”
“You’d think so,” I agreed. “But the truth is, most fans only follow the major wrestling leagues like the ACW. The smaller companies can’t begin to compete with them, especially if they don’t have a TV contract. Anyway, my father bounced arou
nd from company to company, getting beaten and battered night after night for next to no money. Pay in the independent circuit is minimal, to say the least. Sometimes my mom worked as a substitute teacher to help ends meet.”
“Life’s been rough, huh?” said Sara.
“Yeah, a little. Mostly, it’s all the moving. Do you know I’ve been at ten different schools since kindergarten?”
I hopped off the swing and stooped to pick up the ice cream wrappers from the ground. Alaska snarled and barked at me when I tried to take hers.
“I’ll get that one,” said Sara. “Shame on you, Alaska. Quit being so mean to Jesse.” The dog shied away, her head hung low.
“So, how long do you plan to stay in San Antonio?” she asked.
A butterfly raced through my insides. I hoped she was asking because she cared about whether I stayed or left.
“For good, I hope. Both my parents were born here, and they’ve always wanted to return to San Antonio.” I paused, then added, “I’m not sure it matters, anyway.”
“What do you mean?”
I sighed. “Sara, my father is on the road . . . a lot! Last year, he was out of town over three hundred days. We hardly ever see him. He and my mom argue about it all the time. She wants him to leave the wrestling business.”
“He’s not going to, is he?” Sara asked, sounding worried.
I shrugged. “He’s talked about it, but he enjoys it too much. I doubt he’ll ever quit. Not soon, anyway.”
Sara nodded. “Sounds like my father. He works all kinds of crazy hours, too, plus second jobs. We hardly ever see him, either. He’s been eligible to retire for a while, but he won’t. He really likes being a police officer. My mom’s come to terms with that, so she tries not to complain about it.”
“How about you?” I asked. “How do you feel about it?”
“I don’t think about it, really. I mean, he’s been a police officer all my life. I can’t imagine him doing anything else.”
I wondered whether I was being selfish, wishing my father wouldn’t be gone so much if his job required it. Was I wrong to feel jealous when he spent time with other kids? After all, it is part of his job. I had to agree with Sara; I couldn’t imagine my father ever being anything other than the Angel of Death.
I thought about that as I headed home after seeing Sara off at her house.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
At around nine o’clock on Sunday morning, my father met us at J.F.K. International Airport. Since there is a time difference between New York and San Antonio, my watch read an hour earlier. I was still pretty tired. I’d tried to sleep on the plane, but I was too excited about the trip and watching my father wrestle live at The Final Stand.
The last pay-per-view event I attended was Retribution when it was held in Atlanta, Georgia. The only reason I got to go then was because we were living in Atlanta at the time.
My father had been in New York since Friday. He, along with many of the ACW superstars, had participated in autograph signing sessions at various locations in and around the New York area to hype the show.
“I’ve got to be at Madison Square Garden by one o’clock,” my father informed us.
From the airport he took us out to eat breakfast at a small, crowded café called The Rooster’s Crow. No one recognized my father, or if they did, they didn’t bother him.
Perhaps in New York, people are more accustomed to seeing celebrities in public and it isn’t a big deal to them.
The waiter was prompt, but curt. He didn’t smile or make small talk. He simply took our order and brought out our food. Strangely, his aloof attitude was a welcomed change.
As we ate, my father went over the details of his match with us. The information was mainly for my benefit. He didn’t want me to worry about him.
I had guessed correctly. Il Gran Mephisto was going to “burn” my father’s face during his bout with Prince Romulus. The Prince would get disqualified, so my father would keep his title. But the burning episode would explain why the Angel of Death wouldn’t be seen on television for the next four weeks.
One of the reasons my father stopped taking me to watch him wrestle was because, when I was younger, I used to get so emotional whenever his opponents started beating him up.
There was the time, for example, when I almost jumped into the ring to save my father. I must’ve been about five. He was still wrestling as the Annihilator. His opponent that night was a wrestler called Cowboy Bobby Travis. Cowboy Bobby was the face in the match, and the whole arena was rooting for him to trounce the Annihilator. It didn’t matter to me that my father was playing a heel. He was still my father. Cowboy Bobby knocked him down in the corner of the ring and started stomping him with his big cowboy boots, much to the delight of the crowd. Even though I knew wrestling was scripted, watching my father get beaten up was too much to bear. I completely forgot that he really wasn’t getting hurt. With tears streaming down my face, I yelled at the top of my lungs for Cowboy Bobby to stop. Finally, I sprang from my seat and raced to the ring.
“Leave my daddy alone, you big bully!” I shouted. I was halfway inside the ring before a security guard seized me by my legs.
My mom, who had been talking to Aunt Gracie during the match, hadn’t noticed that I had left my chair. The audience began booing when the security guard grabbed me.
They thought it was funny watching a little kid trying to climb into the ring to rescue the Annihilator.
The boos grew louder. Finally, my mom turned to see what was happening. To her horror, she saw me struggling in the security guard’s arms. She flew down to ringside. The security guard, however, didn’t want to release me. He was concerned that I might jump back into the ring. My mom started hollering at him as she tried to pry me from his arms. The crowd, now ignoring the match, urged her on, loudly cheering, laughing, and applauding.
Meanwhile, my father was no longer selling Cowboy Bobby’s kicks. Through his mask, his eyes bulged out like Ping-Pong balls. His mouth hung open as he gawked at the growing chaos. Breaking out of character, he rose to his feet. He shoved Cowboy Bobby Travis out of the way and stormed up to us. He ordered the security guard to escort my mom and me to the back.
Luckily for his career, the incident occurred at a house show, and it was never aired.
When we were through eating, my father drove us around and gave us a quick tour of New York City. We walked for a while around Times Square, visiting some of the shops. We stopped briefly at the hotel where my father was staying to drop off our things. After that we headed to the arena.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Madison Square Garden was energetically charged with bustling crew members. Dressed in red jumpsuits that sported the ACW logo, they resembled a colony of ants. The crew was busily transforming the building into the wrestling extravaganza that would be presented later that evening. Some were assembling the ring, piece by piece, like a jigsaw puzzle, at center stage. Others, on towering scaffolds, hung various types of special effects lights. A pyrotechnics crew set up the explosives that would be detonated for the wrestlers’ entrances. The sound manager ordered a test run of the equipment. Television cameras were strategically stationed throughout the arena.
After my father checked in, we strolled around the corridors.
Backstage, the place looked like a monster’s reunion. Gargantuan, muscled wrestlers gathered in groups, chatting. It had been so long since I’d been to a live event that I’d almost forgotten how big the wrestlers are in person. They say TV adds pounds, giving the illusion that people on screen are heavier than they really are. Staring at Jumbo Jefferson’s humongous frame, I realized that TV offered no clue as to how enormous he really is.
“How’s it going, Mark?” A wrestler unfamiliar to me approached my father and shook his hand. “All set for tonight?”
It took me a moment to recognize Prince Romulus. Wearing jeans and a golf shirt instead of his colorful ring garb, he looked like plain old Scott Blanchard from Detroit.
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“Hi, Scotty. I’d like you to meet my family,” my father said.
“A pleasure to meet you, Molly. You too, Jesse. Mark talks about you all the time.” There was no trace in his voice of the Italian accent he uses on television.
“Has Mephisto arrived?” asked my father.
“Yeah, I spoke to him a little while ago. He’s in the dressing room practicing his flame trick.”
“You be careful with my husband, Scott,” cautioned my mom. “I wouldn’t want anything to ruin this beautiful face.” She squeezed my father’s cheeks tightly and kissed him.
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Baron,” said the Prince. “We’ll take good care of him. Anyway, Mark would make for terrible barbecue.”
After my father introduced us to some more wrestlers, we found his dressing room. His Angel of Death costume was neatly hung in a plastic bag, courtesy of Shirley Washington, the woman in charge of maintaining the wrestlers’ outfits.
He dropped off his bags, and we headed for the lunch area.
Long tables and chairs had been set up in a wide, open space. Wrestlers, staff members, and the work crew stood in double lines and waited to serve themselves at the buffet table—a feast of fish, chicken, salad, green beans, mashed potatoes, and fruit.
Carlos “El Azteca Dorado” Montoya and his wife, Melba, joined us for lunch. Prince Romulus and Il Gran Mephisto sat across from us. It was odd to think that in a few short hours, my father and these two men would be battling each other in the ring.
While we ate, Cassandra “Spirit” Richardson stopped by our table.
She greeted my mom with a warm smile and a hug. “Hello, Molly, it’s so good to see you. I’m glad you could make it.”
“Yes, it’s good to see you, too,” my mom said with no emotion in her voice. She didn’t return the smile and barely made eye contact.
Spirit must have sensed the hostility. She stepped back and said, “See you around.” She left to find a seat at another table, although there was plenty of room at ours.
When we had finished eating, my mom met up with some of the other wives and girlfriends. After a bit of socializing, they decided to leave Madison Square Garden to do some shopping.
My Father, the Angel of Death Page 10