Backseat Driver
"Do you mean 'Go home?'" Hunter asked. To say that his first match for the UHF wasn't going very well could prove to be the understatement of his life. His mouth was filled with mock-hillbilly belly flab as he and Tiny Joe rolled about the ring in a flurry of restholds.
"Yeah!" Said his partner cheerfully, "We been out here for six minutes! Don't ya think we've reached the emotional peak to the match's segnificance?" Joe torked up the chokehold he had just applied to Hunter, which he obligingly sold in return. "Besides, the reff isn't going to tell you to go home, Hunter."
Not quite hearing Tiny Joe, Hunter peered out at the audience through his wet hair; the Sportitorium was dark, cavelike, even during the main event. He was suddenly reminded of Killer Kowalski's sharply rendered words of what it was like to work his way up through dingy club after dingy club. The match itself felt like working openers at Kowalski's school back in Massachusetts; restholds, fumbling, a thousand little mistakes that made him feel stupid.
He could almost make out his audience, and they were packed in like sardines on long, wooden benches, hands waving out like anemone tentacles. Faces emerged into the floodlights pouring heat down on the red ring matt, reminding Hunter absurdly of hell. Otherwise, the arena was enshrouded in darkness from aisle way ("Star Alley", he'd heard it called) to benches.
Surrounding the ring, TV cameras blinked on and off; there were only two handhelds and one stationary camera, versus the four-camera technique Vince has employed.
A short blur of white drew his attention; Alicia, clapping, her face contorted with excitement. Grudgingly, he admitted to herself that she knew how to work a crowd. He was reminded instantly of Stephanie, a painful memory he shoved down quickly. Turning his attention to Alicia's mid-air gestures, he wondered briefly if it was the same sort of expression she applied in the throes of ecstasy; then an elbow to the ribs by Tiny Joe cut him off.
"SHIT!" He blurted, picking up the open-mouthed attention of a few youngsters at ringside. "Don't shoot on me, man," He hissed to Tiny Joe, who's flustered, open face told a tale of chagrin. Hunter sighed, guilt pricking at his conscious. "Power out, Reversal, elbow, boot, Pedigree. keep your head tucked up.. We'll go home after the Pedigree, get it?"
Tiny Joe nodded his head, and together they put together as realistic a finish as possible. Hunter paid attention to himself during that final Pedigree; if he shot on the kid, Terry would probably kill him. Tiny Joe's head never touched the canvas, but he made an excellent show of flopping around like a dying fish. Swiftly, Hunter pinned him, rising to take in the boos with a snarl and a sneer.
The crowd, to be mild, was pissed. An old lady screamed at him so vociferously from the front row that he believed Terry had hired the woman as a plant. Then her cane came rotating through the air, barely missing his head.
Alicia's smile froze upon her face; clutching at his arm, she hissed, "Let's go. NOW!" And before Hunter could reconcile his own actions mentally, they ran through the crowd, all the way to the back.
He collapsed, panting, onto the nearest bench. Alicia skidded to a halt, both of her palms slamming against a tiled wall. She turned around, grinning happily.
"Where the fuck was.." He began, but memory came to kick him in the ass; of course there was minimal security.
"Over!" She gasped, "We're over!" Her expression was giddy, but Hunter only raised a bushy eyebrow, rubbing at his throbbing temples.
"You didn't think we'd get over?"
Alicia adjusted the strap on her mini-dress, "Well, first I worked with Gorton The Invader; then I worked with Pete The Conquistador. You do the math."
A bit of guilt once again pricked at Hunter's overinflated ego. He had never taken into consideration that Alicia was experiencing her first real rush of accomplishment. "You did a good job."
"Thanks," She said, reaching down unselfconsciously to unstrap a heel. Their eyes met; odd tingles of heat covering Paul's spine in the union. Then, swiftly, her eyes met her shoes once more. "Do you mind? I need some privacy." Came her blunt response.
"Yeah, yeah.." He didn't stop and ask himself why a stripper would want to undress by her lonesome, much less in the middle of a hallway. I bet she'd do it if Terry hired bouncers, he mused to himself. Then that thought dissolved and he beat a hasty retreat to the locker room.
***
Hunter returned to a chorus of cheers from his fellow employees; and the tired gaze of Lucy, who didn't seem at all impressed with her master. A quick shower later and he and Lucy stood before Terry.
"Ya did great, kid, just great; we drew five dollars a head." He grinned, "That's double what we pulled two weeks ago at the Cumberland Fair."
Hunter's eyes widened; Five dollars...he was used to making fifteen, sixteen a head...and there were thousands of heads at any WWF show.
"Lesse now;" Terry tapped his fingers swiftly across a calculator, his wet hair still dripping to the floor, "Taxes....licensing fees..." Terry sat the electronic instrument down, scooping a cashbox from beneath his beaten-in folding chair, "Here you go, son," He said, smiling proudly as he unlocked the box and doled out a sheaf of dollar bills, "$1, 800." He proclaimed.
Hunter felt his knees go weak, "One...eight hun..." His WWF pay had tripled this sum.
Terry shook his head balefully, "Son, you want a glass of water? Yer lookin' a bit white there.."
"One...Where am I...how am I..." He babbled, staring at the crisp bills in his hand. Used to seeing thousands of dollars placed in his palm, he could only stare.
"Look, I told ya the money wasn't gonna get good for a few months; you'll have to wait on it," Terry stared Hunter down, "This is a labor of love for me, Game. If you want somethin' else, you'd best be moving on..."
Hunter shook his head, "Nowhere else to go.." He blurted out, then realized his lapse into incomprehensible English. "No one else will take me."
"Then neither of us have that choice to make," Terry clapped his hands together, "Come on, kid. I'll buy ya a beer."
Hunter shook his head, "I can't; I need to feed Lucy."
"Leave her in the car."
Hunter gave Terry a sharp look, "Would you leave one of your horses to roast in a car for hours?"
Terry's look was wry, "Just try to shove one of my horses into a pickup."
Hunter shook his head; amusement almost breaking through the gloom of his existence. "I got responsibilities, Terry."
Terry laughed, "We all do, son." Terry continued his business with the other employees, leaving Hunter to at last take his leave.
****
For an hour, Hunter drove through the bustle of downtown Dallas, squinting down at the smeared words scrawled for him on a cocktail napkin. The words were vital: the address to his new apartment. Terry had pointed the place out to him; several miles from the Sportitorium, reasonably-priced rent, and just the sort of temporary haven he'd needed.
Still, he was in a reasonably good mood; fans had been waiting for him by the thin chain-link fence around the employee parking area. They behaved as they always had; as though he were a God. One thing had remained the same. He proudly signed a Tiny Joe tee-shirt....
His foot slammed down on the break of his truck, startling Lucy from her nap. But the revelation was worthwhile; Dear God, Tiny Joe had a tee-shirt!. What was he doing in this place?
Self-pity touched him as he drove the final mile to the single's complex. He attached Lucy's collar to her leash and leapt out of the cab, trying to put a happy face on his new home.
A housecoat wearing school marm greeted him with keys and a sullen expression; the rush to leave her presence, he hoped, was not too obviate.
He found his new home on the third floor; last door on the right; 5B. He unlatched the door with a smile, figuring the happier he pretended to be, the more luck would be heaped upon him.
That smile became a parody when he was greeted by a spare, dirty-walled three room dwelling. The sole article of furniture was an unbearably ugly taupe futon. And the bare, metal-colored floor needed a scrubbing; Lucy sneezed as she walked across the dusty floor.
Clearly not the McMahon Mansion.
"We can do this, Luce," He said out loud, almost to himself, "We'll....get some curtains...paint the place! I'll sew a placemat...I'll learn how to sew!" His voice was too false-cheerful. Lucy's expression was dubious.
"Oh, shut up. It could be worse, baby; at least we can get away from work this way..." He turned his head, swallowing his words.
Alicia Webb stood there in his door frame.
"Hi, neighbor," She intoned dryly.