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Whistling Dixie

May 16, 1984

Denton, Texas

While I can’t rightly claim love at first sight that initial time these weary old peepers locked and lingered on Amelia’s tight frame, all decked out in skintight spandex, the infatuation was certainly immediate. Oh, I’d done my homework; she was neither married or seeing anyone on a regular basis, be it man or woman, though she was confirmed to be straight. In our business, keeping such intimate secrets is damn near impossible.

She’d been on one of three undercards preceding the main event of that early summer evening—I was a participant in the second of the trio—and had brushed past me from the lady’s locker room just as I’d exited the men’s john for a quick smoke break.

I’d spotted her on occasion and even shared a card or two but never interacted beyond that. Unlike many of the female grapplers I’d known, she possessed no overtly manly traits; instead, an ultra-fit, tight-bodied strawberry blonde with big brown eyes and pouty lips, the type hired as much for their knockout looks as mat skills. Men came to ogle her, women to boo, hiss and rag, and teen boys merely to lust over a slightly ‘older woman’—she was only twenty-five at the time but could pass for a high school senior—an athletic knockout with a tight, chiseled, killer bod. Forget Wendi Richter, Gina the Grinder, Velvet McIntyre or Rockin’ Robin, Amelia Belle, professional handle ‘The Dixie Belle’, this despite being raised in Dayton, Ohio, was the real deal and a rising star. A rare triple-threat possessing the athleticism, the charm, and the looks. All that plus she also had the rep as a tireless worker at the craft.

Amelia had been building a solid rap as one-half of a tag-team partnership with Shelia Pentriss, a lean, mean Brit-born brawler known as the ‘White Tiger’ who’d once worn a heavyweight belt in the defunct United Wrestling Federation. Though I heard Pentriss had retired due to some major injury—couldn’t recall exactly what or the circumstances—Amelia was just starting to make a name for herself soloing.

As her alter-ego, she made quite the dramatic entrance. Decked out in a wide hooped Antebellum dress and matching bonnet, she’d strut into the ring like Scarlett O’Hara, only to rip the cloak away via some strategically placed Velcro to reveal fashionably snug, confederate-flag adorned tights, much to the delight of the mostly male fan base. Never failed to birth a smile on this born pessimist’s face. As performers playing roles, we all seek a good fit as far as showmanship goes. Our gimmick as it’s referred to in the industry.

Dayton-born Amelia had found hers, fake southern twang and all. It wasn’t like I hadn’t gone through my share of accent alternations, Saint Louis born and raised but asked to modulate and amend to sound Southern, Cajun, Canadian and even Bostonian—the whole ‘get in the caah’ and ‘I’m ‘a gonna be a staaaah’ like some feeble-minded Townie loaded on downers—under just as many names, at least until my present alter-egos gained enough press and fan acceptance to maintain for the long run.

As far as trademark moves, Amelia had mastered the front chin-lock and was just beginning to feature the scissored armbar. She could also deliver a mean right hook and front kick, when needed (or scripted). Quick on her feet and, despite a slight, lean frame, able to take a wail of a beating, she’d enamored the crowds with her smart, twangy dialogue and winning smile. Known for hopping onto a top rope pre-match and greeting the crowd with a resounding wolf whistle, famously known as ‘Whistling Dixie’ and an accompanying ‘howwwwwdy ya’llllll!’, she was a natural draw for local cable channels who televised the events. If nothing else, the male demographic, pimply teenager to middle-aged, pot-gutted blue-collar dude, was well represented in her corner.

The appearance of my own gimmicks depended largely on the region being worked, and I’d had to specialize in several holds and moves for each.

As the perpetual evil-doer Red Reaper, the varied Nelson holds often made an appearance, from half to full to three-quarter. As the Reaper nearly always played the role of ‘quality opponent’ to either a veteran belt-holder or young up and comer, I was rarely allowed to complete the hold to its natural conclusion, instead seeing it magically slipped. Always frustrating, but just a part of the grand blueprint the powers that be had drawn up. Red Reaper, bad ass assassin of dreams and killer of potential fame and glory, was happily limited to Florida, Georgia, South Carolina and South Alabama. As such, his dialogue was limited to mostly groans, growls and the occasional raspy-voiced threat in my natural accent. Worst of all was the suffocating full facemask with narrow slits for eyeholes and a barely quarter-sized opening at the mouth, all of which made regular breathing a chore, much less the labored kind. I was also asked to tote around a wooden-handled scythe and had more than once tripped over the damn thing at ringside.

Without a doubt, The Revenger was the better gimmick to play, not just because he was allowed the occasional win, but because of the style and flare I was able to bring to it. With the Reaper, it was all scowls and snorts and, mostly, silent rage. With The Revenger, I hammed it up without reservation in a slow, deliberate Texas drawl I’d picked up mostly from old westerns and famous Lone Star State alumni like Jimmy Dean and Dan Blocker. The Revenger’s signature, other than the distinct black mask, tapered green cape, diamond-studded wrist bands and knee-high, spurred boots, was the vertical suplex, along with its similarly executed kin, the snap and running suplex. Not if but when holds and throws turned to blows, his specialty was the backhanded slap to the chest, sort of a straight-armed clothesline but with more pop. Oh, he could bare-knuckle it with the best of ‘em if so scripted, but it wasn’t his strong suit. Leave the karate chops and pugilistic wares to others. The Revenger was all about subduing and choking out. Slowly, like a masked anaconda.

In the past few months, I’ve even been tampering with the belly-to-back variety suplex, just to add some spice. The problem of late, no doubt due to my advancing age, was the absolute hell-fires of inflammation and spasms these moves would sometimes ignite at my lower back. More than ever, Ben Gay, Advil and the occasional muscle relaxer and this boy were becoming far too chummy. If a young Quinten Ford Jr. could have envisioned his future before all the blows to the head, knees to the groin, kidney and gut punches, knee and ankle twinges and sprains, he’d have surely invested every penny earned in similar pain-reduction brands and avoided the litany of pain to come. There were days, after a particularly trying match, that my thirty-six-year-old body felt more than qualified to start collecting social security.

The secret of staying power in the industry was reinvention. Never let the act get too stale, as there is never a shortage of young bucks and lasses willing to snag your slot.

We were all employed by the Continental Wrestling Association, an offshoot of the old SWA or Southeastern Wrestling Association, with a slight upgrade in both pay and benefits. The CWA was attempting a half-assed expansion into Texas and Oklahoma and a dozen or so of us had been assigned to grapple in such regional locales as Lawton, Abilene and that night’s foray; a high school gym that held roughly half the paying customers as our usual haunts.

Still, the payday was substantial, and it temporarily pulled us out of the rut of playing the same old joints in ‘Bama, Mississippi, Arkansas, Tennessee and Georgia.

By that time, I’d been on the roster since early ’81 and was considered a B-grade draw as either The Red Reaper or The Revenger, depending on the region. My role rarely varied, at least in those early years on the circuit, usually playing the black hat wearing villain-type taking the fall for the white hat, in this case Pete Gibbons or Matt Habor, two golden boys with the looks and flare of a young Gorgeous George, Austin Idol or Ric Flair. I didn’t mind, pay was good and anybody in the industry will tell you that playing the bad guy was always a bigger kick than the square-jawed type, at least until the whole anti-hero thing became all the rage.

As for the alter-egos, the Reaper was all posing and aura, while as The Revenger I chewed the scenery like Nicholson on barbiturates, playing up the evil sadistic thing with mouth-frothing glee and loving every second of it. Seriously, if I’d known the importance of thespian talent from the get-go of my career, I might’ve even sought out a few acting classes.

As fate would serve it up, once the ladies had opened that night’s matches, a tag-team tussle with Amelia and Betty ‘Bad Ass’ Baxter losing two out of three to the Brute Sisters, Lana and Gina Monroe, the men’s inaugural match would witness the potential end of a career coinciding with the humble beginning of the single most intense, life-altering relationship I would ever experience.

Like figurative lightning bolts from the blue, you never saw ‘em coming and had no time to mount a defense against the incoming shocks to the system.

Barely ten minutes into the first fall of a tag-team featuring Dennis ‘Stainless’ Steele and Jake ‘The Body’ Brody against the Beantown Brawlers, Matt Manning and Bobby Dean, Jake was tossed from the ring and, instead of landing shoulder-first onto the barely padded flooring, fell awkwardly, yelped once, spasmed and didn’t budge in the aftermath. It was a routine move we’ll all done countless times, a shove and slide through the second and third robes to finish in a combat roll, usually directly into a front row of scattering spectators. No harm, no foul and certainly without injury except maybe a skinned kneecap or elbow. That is, until all doesn’t go as planned. Always sounds good on paper. Doesn’t always translate in or outside the ring. We could only hope and pray that Jake’s fate wasn’t as bad as it had looked and, worse, sounded. A ten-year vet of the circuit, a crippling injury or even partial paralysis would be a sad way for big Jake to go out, but then I’ve yet to hear of anyone mastering the art of resigning in perfect health from this line of work, that is outside those fortunate few A-listers that retired to transition to TV or films.

Retirement or resignation was usually tied to severe injury, an accumulation of same through years or decades of treating one’s body like a speed bag, or of course the well-worn cliché involving daily drug and/or alcohol abuse, the former in the form of painkillers and the latter abused for similar reasons, just in liquid form instead of pill or hot needle.

As for my own personal demons, though tame compared to many in the business, I can’t claim complete innocence. No pain pill junkie, thank God, though for several years Jimmy Beam, George Dickel and Jack Black and I were on a first-name basis and well, there was that whole growth hormone Jones that, at least at that time, was all but mandatory if one was to properly compete with the younger, stronger, faster and heavily medicated up-and-comers. For all of the above, I will forever wince when the term ‘role model’ and professional athletes are spoken of in a positive light. I am no one’s hero. Just a regular Joe making a living in a profession most cannot master or fathom ever attempting.

Back to big Jake, we’d all stood ringside as the ambulance techs strapped ‘im down and loaded him into the ambulance. Fake enemies and sincere friends alike offered him a supportive nod, gentle pat and private prayer as they’d driven him away. Known for his big, infectious grin and meticulously chiseled physique, Jake’s deportment appeared amazingly upbeat as he responded to those around him, croaking out a raspy ‘I got this!’ while being hauled up and away as the crowd, maybe three-hundred or so paying, whistled and cheered. Meantime, our ringside doc, federation provided at every match, a retired sawbones from Miami named Warner, had finally shooed us away with the grave look of a man prepping the last rites. Not a good sign, to state the obvious.

It goes without saying the remaining matches that night were completed without anyone’s heart really being in it. In my years in the business to that point, I’d only witnessed the occasional torn muscle or broken rib, finger or toe, never a potentially crippling, life-threatening fall. That Jake’s misfortune could’ve been any of us, or could be any of us in the future, wasn’t lost on anyone. One gaze onto our grim mugs for the remainder of that night was proof positive. Dennis was especially bummed for obvious reasons. Tag-teams of any reasonable stretch of time were like brothers, or sisters, depending. Love, hate and indifference might naturally rotate taking the reins, but the prevailing rule was the loyalty and trust in the background of every successful partnership.

Once the event ended, Matt, the veteran spokesman of the group, had called management to ask about visiting Jake at the local hospital and was told to hold off, as the big guy’s family had already been notified and was being flown in. We later found out he’d been moved to a bigger facility in Fort Worth for neck and spine surgery the next morning. Grouped together at the rear of the one-time high school gym that had served as that night’s arena, we knelt as one, bowed our heads and prayed. No atheists inside the squared circle, at least none I’ve known of.

Later that night, a few of us had hoofed it from the motel to a local beer dive for a nightcap, as sleep was gonna be one elusive animal. A few brews in, as Bobby and Matt took up residence at one of the joint’s two pool tables, I’d swaggered up to the bar where a familiar curly, strawberry-blonde perm and slender build caught my eye. Curiously she was alone, unaccompanied by Lana, Gina or Betty, the former pair infamous for their rowdiness and drinking prowess, though that night’s events hardly provided the required vibe to partake in anything celebratory.

Amelia wore light blue parachute pants and a dark brown jean jacket over a blue & white ‘Aerosmith’ tee, the jacket just snug enough to accentuate all the many months, days and hours she’d donated to various gyms. In that moment, though briefly, I’d considered leaving her alone and heading back to the pool tables, figuring she desired nothing less than a fellow grappler with which to chew the fat on such a somber occasion. Fate dictated I quickly reconsidered.

Weird maybe, but I recall, word for word, our first actual conversation—up to that point, all communication had been of the ‘hey” or “what’s up’, or the wordless, shared nod variety. Sure, I’d looked beyond her obvious charms, mostly from a distance but close enough to take notice. There was the sexy rasp of her voice, the honey-dew sweet smile and the cute chortle of her laugh. So sure, it wasn’t as if I hadn’t noticed her. Amelia was the type that even the most faithful married guys on the circuit shot a second look. All that confirmed, admiring from afar and attempting to strike up a meaningful discussion were mountain ranges apart, even for a previously married, moderately worldly gent like myself. Or so I thought of myself up until I’d plopped onto the barstool next to her and completed my latest beer order to a bald, jowly bartender who appeared less than thrilled by our presence roughly an hour before the midnight closing.

“Rough one,” I managed, not yet bold enough to make eye contact.

“Agreed,” she replied in that familiar, sexy rasp, years later I would tell her that Demi Moore had copped it without the legal rights, before my peripheral captured her taking a long sip from a longneck Bud. The sweet smell of her; part berry shampoo, faint, flowery perfume and squeaky-clean flesh, easily pilfered the bar area, no small feat considering the usual stench of flat beer and stale cigarettes were hardly a pushover.

“Dennis swears he heard Jake’s neck snap all the way from the other side of the ring.”

I watched her nod just slightly and resumed once I figured that was the extent of any proposed reply.

“Crowd was whoopin’ it up ringside and he still heard it. Maybe it’s not as bad as it looked or sounded.”

“Probably worse,” she said flatly, “Landed on his neck. His breathing was strained. Could be a C3 or 4. At best a one or two.”

I was no sawbones, but we’d all been given many and varied talks about what injuries we risked on a nightly basis. In terms of taboo subjects those in the business rarely broach, damaged vertebrae was number one with a bullet, surpassing blown knees and torn shoulders by a country mile. Still, it was what it was and, in this case, she was probably spot on. Mister Happy slid a frosty bottle of Coors my way with all the joy of an exterminator taking a swat at a passing roach and I took that first sip with inexplicable caution, as if fearful I might clumsily spill a drop onto my jeans and come off as a butter-fingered idiot. For whatever reason, I felt like a nervous teen on his first date. Said a lot for the present company I was keeping.

“He married?” she inquired softly as I turned my face slowly to her, all my bulky cargo following suit and the aged bar stool screeching obvious condemnation.

“Yeah. Christie. Has a son, preschool age. Jake Junior.”

She continued to stare straight ahead, content to check out our dual reflections from the mirrored wall beyond the bar.

“Thought so.”

“I’ve heard the insurance covers the catastrophic stuff to a degree. Depends on the deductible, I guess. Hopefully Jake picked the best option. They advise married guys not to go on the cheap. The girls too, I figure. Can’t say for sure. I’ve only used it for the occasional stitch or prescription refill.”

“Same here. Snapped this one nearly in half in Doraville last year,” she replied, raising her left hand and displaying a slightly bent digit, the sculpted nail of which was painted a slightly flaking red, white and blue.

Suddenly feeling playfully competitive, I leaned my head back and gestured with an upturned thumb at the underneath of my stubbly chin and saw her turn in curious response.

“A dozen stitches last Fall, courtesy Trapper Jack Johansen’s size fourteen boot. Chipped a tooth to boot. As I recall, only cost me a twenty spot for the sewing job, a fresh filling and a handful of Percocet.”

Nodding her admiration, she leaned in just slightly to get a better look. My nostrils instinctively flared at her scent, which was, and this is a word I’d flat deny ever using, fabulous.

“Quality scar. Noticeable enough but not quite Frankenstein-worthy. The shape resembles a bolt of lightning.”

“Kinda does, doesn’t it? Sometimes I wish it was trailing my jaw line instead.” I ran a finger down the left side of my mug.

“Might be able to pull off an authentic pirate. Strap on a fake peg leg and prop a plastic parrot on my shoulder. Blackbeard’s long-lost grandson, Blackie Junior.”

She cracked a smile, not nearly the face-stretcher I’d hoped for, but a bona fide grin it was, and it instantly warmed my overtaxed old ticker.

“Could work,” she said, “Add a few anchor tats and an eye patch and your right in business. I presume you wouldn’t mind losing that hay slasher.”

She of course referred to the Reaper’s scythe.

“Oh, you got that right,” I grinned, resuming only after a quick sip of suds and to give myself a chance to soak in the pride that she paid even passing attention to the least of my two alters.

“Between that and the skintight latex mask that all but suffocates me to the edge of fainting, I’m open to alternatives. Not that you’d know anything about an identity crisis, Miss Scarlett.” (I pronounced this ‘Mizz Scaah-let’ in an exaggeration of my natural twang). “Talk about perfection, that act instantly transports all oglers to the plantation of Tara, at least ‘til ya peel it off like an oil-smeared banana skin.”

She turned to me, gleaming brown eyes widening with mischief and chortles, a soft and throaty giggle that, to me, was pure gold, a sound I wish I could record, rewind and play over and over like a forty-five on a turntable. How, I pondered with sincere amazement, was this girl still on the market?

“Well, nice to hear someone gives a damn,” she fired back in her best, or perhaps worst, Scarlett O’Hara, stretching out the last trio of words as ‘gah-aves ahhh dam-am’.

“Speaking of tongues, you don’t come off nearly as rope ‘em and ride ‘em Texas Toast up close.”

“Saint Louis.”

“Hmm, I see. Not bad, Tex. Not good, mind you, but authentic enough for the masses.”

“Watched enough oaters to pull it off.”

“Oaters?”

“Westerns. Horse-operas. Shoot ‘em ups. How about that honeydew, downhome drawl you be sportin’ ringside, Miss Belle?”

“Just between us,” she leaned in and whispered behind the back of a raised hand, “I modeled Dixie after Elly Mae Clampett as much or more than Miss Scarlett.”

“Interesting.”

“That, along with countless viewings of Gone with the Wind, To Kill a Mockingbird, Deliverance, basically anything loaded with ‘ya’ll’s’ and ‘bless your hearts’.”

“Classics one and all.”

“Maybe, but some nights I still wake up to see poor old Ned Beatty crawling around on all fours squealing like a prize porker.”

We laughed, mine a full-blown guffaw and hers a light chuckle, locking eyes for the first time. The brief silence in the aftermath was, thankfully, not nearly as awkward as I’d feared it might be. Lordy, but up close she looked barely old enough to order a beer, much less occupy the squared circle for a living.

“So, since we’ve eliminated your southern belle status as a rather impressive fraud, where do you hail from?”

“Born in Altoona but raised in Dayton.”

“Interesting. Never would have pegged you accent-wise as an Ohioan.”

“Moved out and away as soon as that high school diploma slapped my palm. Got a place just north of Nashville in a small town named Gallatin.”

“Smart. Staying as close to the workplace as possible, I mean.”

Again, a brief silence reigned as we each sipped and scanned the sparse crowd at our backs.

“The other girls decide to pack it in early?” I eventually asked, reaching over to snag a few peanuts from a nearby dish.

“Can’t say. Honestly, I didn’t ask ‘em along.”

I cocked a brow and nodded, thinking I understood but not quite confident enough to verbalize my theory. Apparently sensing this, she resumed before raising her beer and draining the remaining contents.

“Love ‘em like sisters. Well, two of ‘em anyway, but sometimes we all just need a break, you know?”

I responded as she turned up the bottle and studied the smooth, creaminess of her neck and the way her ruby lips enveloped the tip with undeniable sultriness. As she lowered the empty to the tabletop and lightly belched, I quickly averted my eyes to the mirror beyond. The last thing I wanted was to give off creeper vibes, something I’m sure she’s quite adept at recognizing.

“Got’cha. Same with the guys. The whole conjoined thing gets old. Bus and van rides. Endless rehearsals. Wash and dry, fold and repeat. Stale as year-old bread sometimes. I guess it’s similar to a touring rock band.”

“Or siblings.”

“I guess. I’m an only child.”

It was her turn to cock a quizzical brow.

“Really? One of a kind, huh?”

“Broke the mold.”

“I got a kid brother. Honor student. Big future. So unlike big sis and her ludicrous career choice.”

“Mom or dad’s words?” I smiled, though not too broadly as to hint at overacting.

“Both. Mother is especially disgusted,” she said with a heavy sigh void of any actual rancor, as if she’d long accepted the situation.

“Any word on Abilene?”

We’d been scheduled for a series of matches the following night, a short hour and a half drive to the south, and as far as I’d heard, it was still on, though with some major adjustments to be made in terms of matchups in Jake’s absence.

“Matt had just got off the phone with Jenny right before I walked over.”

Jenny Gaines was our company rep, along with Stan Abrahams. Good folks, bottom liners for sure but with a keen awareness of the needs and wants of their people. Something not always present with the suits that ran our lives from behind a desk.

“They’re working out a new card and are gonna brief us once we get to the venue. Ya’ll should be set as scheduled.”

“Gonna be a somber one. Especially for Dennis.”

I nod silently. Dennis and Jake had been partners for just over a year. Such an abrupt end had to be jarring.

“The show must go on, right?” she continued, and I wasn’t completely sure if the statement was meant to be sarcastic or sincere.

“Adaptation is just one of our many skills,” I managed, relieved when she seemed to agree, her deadpan response essentially ending the doom-and-gloom segment with an exclamation point.

“Nobody knows the troubles we’ve seen.”

Silence ruled, noticeably less awkward and at ease. We were, after all, warriors of the same conflict, the same unique soldiership. With that in mind, the words came easier, more natural.

“If I know Jenny and Stan,” I said, in line with my inner thoughts, “they’re already outlining some prime charity events to raise some funds for Jake and his clan.”

“Count me in,” she replied without hesitation.

“Same here. Jake’s one of the good guys.”

“Amen.”

Case closed.

With that, she ordered another beer, and we jawed for a half-hour longer before either of us realized the bar had emptied out except for the two of us, the sad-sack bartender politely pointing to the way out at a few minutes past midnight.

We walked side-by-side to the nearby hotel and said our goodnights with a simple nod. Not exactly storybook, but it was a start.

I realized, upon showering and bedding down for the night, with Bobby Dean snoring like a runaway freight-train in the adjoining bed—Dennis and Matt had rooms of their own, Dennis having lost his roomie to a potentially career-ending tumble and Matt the senior grappler awarded his own space—that I hadn’t thought of Jake’s plight since taking a bar stool next to the charismatic Miss Belle. If nothing else, she’d provided a most pleasurable diversion, I told myself, but who was I kidding? I hadn’t felt such a pull, such a primal attraction, in anyone’s presence for more years than I could recall, or for that matter such natural charisma other than when I’d met Andre, Hogan or Flair. Certainly, no female had flummoxed me so completely since high school, my ex-wife garnering that award in what seemed like another life entirely, and even then, not to the degree where I could feel freshly hatched streams of sweat trailing my sides from each underarm. The scent that had wafted into my nostrils and stuck to my clothing like some ornate second skin was certainly a factor; an aromatic, heady aphrodisiac that had awakened a slumbering giant long-since buried. Forgive me, Jake old comrade, but I’d all but shoved your potential tragedy to the background of my subconscious. To make amends, I said a silent prayer for the big guy and his family. That accomplished and without further shame, my fading thoughts, dulled a bit by fatigue and alcohol, instantly turned back to the lovely and fascinatingly enigmatic Miss Amelia Belle.

~ * ~

I was more than pleasantly surprised, downright jolted right down to my socks to be honest, when I discovered her leaning against the railing of my third-floor hotel room at just past seven AM the next morning, this as I’d exited with an overstuffed duffel tossed over one shoulder.

“Morning, Sunshine. Headed down for java?” she asked, her hair stuffed inside a Texas A&M ballcap that looked like a recent purchase.

When in Rome and all that. Wearing a crimson zip-up windbreaker and sweatpants, fresh-faced and makeup free, she was, if anything, more alluring.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“My friends call me Amy. You can call me Amelia.”

Sarcasm aside, still a sharp right to the ribs, but hey, I got it. True friendship had to be earned. Duly noted and a challenge I was more than willing to accept.

“Ouch. Fine then, Amelia, yes, I am currently on my way to morning chow.”

“Mind some company? I hear they’re laying out fresh ham, sausage and buttered biscuits.”

“Hey, we’re there.”

I followed her down the steps with a renewed spring in my previously draggy step, a slight hangover all but forgotten and feeling extra glad I’d taken the time to shower, shave, brush the choppers and slap on a palm-full of Brute. In hindsight, all that extra fluffing up might just have been more instinctive than I’d normally give credence.

As the morning progressed, I felt an even stronger pull towards fate. Breakfast passed in a pleasant blur. There was conversation, unstrained, natural, and smiles were shared as seamlessly as salt and pepper shakers. Can’t rightly say if any of it qualified as flirting. I was so out of touch in matters of romance, anything other than a tongue-kiss might’ve flown right over my head. Simply put, it was just two folks with a lot in common, at least profession wise, passing the time between gigs. Nothing new about that, except I’d never had the experience staring over the opposite side of a table with a female of the profession. As the industry goes, it’s naturally segregated as The Men and The Women except for the occasional card listing mixed tag teams. I’d never considered how refreshing it might be to hear opinions from the other side on such mundane topics as sponsors, sexual discrimination—female grapplers were rated just above the midgets in terms of significance, despite their obvious fan popularity—and pay disparity. In less than an hour, we covered a stack of subjects I’d never lost a wink of slumber contemplating, mostly since it didn’t affect me personally.

For her part, Amelia displayed no obvious rancor at the injustices, just stating facts as she knew ‘em. I did little but nod and agreed in principle, mostly ignorant of the facts. Regardless, I had found a new friend and, dare I hoped, maybe something more.

By the time we’d all met in the hotel parking lot, Matt passed on the word that Jake’s surgery was to commence within the hour. We’d drive south to Abilene, prep for the night’s matches and wait for updates. Ashamed to say, as we piled into our unofficially assigned vehicles, the men rode in Matt’s van and the gals in Betty’s Lincoln, my thoughts were dominated by matters other than our comrade’s wellbeing. I’d been purposely avoiding relationships of the binding type since my divorce three years earlier, satisfied with the occasional one- or two-night fling with the sporadic ring rat, these rare hookups usually involving an overabundance of booze. I guess I hadn’t been aware of the level of loneliness I’d achieved before Amelia. I’d been devoting myself to the profession and moving up the ranks and being on the wrong side of my thirty’s meant time was running dangerously short on meeting certain career goals. Pile on the collective abuse my body had taken in the past eight-plus years and thoughts of establishing any meaningful relationship with the opposite sex wasn’t high on the priority list, much less marriage, kids and settling down.

This is, I suppose, where the old saying life happens when you least expect it originates from.

Two days later and on the way back to ‘Bama from a military town in Arkansas, life did just that.

~ * ~

Just hours before the matches in a relatively well-packed civic center, Matt broke the news he’d gotten about Jake, received from Jenny Gaines at the parent HQ as we’d been getting decked out in separate locker rooms. In retrospect, it might’ve been better to hear it once the matches were over. I guess in the moment Matt just figured we were adult enough to take it in stride and still go out and put on a good show.

Severe damage to the C3 vertebrae resulting in what they had, post-surgery, diagnosed as full paraplegic status. If there was a positive to be found, they said Jake would be able to breathe on his own and there was always the slight chance he’d surprise ‘em all by walking again someday.

As Jake’s longtime partner and best friend, Dennis was of course affected the most emotionally, but like the pro he was, you never would’ve known it by his performance on the mat that night. He was able to separate the tragedy from the job at hand, though afterwards he was all but inconsolable. No one pushed it. We gave him his space.

The rest of us went through the motions and stuck to the script verbatim. Gotta admit I felt less than enthused. Bobby echoed this in the locker room as we’d deflated after the matches. Matt, Mister Stiff-upper lip himself, was typically stoic and unreadable, but I knew he’d been close to Jake and the two had traveled some miles together through the years. He’d phoned both Jenny and Stan Abrahams from a gym payphone and between ‘em they’d set the course for organizing a series of charity matches to raise money for the family. To that, we all agreed to pass the hat to all within the federation, while Matt would reach out for similar aid to others outside our region. Charities would, as predicted, be scheduled in and around the states we frequented with a large percentage of the take going to the Brody fund. Wrestlers and their families are like other sports leagues in that regard. We take care of our own.

No bars or flirty chatting that night. Nix on following up any ideas of romance. We were all severely bummed and turned in early.

The next morning was when things got weird. Weird and, might I say, pleasantly convenient. A silver lining groping its way through a thick black cloud, you might way.

Around seven AM on a muggy, rainy morning in central Texas, Matt had phoned federation HQ—as was company policy—as to our time of departure and ETA back to Alabama. Expecting a secretary or other random office flunky at that hour, he’d instead spoken directly to Jenny, who by coincidence had just been phoning the hotel office. It seemed an Air Force base in eastern Arkansas had an opening for some free PR at a scheduled air show on the following day. Quoted what must’ve been a hefty payday for a few hours of role playing, Matt had of course given the thumbs up. The problem was that the majority didn’t want to participate and at least two were adamant—Dennis and Bobby—that they’d rather not. With Dennis, the reasons were most obvious. Bobby’s demeanor, usually unflappable and devil-may-care, kinda stumped me ‘til I found out later he and Jake had broken into the business together.

From there, like a house of falling cards, all displaying the same slumped shoulders and hangdog expressions, the Brute Sisters and BA Baxter soon followed suit and even Matt backed out once he remembered some previous commitments back home.

That left yours truly and Amelia Belle as neutral parties. We both kinda shrugged in tentative agreement that we’d tough it out and see it through, that is if the sponsors were okay with just a two-person show. They were, per Jenny, a half hour or so later. While I’d maintained an even keel at the prospect, inside I was churning with a nervous apprehension all but alien to my long-dormant psyche.

We were soon escorted to a nearby rent-a-car place with fresh hotel and food per diem in hand and watched the others drive away in the other two vehicles as the morning’s light rain transformed into a full-blown squall.

As far as I was concerned, brother, it was clear skies and tropical breezes.

Before that day, I’d never heard of Blytheville, Arkansas, nor the Air Force Base that carried its name. In the days afterward and beyond, both that quiet little town and its military installation would always and forever hold a special place in my heart.

 

~ * ~

 

The rain, steady and straight, followed us into and across the whole of Arkansas, though I can’t say I cared in the least. I was, for want of a better term, giddy as a school kid with his first crush. Giddy. Not exactly macho, I know, but what’s true is true. A six-foot three, two-hundred thirty-five pounder with nineteen-inch biceps and, on a good day, able to bench four-fifteen and squat four-fifty, reduced to the shy, skinny, pimply fifteen-year-old of a previous life.

Just past the halfway point to our destination, we’d stopped at a Cracker Barrel off the interstate for a late lunch. By that time, we’d covered my failed marriage and her last two failed suitors. Sitting across from one another at a table that, according to the way we were being ogled by the surrounding and mostly geriatric crowd, had been constructed for folks roughly half our size, we talked and nibbled, nibbled and talked. Since the air show was the next day, we could just kick back and jaw at our leisure and boy howdy was I feeling my oats.

By this point, I was hopelessly infatuated with the young lass from Dayton, and not just in the expected boy-would-I-love-to-get-next-to-this-one way, but God help me, every single facet of her being, past, present and future. One interesting tidbit of casual conversation concerned rumors each of us had heard about the other through the circuit grapevine.

“So, we agree.”

“Ab-so-tively. Source shall remain confidential.”

“Okay then, who goes first?”

I display an open palm to indicate the floor is exclusively hers.

“Ladie’s first, always.”

“Figures. You do come across as the stereotypically gentleman type.”

“Mama Ford raised me as such and never hesitated to backhand me if I steered too close to chauvinistic slob territory.”

She forked a cherry tomato, started to insert it but instead levitated it directly across her mouth. I had, by that time, decided the natural look was, without a doubt, her best. As Dixie Belle, she used little in the way of makeup, this of course in line with the period-piece characterization, and it was easy to see why. Sitting literally two feet away with her hair tied in a tight bun and sporting fashionably shredded blue jeans and a snug black tee that accentuated her taunt, chiseled form, she appeared a college student of no older than sophomore age. This no doubt allowed the surrounding codgers to question if we were indeed a couple or maybe siblings of the older brother/younger sister category. All this inner speculation despite only eleven short years difference in our ages.

“Hardcore discipline. Impressive. I’d heard those cavewomen were hard as nails.”

An age gag, hopefully not drawing some metaphysical line in the sand between us. Could’ve been she just digs older guys. I was desperately trying to stay positive.

“Yeah, well, she kept us upright and in line. Ninety pounds of God-fearing fire & brimstone with a mighty short fuse.”

We’d previously discussed our respective parents, Amelia estranged from both years ago and my own deceased for nearly a decade from a housefire started by my dad’s falling asleep with a lit Marlboro in hand. I’d been twenty-three at the time and working as a welder on the Mississippi coastline, still three years away from dramatically switching career-gears.

“Nice. Looking back with less innocent eyes, I wish I’d had someone, anyone, force me to toe the line. Anyhow, on to rumor control,” she paused to drop the uneaten tomato back into a mostly empty bowl along with the fork as a mischievous smile stretched her near flawless features, “I’m really hoping you see the humor. I mean, I’ve heard about you guys and the ‘roid rages.”

“Nope. Not this boy. Clean for…” I check a non-existent watch on my left wrist, “…nearly seventy-one hours and counting.”

Amelia titled her head, cocked a brow, leaned forward and reached over to apply a gentle, dare I say sensuous, massage to my right bicep. Surrounding food smells aside, her scent was as intoxicating as her smile.

“Really? Feels a tad artificial there, big boy. More puff than rock.”

Once she released her grip, I flashed the classic Boy Scout salute.

“Deep fried pork chops and rice, baby. Well, that and twenty-plus hours a week pounding the weights and the occasional bout of constipation.”

“Yikes. Sorry I asked.”

“Accused.”

“That too.”

“Back to rumor control?”

“Thank you. Lost track there for a second.”

Our banter had become effortless. All awkwardness now kicked hard to the curb. Make no mistake, I was cherishing every second. Then again, this amiable behavior might be the norm for her, and I was making way too much of it. Time would tell.

“So, scuttlebutt had it that you were drafted into the Army for ‘Nam, but were awarded a dishonorable discharge and kicked out of boot camp for…” she paused, raising both hands up with the palms exposed, “…I’m just the messenger, okay?”

I nodded, already knowing where the story was going and no less perturbed in the lack of either surprise or originality.

“When you were caught sniffing a fellow GI’s stolen drawers in the latrine while, um, pleasuring yourself.”

Yep, same old putrid garbage. I had hoped for some kind of alternation for no other reason than a fresher take on the same old stale BS.

“So, Mister bad ass Red Reaper Revenger, do we confirm or deny?”

She’d concluded with an exaggerated scowl that screamed disgust, playfully scooting her chair back while flashing the universal cross sign as if warding off a vampire attack.

Keeping my naturally granite mug as stony as possible, I decided a little jocularity was in order. Besides, I wanted to study her response.

“It was socks, not shorts, and I was just sniffing, not stroking.”

No widened eyes, no dropped jaw or gaping maw. Heck, she hardly missed a beat, adlibbing away with machine-gun efficiency. My crush was growing stouter by the second.

“I can see it. No offense, but you do have that foot-fetish look.”

“Jackass Peter Puller,” I groan, forking in a mouthful of room temperature grits.

“Come again?”

“Mouthy little pissant I broke into the business with down in Biloxi. Shared a room at the infamous Black ‘n Blue motel in Memphis. Sometimes I think we hazed each other harder than the vets ever did. The truth is that I was drafted by the Army but was classified 4-F.”

She cocked a brow to clue me in to define the term.

“Just means I never made it past the physical.”

I reached up with the fore and middle fingers of my right hand and applied a soft tap to the center of my chest.

“Irregular heartbeat. These days they call it tachycardia. Apparently, I’d had issues as a kid that hadn’t quite corrected themselves at nineteen.”

“How about now?”

“Hasn’t been an issue. I gnawed my fingernails to the nub worrying about that first federation physical, but I’ve been through a handful of ‘em now and no signs.”

“Cool. So, this…pissant Peter you called ‘im—”

“We all played the whole ‘Your Mama’s so Fat’ game just to pass time during training. Ol’ Peter Pissant Puller was a natural.”

“Heard a lot about that B&B hotel, mostly the hell on earth and nice place to escape but no place to stay cliches. All true?”

“Spot on. I’ve heard it kinda depended on when you attended, since that broken-down old warehouse didn’t have heat or A/C, so spring and fall would’ve been preferred but hey, you didn’t turn down the invite no matter the time of year and you sure as hell didn’t act as if you had a choice on when to attend.

“As a novice, one does not question the wisdom or methods of the Funk family, mid-July start date or not. My biggest mistake was thinking I was in fighting shape going in. A few days in proved otherwise. Hardest six weeks of my life, hands down. Lost twenty-six pounds and every fiber of the baby fat I’d apparently been holding onto for nostalgia.”

“And your pal?”

“The Puller?”

She nodded, popping in another cherry tomato.

“Pete earned his stripes, and cuts, and bruises, along with the rest of us. Nine of us started the course and four earned their first contract. An average dropout rate, from what we’d heard. It was close. I nearly threw in the towel at least three times in that boiling July West Tennessee sweatbox. Honestly, the Puller had a lot to do with me hanging in.”

Leaning forward with a slight head tilt and her chin cupped in the palms of her hands, she looked so irresistibly cute I felt that twitchy old heart murmur revisit for an entirely different reason. How can a man of thirty-six possibly contract such an undeniably case of puppy love? In the moment, the how’s and why’s didn’t seem to matter.

“Not his real name, I hope.”

“Nah. Pete Palmer from Pennsylvania, I kid you not. Triple P. Wrestled in the Midwest for a few years. Tore up a knee and called it a day. Last I heard, he was working as a realtor up in Minnesota or Michigan. How that sniff ‘n stroke story has stayed on the vine for this long is a testament to the little pissant’s talent for spinning a tale.” I smiled despite myself. “Jackass.”

She reached forward and clamped each side of the table to brace herself, regarding me through a tight squint.

“Okay then. Get your jollies. Hit me with your best shot.”

For whatever reason, possibly fearing the possibility of ruining the absolute perfection of the moment, I hesitated. She must’ve sensed it, reaching over and tagging my left shoulder with a light jab.

“C’mon Quint. I can take it. No thin skin here, big boy. Besides, don’t shoot the messenger, remember?”

“Ho-kay then, but remember, you asked for it,” I replied as if dreading it when instead the anticipation to get to the truth had me chomping at the bit.

“Can’t freakin’ wait!” she said, leaning back and pumping a fist before crossing her arms, an elderly couple a few tables back flinching as if the air punch had nearly grazed ‘em.

“Grapevine scuttlebutt was that you once, perhaps just once mind you, um, how do I put this exactly? Switched teams, romantically speaking.”

“Switch…” she blurted, that usually faultless mug contorted so severely I damn near busted out in hysterics. As it was, I had to temporarily avert my eyes elsewhere to avoid doing so and noticed the shaken elderly couple were hastily exiting their table without looking back.

“Supposedly this…alleged tryst occurred following a tournament booking in Asheville during the summer of eighty-two and involved yourself and the exotic and, if I might be so bold, quite fetching Miss Le—”

It was my turn to flinch as Amelia hopped up and executed a self-inflicted face palm.

“Ohhhh yeah, of course! Bingo!”

“B-Bin-go?” I stammered, unable to maintain a straight face no matter the effort, her animated gestures and high-pitched declaration effectively ripping away what little self-control I still possessed. I managed to resume as she reclaimed her seat while clapping lightly as if she’d just solved the winning puzzle on Wheel of Fortune.

“So, the plotline is familiar?”

Her expression was comically smug, so much so I couldn’t help but cackle.

“Very. Sickeningly so. Old hat, brother.”

“I see. Um, should I even bother to continue, or would you like to fill in the blanks?”

With a confident pout, she casually waved me on. My curiosity was, at this juncture, killing me.

“This supposed late-night liaison between East and West; southern belle and Oriental minx did occur at a Best Western hotel on the outskirts of Ashville following the copious consumption of numerous bottles of wine and some prime south American weed. According to the ‘vine, the opening salvo involved a passionate necking session for all to see before retreating to a more, ahem, private setting for the night.”

“You done?” she eventually asked a full five seconds later as I’d leaned in, elbows resting on the tabletop and chin balanced on clenched fists, supposedly feigning mock excitement when there was nothing remotely fake about it.

“Yes, ma’am. Feel free to rebate and or confirm.”

“Well, big fella,” she grinned, “I can tell by those sparkling orbs which you’d prefer to hear, am I right?”

Lord, we’d known each other for less than two full days, sans travel time apart to the same venue, and she could easily sidestep all the dead ends and trace the dirtiest paths of my brain’s inner map. Of course, I’d wager most guys possess a similar path of degradation.

“I hereby take the fifth but please resume.”

“Coward. Well, hate to bust your perverted bubble, big fella, but the lone details in that sordid little fairy tale that ring true are the city of alleged occurrence, the brand name of the hotel and while I did partake in a touch of the grape, I have never or will ever indulge in the consumption of Mary-Jane. Now, I will confess the cheap hooch we’d been sucking down like spring water did keep us boogying for hours. Enough for the local fuzz to show up and tell us to put a cork in it.”

“Neat,” I chided, “And?”

Before getting to the meat of what I was obviously referring to, she flashed a wide smile and giggled, eyes upturned in a matter of distant memory recall.

“At some point and buzzing to the point of levitation, me and LY started laughing and could…not…stop. We were watching Scarface on HBO I think, the scene where Pacino’s mob boss is sitting in a restaurant, surrounded by his entourage and completely shit-faced and he tells Michelle Pfeiffer’s character…”—at this point Amelia goes full Tony Montana, complete with horrible, slurred Cuban accent and drunken hand gestures—“…that ‘her womb is so fuckin’ polluted, I can’t even have little fuckin’ babies with her’. I swear, every time one of us caught a breath and started winding down the other one would bust a gut and round and round we’d go again. Ended up on the floor hugging each other but unable to suck in enough air to even beg for mercy. Swear to God, the rib aches I suffered that next morning were as bad as any, I’ve ever contracted in the ring. Poor LY even peed herself and had to borrow a pair of my undies the next morning.”

With memory lane in the rearview mirror, she snapped from her daze and regarded me with a shrug that said ‘it was what it was. Good times.”

“And who’s this LY character, you mentioned, Leah I think.”

“Leah Yun, went by Dragon Lin. Worked the east coast mostly, the Carolina’s and the Viriginia’s. We lost contact a while back, once she quit the business. A real scraper old LY, but just too small-bodied. She was a hoot, a real Jekyll and Hyde persona. As quiet as a geisha when sober but a level four hurricane when lit. She was Korean and her husband was Italian American. A real Gwedo, mafia ties and all. They had a little girl that looked just like her.”

I tapped the tabletop impatiently, playfully implying she was purposely delaying the juiciest detail of all.

“Fascinating, really. Soooo, you admit the two of you were rolling about on the carpet annnnd…”

As she paused, I had jokingly widened my eyes to maximum ogle and showcased my finest imbecilic grin, to which she reached over and applied a light slap to a flinching shoulder.

“Annnnnd nothing, Pervy-Pete,” she frowned, “While there was a pair in our group that did, well, get noticeably frisky on that hotel couch, soon to vanish into the night holding hands, they had long before been confirmed as, how did you put it, playing for the other team?”

“Figures,” I pouted, still smiling at the ‘Pervy-Pete’ reference, “Yeah, well, no shortage within those ranks, I’ve heard. To be fair, the business does kinda attract the type, at least on the female side I mean.”

She scowled and I briefly thought I’d hit a nerve, silently cursing myself for the possible misstep. Just because something is factually true doesn’t mean it’s so casually tossed about in mixed company or more importantly, someone you are trying your best not to offend.

“Not so, macho man. I’m certainly no grizzled veteran, but that pair are the only Lezzies I’ve come across, at least openly. I’ve felt the vibe on a few of the obvious ones only to find out they had hubbies and kids waiting at home.”

“More power to ‘em,” I say meekly and instantly feel like my entire head should transform into one of those looney-tune jackasses, braying at full volume.

“Absolutely. Hey, as long as they’re not hitting on me, it’s cool.”

The words spewed out before I even considered their ramifications.

“Well, if they don’t at least try, they’re nuts.”

She smiled, somewhat reserved, and briefly looked away but said nothing.

Amazing how a size thirteen boot can fit so snugly inside a man’s mouth once it’s accustomed to the stretch. In my case, you could’ve driven a Mack truck inside. I figured a change in subject was needed, post-haste, preferably to the one subject that inevitably arises between those sharing the same unique way of life.

“So, how’d you get started again? In the business I mean?”

Shifting in her seat, she seemed visibly taken aback by the question and I had the sinking feeling I’d just inserted the other opposite boot. Once she replied, she didn’t meet my gaze but instead stared over my right shoulder, all the previous good humor having fled both her voice and deportment.

“Not how you’d expect. Wasn’t the Tomboy type in high school. No athletic aspirations at all. My mother pushed me to go out for cheerleading my senior year. I mean, I was kinda hot once I started…” she paused, a mischievous smile breaking through only briefly, “…once Mother Nature got off her lazy rearend. Anyway, I hated the experience, but it did help me find my inner competitor, big time. Joined the track team and made all-county in the discus throw and pole vault.”

She shrugged, finally allowing her gaze to meet my own, as if to study my response. The shy smile she displayed in the aftermath was a sure sign I’d passed the test, “Not exactly feminine but I ran like a toad, so it was all I had. Anyway, I started living at the gym, much to the chagrin of my poor, dear mother.”

“I’ll bet. Mama’s little princess,” I smiled, “But how did track and field lead you into the ring?”

“It didn’t, but a teammate of mine talked me into driving to a WWF card in Louisville. Had zero interest going in. Zilch. Just went along for the ride. Well, let’s just say I exited that arena with a whole new perspective, courtesy of Wendi Richter, Misty Blue and Elektra. Even managed to snag an autograph from Richter, who reached over and pinched my bicep, smiled that radiant smile and said, ‘not bad, missy’. From that very minute, I was sold, lock, stock and barbells. Just knew I’d found my calling. Well, more like hoped.”

Despite the inexplicable chilly start to her recollection, the conclusion had at least drawn her back to a happier place. That is, until I opened my big mouth yet again and unintentionally evoked the blues into the conversation.

“Nice. Seems I recall you and The White Tiger were a hot draw a few years back.”

Her expression instantly changed from tranquil and at ease to distraught and distracted.

“Yeah, well, nothing in life is permanent, right? Most partnerships go sour eventually.”

“Um, yeah, th-that’s true, sad to say,” I babbled, struggling for yet another gear to shift into while watching her nervously drum the fingers of both hands on the tabletop.

I hadn’t just struck a nerve but jabbed it with a red-hot poker. It was time to shift yet again, and fast, but I had nothing. A complete blank slate. Fortunately, she’d picked up my telepathic cue and inquired what should’ve served as a natural segway if my brain had been operating normally.

“How about you?”

The light bulb flashed, dimly but with just enough illumination to interrupt the pie-eyed, slack-jawed expression of comical incomprehension I had begun to reveal. Sure. That’s it. She was asking how I got into professional wrestling.

“Kinda like you, I guess. Purely by chance. I’d played some high school football and basketball but mostly rode the bench. It wasn’t ‘til one of my buddies talked me into joining the wrestling team my senior year that I found my niche, sports-wise. I was nobody’s state champ, but I did win more than I lost. Figured I’d never compete again after graduation.”

“Fate is sure some practical joking fool, isn’t it?” she asked while half-heartedly digging back into her salad.

“I’ll say on so many levels. Married my high-school sweetheart just a month into that summer and had resigned myself to running a forklift at a local papermill or some freelance welding to pay all those newlywed bills. Did so ‘til around the age of twenty-three or thereabouts, when the plant shut its doors, and I was making ends-meat as a bouncer at three separate downtown bars. All told, not bad money but I found it kind of a bummer. Not exactly conducive to a heathy lifestyle.”

Her smile told me she was over whatever mad I’d inadvertently initiated, if any.

“From forklift to lifting drunks.”

“Yeah, well, I had been frequenting a nearby gym for a few years and had bulked up.”

I paused, wondering why I’d refused to come clean to someone who could care less about the truth, however painful.

“Actually, that’s a lie. I’d been practically living in the gym and bulked up a hell of a lot.”

She cocked a brow and replied between chews.

“Oh. Let me guess, the old marital bliss cup done gone bone dry.”

“Bingo. Sad, but the more time we spent apart the better. I’d usually hit the gym right after work at that plant, working day shift, and find my way home around nine PM, just late enough to miss her as she’d leave for her shift at a local convenience store. The situation only got worse when I started bouncing. It got to where we only saw each other in passing.”

From the solemn look on her face, my own expression reflected a level of misery I was oblivious to revealing.

“Sorry, Quint, didn’t mean to make light of it.”

“No sweat. Same old story. Married too young with not a single clue how to survive much less thrive in a committed relationship. It’s nothing short of a miracle we lasted almost five years. I heard she’d remarried and is living somewhere near Chicago. Sweet kid, really. Deserved better than me.

“Anyway, our struggles and my sudden dedication to working out eventually led to wrestling as a career, so it was apparently meant to be. Two or three years of tossing assholes from various watering holes and I met a guy who knew a guy who trained newbies in the art and even guaranteed placement upon completion of his course. Next thing I knew, I was driving to Memphis with reservations to the infamous B&B Motel.”

“You moved to Memphis?”

“Nah, didn’t plant any roots for those first two or three years. Moved from town to town, roach motel after roach motel, picking up part-time gigs along the way to help feed the machine and pay whatever fee a local gym charged. Played gypsy until I finally earned my first real contract as something other than a professional jobber.”

“Paid your dues for sure.”

“That I did.”

“Don’t hate me, but I never really had to.”

I hoped my smile mirrored the honesty in my statement.

“Not surprising. You’re a natural. Looks, charm and skill. What’s to hate?”

Though I’d tossed out that last question with what I’d thought was discernable honesty, she almost immediately showed symptoms of blushing.

“I, well, thanks, but you’d be surprised. Women can not only be catty and envious, but damn cruel to those who skip over ‘em on the ladder, if you catch my drift.”

“It’s no different with the male rosters. Of course, I was usually the one being stepped over, but I always tried to use it as motivation. Might sound corny, but I knew if I just kept working my ass off to learn the craft, I’d get where I needed to be.”

I shot her a wink.

“Still hope to someday.”

“Tell you what, big fella,” she concluded before scraping what remained of her salad onto her fork and devouring the sparse remnants, “I’m not about to bet against you.”

I shrugged and shifted gears once again before the question eluded me.

“Speaking of marriage…”

“Didn’t know we were.”

“Well, since we breached the subject…”

“That’d be a no.”

“Ever asked?”

“Once.”

“A Mister Right that was just wrong?”

“More like a Mister Wrong who was rarely right.”

It was like an old dragnet skit; rapid, clipped dialogue as dry as burnt toast. I’d decided to reverse gears again when she cleverly beat me to the punch.

“Jake is the exception.”

“How’s that?”

“Married. Kids. That whole picket fence scene. I’ve heard ‘em referred to as the Cleavers, as in the first family of the Cleaver Wrestling Association. Met his better half at a benefit a few years ago. Unbelievably polite and mannered.”

I nodded, pangs of guilt just beginning to fade at the mention of our recently crippled Behren that I’d yet again all but forgotten about in the days since.

“Sandra Brody is one touch cookie. She can take it. She knew the risks. But the kids. I feel for ‘em. All are still grade-school age I think.”

“Tough pedigree. They’ll be okay.”

“Yeah. Pray so.”

“We get back to HQ,” she advised in a voice as determined as it was upbeat, “we’ll see how the suits are coming on those proposed charity matches.”

“Yes, ma’am, we surely will.”

We finished our meal in relative silence, having never revisited the subject of her former tag-team partner. Still, thoughts of Big Jake Brody and his potentially traumatized clan resonated.

Back on the road, I searched the dial and found a suitable FM station that alternated classic rock and present-day pop, the former more my style and the latter Amelia’s—logical since she was the more modern, young pup and my musical tastes had naturally aged. Fittingly, any potential leftover details of the tales of rumor control segments weren’t revisited. Like any quality friendship still in the building stages, you moved on, feeling your way and blindly groping for new, as-of-yet uncovered subjects and past experiences to share. Between us, I somehow knew this unique opportunity to bond wasn’t just some random one-off. I hoped she felt the same.

Time and time shared would tell how far things progressed in the aftermath, once we got back on home turf and schedules differed. Would we, well, more like would she, feel the urge to move forward?

The night ahead, and hotel stay, was just the next chapter of the unwritten book essentially being written in real time.

Little did either of us know at the time how soon our burgeoning relationship was to be tested on, not just an emotional, but downright visceral level.

Arkansas loomed in what was supposed to be nothing more than a typical sideshow junket of harmless, uneventful PR for the federation.

It was professional wrestling after all. Family entertainment. Wave at the crowd, show ‘em a few moves. Sign a few autographs (mostly the kids). What could possibly go wrong?

As it turned out, far too many things to count when suffering the effects of a full-blown concussion.