Hump Day Story #8 - White Magic

Hey everyone - Thanks for reading the stories, and I appreciate any and all of the feedback I've been getting. Here's a particularly mortifying one that in all honesty, I am so ashamed of that I just want to get it out of the way early in the year. Also - if you are in NYC next Wednesday, the Nights of Our Lives is at the UCB Theater at 9:30 PM - it's a storytelling show, and next week's is our "best of" show, so it will be a good one. Ok, sorry for the plug. On to the shame. - Chris

White Magic

I am not a parent. But recently, a number of my friends have had babies. And it’s made me think about what my priorities will be when I am a father.

The first priority I have defined is that when it comes time to do so, I will find out what my children’s dreams are, and I will crush those dreams without mercy or remorse.

If someone had done this for me, I may have been spared what quite possibly was the most embarrassing experience I have ever had.

Growing up, I was interested in professional wrestling first, and then everything else. There was absolutely nothing in my mind that was as important as following professional wrestling. I was about five years old when the “Rock and Wrestling” era of the WWF began, which made Hulk Hogan a household name, and dozens of other wrestlers idols of mine. My brother and I spent every Saturday afternoon watching WWF’s Wrestling Superstars on channel five. Every Sunday from noon to one was spent watching WWF’s All-American Wrestling on the USA network. When Saturday Night’s main event was on late night on channel five, we watched it. If we found a friend who was getting one of the pay per views, we begged them to let us come over and watch it (our parents never had a cable box that would allow us to order one, nor did they want to spend the money on what they viewed as idiocy.) And if we didn’t see it ourselves, we sure as hell found out the results as quickly as possible the night of the event.
When we discovered the more adult WCW/NWA, we began idolizing Ric Flair, Terry Funk, Cactus Jack, and a myriad of other pros who put their bodies on the line, and who created poorly acted out storylines around their rivalries. When my brother got older, he went to college in Philadelphia, and it is no exaggeration to say that part of this decision was based on how he wanted to see an ECW card live, and they were based out of the City of Brotherly Love.

Most of all, my brother and I wanted to be pro wrestlers. We spent countless hours in our basement and our backyard; pretend fighting each other while giving our own running commentary on how our matches were going. Oftentimes, these matches would get too intense and turn into real fistfights. The only bone I have ever broken is my left collarbone, which was broken by a flying knee delivered by Gregg, after I gave him a “Stinger Splash” that was too hard for his liking. Well into college, Gregg often pretended to be a bad guy wrestling character named “Downtown” Daryl Keegan for the amusement of his friends. It would be fair to say that if either Gregg or I had achieved our dreams, both of us would be involved in the world of professional wrestling in some capacity right now.

I had one night where that dream was reached. I had one night where I was one of “the boys,” out there in the spotlight, out there in the squared circle. I had one night where I was White Magic.

One night, during my freshman year of college, the phone in my dorm room rang. It was an old friend of mine from my hometown, Eddie. Eddie was always kind of a weird guy. He was a huge wrestling fan as well, and we’d often wrestle in his backyard. He would videotape the matches and edit together tapes, but none of us would ever see them. Years later, he was arrested for being part of an international child pornography ring.

But this was before all that. At the time of our story, to me Eddie was just a quirky nerdy dude who I grew up with. He got me on the phone and made me an offer that would literally make all of my childhood dreams come true.

“Dude, did I tell you I train at Gino Caruso’s wrestling school?” he asked. I had heard something about it.

“Yeah, I heard something about that,” I told him. I had been surprised when Eddie had done this. He was about 145 pounds soaking wet and not the most athletic guy in the world.

“I was a terrible wrestler,” he confided in me, “but I made a lot of connections.”

He paused, very dramatically.

“One of those connections is an agoraphobic man named Carmine,” he said. It was literally the last thing I was expecting him to say.

“Like he’s scared to leave his house?”

“Yeah. But he’s got boatloads of money,” Eddie said. “Carmine is the owner of Stars and Stripes Championship Wrestling. He made me the promoter. I want you to come be a manager on our next card.”

Eddie knew from growing up that I was always trying to be funny, and was always quick with a joke. He further knew that in high school and into college, I had gotten into acting and comedy. He had told his agoraphobic friend about me, and those bare bones efforts into acting (which at that point consisted mostly of having played Moonface Martin in a high school production of Anything Goes), were enough to convince the agoraphobic to grant me a job interview. It would, due to his intense fear of the world beyond his front door, be conducted over the phone. Eddie told me to come up with a character and to be ready to put it on display, vocally, during a three way phone call the next night.

I stayed up all night racking my brain, coming up with a character. All I knew was that I would definitely be a bad guy. I cycled through a few choices, and decided to go with a character named “White Magic.”

My idea was to play a pimp, in the style of the WWF’s then hot Godfather character. But, the level of hatred towards me would be heightened since I would be acting like a pimp, but at that point in my life I weighed about 135 pounds. Just like at this point in my life, I was incredibly pale, had huge glasses and a bad haircut, and was in no way smooth enough to be a pimp.

When the call came, I explained my physical appearance to Carmine. He took a breath, and I realized he was imagining what I looked like, as he had to do with all people who didn’t live in his house with him. Then, we launched into a roleplay that, in retrospect, is one of the strangest things I’ve ever participated in.

Carmine gave me no warning before shouting into the phone. “WHITE MAGIC! You sorry son of a bitch. Where do you get off coming ‘round these parts?”

I was thrown, but recovered and dove into character. “White Magic come ‘round any parts he wants. Cause I got ho’s in ALL THE ZIP CODES!”

“Well you need to step off – cause around here, nobody messes with me.”

“Nobody messes with you? I mess with who I want. Yo momma. Yo momma’s momma. Even yo baby daughta if I feel like it. I’m White Magic baby – casting pimp spells and raising pimp hell.”

I know that this reveals a side of my personality that is beyond completely pathetic. Also, looking back on it, I pray that the line about having my way with someone’s baby daughter didn’t plant a seed in Eddie’s mind that eventually resulted in his aforementioned arrest as part of an international kiddie porn ring.

My improvisations were enough to have me hired. I was told of an event taking place that Saturday in an auditorium at Seton Hall University in South Orange, New Jersey. I would be managing a man named Vicious Vin, who was having his first match ever. He would be wrestling against a mid-level local indie wrestler named Flash Wheeler, who had been around for a while. I had a few days to get an outfit together, and to come up with a routine that would get the crowd to hate me.
I happened to have a top hat that I previously wore to my junior prom (I was that hilarious) in my room. My friend Andy, who lived across the hall, had a Hugh Hefner style smoking jacket. Down the hall lived my good friend John, a fellow wrestling fanatic and a graphic designer. He designed and made me a shirt that read “White Magic.” Inside the pocket of the shirt I pinned two Philly Blunt cigars. The master touch was a hand-crafted mahogany cane from Italy. I was fired up, I was dressed correctly. Simply put, I was ready.

On the day of the event, a handful of people came. My brother. My girlfriend, Theresa. The aforementioned John, as well as his girlfriend. A few other college buddies, and some old wrestling fan pals from high school. All of them were there in outright support, knowing how much this evening meant to me.

I got there early, and Eddie directed me to the back room. Actually, it wasn’t a room. It was a corner of the auditorium partitioned off with a large free standing wall and a number of attached curtains. There, I met “the boys.” There were some wrestlers on the card I had been watching for years. The massive, bald-headed King Kong Bundy, a villain I had watched since my youth, sat in one corner. Marty Jannetty, of the Rockers, came in, rehabbing an injury on his way back to WCW. The Iron Sheik came in a few minutes after him – he was strangely already wearing his curly-cue toed boots when he got there. ECW wrestler Skull Von Krush, whose gimmick was that he was a legitimate neo-Nazi, sat talking with Ring of Honor standout Loki off to one side. WWF up and comer “Dangerous” Devon Storm changed directly in front of me. He has a tiny dick, but enormous balls.

Flash, Vicious Vin, and I were pulled aside by Eddie and given our booking. Since it was Vin’s match, Flash would largely carry him. However, due to a storyline the league was trying to develop, it was necessary for Vin to ultimately win. Since Vin was clearly less skilled and experienced than Flash, it would be necessary for me to get involved. When Flash signaled me by waving his finger in a circle in the air, he would run against the ropes. I would jump onto the ring apron and hit him over the head with my cane. He would go down, and Vin would get the pin.

As soon as this meeting broke, Flash Wheeler pulled me aside.

“I don’t know what you’re doing here,” he said, staring me dead in the eye. “You have no training. You’ve put no time in to deserve being here.” He paused to make sure I was paying attention. Needless to say, I was.

“And if you hit me with that cane the wrong way and injure me, I am going to fuck you up.”

He then walked away, shaking his head. And I was terrified. Then, we got called out. It was our time to go out to the ring.

I came strutting out with my top hat and cane, and it worked wonderfully. The mere sight of a nerdy kid acting that way drew immediate ire from the angry mob. Here, I snapped out of my Flash Wheeler induced fear and came to life. Insulting white trash wrestling fans from northern New Jersey came naturally to me – as naturally as anything ever has.
One man, sitting with his family, shouted at me. Something about me not being a pimp, because I could clearly never get a girl. I turned around and laced into him with no hesitation.

“Why don’t you shut up, old man?” Then I leaned right in his face and shouted as loud as I can. “So I don’t have to slap you in the mouth in front of your daughter?” The crowd loudly jeered me.

Another guy stepped up and pointed at me. Just as he was about to yell something, I cut him off.

“Old man,” I said, in a tone loud enough to get him to freeze in his tracks, “Sit the fuck down before I come over there and smack those last two hairs off your ugly bald head.”

The crowd booed, but at this point in a way that I recognized as them appreciating me being quick on my feet. The verbal sparring continued as I strutted around the ring, yelling things at people over the top rope. When the bell rang, I rolled out under the ropes and continued jawing with spectators as the match started.

I found myself getting genuinely panicky. All I could think about were Flash Wheeler’s words of warning. I was getting cold sweats as I realized that he was completely correct. I had no right to be there. And my lack of training could hurt him. At which point, I’d be in some serious shit.

Eventually, the signal came. His finger waved, and I saw it.

But I froze.

He bounced off the ropes, and nothing happened. He ran back in the other direction, and Vicious Vin made eye contact with me, making a distinct “What the fuck are you doing?” face. Flash bounced off the ropes, and awkwardly came back in my direction, as if a single Irish whip from Vicious Vin was powerful enough to cause him to run back and forth three entire times without being able to stop himself.

I knew I had to fulfill my duties. I jumped up on the ring apron, raised my cane, and hit him.

Softly.

I mean, incredibly softly. Doctors slap babies harder than I hit Flash with my cane. Orchestra conductors tap their music stands with their sticks harder than I hit him. I mean, I’m already a weakling. For me to not put any effort into it was a sham. I basically touched his head with the end of the cane, then jumped off the ring apron.

To his credit, Flash sold the move. He fell down, holding his head, thrashing about as if he was in extreme pain. For a moment, I thought things had turned out alright.

“Maybe people will believe,” I thought to myself, “that my cane has some sort of magical powers. That this cane holds within it superhuman levels of strength, and the cane was powerful, even though I am a weakling, and a visible coward.”

This, needless to say, didn’t happen. The crowd began laughing. I turned around and even my own friends were laughing. My brother was shaking his head at me, and my mortified girlfriend was sadly holding her head in her hands, unable to watch. My mystique as a smart mouthed asshole had been taken away by my pitiful display.

People were shouting things at me again. Just as before, I tried to answer them back, but they just shouted me down, laughing, jeering, pointing at me in scorn. Things went from bad to worse when a group of twelve-year old boys jumped over the railing and ran up to me. They stole my top hat.

“Hey, I need that!” I shouted. My plea was even weaker than my cane shot. The kids laughed and ran away, back into the crowd.

The next thing I knew, someone grabbed my arm. I turned around and saw a large group of wrestlers fighting in the aisle. I remembered that there was supposed to be a brawl in the aisle after our match, for storyline purposes. The man grabbing my arm grabbed it hard, and whipped me back towards the dressing room, hard. I knew just from the physical roughness, that he was mad at how bad I had screwed up the match.

I hit the free standing wall that marked the border of the dressing room. Face first, and hard. So hard, in fact, that it began to wobble back and forth. The entire crowd gasped, and the wrestlers stopped fighting to watch.

It tipped towards me, then away from me, and finally fell, inwards, into the dressing area.

And it almost killed King Kong Bundy. That wall landed less than six inches away from him. I had almost killed the six-foot plus, 300 pound plus wrestling legend.

Everyone inside the room scrambled to get away from the view of the audience. For the crowd to see the good guys and bad guys fraternizing together in the back would ruin the entire mystique of the card. Dangerous Devon Storm ducked down and hid behind his own enormous testicles.

A number of staff ran and began hoisting the wall back up into place. Before it was even fully righted, I ducked behind it. I slumped against a wall and began shaking my head in disgust at myself. I had ruined not just my match, but the entire card. No one would even look at me. Skull Von Krush eventually wandered over. I thought he was going to console me, to tell me everyone makes rookie mistakes.

“You almost killed the great Bundy!” the neo-Nazi shouted inches from my face. “If you had hurt Bundy, we woulda fucked you up. Maybe we still should, huh?”

I tried to protest – “Bundy’s fine! He’s out there wrestling his match right now!” - but to no avail. He was in my face, he was mad, he was not backing down. People were gathering around to watch his verbal slaughtering and physical intimidation. I was being laughed at by a bunch of wrestlers – a bunch I had come into the evening desperately hoping to impress.

Just then, I was saved, deus ex machina style. The fire alarm went off. Everyone ran and started peeking out of the curtains. I didn’t run over. I stayed slumped in the corner.

“It’s Bundy!” someone shouted. “He got slammed. He’s so heavy, it set off the alarm.”

The wrestlers went into a panic. The crowd outside was confused, and started filtering out of the auditorium. I took the opportunity to grab all of my stuff and slip out the back door. I ran over to my car, where my brother and girlfriend were already waiting for me. My girlfriend couldn’t make eye contact with me.

“I grabbed it from those kids,” Gregg said, handing me my top hat before patting me on the back.

We got in the car, and I sped off. I’ve never stepped foot in a professional wrestling ring again. Nor have I spoken with Eddie, ever – he didn’t even call me after the card. My dream of being a manager was crushed that night. His dream of being a promoter was apparently replaced with one of fucking an eleven year old girl. And my future kids’ dreams will someday be crushed similarly, preemptively – so that they may live a less humiliating life than their father.