Penultimate

I can hear Joey Garcia trying his best to overshout the fans, but it’s practically impossible at this juncture. “Your winners of this match by pinfall… CAAAAAALEDONIA… and EMM.. JAY… FLAIR!” 

My music plays for about thirty seconds as Caledonia and I hug and raise each other’s hands, and we depart the ring on opposite sides to play to the crowd on the way back. 

There’s trust, and there’s respect, but at the end of the day we’re rivals preparing for a showdown against each other at the biggest show of the year, and we need to ensure we maintain our distinct identities. 

I see one fan, clapping like crazy, looking like there’s tears in his eyes. As I approach, I notice his vintage Smokin’ Aces T-shirt, and I suddenly remember what I wanted to do, twenty minutes ago.

“Hey,” I say to him, locking eyes. On the video wall, the rest of the fans are entranced by Danny B showing up backstage. Not this kid, though: he’s looking right at me, with his camera out. 

“This one' s for you, buddy,” I tell him, reaching into my back pocket and withdrawing four playing cards and a lighter, “and for Duce.” 

To a decently energetic pop from the people closest to us, I light the four playing cards - Aces, all - and hold them in front of my face while they burn, for as long as I can. 

Smokin’ Aces, indeed.

According to the board, as well as my internal chronometer, I need to be backstage in about 90 seconds, max, for Esmeralda and Taylor. They don’t deserve to lose time because I’m schmoozing with my hometown crowd. Caledonia gets it - she’s almost all the way up the ramp. I have to hustle, but I’m there before the backstage timekeeper can yell at me. Although he’s showing me that I made it with four seconds to spare as a referee literally passes me on the way out. 

Caledonia walks off with Dan, and I’m momentarily feeling the ache of loneliness. Two more shows, I remind myself. I can make it two more shows. 

Far down the hallway, I see Wade Moor pacing, hands on hips. I know that look. I’ve seen that look before when I was a kid. It’s the look of a twenty year veteran who’s being forced to question everything he knows about professional wrestling. I’m a twenty three year old second generation child of a legend; every bit of logic in this man’s mind says that should’ve been a warmup match for him. 

And it wasn’t. 

Older people sometimes lose the ability to adapt with new information. My dad has never owned a cell phone or a computer. I hope Wade can adapt to the new reality. 

Our eyes meet. I give a nod. He returns it. I interpret it as “Fair play, kiddo. This round’s yours. Next one’s mine.”

I can disagree with someone and call them an asshole, and still have professional respect. 

People have scattered. There’s still a live, televised event happening and I do my best to get out of the way. It’s amazing to me how deeply ingrained some things remain in my DNA: Yes, Mariella - you’re allowed to be here and see what everyone’s doing, but you need to make sure you’re not underfoot, so they can do it. 

“Good work, MJ,” says Joseph, one of the techs. He hands me my phone and a bottle of water, and I nod my appreciation. 

“Thanks, Joe,” I reply, “How’s the building feeling tonight?”

He looks around, and shrugs. “She’s cranky, but holding up. Check your messages, you beeped four times during your match.” 

I give his shoulder a reassuring squeeze as I walk towards the locker rooms, phone and beverage in hand. Free tip for all aspiring professional wrestlers - or live entertainers of any kind - make friends with the techies. Not only are they genuinely fascinating people, but they’re typically who you’ll need to talk to for pretty much anything in an arena. 

Messages… Kevin, telling me he loves me. Elisabeth wants to get together next week… did I even tell them that I was going on tour? Shit. 

My apartment, my hangouts, my friends back home… they’re my lifeline. I can’t forget to tend to those relationships. 

Cally texted me to ask me why I didn’t tell her I was in town, and then texts me again to apologize for forgetting. I love you, girlypop, but I think I need to unplug. I’ll catch up with her after last call. 

I take the long way back to the locker room. I want Caledonia to be in, out, and gone by the time I get there; I’m not in the mood to be Emm Jay Eff anymore tonight. 

---

My wish was granted: Cali wasn’t around anymore when I got back to the locker room, and none of the other ladies and I have any real relationship to speak of, so we didn’t have to contend with anything more serious than a smile and a nod. I’m sure they’re lovely people, but we just don’t have anything in common. Except Esmeralda. She’s built like Jack Skellington and I’m pretty sure she’s connected. I don’t think we’d even be able to exchange a friendly word if forced. 

The weather is unforgiving, and I, of course, packed a blazer. I think I can skip that tonight. I finish braiding my hair - I’m sure I’ll regret locking the dampness in when I try to go to sleep later, but I needed to get it off my neck - and check the length of my skirt in the mirror. 

Good. It’s not riding up when I walk. I really, really really didn’t want to have to put long pants back on today. 

The beauty of having a place to crash in the city is that I didn’t have to bring anything with me but gear and a change of clothes. The gear safely sealed inside a plastic bag so I don’t have to smell the obscenity of unwashed athletic equipment, I can wander the streets freely with nothing more than a moderately sized bag over my shoulder. 

Where to… Definitely Maybe is just around the block, but the World Cup is going to crowd the place. 

District Tap House is on 38th? Decent meal as well. 

I pull my phone out of my front pocket and quickly send a text to Cally, letting her know I’m getting some food downtown and will see her at TC’s after close. 

“Dude, that was amazing.”

“Best. Seats. Ever.”

I’m slowed, then stopped, by two familiar voices. At the corner of 35th and 8th, I look to my left to see those two superfans. Bobby? William? They’re apparently waiting by the back entrance to get some autographs. 

“Hey guys,” I call out, “You have a good time?”

Two heads, four eyes as big as dinner plates turn towards me. 

“Holy shit.”

“No way. Not again.”

I walk over to them and offer a handshake, which they both accept. 

“Thank you again, so much, for the tickets, Miss Flair.”

“MJ, please,” I tell them, “I’m never gonna be a ‘miss’ anything.” 

Bobby smiles. “Got it, MJ.”

I look at the loading dock. “So, listen… you’re waiting for some autographs, right?”

They look at each other, they don’t want to answer. Like I’ll think less of fans for wanting to act like fans. 

“Sorry to say, pretty much everyone leaves Hammerstein from the front door.”

Crestfallen, Will smacks Bobby on the arm. “I told you we needed to cover the whole building! But no, you said they’d leave out the back.”

“Hey!” I call out, startling both of them, “Most buildings, that’s a good plan. But here?”

I point at the back of the building. 

“We work Hammerstein, we either go out the front because it’s a full block closer to Penn Station, or through the hotel because there’s more privacy. And anyone staying the night usually stays right there at the New Yorker.” 

“Damn it,” says Bobby. 

“Well, thanks for letting us know,” says Will, “At least we got in to see the show, and we got that cool Marielledonia moment this afternoon.”

I smile. “Yeah, no problem. Have a good night, fellas.” 

I’m not two steps away before my brain catches up to me and I turn around again. “So, I’m not really doing much of anything right now, just going to get something to eat. You guys wanna join me?”

They look at each other for a second. Bobby shrugs. Will slaps his arm again. I hear him say “don’t blow this, idiot,” to his buddy, before turning and telling me “Absolutely!” before joining me on the sidewalk. 

“Glorious,” I tell them, “You locals?”

“Practically,” says Will, “I’m from north Jersey, and he’s from Delaware.”

“Uh huh,” I reply, internally laughing, smiling, screaming, “Listen, we’re going to the District Tap House, that’s three blocks up and one block over. West 38th on the other side of 8th. I subway walk, so I just wanted you to know in case I lose you.”

As I turn and walk, consciously forcing myself to stay in sight instead of weaving between the people like my body is screaming to do, I can’t help but smile again. 

I can hear both my parents telling me the same thing. Well done, MJ. You’ve remembered what matters.

---

“Hey guys, my name is Mindy and I’ll be taking care of you tonight,” says the server, with a smile, “What can I get started for you?”

 

“Hi Mindy,” I say, with a smile, “I’ll do a cherry bourbon smash.” 

“Excellent,” she says, “And you?” 

My compatriots look nervous as they look at the menu. “Uhm. Budweiser will be fine,” says Bobby. Will nods his agreement. 

“No,” I reply, taking the menus from them, “We’re not doing that tonight. What do you like? Hoppy? Smooth? Sour?” 

I don’t realize it at the time, but I’m channeling my mom when she’s forcing the boys in the band to make a decision.

“I like a good IPA,” says Bobby. Will nods his head in agreement.

“Make it so,” I ask Mindy, and she departs. 

“I don’t want to be presumptuous, MJ,” says Bobby, “but…?”

I look down, he’s got his phone out and prepared to record. For the third time, Will smacks him. “Dude!” 

“What?” asks Bobby, finally hitting him back, “When are we gonna get this opportunity again?”

“It’s cool,” I reply, holding back a laugh just as our drinks are delivered. Bobby presses some buttons and gets the recording started. I sip my drink, more than a little amused. 

“Hello fanatics, it’s Bobby and Will, back again with an exclusive interview with none other than MJ Flair, fresh off her return to professional wrestling, and just weeks before her Main Event encounter with frenemy Caledonia. MJ, thanks for sitting with us today.”

I give a wink and a nod, sipping my drink. “Glad to be here, Bobby.”

“I guess the first question is the obvious one. What have you been up to outside of wrestling, and why are you back now?”

“Why I’m back now? That’s sort of a matter of public record,” I say, “I was asked to be part of Golden Intentions, so I said sure. What started as a nostalgic, ‘feel good’ moment of an old name making a new memory turned into something else when I suddenly realized I’d been in the ring for nearly a half hour and had eliminated twenty percent of the field. The thought of, ‘could I still do this for real?’ wouldn’t go away. Tonight, at least, I proved that I probably can, if I wanted to.”

“And do you want to?” asks Will.

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I answer, truthfully, “Facing off with Caledonia is about something I wasn’t able to accomplish during my Career One Point Oh, and either I overcome that obstacle, or she puts the nail in the coffin of the I’m Better Than You parade and at least I know the truth. But doing this full time?”

I make a face that I hope isn’t an insult to what these guys are hoping to hear.

 “To do that, I would need to dig down for love of this sport that I can’t guarantee is still there.”

in a way that I don’t know that I do anymore.”

“Oh wow,” says Bobby, “that was unexpected, especially after tonight.”

“Yeah, you definitely still have it,” added Will, “the way you took out Wade Moor tonight, he didn’t have a chance–”

“No,” I interrupt, “I wasn’t ‘good’ tonight, I was lucky.”

“I don’t believe that,” says Bobby.

“Watch it again,” I retort, “Wade hit me with that backbreaker and he possibly could’ve scored a quick pin while I was catching my breath. He also could’ve ducked my superkick if he’d moved like half a second faster.”

They start to disagree again, but I shake my head. “Really think about it.”

“Yeah, he was distracted by the fracas in the aisle. Yeah, he was definitely overconfident of himself and Peacock Jerry, and was taking me lightly. He’s not gonna do that again. Actually, I feel sorry for his next opponent.”

We drink in silence for a moment, while the lads regroup. 

“So Wrestlefest is your last match?” asks Bobby. 

“I didn’t say that,” I reply.

“But you did say–”

“–that I don’t know if I have it in me to dig down that deep on a nightly basis. Not that I couldn’t or wouldn’t.”

I pause, trying a different tactic.

“Were you guys fans of my dad?” I ask them. Less sure, I also ask, “are you fans of my mom?”

“Your dad was fucking awesome,” answers Will, “Your mom’s music isn’t really my speed, but it’s pretty good.”

“Speak for yourself,” counters Bobby, “Valerian’s Garden is my jam. I’ve seen them play like eleven times so far.”

He holds up a hand to stifle my response before I can make it. “Actually, I remember seeing you at the Arts Center maybe two years ago this summer, working the stage. That was an amazing gig.”

“You remember that?” I ask him. Any time I would visit my mom during one of her tours, I would inevitably end up working the stage as a guitar tech. I have a great ear for tuning and could fix a guitar in like ten seconds flat, so my presence was always welcomed. 

“You looked really happy,” he continues. 

And he’s not wrong: my mom is a natural showman. I don’t think I am, but I love the notion that I can help her do better, or at least do what she already does, only more efficiently. 

“My parents do, or did, what they did because the audience deserved to get their money’s worth. My dad left gallons of blood in arenas, my mom’s clothes are so soaked with sweat after she plays she can refill water bottles. It’s pretty gross. But the point is that they give a hundred percent for every member of the audience, and if I can’t guarantee a hundred percent…”

“Y’all deserve better than ninety nine percent.”

It’s a fair statement. My thoughts existing anywhere but the next match, the next opponent, the next challenge… then I’m stealing from the audience.

“Okay, last question,” says Bobby, “What can we expect to see from MJ Flair vs Caledonia at Wrestlefest?”

I smile again. “The single greatest wrestling match you’ve seen this decade.”