Have a Nice Day (25 page)

For a few weeks, WCW went ahead without a lead booker. When I found out who the new booker was, I was wishing Flair had never left, Columbus dressing room incident or not. Ole Anderson was a wrestling traditionalist who hadn’t shown a whole lot of enthusiasm for my character or my style since I met him. Ole had just retired in February and had been around in some capacity since then, I think as a road agent. He had continuously teased me-usually about my ass, and even compared it to the McGuire twins, which was a little ridiculous, because the twins weighed over six hundred pounds each. Now that I think of it, for such a tough guy, Ole sure did spend a lot of time talking about my ass. Hmm.

I felt like I knew that my days were numbered, so I decided to have a talk with Ole. To his credit, Ole talked to me for a long time and did have some noteworthy points. Among them was an analogy to war atrocities, which I have since learned is one of his favorites.

“Goddamn,” Ole began, “there’s a guy walking around a war-torn country, and he comes across a girl who’s been killed by a bomb. The guy drops to his knees and goddamn, he cries that it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen. ‘Oh my God, it’s terrible. Look at that poor little girl. I can’t go on.’ When the guy gets up, he walks a few steps and sees five kids who have also been killed and burned by a bomb. Oh God, this is really bad, he thinks, but gets up and walks until he sees ten girls who have been killed and says, ‘What a shame,’ as he walks by. By the time he gets to a hundred children who have been bombed and killed, he doesn’t even slow down to look. He just doesn’t care anymore.”

I understood Ole’s point, but he wasn’t quite through yet. “You see, kid, the marquee says wrestling,” he grumbled. “That’s what we’re going to give them. If people wanted to see your goddamn trampoline act, they would buy a ticket to see Cathy Rigby.” He also said a bunch of things that started with, “Back in my day,” and by the end of our talk, I could pretty much see the writing on the wall. Still, I hung around for a little while, simply because of the money.

A few weeks later, I had talks with Kevin Sullivan, Jim Cornette, and Jim Ross, and then gave Ole my one month’s notice. He didn’t exactly beg me to reconsider.

I finished up on June 10 in Hollywood, Florida, and flew home the next day feeling like I could take on the world. My name had gotten around to several independent promoters, and I already had several bookings lined up. I was ready to enter into the next phase of my career.

One of my first independent matches after my WCW exit was for my first wrestling boss, Tommy Dee. I would go on to work quite a bit for Tommy over the next thirteen months, and always worked half price in appreciation for the help he had given me years earlier. I had set a somewhat ambitious price for myself of $250 but would work for Tommy for a cool $125. Obviously it would be impossible to match the $1,500 a week I had been pulling down in WCW, but I looked at my independent dates as a long-term investment in myself. The show was to be held on July 7 at the Riverhead Raceway in eastern Long Island, about thirty miles from my house. Because of my close proximity to the venue, I agreed to hand out flyers at the races on the previous Saturday afternoon, to help build up the matches that were set for six days later.

It was a beautiful summer afternoon at the races, and the smell of burning rubber brought back memories of when my parents used to take me to the Commack Motor Speedway when I was a kid. I was strolling about the grounds handing out flyers and was pleasantly surprised at the recognition I was receiving, when all of a sudden I saw it. A beautiful, thin waist, with a shirt that revealed just an inch or two of skin. Around the waist there was a distinctive, if somewhat S&M-ish-looking belt that I couldn’t take my eyes off. I couldn’t even see her face, but nonetheless felt like I had to meet her. She later would say she could feel me watching her, even though she could not see me.

I thought over my options. I could simply walk up and introduce myself, but that would take a certain amount of guts, and I knew that it was out of the question. Instead, I saw a husband/wife team of truck drivers who had said hello earlier, and asked if they knew who she was. “No,” one replied, “but would you like me to find out?” A minute later, they came back with good news. “Her name is Colette and she said she’d be happy to meet you.”

Now I had a little more confidence, and I walked over and said, “Hello.”

“Hello, I’m Colette Christie. How did you get the name Captain Jack?” Uh oh, an incorrect name right off the bat. For a moment, I had flashbacks to Cortland State, but then realized that this was actually a good thing. She didn’t know who the hell I was, so there was no way that she could be digging me for my very small amount of fame. Then again, I wasn’t so sure she was digging me anyway.

“Actually, it’s Cactus Jack,” I corrected her, “and it’s a wrestling name.”

“Oh, that sounds like fun,” she said, smiling. “I went to wrestling matches at Madison Square Garden about five years ago. Have you ever wrestled there?”

“No,” I had to admit, “I haven’t yet.”

Her next question was kind of a buzz killer. “Where do you wrestle?”

“Well, next week, I’m wrestling here at the Raceway. Would you like to go?” She laughed a little bit at the thought of wrestling in such a place, and I tried to cover myself by blurting out, “I usually wrestle in nice places.”

She smiled and told me what seemed to be a sure blow-off. “Look, I’m just visiting my aunt and uncle here. I don’t have a car and I could only go if they come with me.”

Then I saw Tommy Dee out of the corner of my eye pointing to his watch, and I knew that it was time for my big racecar angle. I felt like I had ruined my chances already, but I decided to throw out my best line anyway. “Can I have your phone number?” I asked with about zero confidence in my voice.

“I don’t like to give out my number,” she replied. “Especially because I’m at my aunt and uncle’s house. You can give me yours if you like.” I wrote down the number and headed off to the racetrack, doubting that I would ever see her again.

When I got to the racetrack, about ten drivers were letting their engines softly idle to prepare for the next race. The public address announcer put his arm around me and said, “Ladies and gentleman, we have a special guest here today-Cactus Jack from the world of professional wrestling.” Mild applause. “Cactus, we would all just like to know how you’re enjoying the great town of Riverhead and the great sport of auto racing.”

I tried to forget about my flop with the S&M chick and got ready to rip off the Funker. “Thank you very much for your support,” I began. “You know, I’m really enjoying my time here in Riverhead. It’s a beautiful town, and the people have been so nice to me since I’ve been here.” Respectful applause. “But please, don’t insult my intelligence by calling this stuff you do out here a sport, or by calling these guys athletes.”

All of a sudden, the engines started revving in response to my cheap shot at their sport. One of the drivers, a big 230-ish kid named Eddie Dembrowski actually got out of his car and approached me. As his name might imply, Eddie was Polish, as was most of the town. The place was crawling with people who had “ski” at the ends of their names. “Hey,” Dembrowski yelled, “we go out here and risk our lives every week. How can you come out here and say that we’re not athletes?”

I really felt that this was going really well, and had especially high hopes for my next words, which were straight from Terry Funk in the horrible wrestling movie I Like to Hurt People. “Look,” I snarled at Eddie, “I’m going to say this once, and because I know you’re Polish, I’m going to say it real slow.” This was great. The engines were revving and people were booing, and Eddie looked so nervous I thought he was going to pass out. “In ancient times, there were only three real sports. Ancient man either ran for his life, swam for his life, or did what I do, and fought for his life. One thing that I can guarantee you that primitive man did not do is get in his car and drive away.”

With that, Eddie gave me a shove and I shoved him back. Racing security jumped in and held Eddie back, and when they did, I jumped him from behind, slammed his head into the hood, and then rolled him up onto his own hood, at which point I piledrove him. Fans were actually trying to climb over the fence to get to the infield, and other drivers, who had no idea that I was just trying to promote the show, tried to get at me. It really was a wild scene that ended with me being taken off in a wire mesh paddy wagon, as the fans yelled at the dastardly Cactus Jack. As I was being taken away, I thought about the girl I had met, and wondered if she did anything with that belt besides wear it. (Hey, I need to be honest, don’t I?)

Three nights later, I heard the phone ring and picked it up to hear a voice saying, “Hello, is Jack there?”

“Which Jack are you looking for,” I inquired, as, after all, my dad was the only real Jack in the house. “Cactus Jack,” the female voice answered.

“This is Cactus.”

“Hi, I’m Colette Christie,” she said, “the girl you met at the racetrack.” Moments later, I was securing my first real date in a very long time.

On Thursday, the night before my big match at the raceway, I was spiffing myself up for my big night out, and my mother walked in, slightly confused by the sight of her son applying cologne for the first time in recent memory. “Where are you going tonight, Mick,” she questioned, “out with your friends?”

“Mom,” I shot back with enthusiasm, “I have a date tonight with the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

My mom looked at me and quickly asked, “No, really, Mick, where are you going?” When I left the house five minutes later, I still don’t think she was convinced that I even knew a beautiful girl, let alone was going out with one.

Colette’s aunt lived an hour away, so I had plenty of time to think of all the cool things I was going to say. When I got there, I realized almost instantly that I wasn’t going to need any help in saying anything, because we connected instantly.

Being boring, or, more accurately, having nothing to say, had been a longtime fear of mine-a compulsion almost, which unfortunately led to avoiding conversation with strangers whenever possible. I even feared one-on-one conversation with all but my closest friends. With them, I could be myself-with everyone else, in a one-on-one situation, I was always petrified. As a result, I remember wearing headphones and keeping my head down when I walked back from classes at Cortland, just hoping that I wouldn’t run into someone I knew only moderately well.

I solved that problem with Colette by instantly becoming friends with her. As soon as she hopped into my black 1984 Chrysler LeBaron convertible, which had replaced the Arrow I had abandoned on the side of the road in Pennsylvania, I was not shy about hitting her with my stupid puns and dorky jokes. She responded by actually laughing, even though once in a while, she’d have to stop and ask, “Is that a joke?” As we drove to an unknown location, she fumbled with the radio, and when she started singing along with a country song, I felt like I might be falling in love. After all, a girl who was born in Queens, and who had grown up in Manhattan, actually singing country music was something I had never even considered. I remembered back to a time when I was eighteen and had two tickets to the Willie Nelson picnic at Giants Stadium, and had to give them to my parents because I could not find one person, male or female, who wanted to go with me. Then again, maybe it wasn’t the country music that was the turnoff; maybe it was me.

We finally ended up in a small bar in Rockville Center, right across from the office building where the Apter wrestling magazines are published. I fed the jukebox with quarters and got to know Colette a little bit while “Tweeter and the Monkeyman” by the Traveling Wilburys played. Colette explained that she had been a model for a long time, but that at twenty-nine, she was now too old for the business. Her father, with whom she’d been very close, had died a few months earlier, and Colette had been so distraught that she’d been unable to work. As a result, she was planning on going to live with her mother in Florida. She was staying with her aunt and uncle just long enough to get her things, and then she would be Sunshine State-bound. We decided that we could at least have some fun until she left, and that maybe I could stop by and visit her in Florida sometime if I was in town for a match.

I think, however, that I may have been too charming for my own good, especially singing all the words to “Forever in Blue Jeans” by Neil Diamond. I firmly believe that when you find a girl that you feel strong enough to sing Neil Diamond in front of-especially on the first date-well, man, you’ve got to hold on to that girl. By the way, do you know who else who knows all the words to “Forever in Blue Jeans”? The tattooed toughguy wrestler Mideon.

By the time I got back to Colette’s aunt’s house, I had already confessed to actually being named Mick and not Jack. After all, I didn’t want to have to put on my act around this girl-I wanted the freedom and honestly of being my own dorky self. She invited me in for tea, and I accepted, being the tea-loving son of a bitch that I am. It was there that I met Confusion, Colette’s Shetland sheepdog of ten years, and spotted a book with Colette’s picture on it that I asked if I could see. It turned out to be Colette’s modeling portfolio.

Now, I feel like I need to admit right here that I had certain doubts about the validity of Colette’s alleged modeling career. Sure, I thought she was beautiful, but I’d met a lot of girls who said they modeled, and at most it turned out to be a few head shots and a local underwear ad. Hell, even the Godfather’s Hoes consider what they do to be modeling. Instead, I was blown away by what I saw. Real pictures, real ads. Revlon, Avon, Tropical Blond, Maidenform, book covers. This was impressive. This wasn’t someone claiming to be a Guess Jeans model-this was a real model. Next I turned the page and saw a two page layout that nearly knocked me for a loop. “I know that ad,” I yelled, “but what is it?”

“That’s a campaign I did for Burlington Leggs,” she replied, either being completely modest, or trying to sound modest, like I do when I tell stories about my matches in Japan.