The following is an excerpt from The Best at Being the Worst.
October began with a Lucha Libre Live! three-day weekend on the 6th at an industrial section warehouse in Brooklyn. The first two nights were promoted by Marco under our banner, the third by Carlos. Night one’s draw was huge, headlined by Rayo de Jalisco Jr., Tinieblas Jr., and Mascara Sagrada Jr., with Alushe, against Canek Jr., Espectro Jr. II, and Cien Caras Jr. Carlos was excitable. Whenever we were together, I never went long without hearing him squeak in his thick, almost musical accent, “Krees! Krees!” You never knew when Carlos would appear at a random indie, and waddle backstage uninvited to tell me about who he saw and wanted to bring in. I loved talking shop, but needed a break. I went to the restroom, and Carlos saddled up next to me at the urinal to continue chatting. Carlos said he was a luchador and had a tape working with Eddie Guerrero. None of us believed him, but I’ve seen it. He worked for Los Angeles lucha promotion WIN, losing to Eddie and his brother Mando on TV in ‘89.
The second night was a sparsely filled nightclub in the middle of nowhere, Newburgh, New York. Lucha incorporates a lot of comedy, and I was accustomed to becoming involved. We did a spot where the tecnicos feinted a tope onto a group of rudos ringside. The closest rudo ducks to hide, and is smacked on the back by the tecnico. Enraged and embarrassed, he chops his partner, who chops the next compadre, who chops me. Unfortunately, Tinieblas Jr. was last in line, and built like a redwood. He chopped the dogshit out of me, dislocating one of my ribs, and somehow causing my belt to explode on impact. My out-of-place rib was discovered, and put in place the next day, by Icarus. Carlos had a ring in Norristown, but Marco rented from the promoter of Fight the World Wrestling in Queens. His name was Earl Cooter, and he deserved it. Studies suggest one in five can detect the odor of an ant, including me. I know an insect when I smell one. A year prior, following the New York State Athletic Commission run-in, Earl proved he was as stupid as his name sounded and face looked. He was mad about rule changes cracking down on promoters renting licenses, a significant chunk of his income, and now required ambulances to be on standby, a costly fee. Instead of taking it out on them, he set a novel precedent of blaming the Jew. He sucked the commission’s ass, claiming they would only stop the match for a good reason, and I protested just because it happened to my girlfriend. Because of my grandstanding, they instituted new rules to punish innocent promoters like him.
The problem with this interpretation was that the Commission’s website announced these changes months before our entanglement. Despite being in his mid-thirties, he resorted to high school bully tactics, telling me to stand on a stack of books when speaking to him. I told Earl to take his bootlicking, mediocre ass elsewhere. Cooter blocked me and shot dirty looks from across the building, but never said a word. Leaving the venue later that night, he spoke to me in person for the first time: “Hey, faggot!”
I was being followed, suddenly surrounded by four men in the parking lot under a lone streetlight, cornered by Cooter and his ring crew. I thought, what does the ring crew carry? Screwdrivers, pipes — anything long, metal, and sturdy enough to wrench between turnbuckles. And what do people who use “faggot” as a pejorative do to supposed faggots? They beat them to death at night in parking lots with tire irons. We’re in a parking lot at night, they’re the guys with tire irons, and I’m the faggot.
Earl went on an unhinged rant, demanding we fight, and that I hit first: “Even if I lose my eye!” He shrieked, getting down on one knee and dramatically pointing to his eyeball. “I wouldn’t call the cops! Because I’m not a fucking faggot pussy like you.” His boys said nothing, only stared. I knew I was in danger, but wasn’t sure what to do. My body or subconscious took over, and I laughed. Directly in his face. Not a nervous chuckle. He was so over the top that, the more he raved, the louder I howled. Dumbstruck, he furiously alleged: “You’re just trying to make me uncomfortable! Like when you use your big words I can’t understand.”
I was stunned. It was too stupid for anyone to fabricate. In his fit of rage, he had accidentally told the truth. Whoops. I only laughed harder. He looked around uncomfortably at his posse, unsure what to do. He stomped around, yelling a bit before impotently skulking off, his crew silently following. I got in the car, heart pounding, and drove three hours home in silent contemplation of my narrow escape.
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