Who's Wrestling Johnny (Unfinished)
Jamison Talley sat across my desk from me, smoking a It was early, and that was to neither one of our likings, Up to that point—previous tangent aside—we had been However, his mood lightened when I presented that very same Or perhaps it was my thick beard in contrast to the stubble I took for granted that he, too, between drags of his Before I was wise enough to know any better, I had pursued— In this respect, which mattered mostly, I was significantly Now, there is no man who can completely amputate himself “Can you cut that out?” I said. The straw broke the camel's
cigarette in a very pronounced way that always managed to
irritate me. This occasion was no different, but I tried to
ignore it—no small feat if I say so—in order to finish the
matter at hand, whatever it was supposed to have been. It
felt like we were doing something else entirely, but I had
come upon a redistribution of my vices, one so turbulent
that either a more superstitious or realistic man than I
would have taken it as a sign that the world was changing,
and maybe it was, and maybe the mechanisms were automatic in
me that allowed my tidy adaption without the bother of
heeding all else.
really, but I had dealt with the unpleasantness of morning
by rolling two joints and smoking them myself on the way to
the office. My fingers were becoming more trained to the
task, and they were dexterous enough for my own purposes,
although, someone nimbler than I might see my joints and
laugh at their intentional looseness, which, admittedly, was
only intentional by virtue of my inability to keep the paper
snugly wrapped around the finely ground herbs while I licked
the gluey strip and sealed the joint.
discussing plans for the next several months of Talley's
career. Earlier in the conversation, he seemed mournful;
another opportunity had passed him by, and although some of
the blame lay firmly on his shoulders, he was simply bested
by someone much nimbler than he.
opportunity, and though he shouldered responsibility for his
initial failure, he vowed with an unseasoned valor that he
would redeem his prior shortcoming, and though, in response,
I was aware that we were of the same age, roughly, this
renewed cheer made apparent to me that Talley should have
been considerably younger than he was, and I, perhaps,
older. For old men don't change moods so swiftly, if they
have moods at all, and assuming such, it is generally one
mood that remains on the surface, one lonely mood, or two,
or at most three in rare instances, that change slowly
regarding difference in season.
worn by my predecessor's protege—stubbles which my old eyes
were too tired to see. He was a picture of grit, and not
grit itself, assembling himself with all of the readily
obtainable constructs of grit that they hung off him like a
costume; like he was masquerading his grittiest
interpretation of its own concept at a ball or some other
gala event where prizes were awarded for such follies.
cigarette and blatant expungulations of smoke plumages, each
one more fitting to be captured and displayed in plumageries
—had those galleries been designed and duly designated,
which that had not yet been, and thereafter, popularized,
but when I noticed this insignificant blunder, I tried
needlessly to correct it. I thought back a ways to a time
when myself in the present would have estimated that myself
then, that is to say, in the past, to have thought as Talley
might have been thinking, otherwise, not alike by any means.
The exercise would have been completely useless had it not
at least spurred my mind off from where it was caught—
ensnared, rather, in that I considered it rather ensnared
from this vantage point in time, having gained that
courtesy, and allow that having been ensnared of mind, it
would have been impossible, in that state, to discern being
ensnared from being encumbered, and so, by one's own doing
or perhaps another one's will, it is often considered best
not to make any premature declarations describing a current
entrapment, lest they solidify into expectations.
and hungrily—titles and trinkets alike, the figure of
recognition looming, and even now, possessing such wisdom,
pursue still—or at least defend the spoils of said pursuits—
not from hope for figures discovered ghostly or grossly
misrepresented, but from habit and stubborn denial that
other, more suitable options may exist. I believe the
catalyst for such an impediment lies between a man and his
persona. For all men are more or less the same, boring
stubs, always lonely and groping, constantly volunteering to
be the one crucified because of a story about crucifixion
that gained some traction. The man lives, eating and
sleeping and fucking about, on towards death, a vessel for
the persona, a shifting creation that never really existed
despite a collage of contrasting accounts that believe, in
some form or another, that it did. The proper age of a man,
then, if you prefer not to fuzzy everything up with
unreliable numerical measurements, is determinable by how
able he is to cleave himself from his persona. This, a much
bolder task than can be described, I imagine as an escape
from some shadowy mummification where you are neither the
wrap nor the corpse.
beyond Talley, an employee of superstandard importance, that
the disparity, if magnified on a great enough scale, would
be obvious to the nudest of eyes. In truth, it all could
have looked like a smear or a smudge or some obstruction
that covers opaquely an opaque world, as if its very own
existence was a separate and detrimental force rather than
an integral fixture of entirety.
from his persona and no man that can even come close before
he breathes out one last time, but I had constructed mine
fairly completely around myself while the mortar of Talley's
was still wet between the bricks. He took one more ponderous
drag.
back. “I'm trying to quit.”
Who's Wrestling Johnny?
by William G. Cant
***
Night One
If you had asked anybody a year ago what Johnny B. Bagwell-
Gumphries, known to the wrestling world as Garbage Bag
Johnny, would be doing today, chances are, nobody would've
even imagined he'd be at the helm of one of the most
successful promotions in the history of the industry. With
his performances quickly losing spirit and lacking effort,
it was clear that Johnny had some personal demons to battle
outside the ring.
When Johnny came back into focus following a very impressive
runner-up finish in GTT7 (an interpromotional tournament
held in very high regard across competing organizations), I
assumed, as did many, that GBJ's coronation as GCW
commissioner was purely a storyline that would land GBJ back
in active competition. While he has worked several one night
contracts competing in the ring in other promotions, it has
become well publicized that Garbage Bag Johnny's standing in
GCW is the real deal. And somehow, he's getting a lot of
things right.
“Sorry for the wait.” He's shy and awkward in person, but
only because he shows a certain cautiousness around people
he doesn't know very well. He was much more comfortable on
the phone. I watched an hour and a half of muted
infomercials on X:TV as he talked at length with Andy
Murray, probing the Scotsman for a full backstage report of
the show airing.
He offers me something to drink, and I decline. It's late in
the night or early in the morning, depending on how you look
at it, and I want to sleep after a red-eye flight to South
Carolina. He pours himself a drink anyway, whiskey on three-
quarters-melted rocks. He's made a hell of a dent in the
bottle, and he's drunk, even though he doesn't do much to
show it. “Trust me,” he says. “You don't want to see me when
I'm sober.”
It's an image of Garbage Bag Johnny we've all seen before.
Juggling duties across federations is nothing new to Johnny.
At the end of a prolific streak in GCW, Johnny also won the
2009 Dual Halo in PRIME and followed it up with a feud
against two PRIME greats, Jason Snow and Chandler Tsonda,
for the Universal Title. Johnny came up short then, but
since his recent resurgence as GCW Commissioner, Johnny has
contracted himself to the newly reopened AWC to continue his
Transatlantic Title run where it left off at an untelevised
AWC event in late 2007. Johnny was also briefly the PRIME 5
Star Champion, but since our meeting, he dropped the title
at one of their tapings and has no further PRIME appearances
scheduled for the foreseeable future.
Still, his obligations to wrestle for AWC come at a time
when Johnny is most integral to the operations of GCW, and
the signs are apparent that a regular wrestling schedule and
the responsibilities of playing such an executive role in
Global Championship Wrestling are a hefty burden to bear for
Commissioner Garbage Bag.
We make plans to talk more in-depth tomorrow. I ask him if
he's going to get some rest anytime soon, and he says, “I've
still got work to do.”
Can't say he's not dedicated.
I don't know what I was doing there, visiting that man's
grave. I never knew him, and to be honest, I never knew of
him when he was alive, even if I should have, given my line
of work. I'd gone well out of my way to visit the stone, but
travel was travel, and if I wasn't there, I would've been
traveling somewhere else at the time, so there I was, at as
good of a place as any for not much of a reason. With all
the other places I had yet to go, I still had no better
reason to be anywhere else, and there I was, standing over
where they'd buried him some years ago.
Even then, standing above the headstone, I didn't know what
I was doing there, so I looked down and read the name over
again, and I admired the rounded shoulders of the stone
marking the grave, not thinking about the shallow dig to a
box full of bones below me, and all around me, beneath me,
and the next moment, that's all I could think about. There
were bones below me everywhere, and if it wasn't for the
boxes, there would be no way to tell whose bones were whose.
I felt the bones inside me, plotting their great escape, and
I questioned my own mortality. Had I not this body, and
them, their boxes, I wouldn't have been able to tell whose
bones were mine and whose were theirs. I broke into a cold
sweat, fearing that without proper planning, such a skeletal
bonanza might be a reality. I vowed to outfit myself with a
suitable box at my soonest convenience and then contemplated
just getting burnt. There are no bones at all when you get
burnt.
I much disliked the prospect, though. If I couldn't have my
bones, then nobody could, but I wanted my bones, and also, I
felt somewhat of a familiarity with being buried. I took a
deep breath. It didn't help. I took in too much air, and
afterward, couldn't tell if I was taking in any air at all,
and the grim thought hit me that soon I wouldn't have to
worry about such petty things. I was in desperate need of a
cigarette. I cursed myself for not having brought one. It
was an awful idea to have gone there anyway. I read the name
over again. It was still Alexander Strider.
“So this is what happens to heroes, huh?” It was all I could
think to say.
Day One
When I arrive back at Johnny's hotel room, he seems more
refreshed than I am, but all signs suggest that he hasn't
slept at all. He was buzzing around the room, unable to keep
his focus on a certain task or topic for more than a minute
or so before switching to something entirely different.
“You want to see my antique pendulum collection?” He phrases
it like a question, but even before it's punctuated, he's
unzipping a travel case that opens to reveal several manners
of pendulum, secured to the padded interior with a synched
nylon strap. “I've got more at home, hundreds, but it just
wouldn't be practical to take all of them with me.”
I can't tell if he's joking or not, even as he's flashing me
a grin, and as he admires one, he tells me comes from a late
eighteenth century English bracket clock that belonged to
Archduke Somethingorother. He claims to have bought it at an
auction. It cost him six figures. I asked Johnny why
collecting pendulums was so important to him. “It's simple
really,” he tells me. “It makes me feel like I can slow down
time.”
There's a palpable vulnerability in the moment, and it
reveals a lot about the man. The heart of the addict shines
through, and he's addicted to it all, and it's so bad that
he's addicted to way more of it than is physically possible
to take in in the time it takes to take it all, so he's
always withdrawing.
The man himself is addicting, and I feel him start to
influence me. It's slight, but I begin to adopt his
mannerisms, his habits of speech, and most importantly, the
foolishness to believe that he can keep doing it all,
constantly on the road, changing from dress shoes to
wrestling boots and back, barely a thread to keep him from
spinning away completely back into oblivion.
He tells me about the dark times. He knew he pushed himself
too hard and ended up drinking himself out of solid work,
but it was confinement in constant nature that left him
hitting rock bottom. He tells me about climbing back up. He
seems happy on the road, genuinely enjoying skipping across
the country with the folks in the wrestling business.
They're a truer family than he's ever had. I can't help but
feel pity for him. It happens over and over again. He takes
on the road until it wears him down, and he's left with
nobody waiting for him to stop.
I ask him how he knows that he's not going to fall into the
same cycle this time.
“I don't,” he says, blunt as a hammer. “It could all go to
shit tomorrow, and I wouldn't even see it coming.”
His phone rings. He excuses himself--says it's important. I
don't see him for an hour and a half and take that as a cue
to head on back to my hotel room.
It wasn't a spectacular, cinematic hate. No, it was the kind
of everyday hate that near strangers exchange in passing. I
pretended I didn't, but I did, and it wasn't just his
insistence on flaunting how painstakingly British he was,
rambling on about bare-tatted anchorwomen and playing star
wicketkeeper on his cricket team, spots of tea and good on
ya, guvnas. Half the time, I could've sworn he was trying to
make a fool of me, sputtering out gibberish to see if I'd
call his bluff. I showed restraint. It was tremendous
restraint. And then he'd smirk at me like I was some big,
dumb American, cowboy hat and all, screaming YEEHAW at Ol'
Glory like some taunt stolen from dead injuns. Tim Shipley,
the son of a bitch, thought he was smarter than me.
I could've buried him, put him down in the ground so deep
the worms wouldn't bother burrowing for him, but I did him
one worse. I watched as he rose from the muck and climbed
out onto the earth and up towards the sun, those same steps
I'd taken, through a tournament here and a title bout,
there, winding all the way up the mountain. He was just
about at the peak, where I once stood, fists shaking,
screaming at God.
I hated him, as I watched him there from the base, because
even though I knew he was headed for certain peril, part of
me still might trade him places.
I vowed to sit there and keep watching him, for as long as
it took him to get up, and as long as it took him to come
back down. I didn't want to watch him fall. I wanted to
watch him see that at the top, there is nothing to do but
wait, and then a long, hard hike down when waiting loses its
appeal. There is nothing to do but wait for that loss,
knowing that the next time you climb up won't be as
majestic, and the next time you climb down will be even more
arduous until you're just fucking sick of mountains.
Night Two
There's an urgency to his knock, and I hear his voice
calling, slightly muffled, from the other side of the door.
“Let's go for a night out!” It's been about six hours since
he excused himself for the phone call. I've eaten, showered,
shaved, read a newspaper, and ordered an adult movie. I'd
give it a seven. “It's on me!”
Despite his unkempt appearance, he's in a phenomenal mood.
I'm guessing it had something to do with the phone call. He
brushes away my questions, though, and hurries me out the
door. This is at least the second day he's worn this suit.
It reeks of maybe a few more days. Before I know it, we're
in a cab. I barely make it in, he's in such a hurry to get
wherever we're going, and I figure I have him boxed in, and
after three days, there's no better time to ask him about
the rumors that he's retiring from active competition, for
now or for good, for good, but not forever. He confirms
something, but I don't know what it is, whether it's
indefinite or definite, or that it's definitely a rumor.
I can't pull any more out of him, so I switch topics, back
to the six-hour phone call. “It wasn't six hours.” I asked
him, if it didn't take six hours, what he was doing. “Making
plans.”
I press a little harder. “Outdrink me, and maybe I'll tell
you.” My larynx bobs nervously at the challenge, even with
the gracious head start.
He tips the cab driver generously for the unspectacular
service, probably preferring it to the interrupting
politeness of other servicemen, but he shares a smile and a
word or two as he exits. The bar has a patio, and the patio
is to Johnny's liking, so we sit outside where there's more
to look at.