Hitman My Real Life in the Cartoon World (17 page)

One night I went with all the boys to a fuck show. A Japanese girl came out and, when she’d taken her clothes off, she picked a nervous young man out of the audience. She laid him out on a rug and gave him a blow job, to the enthusiastic applause of the crowd. The young man lasted about ten seconds. He’d been sitting with an older man, probably his father, who looked awfully proud. In the main event, a beautiful American girl danced around until her partner, a slender Japanese man, shorter than she was, screwed her on the runway. It shocked me to think what some people will do for a living.

Ever since my birthday hangover, Peter Takahashi went out of his way to find an excuse to ride me about something, but the next day he was even more irritable than usual. When I went up to the front of the bus to ask him whether there might be a chance to pay our respects at the memorial site in Hiroshima, he angrily told me no. Bad News told me Peter’s father had been killed in Okinawa during the Second World War, but whether this was the reason for his dislike of his foreign crew, I don’t know.

On the surface, Hiroshima seemed no different than the rest of Japan, with fish shops and pachinko parlors where old women sat on stools, tirelessly catching baskets of tiny steelies. But it seemed to me that the blankness in their faces and the coldness in their eyes as they watched the wrestlers rolling by was a cross between sorrow and hate.

The days passed slowly. After long hauls by bus and train from one end of Japan to another, we’d all clump into the dressing room. Bad News would read the lineup sheet taped to the wall and sum up each opponent. “He’s good. He’s the shits.”

One night he casually announced to me, “You’ve got Fujinami.” He was the one Japanese wrestler I’d been longing to work with. Tatsumi Fujinami was well built, with boyish good looks and terrific skills.

But the show was outdoors, and the weather was overcast, which made for the tour’s first and only dismal crowd. Fujinami told me, “No people today; easy, okay?” And so we went through the motions, doing a short, simple match. The bright lights over the ring attracted huge flying insects, and as we wrestled I could feel them crunching under my back, smearing on my skin like yellow mustard. At one point a giant bug crawled between my boots and in a panic I slammed Fujinami, crushing it flat! We swapped arm bars, and after ten minutes he pinned me.

After that we were back in Tokyo, with a few days off. I was tired of watching samurai soap operas, wacky game shows and vividly violent kids’ cartoons, so one night Keith and I went to an American movie and feasted on Kentucky Fried Chicken. We saw posters plastered everywhere promoting the big showdown between Tiger Jeet and Inoki at the Sumo Palace, the most sacred wrestling hall in Japan. The posters were typical of the first-rate way that wrestling was promoted in Japan. Often a truck with sirens and music would cruise the streets, barking out the matches on a loudspeaker. (I imagined a time when war propaganda had been broadcast the same way.) The promotion’s buses and ring trucks were always immaculate. Shows were on time and well planned. And the wrestling coverage in the daily papers and weekly magazines was an industry unto itself.

Tiger Jeet and Inoki were quite believable together, down to the smallest details of facials, mixing realistic selling with real fury and tight work. Inoki had gained worldwide attention as a result of his boxer/wrestler match with Muhammad Ali in 1975. Ali thought it was a work, but Inoki took it as a shoot. That idea went out the window fast. The black Muslims who were backing Ali made it clear that if Inoki laid a finger on their champ, they would kill him. That’s why Inoki lay on his back for fifteen rounds, kicking Ali in the shins so as not to use his hands.

The phone bleeped. I was desperate to hear Julie’s voice, and I’d been anxiously waiting for an English-speaking operator. When the call went through, my heart was racing, but when Julie answered I knew right away that something was wrong. It turned out that Keith’s girlfriend, Leslie, had implied that Julie was the butt of some sort of inside joke, one that all the Harts were in on, and then proceeded to enlighten her about the true nature of the business—which I had never done, at least not in so many words. And I’d left for Japan so soon after Julie arrived in Calgary that there had been no chance to take her over to Hart house to spend time with my family. As far as Julie knew, Leslie could be right. She was angry and hurt, and no matter how I tried to convince her to stay, she said she’d be gone before I got home. We were through.

An hour later the phone rang again. I hoped it might be Julie, but it was Yani.

Five hours later I was drunk and tripping through the Soapland district of Tokyo with Yani, who was wearing my cowboy hat and grinning from ear to ear. Before I knew it I was lying naked on an inflated mattress, drinking cold beer, watching as a cute, naked Japanese girl lathered herself in soap and slid all over me, washing me with her pussy. I’d set out for adventure, and that it was, but deep in my heart I just didn’t give a damn.

When we arrived at the Sumo Palace I was too depressed to appreciate the climax of the tour, even though there was a huge crowd and several TV trucks waiting for us. Since he needed something from me, Peter was suddenly nice to me. He explained that Fujinami had vacated the World Junior title and was moving up to the heavyweight class. I was to put over a rising Korean star, Kengo Kimura, making him the new World Junior Champion. I was disappointed not to be working with Fujinami, but I was flattered that they thought enough of my work to give me a big match. Mr.

Shimma hinted at a possible cash bonus.

Kimura was tall and handsome, an Asian Elvis in white trunks who could really work. As for me, after six weeks of hard wrestling, I was as fit as I had been when I trained in the dungeon with Hito and Sakurada. I realized how important the match was when Peter told me not to chase the flower girls out of the ring. A dignitary read from a scroll, and the crowd threw streamers that unraveled in streaming tangles all across the ring. I gave Kimura all I had. In the end, he pinned me with a perfect German suplex, and for once the cheers were loud. As I walked back to the dressing room, Keith patted me on the back and Tiger Jeet winked. “You showed them.”

I felt better knowing I’d saved a little face.

Throughout the evening, the Japanese wrestlers kept sneaking over to our dressing room to thank us. After the end of the show—Tiger Jeet and Inoki had a great match—a tall wrestler named Sakaguchi came into the dressing room to pay me: $7,050 in crisp U.S. bills. I was pleased at myself for somehow managing to live for six weeks on the advance of only $450. Sakaguchi congratulated me, laughing and putting his hand over his mouth. “You fight hard, good style, say hi to your father.”

Mr. Shimma didn’t give me a bonus, but he hinted that I would come back.

On the bus after the show we celebrated the end of the tour with giant bottles of Kirin beer, and I pretended to be as happy as everyone else.

Back in my room I felt as forlorn as the little Pink Panther slumped over in my suitcase. I was waiting for Keith to call, but when the phone bleeped it was Julie, telling me that she was sorry.

Just after we hung up, Keith called. “Did you feel that tremor? We just had a mild earthquake.”

I had a feeling this wouldn’t be the last time Julie would shake up my world.

9

“OH, DAWLING, NOT YOUR NOSE!”

IT WAS TIME FOR JULIE TO MEET MY FAMILY—a big deal for us all because it was the first time in years I had brought a serious girlfriend to Hart house for Sunday dinner, let alone a girlfriend who was now living with me.

After six weeks in Japan I was starving, and as if in answer to my prayer, Stu was cooking prime rib.

My mom was in the kitchen wearing glasses and funny pink slippers and a red cotton dress embroidered with small strawberries; the dress had big pockets, one of which contained the huge flat pencil she always kept in her pocket to take messages (the phones never stopped ringing in Hart house).

Mom greeted me with a big hug, “Oh, dawling!” And then she put Julie at her ease and warned her,

“Never mind the cats, they’re everywhere.” Stu was leaning into the oven putting the finishing touches on the enormous roast. He wiped his hands on a cloth and made his way over to say hello. I could see him checking her out appreciatively. And I laughed to myself, wondering what Julie must have thought of Stu, who was wearing a bright orange T-shirt that read Maui Waui above a giant cannabis plant. He wore that shirt every Sunday for a year because it was big and comfortable to cook in, and had no idea what kind of plant it was, or what the words meant. When someone finally smartened him up, he never wore it again.

I showed Julie around before dinner, Mom trailing behind us, pleading with me not to show her any of the messy rooms. There were big rugs and heavy maroon leather couches in the living room, and mounted high above the dark wood paneling hung framed black-and-white portraits of every Hart kid taken when we each turned five-and-a-half years old. Wiped clean shiny noses, as cute as could be, the five eldest boys hung over the fireplace. On another wall hung Ellie and Georgia. I was the only kid on a small wall by himself, a picture of pure innocence in a striped T-shirt and cute smile. On the wall to the left of me came Alison and Ross, and farther down the next wall were Diana and Owen.

I scooped up Heathcliff, carried him upstairs and showed Julie what had been the boys’ bedroom.

Next door, my mom’s office was piled high with papers, phone books, the two black telephones, a typewriter and filing cabinets crammed with pictures of wrestlers going back forty years. Then we went down the heavy steel stairs to the basement, and the dungeon, where dumbbells engraved with HART were stacked up along the planked walls. When Julie asked me why there were holes in the ceiling, I said, “If this room could talk—nah, if this room could scream . . .”

We took our places at the dinner table. My mom and dad sat at opposite ends, with all the siblings who were in town, and their significant others, ranged along each side. The prime rib looked perfect, there were bowls of mashed potatoes sprinkled with parsley, fresh green peas and salad. The salad went around first, but I passed on it and reached for the meat. Julie followed my lead.

Ellie sniped at her. “So you’re too fucking precious to eat the fucking salad?”

Julie didn’t know what to say, and Ellie didn’t know when to shut up. I stood up abruptly and said,

“We’re outta here.” As Julie followed me to the car, Georgia was right behind, begging us to stay, then stood in front of my car so I couldn’t drive off. After a few minutes, I had calmed down, and the three of us went back inside, took our places and picked at what was left of the meal. My mom apologized to Julie, then said, “Well, now you’ve met Ellie.”

When I’d left for Japan, I’d relinquished the responsibility of booking to Bruce. I’d given him my orange notebook with all the finishes in it, wanting to help him in every way I could. Bruce didn’t feel he’d had enough time, or the roster, to show what he could do as a booker in the six weeks I was gone, so I offered to let him keep running things, even though Stu intimated to me that he wanted me to be in charge. Only intimated, because when it came to his children, once they were grown up, Stu rarely came out and told us the way he wanted things to go. But Stu was never too thrilled about the way Bruce ran the show, since Bruce wasn’t the most organized guy in the world and he didn’t take criticism very well either.

But he did have a vivid imagination, and some of Bruce’s ideas worked well. For instance, my brother was the first to introduce theme music for the main matches, picking The Eagles’ “Heartache Tonight” to intro himself, Keith and me. Keith, Ross and I all got behind him, hoping he’d surprise us; part of me hoped he’d manage things so well that it would free me up to work elsewhere and make it on my own.

The roster that summer didn’t give Bruce much to work with, at least until the Maritimes territory shut down at the end of August. Keith was only working the Friday and Saturday shows, having been accepted to start with the Calgary fire department in January 1981. And with Dynamite out now for knee surgery, Bruce was wearing his World Mid-Heavyweight belt, while I still held the North American Championship, with no real prospects to contend for it.

Bruce’s idea of how to carry the territory was to rename Sandy Scott, our heel ref, Alexander, and make him even more of a heel; every night Alexander restrained Bruce by the hair while J.R. and all the heels overpowered him five on one. Bruce ultimately made his own comeback, cleaning house.

Stu was stuck out there at ringside gritting his teeth: He didn’t have an answer for the incensed and frustrated fans, who couldn’t understand why he was letting a ref get away with doing this to his own son. I can only compare it to Ben Cartwright from Bonanza standing idly by while Little Joe gets the tar beaten out of him. It was no less awkward for Keith and me to stand uselessly on the apron watching Bruce single-handedly fight off an army of heels. The ref had all the heat, and the biggest reaction every night came from Bruce barely holding himself back while Alexander Scott poked him in the chest.

Each week the calls would come from the accountant letting my mom know they’d lost the usual $5,000, and she’d become distressed all over again at the thought of the family fortune senselessly disappearing into a bot-tomless pit. There were numerous tearful episodes when she’d plead with Stu to get out of the business, arguing that we had enough to live comfortably. Stu would remind her with quiet sternness, “All the boys, even Ellie and Jim, are making a living in the business. How can I fold up my tent?” After raging back and forth with Stu, she’d take to bed and bottle, and the next week, they’d go through it all over again.

The truth was, my mom was right. Stu had become the conductor of a giant toy train, a runaway locomotive with his sons stoking the furnace. Still, it was the only life my father knew, and he loved it, and he wanted all his sons on board, even at the risk of losing everything. But the money he made from selling Clearwater Beach and the acreage around the house was paying for the whole ride, and soon enough we’d all be broke. Stu contended that he’d bought the land in the first place with money earned from wrestling, and he always reasoned that things would turn around, and when they did there would be plenty for everyone.