kayfabe

by Marty Shambles

“My name is Harry, and I’m an addict.”

Harry noticed a growing reluctance among preachers to hand over the check after a gig. The bookings got thinner and the territory grew wider. Stretched out was an aching decline from the heights of wrestling championships to the backwoods churches of the South. The kids, at some point, stopped knowing what a phonebook was, and to appease their parents, Harry started ripping apart GRE test prep guides, warning about the evil liberalism of academia; that their doctrine may not hold against the floodwaters of perversion.

“Most of y’all know my story. Being a wrestler, people expect you to be this aggressive, tough jerk. I don’t want to be that anymore. I think it was the difference between who I am versus who I’m supposed to be that drove me to…”

The mansion and the cars were now probably in the hands of some rapper doing fat rails off Harry's countertops and fornicating in his hot tub, spunking up the filters. He knew he would be rewarded for his service, after this humbling bout of squalor.

“In wrestling there’s this thing called kayfabe. It’s the layer of lies we must maintain at all times. Some people handle the kayfabe well. They don’t mind putting on a show… but me? I just got so lost in the artifice I didn’t know how to turn it off.”

He was in NA to drum up excitement for his event at this same Baptist church which held the meeting.

“Now I am blessed to travel and share the good news of clean living through the Lord.”

Out in the smoking circle, Harry handed out fliers for his show. It was a mean Texas night—one where the heat of the pavement felt like a spoon over flame. The fliers were black and white, four to a page, With a big cross and a much younger version of Harry standing in the foreground, muscles bulging. It read, “COME WITNTESS GOD’S STRENGTH!!!!!! H-BOMB IS COMING TO YOUR TOWN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Some people politely put the fliers in their respective pockets. One dude with a mullet asked for his autograph. “Sure. Bring a friend to the show and I’ll give you a signed headshot.”

As the crowd thinned like H-BOMB’s hair, a beautiful woman approached. “I really like what you said in there,” a deep voice came out of her. She wore a Ramones t-shirt, torn jeans, and docs. She smoked like the cigarette floated of its own accord, and her hand followed its flutters. “It was cool to hear it from somebody else.”

“Hear what?”

“Hear how exhausting it is to be who we aren’t.” “I wasn’t talking about you.”

“Bitch, fine, I wasn’t talking about you either.”

Harry smiled. “You’re one of those transexuals, right?” “We just say trans, but yeah, sure.”

“Have you ever considered coming to the Lord?” “I’m a Christian.”

“I was not expecting that.”

“You weren’t expecting that an ideology based on universal love and understanding would apply to me too? I was raised in it, ran away, came back. Same old story.”

“The prodigal son… I mean daughter… What brought you back?” “Jesus said, ‘Let the seeker keep seeking until he finds. When he finds, he will be disturbed. When he is disturbed, he will be amazed. When he is amazed, he will be invincible to everything. And when he is invincible to everything, he will be at peace.’”

“I don’t know that one.”

She exhaled her cigarette between them, first obscuring their visions, then coming back into sharp relief. He handed her a flier.