▶Coffee and Chicken and Waffles
The final moments of Crossed Lines…
Let’s get the obvious out of the way. I stink.
After winning the CWF Paramount Championship from Peacock Jerry, I took some promotional photos for the next few live events, then changed my shirt and went straight back to the Hot Zone so I could watch the Main Event from a combination of the live monitors and via peeking out the curtain. I figure, Caledonia wins, I want to be the first one of her peers to congratulate her, except for Dan, of course. And Eris, for some reason.
And if she loses, she’s going to need a shoulder. And I know she’s not going to lose it in front of the fans.
But then…
“I QUIT, YOU FUCKING BITCH”
My breath hitches. She actually did it. I didn’t doubt that she could… but to witness it firsthand…
And I finally understand something my dad once said about feeling the crowd… feeling the moment. And I know I need to go out there and congratulate her in front of all these fans.
In a minute. She deserves her family first.
But I know I need to go out there. And I choose my spot.
Handshake. Hug. Both belts in the air.
And I lean in to the woman who has been my longest contiguous professional partner, ally, and friend.
“You are a fucking warrior, hun,” I say, quietly, quiet enough that no fans, no camera can pick up, “This moment will live for-fucking-ever. Enjoy it.”
She laughs quietly, shaking her head. “Your language hasn’t improved with maturity, Flair. You’re a champion again.”
“Never,” I reply. “What do you say, we give ‘em a photo op to go home on?”
Next to me, the new CWF World Champion nods. “Hey Champ?” says Caledonia.
“Hey Champ,” I reply.
We hold up our title belts while the confetti falls. Dan and Eris join her. I’m in the ring until the cameras switch off, then, hands are shaken, Eris’ kiss on the mouth is deftly avoided, and I leave the First Family of the CWF (suck it, Municipality) to celebrate on their own.
Three days later…
The knock on the apartment door is two things: loud and early. I reach up above my head and grab the first thing I feel: the CWF Paramount Championship belt. I cover my face with the strap, groaning in protest.
“It’s for you,” says Kevin, facing me, but eyes still closed.
“You don’t know that,” I say, from the other side of the belt.
“It’s always for you,” he continues, “I am but a simple cook, who never entertains visitors.”
I groan, but acquiesce: Kevin is correct. “Fine,” I say, rolling over and grabbing a pair of exercise shorts from ‘the chair that contains clothes neither fully clean nor fully dirty,’ “but I’m writing it into our wedding vows.”
“Yes, dear,” he replies.
I leave the bedroom and turn into the living room, with my calico Toasted Almond at my fee. She has a tendency to bite at my feet from time to time but right now, I think she’s just looking for love. So, I scoop her up and answer the door one handed, to the last thing I wanted to see this morning.
“CWF universe, my name is Ian Ambrose and we’re here to get an exclusive word from the new CWF Paramount Champion, MJ Flair, as she goes from Jared Holmes to the man that Holmes took the title from, Dangerous Dan. MJ, can we get a word?”
I stare at Ian, slack - jawed. I don’t pay much mind to the cameraman: he’s just doing his job.
“Ms. Flair?”
“Mrow,” replies Toasty. I put her down and she immediately jumps on the brick wall that defines our porch, and flops in the sun, belly up.
“It is… eight thirty… in the asshole morning,” I say, with as much patience as I can muster.
Ian looks at his watch. “It… is. I thought we cleared this with promotions.”
I blink.
“Maybe you did, but they didn’t call me.”
“Oh,” says Ian, “Well, we can come back later.”
Now I feel bad; he looks like a little lost puppy. “You two want some coffee?”
“Yes, please,” says Ian, stepping inside.
“So what’s the deal?” I ask, walking towards the kitchen at the back of the apartment. “To what do I owe the honor?”
I knock on the bedroom door: three quick knocks is our shorthand for “make sure you cover the naughty bits before stepping out. And I turn towards Ian, but he’s staring at the wall.
A cacophony of photos… framed moments and memories of my life so far. With my parents. With my mom’s band. With the dozens of musicians that adopted me as their niece. Backstage at wrestling events from the age of two to ten, when my dad finally officially retired. Aunt Ivy and Uncle Sean, me and Uncle Pete - Peter Steele from Type-O Negative.
And my own wrestling career memories, with a noticeably blank spot in the pattern: it’s where I intend to put a framed photo of Caledonia and myself from the closing moments of Crossed Lines.
“Hey,” I repeat. “What goes on?”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, “I didn’t mean to stare. We’re doing a bit of a documentary on the final few weeks of the CWF, and we’re looking at profiling the Champions of the company as we pull into the final stretch. The office assumed you would be the easiest one to schedule first since you’re not busy with other dates at the moment.”
I laugh to myself, even as I’m getting the coffee grounds out of the freezer. “That’s some audacity, isn’t it? They just assume. But very little has changed since the talking at that I gave y’all back in June - just swap out ‘Caledonia’ for ‘Paramount Title.’”
The bedroom door opens, and they both swing around. Kevin is in a wifebeater, old pajama pants, and ratty ass slippers. Fortunately, the camera is still off. “Hi,” says Kevin, offering a handshake. “Kevin LaCroix. Pretend I’m not here.”
“No can do,” I reply, as he steps past them into the kitchen and I kiss him on the mouth. “But it’s up to you if you want to be on camera or not.”
“Not,” he admits. “But I’ll be making breakfast.”
I pour my own cup of coffee - into a mug advertising, in bright tie-dyed colors, ‘STAY WEIRD,’ and I leave the room to make myself slightly more human. “To be perfectly honest,” I say, “I’m probably the least interesting person to talk to right now. I love my Paramount Championship, but if we’re being honest, Peacock Jerry had been on a downward slide since before he even won the thing.”
“How do you mean?” asks Ian, which I hear most of as I’m scrubbing my face in the sink to degrease myself and hopefully clear out a bit of my morning phlegm. I look more awake now, at least.
I shrug. “The Regulators, they’ve been on a tear, showing off why they deserve to hold onto the tags. Christian Patrick I can tell is proud of his title, winning in that insane division and holding on through Last Call. You were going to have to up and kill Caledonia to get her to actually quit against Ripper, and Mia might have to take it a step past that at Infernalia.”
I shrug. “Me? I didn’t come back with any illusions of being in title contention. I wanted to contribute to the company on its way out, and it was just a matter of cosmic coincidence that they put me against Florida Man for a shot at Peacock Jerry.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” I continue, “I’m appreciative, and I’m going to fight like hell to hold onto this title… forever, I guess? But at the end of the day, when the music’s over - every other member of that locker room is going to be looking to line up their next set of dates, or a long term contract, and I’m going to be going back to school. Quite possibly, never wrestling again.”
“Speaking of never wrestling again–”
I hold up a hand. “You’re welcome for that setup, Ian. But first, coffee.”
Kevin has already gotten some milk heated up as we pour, and we taste, and we adjust. “You two staying for breakfast?” he asks, pulling a well wrapped plate of fried chicken out of the refrigerator, as well as a quart container of a dry mixture. “Chicken and waffles, my own recipe.”
“Oh, we couldn’t,” says Ian, as the cameraman clearly and obviously nods yes.
“You’re still the best,” I say to Kevin, giving him another kiss. “Outside, pals ‘n gals. Let’s give the man his space.”
We cross the living room again, and I give Toasty a belly rub as I sit down in my grandma’s old rocking chair. I never met her but my dad said she loved to sit in it and drink tea by the window in their old Bronx apartment. I cross my legs and rest my mug on my knee.
“You good? We good?” I ask, knowing it might take camera guy a second to get settled.
Ian gives me the thumbs up. “MJ, you said that once the CWF closes, you might never wrestle again. But as has been well documented, your upcoming opponent, Dangerous Dan, has said he is retiring on his next loss. How do you feel about the fact that you’re potentially going to be ending the career of a pillar of the CWF?”
For once, the words take a minute to flow. Fortunately, I have a cat belly and a coffee cup to distract me. “I mean… I don’t want to see him retire; particularly against me.”
I shrug. “It’s the Danger Boiz, main. Fucking pillars of the CWF. I’m going to beat the hell out of him, and he’s gonna beat the hell outta me, and I fully intend to have that championship title over my shoulder when I leave the ring, but…”
“He deserves to be in the ring at Last Call, and I really hope, he comes up short at Infernalia, that he realizes it.”
“But you still challenged him just moments after winning the title at Crossed Lines.”
“As I should,” I shoot back, “To this day I maintain Dangerous Dan should’ve been the one to defend the Paramount Title against me. He never got his rematch against Peacock Jerry; he got a non title match. Which he won.”
I sip my coffee. “There was no doubt in my mind, I win that match and I’m giving him the first shot. And I did it where I did to make sure it was on record, on a live broadcast, so nobody with another idea could pretend I didn’t.”
“It was important to you,” says Ian, not really asking a question but clearly expecting an answer.
“Absolutely,” I reply, “The most disappointed and frustrated I’ve ever seen either of my parents was when they assumed a third party was gonna do the right thing, whatever it was at that moment, and they got burned. Man, I remember my mom, a little five foot nothing hundred pound pacifist goth, go for the throat of a club owner when I was thirteen. The bus had broken an axel, they played for fifty five minutes before the venue’s cheap-ass monitors blew, and the promoter tried to stiff them for not playing their contracted sixty minutes.”
“I’m the antithesis of the Celebrity’s Kid in some ways,” I continue, “I learned a lot about what not to do, and I’ve tried my best to follow it. And the bottom line is that Dangerous Dan deserved this shot and I was prepared to move hell and high water to make sure he got it.”
Ian makes some notes, and I take the opportunity to lean back in the chair. I feel my neck crack and make a mental note to call the chiropractor.
“You’ve been part of the CWF, on and off, for years now,” continues Ian, “and I believe this is the first time you’ve ever been in the ring with one of the Danger Boiz, notwithstanding chance encounters during Golden Intentions. How would you rate Dan’s style?”
“Dangerous,” I say, straight faced. “Cliche, but serious. He’s a full twenty years older than me and still taking that level’a risk? And thriving at it?”
I shake my head. “On one level it’s intimidating; on every level it’s deserving of respect. But seriously, I really appreciate what the Danger Boiz and their posse are doing. There’s so few full time road warriors out there anymore, living the endless string of one nighters for love’a the game. How many still do? I’m certainly not.”
It’s at that moment, Kevin emerges with a tray, loaded down with fresh waffles, perfectly crisped reheated fried chicken, warm maple syrup and a fruit bowl. Perfect timing.
“The day after the CWF closes, I’m going to be sleeping for a day and a half, then registering for spring classes to finally finish my undergraduate work. The day after the CWF closes, I wouldn’t be surprised to find Dangerous Dan, Crazy Chris, or the Danger Boiz as a unit booked for another match, three hundred miles away from Vegas.”
“That’s the difference in the lives we lead. Neither is more right than the other… it’s just a different perspective. And a different definition of family.”
I notice that Ian and the camera guy are both dropping their eyes to the feast.
“You wanna wrap this up, then?” I ask, “Don’t need you getting drool on my porch.”
Ian looks down, laughs, self - consciously, and nods. “Final thoughts before Infernalia?”
“No limits, Dan,” I say, looking straight into the camera, probably very intimidating in two pigtails, no makeup (hence nearly invisible eyebrows), and a T-shirt proclaiming “God Save The Queen” in front of a drawing of Dr Frank-n-Furter, “If I’m going to retire Dangerous Dan, I want to retire the absolute peak of what you can do. And if you’re going to take the Paramount Title back, I will take it as a personal fucking insult if you put forth a B-plus effort to do so.”
A thought strikes me, and I pick up a drumstick from the platter in front of us. I wave it, menacingly, into the camera’s view. “And I will fry your ass for it.”
Ian nods. “Thanks, Ms. Flair. I appreciate it.
“Off the record?” asks Ian, “What were you expecting to happen when you showed up in Paris?”
“Off the record,” I repeat, “I didn’t expect a title shot two matches in. I thought I’d get to run some Greatest Hits stuff, maybe? Face off with all the old heads I didn’t wrestle the first go-round… which I guess I’m kind of doing. And give the newbies whatever rub I can from a match, win or lose. But I don’t take the responsibility of carrying a title over the finish line lightly. I think the CWF is in possibly one of the strongest places it can be to burn out instead of fading away, with Caledonia and myself as the two standard bearers. This is what any company would want to see as its public faces… assuming we can keep them.”
“Do you think you will?”
“I have to think that,” I reply, “but I know the score. Mia is full fucking beast mode, as Caledonia and I already are both well aware. I’ve got a perfect 1-1-1 record against those two. One win against each, one loss against each, and a technical no-contest when I wasn’t involved in the finish of the three way, on either side. I have a feeling that number’s gonna change in these next six weeks, though… and I can’t objectively choose a winner. And who’s to say what’s next for me? I get past Dangerous Dan, maybe they’re looking to settle all family business and they put me in the ring with Ripper? There’s a one-two punch nobody wants.”
I shake my head. “No. One thing that’s not in doubt in the slightest. When the doors close, whoever’s holding the Championships, will have full frontal fucking earned ‘em. And that’s the only guarantee I can honestly make.”
“One more thing,” says Ian, “In the ring, when you congratulated Caledonia, what did you say?”
No words; I just shoot him a sly grin.
“Come on,” he insists, “Off the record.”
“No chance,” interjects Kevin, “She won’t tell me, she definitely won’t tell you.”
“Not even off the record?” asks Ian.
I take an obnoxiously long time to chew my food and swallow. “Sorry, Ian. It’s a family secret. Everyone who needs to know… knows.”
As expected, this answer doesn’t go over well, but I’m unconcerned. Professional wrestlers live public lives, and we’re not really expected to ever be able to switch off when we’re out in the world.
But that moment… that’s the one thing I’m going to keep just for us.