▶Wings
I live to see another day, I live to write my story, oh
I live to find my glory, won't let them speak no words for me, oh
And I'll be damned
The sky shows just a hint of pink as Kevin LaCroix and I step around the decorative gates into Worcester Commons: me, carrying a blanket, he, a picnic basket.
“I didn’t realize they keep the tables out,” says Kevin, looking around at the setup. The chairs are secured to the tables to discourage thievery, but he’s right, it’s unusual. Then again, we’re used to Savannah and the general level of crime mixed with SCAD students, desperate for cheap, disposable (returnable, hopefully) furniture for a semester.
“Do you want a table instead?” he asks. I think about it. It makes sense, the grass is damp, there’s going to be bugs and pointy things.
“No,” I reply, “No, we brought the blanket and I really want to use it.”
That’s all the conversation we need. I spread the blanket on the ground, dropping to my knees to smooth out the curves while Kevin puts down the basket. Immediately I feel morning dew between my shoes and rolled jeans cuff: the curse of being an ankles-out lady.
“Shoes off, please,” he says, and I oblige. The point of this exercise is to be cozy, and you can’t be cozy in Converse low tops, particularly when the canvas has already started to dampen your socks.
I tuck my feet under me as he takes off his boots, and I open up the basket.
“Oh, it’s gonna be a beautiful day,” says Kevin, “but first…”
“But first,” I reply, “Coffee.”
I pour two cups while he prepares the rest of our feast: yogurt parfait, bagels (driven with us in the car from Brooklyn: I’m not a savage) with lox and capers and plenty of cream cheese. A fruit bowl. Two slices of cinnamon swirl cake.
My man’s specialty might be upscale french cuisine but he knows how to bake.
I take a long drink of coffee and pull my cardigan closer to me: it might be August, but there’s still a pre-dawn chill in the air.
“C’mere.”
He sees me. He always sees me.
We sit, sipping, with him providing himself as a bearded security blanket against the chill, as the scenery around us gets incrementally brighter.
“What time does your line start?” he asks.
“Noon, I think?” I reply, “I have Church and State at I think, ten, and then they want me to say something about Duce during his Hall of Fame deal, and…”
My voice cracks a bit. “And I’ve got nothin’.”
He holds me tighter. “You’ll figure it out, babe. You always figure out the right thing to say.”
“Thanks babe,” I reply, even though I absolutely don’t always figure out the right thing to say.
We sit for a few minutes in silence, quietly eating breakfast. The bagels are still pretty fresh, despite being day - old, and the coffee hits the spot.
“You decide about staying past Wrestlefest yet?” asks Kevin.
I bristle. “Not really,” I admit, “It’s been such a ride being back the last few weeks, but it’s been… weird, too. Like, if I want a private moment back home I can just sit on the porch. I want one here, in this life? Need to be in a park before the sun comes up.”
“I see you with those fans, though,” he says, “Especially the little girls who tell you they want to be wrestlers just like you. You do love it.”
“Sure,” I admit, “I do. But it’s also… I had like, no support system in the business when I started. And I know I started way too young, but at the same time, if it wasn’t for Fears and Kush, and then Cali, I really don’t think I’d’ve been able to survive long enough to be here now. Which is still strange; I should be at the beginning of my career right now, not a years-in veteran snagging a main event on name recognition alone.”
“But that’s just like you,” says Kevin, “Not seeing a seat at the table, so you built your own.”
I curl up into his arms; I can’t explain how much I’ve missed this.
For two straight years, we did not spend a single night apart. Between Golden Intentions and yesterday, we did not spend a single night together. I’m realizing what Victor Creed was saying to my dad, decades ago: it’s not that you can’t have a family and a world championship, it’s that you’re going to have to make a choice every day.
Short term, it was easy. Longer term…
I was sixteen when they told me, "Girl
Know your place, this ain't your world
If you dress like that, then your asking for
And you'll go nowhere with a voice like yours"
Fuck it.
Broadview Arena, University at Buffalo…
“EMM JAY!”
I look toward the safety barricade at a group of fans, cheering, trying to get my attention. I’m sure they’ll be interested in everyone else’s attention as well, but since I didn’t have a match at Infernalia 8, I had no post-match decompression to deal with. No cleanup. No medical clearance before driving a car.
“Hey y’all, what goes on?” I ask, slapping hands. Programs, old photos, and posters are thrust in my direction and I sign everything I can.
“Can we get a picture?”
Smiling, I lean in, and we take what I hope is a nice shot. Social media will decide, I guess.
“So you’re working Caledonia at Wrestlefest?”
I nod. “Who else?”
My dad would have such an issue with this fan using inside lingo, but the business has changed. Old heads don’t necessarily get that, which is fine: their time was their time.
“I can’t wait. It’s gonna steal the show.”
I shrug. “Don’t sleep on Ripper and Gordy, my friend. But, knowing Caledonia and knowing myself, obviously - we’re gonna do our best.”
I sign a few more things; clocking the fact that it’s getting progressively later and I’m still hoping to figure out my next move tonight.
“Hey,” says another fan, shoving his phone in my face, “That’ll be a great match!”
I look at the phone. Sure enough, they’ve signed myself and Caledonia to take on the Tag Team Champions in, gracefully, a non-title match for Infernalia 9. I remember Caledonia telling me about her issues with Jared Holmes; this sort of raises the stakes since Wade Moor looks like he’s in good ring shape for coming out of retirement, and I definitely don’t want to be the cause of Cali losing to Holmes again.
“Wow,” I say, “They didn’t waste any time, huh?”
“Can you two coexist in a match together?”
I shoot him a look.
Obviously, we can. Right?
“Do you think you’ll have any ring rust?”
“Are you intimidated by Jared Holmes’ persona?”
I need to think. I need to get some space.
“I think I proved at Golden Intentions that any ring rust is pretty well negligible,” I answer, “Caledonia has been my friend for years; this match, just like our last one, is a fierce, friendly competition between friends. There’s no reason for either of us to screw over the other; I feel comfortable speaking for her that we want to face off against each other at our absolute best. Jared Holmes? When I wore a mask, it was homemade and hand painted. He’s just proving, you can’t buy class.”
I need to remember the fans come first.
“Hey Champ!”
Almost all the fans leave my area, and I turn to see the CWF World Champion, Gordy King, exit the arena. With Buffalo essentially being South Central Canada, he’s practically a hometown hero. I silently thank him for giving me an out, and make a note to myself to do something nice for him at nine when we’re in my de-facto hometown.
“It’s all right, Flair,” says one last fan, lagging behind.
“What’s that?” I ask, stopping.
“You and Caledonia,” he answers, “It makes sense to put you two together, you had an okay match before. It keeps us from having to see you against other people a lot more entertaining and dragging them down.”
I raise an eyebrow. I think this guy feels empowered by the fact that he assumes–rightly, unfortunately–that I won’t deck him when he steps out of line.
“You think so, huh?” I ask, cracking my knuckles anyway for emphasis.
He points at the ring on my finger, which I didn’t see coming. “You’re already one foot out the door and you just got back. Married chicks don’t stick around unless their husband is a wrestler, too.”
He laughs. “Look at the Andersons.”
And he walks away before I can say anything.
Mary Magdalene had some fun
Some called her a whore, some called her a nun
Was she the baddest bitch in Bethlehem?
We'll never know 'cause her story's written by men
Well. This changes things.
As an old school wrestler, I know better than to knock the fans for their shitty opinions. My parents both taught me that when you’re dealing with a hostile crowd, the smartest thing to do is to prove them wrong.
Make them eat their words.
Entertain them, against their will, and make sure they’re dragged, kicking and screaming, into putting respect on your name.
I was planning to uber back to my hotel and get some sleep, but now I’m mapping out the best way to get home.
Not my current home, my childhood home.
Because, if I’m going to make it clear that I haven’t lost a step… I need to reconfirm the basics.
Hammerstein Ballroom, the morning after Infernalia 9, soundproof room…
“Miss Flair, great to meet you,” says the producer, shaking my hand, “My name’s Miles, we’re gonna get you in and out as fast as possible, I hope.”
“Miles, nice to meet you,” I reply, “And it’s MJ. Or Mariella. They both work.”
I take off my blazer and give my makeup a quick once - over. One of the nice things about wrestling in a T-shirt is that I can technically always cut a promo in gear, as long as I’m filmed from the waist up.
“So, this is going to be for the website,” explains Miles, “so you don’t need to worry about a certain time. But we like to get these done in one take so please take a minute to gather your thoughts.”
I laugh. “My friend, if there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s talking without flubbing a line, even if I lose the point halfway through. You might regret that whole ‘no time limit’ thing.”
It’s his turn to laugh. “We’ll see, MJ. We have a refrigerator filled with mineral water, beer, and gatorade so please feel free to have a seat and relax, and when you’re ready just step up and let us know.
I nod, and close my eyes.
A nice thing about leaving the wrestling business is that I can be myself. Mariella Jade Flurstein is a funny, sarcastic woman who loves her friends. MJ Flair is quick witted and mean. In the past four years, I realized that there was no Mariella Jade Flurstein when I was previously in the ring.
Good news about my real life: I can separate the two. Bad news about my real life: I have to actually recall the MJF of my personality to talk this way.
Three… two… one…
“Questions swirl around my sudden, surprise return to the CWF. What have I been up to, what do I hope to accomplish, what do I think of the current crop of CWF athletes?”
“One question rises above all others.”
“The Question Is Why.”
“Why Caledonia?”
I smirk.
“There was no other option.”
And I shrug.
“Name me someone else that could fill this spot. Anyone that could even make it within shouting distance of what I accomplished in the CWF?”
“The Second Coming. Original Nobody Two Point Oh.”
“The Eye of the Storm. Cool, calm, collected in the center of the chaos.”
“The Mockingjay. That Which Should Not Have Existed. Showing the CWF almost from the start, that the SSRI was nothing to fear, nothing to respect, nothing to kowtow to.”
“The Champion. Defending the World Title as often as I possibly could. I’m willing to bet, over the course of my two reigns as the CWF World Champion, I defended the title more often than anyone else in at least the past decade.”
“Or the past three hundred years. However it shakes out.”
“I’m not one to carry an ego, but I’m also not here to shower the CWF with false humility. I know what I meant to this company’s past and what I currently mean to its present: and the fact of the matter is that there is nobody else in this company who deserves to be in the ring with me.”
“My opponent for the biggest show of the year needs to be a wrestler that loves this sport. A wrestler that has felt the sting of defeat, and uses it to come back even harder next time. A wrestler that doesn’t know how to quit, and I don’t mean that in a bullshit Silas Artoria ‘I never tap out’ way.”
“No, I need an opponent who wrestles because they love it. Because they respect the tradition. Peacock Jerry and Florida Man? A metrosexual in a yellow mask and his elderly bottom, who clearly believe they’re owed something by the sport? Fartman, Ripper Danny B, who won the Golden Intentions match and still seems like a bratty little brother, trying to prove himself?”
“Any of the kids? The newbies to the company, or to the sport in general, who would just love to make a name for themselves against a two-time former World Champion?”
“You ask me, why Caledonia? I ask you, who else could it be?”
“Who else in this company is still fighting for what’s right, even after three hundred years of bullshit?”
“Who else in this company has proven themselves willing–and eager–to work so hard that, win or lose, they have to carry you from the ring?”
“Who else in this company would accept a fight–possibly the most difficult of their career–solely because they wanted to match up with the best opponent they could find?”
“Why is it Caledonia? How could it be anyone else?”
“And I know where the critics land. ‘You’ve never won any match where she’s been your opponent.’ Man, quiet down. This is a combat sport. If you’re looking to pad your statistics, pick out any one of the athletes who showed up for Golden Intentions, saw the competition, then fucked off, past fuck off highway, up fuck off mountain and down into fuck off valley where they promptly proceeded to fuck off.”
“I include Jace Valentine in this definition.”
“No. What I want is an insurmountable challenge. What I want is an opponent that will test every bit of my ability. What I want is a fight that will never be forgotten.”
“What I want… is irrelevant. What I need… is the absolute best wrestler in the company to be standing across the ring from me.”
“Sorry, Gordy. Sorry Ripper. Sorry, Jerry. Sorry Danger Boi. There’s nobody in this company that can hold a candle to Caledonia as it relates to resourcefulness, ring awareness, tenacity, and a straight up killer offense.”
“And I need this in an opponent.”
I chuckle to myself.
“I spent more time in the Golden Intentions match than literally anyone else except for Caledonia herself; I faced off with most of the roster that night. Last night, Cali and I defeated the World Tag Team Champions, dealing Peacock Jerry his first loss in this version of the CWF.”
“It’s not an exaggeration to say I haven’t lost a step in the four years that I was completely separated from the wrestling business. I’ve proven that. Twice.”
“And now I have to wrestle the only other wrestler in this company that has managed to outshine me at every turn.”
“Nobody’s forcing me but myself.”
“Because I’m my father’s stubborn daughter, and he showed me that the most honorable thing you can do in this sport is run towards the challenges that you’re sure you can’t overcome.”
“Because I’m my mother’s savage daughter, and she showed me that all the money, fame, and benefits in the world are worthless if they involve sacrificing your integrity for even a fraction of a second.”
They said, "Hush, little girl, don't make a scene
Just cross those legs, forget that dream"
But that ain't something I'll ever do
Who said you can't be a witch in your cowgirl boots?
“Because I’m a Flair.”
“And we don’t do things the easy way.”
My eyes leave the lens of the camera and rest on the DP’s. After a second, he gives me a thumbs up, and I manage to unclench.
“Nice, MJ,” he says, “I don’t think we need to do much with it - maybe clean up some static from the air conditioning. But we’ll get this up as soon as we can.”
He hands me a towel. I didn’t realize that I started sweating through all that. I often lose myself in these promos when I really get into them.
“Well, thanks,” he says. Not dismissive, just ‘I’m still working and the next one of you guys is coming in soon, and I need to reset the room.’
I get it. It’s why I’ve never asked for anything except a bottle of water when doing promo work.
“Bitch, who told you that you knew how to cut a promo?”
I jump at the sound of an unexpected voice, but my shocked face turns into a smile when I recognize its owner.
“Tara!”
Tara Robinson, current lead journalist for Heroes and Villains Wrestling, former lead journalist for the CWF, meets my hug with one of her own.
“It’s so great to see you back where you belong,” she says to me, gesturing at the pass hanging from my belt loop.
“Thank you,” I reply, “and same!”
She waves me off. “No, not back here. But I knew you were in town and needed to stop by and say hello. Do you have time for lunch?”
It’s been years, but Tara still knows how to get me to do pretty much anything
“I will never not have time for lunch.”
“You’ll be at Wrestlefest, right?”
“I’ll be at Wrestlefest,” replies Tara, smiling through her martini.
“Good,” I reply, enjoying my cherry Manhattan, “I still can’t believe the CWF let you get away.”
“There wasn’t really much anyone could’ve done about it,” says Tara, “they were three hundred years in the future and a girl’s gotta eat.”
“Fair point, fair point.”
She cocks her head. “MJ, you are dealing with the oddity of time travel with the greatest of ease.”
“Excellent,” I reply.
Yeah, it came out fifteen years before I was born, but I know Bill and Ted like the back of my hand.
“So we know where they were,” says Tara, leaning in, “Where the hell have you been for the past few years?”
We stop talking for a moment as our appetizers are delivered: a cheese plate for Tara, a Summer Risotto for myself.
“Off the grid completely,” I reply, “and it was amazing.”
“Tell me about it,” she says.
I lean back, and take a deep breath. I’m not sure why I’m hesitating: it’s not like talking about it makes it dissolve.
Of course not. I did that myself when I left my Oasis of Peace to get back in the van. But the oasis still exists.
“So, after I left the other place,” I start, with a fake shiver, “my mom and I had a long talk, and she reminded me of our deal, that I’d consider college when I was finished with wrestling. But she was really cool about it, she didn’t just take it as a given that I was done.”
I sigh, taking a bite of risotto. It’s really… really good. Peas, corn, tomatoes… it’s light and perfect.
“But I was. I was burned out and I wasn’t giving it my all anymore,” I admit, “It’s mostly my fault for staying past my expiration date, but I’d say it was partly the environment of the place: a total boys’ club. It’s funny, for a wrestler who never wanted to be judged by the allies and enemies my dad made, I ended up grouped with an assload of ‘em. And they seemed to judge me against the fact that I wasn’t my dad. Sorry I’m not a fifteen time World Champion, I’m eighteen and still figuring out who I am, ya know?”
Tara nods. Goddamn I forgot how good she is at this.
Saw a ballerina on a farm, it made me sad
Why you locking up a girl who can dance like that?
You craved the shine that she once had
So you caged the bird 'cause it won't fly back
“So I was ready to walk away,” I continue, “and I was able to get into the graphic design program at SCAD so, no matter what, I have a career path.”
“How’s that going?” asks Tara, enjoying a slice of Roquefort on a cracker.
“I love it,” I say, enthusiastically, “I learned so much, and I’m like three semesters away from my bachelor’s. I would love to do some graphics for a nonprofit, you know? Something that makes a difference.”
Tara nods. “I get it. You want to know that what you do matters. But why did you need to go through a full program? I’ve seen your art, chica: you know what you’re doing.”
I nod. “I had that same attitude when I started. Oh, this’ll be easy. Oh, I’m a good artist, I can do this shit no problem. What I needed to learn is that nobody - nobody - can make a career on raw ability without a metric fuckton of refinement. Honestly, it was really good for me to learn about what to do, what not to do, what I should do, what makes sense to do…”
Taking another bite of my app, I wave my fork around like I’m trying to keep talking. “Getting another perspective has been great for my art, and getting harshly honest critiques has kept me from complacency.”
“I don’t doubt it,” continues Tara, nodding. A sly smirk forms on her face. “You wanna tell me about him?”
I look down at the black silicon band around my left ring finger.
And I smile.
“I haven’t had a ton of relationships,” I admit, “but he’s the one who makes me feel seen. Like I’m the only one in the room, you know? Doesn’t have a band, doesn’t want to be a pro wrestler, so he doesn’t give a shit who my parents are. And I said hey, I was accepted at SCAD, I’m moving to Savannah for the next several years, I would love for us to try a long distance relationship but I’m not holding you to anything.”
I stop. I sip my drink.
“And he holds me and says we’ll figure it out,” I continue, “and then the next day he’s applying for jobs at every restaurant in Savannah that’s hiring. And, up until I flew north for Golden Intentions, we hadn’t spent a single night apart in over three years.”
Her eyes widen. Apparently I finally told her something she’s never heard before.
“Amazing,” says Tara, “And you just stayed away from the spotlight, you never had a single thought about returning to the ring?”
“Not a one,” I reply, shaking my head, “I paid my tuition and went to class, I got a job waiting tables at a pizzeria, and I’ve got a ton of great friends who know me as the older student who they go to for advice. And sometimes, to get someone’s ass beat.”
Tara nearly chokes on her sip. “What?!?”
I smile. “Girl gets beat up by her ex boyfriend, Auntie MJ exacts some vengeance. Unless you’re a cop, then I was at work that night.”
She laughs, then I laugh.
“And you never missed it.”
I shake my head. “I knew better than to close the door completely, but I wanted to be as far away from the sport as possible. That meant shutting down my social medias, that meant changing my phone number, that meant moving to a different state completely. But I made it known that if anyone wanted to reach me for something wrestling related, they can call Aunt Ivy, and she did tell me everything that came up.”
“Man, I wish I knew that,” says Tara, “When they hired me at Heroes and Villains, I think I was still putting my signature down on the contract, and they asked me if I could call you and convince you to sign with them. I actually had to stop for a second and say, in all honesty no, I have no idea how to get in touch with you anymore.”
She holds up her drink. “But here you are.”
I hold up mine, and tap the rims of the glasses together. “Here I am. Aunt Ivy sent me an email every few days if there was anything interesting that came up, but the only thing that really caught my eye was Utah asking if I’d go to their Hall of Fame ceremony for an induction. No wrestling, no wrestling politics, just talking from the heart? That, I could do. And that got me thinking about the sport again.”
“And here I am,” I finish, with a shrug.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I hope you stick around,” replies Tara, “if not in HVW, then in the CWF at least. You’ve got a lot of institutional knowledge that some of these young kids could really benefit from.”
“See, it’s so funny to hear you say that,” I tell her, “because I’m only twenty three years old. I am one of those young kids.”
She gives me that disappointed big sister look. “You know what I mean, Miss Former World Champion Twice.”
“I do, I’m just bustin’ ya,” I assure her, “And yeah, there’s a certain appeal in making another genuine attempt at this as a career… but…”
My voice trails off, because I really don’t know how to articulate my particular emotion at the moment, so I cover with a scoop of rizzo.
“But what?” asks Tara, thwarting me.
“What would even be different?” I ask.
The question hangs in the air for a good ten seconds.
“The same thing happens every night,” I continue, “as A Woman In Wrestling, who doesn’t fall into the Madonna/Whore dichotomy, I’m expected to be perfect, and the slightest misstep is jumped on like I murdered a puppy. As an Elder in Wrestling, the kids already know everything, so I’d likely be dismissed as irrelevant until I’m proven right, but they call you wrong on page one and correct the record on page thirty; you know the drill.”
“And I just don’t know if these kids deserve that kind of attention anymore. Not now, at least.”
Tara and I sit with this for a few seconds. Slowly, she reaches over and squeezes my hand.
Like a good journalist, she got more out of me than I wanted to give.
Like a good friend, she knew when to stop talking and just let the moment marinate.
The crowd threw me out for the kill
Told me how to dress and how to feel
They held me down but I learned how to heal
Look at me now, look at what I built
“It’s gonna be a nice day,” I comment, my head resting on Kevin’s stomach while he’s also laying down, looking at the sky.
“Great day to spend indoors,” he replies, laughing.
“Don’t rub it in,” I say, “You get to go outside and explore the area. You get to be anonymous.”
“So I should leave my ‘Mister MJF’ T-shirt in the hotel room?”
“You didn’t make that shirt.”
“You bet your ass I did,” he replies, laughing, “Definitely wearing it tomorrow for Wrestlefest, although I don’t think anyone will notice me standing next to your father.”
I exhale a breath into the air, and roll myself so I can look towards his face. “Would you still love me if I decided to drop out of school and be a full time wrestler again?”
“Yes.”
“Would you still love me if I walked away tomorrow night and completed my graphic design degree?”
“Yes.”
“Would you still love me if I lose tomorrow night?”
“Yes.”
I roll over onto my elbows and look him in the face. “So you’re gonna love me no matter what my plan is, two days from now.”
He smiles at me. “Absolutely.”
I smile back, and commando - crawl to his face to kiss him. “Why you so good to me, sir?”
“Babycakes, I’m nothing special,” replies Kevin, as I settle back down on his chest and feel his arm snake around my ribs, “All I think I really provided to you was someone in your corner, no matter what. You succeed, you fail, it doesn’t matter. You go to the next thing, which you’re gonna kill. And if not, you do the next thing. And the next.”
My hand finds his cheek. “You’re the best,” I tell him.
“I’ve gotta be,” he says, with a smirk, “I’ve read Eris’ fanfiction. I know what I’m up against.”
“Oh lord,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush, “you read that?”
“‘Caledonia’s golden hair was lost against the smooth alabaster heaven that was MJ’s muscular thighs.’”
I push away from him, up to my knees, and bury my face in my hands. “Oh, please don’t,” I manage to choke out between fits of laughter, “My asthma.”
“See?” he replies, “I thought you found it funny.”
“I do find it funny,” I admit, “I find it frippin’ hilarious. I’m a little terrified that you found it at all.”
I snuggle back up against his chest, feeling his hand snake past my ribs.
“I see one more’a those, and I’m going to pay Eris to write one starring you and Dan,” I warn, “See how you like it.”
We end up staying on the lawn for almost another hour.
Sometimes chatting. Mostly just being.
I’m not really in a talkative mood; this entire enterprise is reaching the peak, and in less than two days, the ride’s gonna be over. I know it never really ends: professional wrestling moves on. Some of us leave the van, someone else gets on, and it all keeps going to the next stop.
Yes, that’s a Black Flag reference.
Yes, my parents educated me on the classics.
“I don’t know if I’ve said this yet today, MJ,” says Kevin, gently rubbing my back, “but I’m really, really proud of you.”
MJ Flair endures the van as good as anyone and better than most.
Mariella Flurstein, however, is ready to fly home.
No Freedom without the will
Won't die for much, but I'll die on this hill
Some choose the cage 'cause they love the gild
My wings grew back, and theirs never will