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  From the earliest cavemen, bludgeoning each other with bloody clubs carved from ancient vegetation, to the agile Romans, professionally trained and outfitted to battle to the death in front of an audience of fifty-thousand, to this thoroughly modern savage race that particularly fascinates and amuses me. I have been absolutely captivated ever since I first witnessed their brutally compelling antics.

  What am I babbling about?

  Professional wrestling. I love it.

  What, it’s fake?

  Yes, of course, I know it’s fake. I’m not gullible.

  Seriously, I like the whole hands-on approach, the rivalries, the genuine competition that grows, out of control, from some stupid manufactured storyline.

  In the beginning, there had been the carnival wrestlers. Paid almost nothing to travel around the country, they showed off their amazing strength to weary post-Civil War kids who could scrape together the few cents needed to buy a ticket. The carnies themselves had worked as bookers and promoters, passing their coded lingo on to wrestlers who would eventually go on to bigger and better things, taking that carny slang with them. They still use it today. Know what it means to be a “butcher”? How about a “mark”? “Heel” or “face”? Well, stay tuned, my friend.

  Ever heard of Frank Gotch? He was one of the first American sports superstars. He beat every contender in North America and Europe to be called the “world’s undisputed” heavyweight champion. He was one tough S.O.B. He helped to make wrestling more popular than baseball. For a while, anyway. In the 1920s, fighters kicked it up a notch and started dressing in fancy clothes, using signature moves or gimmicks, and focusing more on developing feuds and storylines. People kind of knew that wrestling was fake—“kayfabe” in that fun carny speak—so the players concentrated on entertaining rather than actually fighting. The real fighting was left to the boxers, I suppose, but I like a little bravado with my beat downs. Plus, boxers can’t kick or drop each other on their heads or anything, so that’s kind of boring.

  By 1941, the world knelt on the brink of an epic catastrophe that would resonate for generations to come. Millions of souls in Europe—particularly in Germany and Poland—needed the help of my kind to get them through their ordeal, but I was too young to help out with that level of tragedy. At just over two hundred years of age, I still am. I have lesser, but no-less-important, duties in my so-called Formative Age.

  In addition to helping out disabled kids back in those early days, I reported back to my Superiors on a singular bright spot, which shone through that time clouded with smoke and ash and misery with a brilliance the world had never seen. This unlikely beacon brought a desperately needed distraction from the daily news of a world being torn apart by terrible forces beyond their control.

  It was the First Golden Age of Professional Wrestling.

  Gorgeous George Wagner. I remember that dude flitting around the ring, blowing kisses to shouting men with faces lit red by embarrassment and outrage. That’s when pro wrestling really took off. It was fun, man. I liked the showmanship, I liked the soap opera storylines, and I really dug the idea of two humans fighting each other with nothing but their bare hands (well, and a folding chair every now and then).

  They weren’t shooting each other on some battlefield, or knifing each other in dark alleys. They weren’t tricking crowds into gas chambers masquerading as group showers. They were duking it out just like old time Greece, man against man. No guns, no shivs, no biological warfare, no freaking nukes. I could get behind that.

  I respected that.

  Gorgeous George transformed into the “Human Orchid,” and made wrestling more popular than it had ever been. Then came The Sheik, Dick the Bruiser, Haystack Calhoun. And, having to acknowledge the real world, a bad guy by the name of Fritz von Erich showed up after the war. Time passed and we saw the rise and fall of regional promotions, televised matches, “Hulkamania,” and the monopoly of Vince McMahon.

  Good times.

  * * *

  Seventy years after Gorgeous George, I feel that same exhilaration as I perch high in the rafters of Pittsburgh’s Mellon Arena—to locals, the “Igloo.”

  I feel alive, if you can believe that.

  As always, I keep a lid on my exuberance and try to keep my mind on what I’m supposed to be doing. I look down upon the crowns of their heads and marvel at their measured movements. The two thickset warriors creep around the canvas square in a crude and brutal dance where, instead of a dip, a partner will be treated to a pile driver or some other such cruelty. Their torsos and faces are ripped open, and weeping gashes leave red blemishes on the pristine white mat beneath their feet. Their matted hair drips sweat and hangs in their eyes as they size each other up from opposing corners. They turn to the crowd and raise their unnaturally inflated arms toward me, inciting a verbal riot. They whip their fans into a frenzy which is neither vicious nor mirthful, but occupies a zone somewhere in between. The entire fracas is fueled by adrenaline and something that feels like helium.

  In the audience, teenagers bearing the merciless pus-filled badges of adolescence pump their fists in the air and shout themselves hoarse. Adults spill beer on their neighbors as they rise from their seats to heckle their least favorite contender. An elderly man pulls the hearing aid from his ear and drops it into the pocket of his worn flannel shirt before screaming himself red. Someone’s mother hides her grinning face in embarrassment as it fills the enormous video screens that line the auditorium.

  The overwhelming urge to clap my hands and raise my voice in unity with those fans is beaten down only by my innate sense of responsibility. I am on duty.

  My eyes find her easily in the mêlée below.

  She is the most beautiful girl in the entire arena. Her round face brightens when Nash locks his opponent, Gemini, in a sleeper hold. He is her favorite, Stryker Nash. She may not understand this, but she loves him in the purest, most beautiful sense of the word. I see it in her heart. She feels an indefinite but intense happiness whenever she watches him wrestle. Although she always talks about him being “hot” (at first, I thought she was referring to the perma-sweat in which he seems eternally encased), his looks have nothing to do with her feelings for him, of course. Likewise, his publically displayed foul attitude is not the attraction. She knows virtually nothing about his private life—just what she sees on TV or reads in the fan mags, but her instincts are impeccable. She sees something deeper in him, some admirable quality he fights to keep hidden from the world at large.

  Beneath my gaze, her mouth forms a near-perfect O, her almond-shaped eyes squeeze down to nothing as she pogoes next to her friend, Jason, cheering. Her glossy dark red hair swings above her rounded shoulders. Her mouth hangs open, frozen in an exasperating stutter as she howls his name. She rocks back and forth and shoves her stubby index fingers into her ears, removing them periodically in a spasm of applause only to plug them back in. Jason Gibson swings his arm around her shoulders and she slumps against him, smiling.

  She is one of mine and she is beautiful.

  So that you won’t be distracted by my biased comments and general nonsense, I’ll tell you a couple of things about myself before we press on.

  I am an angel.

  Yes, an angel who loves professional wrestling. No shit.

  And, yeah, I use bad language sometimes. It’s allowed. Looked down upon, but allowed.

  Wait, wait, wait. Before you reject the notion of what I am, let me assure you that:

  1.) I am not here to perform any miracles, and,

  2.) I am not here to preach God’s word or anything like that.

  Also, I don’t see everything, everywhere. That is so not how the angel thing works. Other guys—guys with way more experience—do that. My job is Ally. I know every freeway, every four-lane highway, and every main street, back road, driveway, sidewalk, and dirt trail that leads to her. If you are anywhere on that map, yeah, I know you, too. I see stuff related to and affecting her.

  I don’t “
save” her from shit, either, just so you know. Like, if she were falling from the top of a skyscraper, I couldn’t swoop in and catch her like Superman or anything. I just kind of watch and keep track, and that’s pretty much it.

  Oh, and I’m telling you this story so that you might learn something—like I did—but whether that works out or not… Well, we’ll have to wait and see.

  So, with that out of the way, you should know that this is her story, not mine. I will do my best to relate the facts and stay out of your way, but no promises. I’m pretty vocal.

  I am not asking you to believe in anything except her.

  Her full name is Allison Stephanie Forman. Call her Ally. That’s what she likes.

  We have a lot in common, Ally and me. From our love of professional wrestling, to a shared disdain for the tortuous din known as rap music. We are kindred spirits, she and I, gauzy white helicopter seeds, blown from the same withering dandelion, floating through time and space propelled by the breath of another. How’s that for poetic? I’m not much for that, but I give it a go now and then, just for kicks.

  Ally and I have a great deal more in common, but you’ll see.

  For now, all you need to know is that Ally is pure of heart and that she operates under the watchful eye of a totally jaded angel.

  Ally’s hero, Stryker, is another of our kind. Well, kind of once removed, but he’s alright. Although he maintains a vicious external image, and isn’t without some fairly deep but typical human flaws, he is a good guy. Come on, who doesn’t get totally shitfaced and puke on somebody’s shoes every once in a while? Well, okay, that’s not cool. And he had some secrets that I just could not crack when this all went down, but I was always pretty sure he’d never killed anyone or anything. I know he has great potential by the way Ally and her peers respond to him. Those Dear Ones know instinctively whether one has a tendency toward good or evil. They can somehow sense evil, even across great distances. It’s one of their lesser known traits.

  It’s what makes them specifically suited to their destiny.

  And they all love Stryker, so what does that say?

  Ally and Stryker each sit on the precipice of some turbulent times as I watch them from my perch on the catwalk. Mr. Nash is engaged in the most important wrestling match of his career. He does not appear worried during the fight, not even with his face ground into the mat and his opponent standing on his back. But the anxiety is there. It emanates from his being like the vibration of a bell long after the clapper has stopped swinging. He had been booked to win this match, but Gemini is straying from the rehearsed choreography and it looks like our boy might lose.

  In the last sequence, Gemini is supposed to sink to his knees after Stryker drives his elbow into his fat neck, but, instead, he dodges the blow and climbs the turnbuckle.

  Whaaaat?

  Stryker doesn’t know what to do. He gives Gemini a questioning look, but is answered by only a wagging tongue which confuses him further. Hoping that his friend knows what he is doing, Stryker steps in front of Gemini and lets him leap on his back, flattening him on the red-splattered canvas. The fury contained in the forearm strike to the chin surprises Stryker and he gets mad. Finally understanding that Gemini means to win this match, despite the script dictating the opposite result, Stryker unleashes his superior technical skills (opens a can of whoop-ass) and pins his friend beneath him. Wham!

  The referee gives the count and declares Stryker the winner. Gemini scrambles to his feet, batting aside Stryker’s extended hand. He ducks under the ropes and sulks toward the locker room, cheers and jeers lining his way.

  Bloodied and blowing sweat from his brow, Stryker walks down the cinderblock corridor to the shared dressing room. A few of his American Wrestling Guild A-Team colleagues are there, standing to grab him in a sweaty bear hug or pump his hand as he marches in, thick faux-jeweled belt held high above his head, his ape-like gait exaggerated by fatigue. The battered Gemini—his mortal enemy not more than ten minutes before—smiles through crimson smeared lips and sweat-soaked hair, hands his buddy a towel and a Gatorade, giving him a congratulatory whoop and a thump on the back.

  “Hey, no hard feelings, man,” Gemini says, grinning. “Just trying to give the fans their money’s worth.” Stryker doesn’t like the set of his friend’s eyes. You know how you can tell someone’s faking a smile by looking at their eyes—the crow’s feet aren’t as deep, there’s no twinkle, there’s only a cold, vacant probing expression.

  Gemini’s eyes are not at all involved in his smile.

  I have a lot of trouble, for some reason, reading Stryker. The best I can describe it is a dark cloud of black scribbles. _______________ But what I get is that he worries that his storyline is being rewritten without his knowledge. He’s seen it happen to other guys before. Not selling enough of your action figures? Only fifty people showed up at your autograph signing? Your new workout video tanked? Yeah, um, this week, your character gets the chicken pox, because—stay with me here—your parents were so poor that they never got you vaccinated as a kid, and it’s very serious, and you end up dying from it. Okay? Got it?

  Stryker thinks that Gemini has become more secretive in recent weeks, hanging out more with friends from other wrestling promotions. He used to bullshit with Stryker about the wrestling game, hanging out with him down the South Side, but he’s been growing distant. What’s up with that?

  There is much in his thoughts that I cannot read, as I said. It’s weird.

  Stryker does his best to shrug it off and enjoy his win. Even though victories are pre-determined in their world, winners are still allowed ample celebration and undisputed bragging rights. After years of jobbing it, Stryker has finally been chosen by the powers that be. It is his turn in the limelight.

  But, alas, the party is short-lived.

  Barry Goldin, Stryker’s business manager, enters the locker room, barrel chest forging ahead, lips pursed, eyes lost in a squint like a thoughtful general. In fact, when Goldin had been a wrestler, he was known as The Golden General. He steps in front of Stryker and peers into his charge’s beaming face.

  “General! We finally did it, man,” Stryker shouts, smacking the General on the arm. Goldin looks down at the wet spot that appears on the sleeve of his sharkskin jacket and frowns.

  The General is the best face manager in the AWG. He’d come over from the World Wrestling Coalition after suffering a ruptured Achilles’ tendon on the eighth hole at a Palm Beach golf course. A face manager’s job is to do his newer, or less-charismatic, charge’s trash talking and to get him into bigger and better matches, and there is none better than The General. He’d finally had a breakthrough with Stryker, officially “putting him over,” cementing his rise in status, with tonight’s match against the always-popular Gemini.

  A “face,” in case you are not up on that aforementioned carny speak, is a good guy. It’s short for “baby face,” for some reason. He’s the wrestler who the fans like and want to see win. He’s usually the big draw. His opponent, the villain, is known as the “heel.” Stryker was hoping to break into a big face position, after working for a number of years in a regular journeyman or “jobber” role (those are the guys who fight in lesser matches and who are not the superstars—yes, there will be a test later). This match against Gemini, the league’s biggest heel, was Stryker’s big break.

  “Yeah, great,” Goldin says. “Don’t get too excited, though. It may be the first time, but it’s also the last.” Off-camera, well away from the eyes of the fans, The General has little use for drama and bravado. He comes straight to the point with his charges: no shouting, no popping veins, no cords standing out in his bulldog neck, just a businessman’s cool detachment.

  Stryker looks around the room, confused. Gemini and the other guys have stowed their smiles, scenting blood in the air like trained dogs. The General is also Nyxxa’s and Stryper’s manager, and those guys—Stryker’s allies, his “brothers”—exchange a guilty look which Stryker catches but is
unable to interpret.

  “Listen, kid,” the General begins, squinting at Stryker’s face, “I hate to tell you this, but the Guild is going down the crapper. We jumped the shark, boys, it’s over.” He glances around the room, addressing everyone present. Even though no cameras were around, He’s gone theatrical, giving Stryker the brush off. “Got word this morning from the higher ups. Nothing we can do, we’re all gonna be on the street if they can’t strike some kind of deal with the Big Boys.” The “Big Boys” being the WWC, of course, The World Wrestling Coalition.

  “Well,” Gemini pipes up, winking at Nyxxa and Stryper, “Not all of us.” He waggles his eyebrows at Stryker and whistles off to the shower, ignoring the General’s glower.

  Stryker stomps his bare foot.

  “You’re shitting me! I finally get put over and the whole fucking thing is collapsing?”

  The same news is received by Ally herself, the following morning.

  3. Metathesiophobia / met′ă-thē′sēō-fō′-bē-ă / fear of changes

  “Nooooo-ho-ho,” she howls back at the bearer of bad tidings.

  The television doesn’t care. It sits in a small niche carved out of the jumble of rubbish crowding the Forman’s living room. Ally’s despair slides right off its slick black bezel, its old-fashioned glass window reflects her angst directly back at her, magnifying and distorting it.

  That is, after all, television’s job, isn’t it?

  Ally’s mother, Lois, yells from the kitchen, not fifteen feet from her shouting daughter. “What’s the matter in there?” Lois looks up from the pile of magazines she’s sorting through on top of layers of newspapers, dirty paper plates, and empty pizza boxes on the kitchen table. The magazine covers feature Pittsburgh sports heroes, 1980s to the present. To most people, it’s a load of garbage. But, to Lois, it’s a stack of important reminders of a life well-lived. Look, here’s Sidney Crosby holding up the shining Stanley Cup dated the day Ally joined the union at work. Here’s Big Ben looking very GQ on the day Lois had her mammogram. Here’s Mario Lemieux on the day Earl retired from the mill. She cannot bear the thought of parting with any of these treasures. And she won’t. Everything in her cluttered home is either a treasured memory or a key to bringing back the life she had before everything had gotten so complicated. She had started collecting stuff seriously the day Ally was born. It didn’t become compulsive hoarding, though, until the day Ally had gone to work.