EPISODE 9 THE JOURNEYMAN

My mom saw me all the way to the gate at the airport. She cried; I cried.

“Are you sure you have to leave? You don’t have to go. You don’t have to do this, you know.”

“I do, Mom; I have to do this.” The part of me that wanted to stay was now being decimated by the dreamer.

Looking back now, I can’t imagine the bravery it took for my mom to let her often-reckless daughter go across seas to pursue the unknown. But in regards to raising children she had always said, “Give them roots and give them wings.” And I was about to fly. Both literally and figuratively.

My brother had passed me an envelope to open on the flight.

“Don’t read it until you’re in the air,” he instructed, and I dared not dishonor his word. I took my middle seat, unpacked my Discman, books, and journal for the flight. Once I was airborne and my ears had popped, I took out his note.

It was a sketch he had done of me from when I was maybe six or seven years old. On the back he wrote how far this kid had come and how much further she was going to go and reminded me, above all else, to keep my integrity.

He even enclosed a fifty-euro bill, though he didn’t have much money himself. Again the tears streamed down my face. Knowing I had his support and belief in me felt like I was wearing a parachute. Either I would be able to achieve everything I set out to do or I’d float back home safely on the love he had always given me.

Despite the fact that Richy was twenty times the wrestler I was, he never wanted to pursue it as a career. He was a fine artist, and that was what he wanted to dedicate his life to. But without him, his love for wrestling, and his patience in helping me, this journey would have never begun.

As I stepped onto the jet bridge in Vancouver the heat of the summer hit me like a left hand to the face. I had that cactus-like prickly feeling you get from traveling so long, and I felt further exhausted from being up chatting with my new boyfriend, Fergal, the night before I left.

I stood in the long immigration line, waiting to be questioned.

I always feel mildly criminal as I walk up to the booth, where some stern lady or man is there to ask me about all of my evil plans to destroy Gotham City—or Vancouver, as the case may be. And suddenly I’m afraid I’ve somehow accidentally smuggled a honey-glazed ham into my luggage. As I stutter over my answers, becoming increasingly clammy and anxious, I’m aware of every side eye and lingering moment on the computer.

Lo and behold, I escaped through, imaginary ham and all, and proceeded to the baggage claim, where upon luggage collection I would meet my future roommates whom I acquired online. Fergal joked that they could be serial killers, which, ya know, was funny in that it-could-be-true kind of way. Luckily for me, it appeared they were not, as they greeted me with smiling faces and hugs while they led me to their car.

I could have ended up anywhere, because research wasn’t my forte at this point in my life—or, I suppose, at any point in my life. But somehow I had landed myself in Kitselano, a ritzy, safe part of the city. We pulled up and walked down to a basement apartment that was bereft of light and contained only a minimal amount of furniture. It was the perfect humble abode for yours truly for the next twelve months.

I woke up the next morning ready to explore my new surroundings, smiling to myself all the while. My roommates hadn’t killed me in my sleep and the world was my oyster! Everything is coming up Becky! I thought in my best Milhouse voice.

As I walked up the street to get groceries, my head was bobbing from side to side, in the manner that one does when they are full of joy, gratitude, hope, and new love. It felt like anything was possible, like I was going to achieve every aspiration I had ever summoned, like the universe, or God, or whoever is in charge of all of this was setting me up for a win.

My cousin, Kev, even happened to be in town that day. His positivity reminded me of my dad’s, and Kev loved the idea of chasing a dream. An immigrant himself, he had come to Canada some twenty years earlier. Now he was married with a kid, a fine big house, and a respectable job.

Though there was a large age gap between Kev and me, one big enough that he could credibly be my father, we were kindred spirits: a couple of renegades who had left the nest in search of the promised worms.

It was a few days before I discovered the location of the wrestling school of the promotion Scotty Mac had raved about. Making my way by train, bus, and foot and trekking through a new transportation system proved treacherous. It rained as if it thought it was Ireland, the bottoms of my pants were soaked, and my mascara ran down my cheeks.

I eventually rocked up to the door, looking like an insane Irish banshee that had followed Scotty across the pond. He surely must have been startled. But Canadians will be Canadians, so I was welcomed with open arms as he immediately invited me to join the class, rain-soaked pants and all.

I instantly felt bonded to the other trainees as we rolled around exchanging holds and techniques. It was as if I had found my new wrestling family, which was confirmed as they invited me for lunch at Subway.

Over footlongs and Diet Cokes, I listened to stories about the promotion’s most notorious characters. With names like Ladies’ Choice, El Phantasmo, and Moondog Manson, I couldn’t wait to meet these people, and I wouldn’t have to wait long. They had a show coming up that weekend, which they were certain they could get me booked on.

ECCW didn’t have many women, which was common at that time, but there was one lady I could wrestle, although everyone described her as “the drizz” (short for “drizzling shits,” i.e., bad, real bad). Challenge accepted. A goal of mine (which I still have) is that I want to make anyone I share a ring with look good. That, to me, is the mark of a truly seasoned professional wrestler. It is what all the greats do remarkably well. Ric Flair, John Cena, Seth Rollins.

It is doubly important to me, with women’s wrestling still in its infancy in terms of favorable positioning, and thus I believe it is my duty to enhance everyone with whom I step in the ring, so that the sport can continue to grow.

With this mindset, or just my exuberant existence, I was booked. I was about to make my Canadian debut.

Scotty Mac collected me from the train station in his rusted burgundy pickup truck. His white teeth gleamed as he smiled, contrasted against his equally burgundy skin. While most wrestlers used sun beds, Scotty could often look like he lived in one. He was a twenty-seven-year-old pretty boy, with spiked-up golden hair and a perfectly formed physique, and he ruled the Vancouver wrestling scene.

We cruised along to Bridgeview Hall, the location of my debut. Scotty Mac did the rounds, greeting everyone and making sure I was introduced, like he was the “King of ECCW” that he was.

With pro wrestling having had much deeper roots in the culture of Canada than Ireland, it was a departure from the younger scene I was used to. Most of these people were full-grown men, with full-grown muscles and full-grown mustaches, and had years of experience in the biz.

The wrestlers were as welcoming here as they had been at the school. Ladies’ Choice had already captivated me with his raspy voice, long blond hair, and golden tan. The guy looked like he was straight out of a 1970s porno, in the best possible way. He jested about my future opponent’s inexperience, making me feel like we already had inside jokes and were the best of pals. Yep, he was the “Ladies’ Choice” indeed.

About an hour after I arrived, I noticed a woman with an enthusiastic face, attached to a platinum-blond headful of hair, come bounding through the front door. This was the famous Miss Chevius.

I was almost disappointed in how she had been sold. I expected a sea urchin who had crawled out of a rock cavity and into the ring, ready to put my skills to the test. What I found was a gorgeous and polite young woman who was eager to work and have a good match. As we talked ideas, I consulted the journal full of wrestling spots I had written down over the years and slotted in her move set, then mine, and kept it simple.

When the time came for us to go out for our match, the whole roster congregated at the curtain in delightful anticipation of a potential disaster.

After all, they hadn’t seen me work. I could have been “the drizz” too.

The crowd applauded Miss Chevius like the local hero she was—before I, the cocky, brash, shrill heel interrupted their party—as they showered me with a chorus of boos.

The crowd, clearly regulars, was excited by this new, foreign face before them—but stayed loyal to their hometown girl, willing her to whup that arrogant, alien ass.

After much back-and-forth and a valiant attempt by Miss Chevius, I eventually stole the win, boasting all the way to the back. My music, MC Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This,” played as I sang along—having proved that you could not, in fact, touch this.

As I Hammertimed through the curtain, I was met with a round of applause from the rest of the ECCW roster.

“That was great!” enthused Scotty Mac.

“Best match I’ve seen her have,” Ladies’ Choice added.

“Good job, kid,” Michelle Starr, the booker, said, impressed.

My first outing and I hadn’t stunk up the joint. Things were off to a hot start. As I began to take my boots off Starr slipped me an envelope. “It will be bigger next time.”

I opened it to see thirty dollars. He might as well have handed me $1 million. After spending three years paying to wrestle, I was finally making money. All told, I would do it for free. Anything more was a bonus.

I quickly became a regular at the training school and shows. My pay almost doubled to fifty dollars. But even with this great surge in wealth, Vancouver was expensive and it was hard to get by. Not to mention, I spent most of my money on calling cards to talk to Fergal back home as our long-distance relationship continued to blossom. I relied on a tub of protein and a bag of oats to keep me fed, essentially living like a juiced-up racehorse.

But if I wanted to keep a roof over my head, I was going to have to do the unthinkable. I was going to have to get a real day job.

My roommate got me a job at a telesales company in downtown, raising money for charity, so it didn’t seem so soul sucking. Though bonuses were handed out to whoever had raised the most money, which seemed counterintuitive.

Aren’t we doing this for charity? Shouldn’t they get the money? Is it wrong to solicit for charity if it is for personal gain? I pondered with one foot already out the door.

After the third day, I was given a talking-to for not raising enough cash. I wasn’t pushy enough, apparently. But forcing people to give away money they might not have or want to give away—knowing that it was for my own financial profit—seemed a bit seedy and more soul sucking than I initially thought.

Later that day, I rang someone who clearly didn’t want to be bothered but was Canadianly polite enough to engage.

“Time to put my pushy pants on!” I relented to my orders.

Rebuttal one: “Now’s not a good time.”

Rebuttal two: “I said it’s really not a good time.”

I, not taking no for an answer, pushed a third time, to which the lady exclaimed, “My husband just died!” and slammed down the phone.

That was it for me. I walked out at lunch and never went back, forgoing my check. Now I had an even greater hunger to make a living out of wrestling. Of course, hunger wasn’t going to pay the rent, and I had to leave my cushy basement apartment that had afforded me shelter and convenience for a solid two months.

Realizing this, Scotty kindly allowed me to move into his house in Surrey. Which he had appropriately named the MacMansion. My room had nothing but a mattress on the floor, but it beat sleeping on the actual floor or a park bench.