Stupid

“Annnnnd we’re clear.” a voice from the darkness calls out, as the red light above the camera lens begins to dim to black. “Great job everyone.”

You never realize how many people it takes to film a segment on an episode of Revival. Mainly because they’re all behind the camera, rather than in front. Today I feel sympathy for every single one of these nameless victims, because they’re all standing there forced to watch helplessly as my dad bends over grasping for a fuzzy blue cheerleading pom pom that got away.

I, for one, never realized that they made blue thongs in a XXXL for a 52 inch waist. I would have happily gone to my grave without said knowledge, but alas, now we all know.

“Good luck kiddo,” Lindsay Troy offers, peeling her eyes away from the train wreck that is my dad’s ass crack. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go pour a gallon of bleach on my eyes.”

Before I could respond, with my sincerest apologies, Lindsay Troy, my mentor, my idol, and now my new boss, rushes out of the room. It’s funny to me how quickly my father can clear out a room. With the runaway pom pom back in his meaty grasp, my dad turns to me with a small smile.

“Well, kid, you’ve done it now,” he says with a somber tone. “I still don’t think it’s the best decision, but what can I say, you are your own woman. But…”

My eyes began to roll, involuntarily, almost as if I could see this conversation coming from a mile away. Having heard him try and dissuade me from this path for the last year or more. I know what argument he’s going to say before he even says it. I know what manipulative string he’s going to tug before he even has a chance to pull it. I’ve screamed myself hoarse many times throughout the year as my counter arguments fall on deaf ears.

The whole “do as I say, not as I do” approach has never sat well with me, just as my “if it was good enough for you, why is it not good enough for me?” approach hasn’t sat well with him. I must admit it’s still better than his “I’m your father, and I know what’s best for you” argument.

“Please dad, not now.” I plead with him, as I make my way towards the door, with him stepping in tow. “We’ve been over this a hundred million times, and I think it’s safe to say, it’s a little late to change my mind now. I’ve just signed the dang contract.”

“LT is a reasonable woman,” he begins with a tone that he uses when he’s obviously lying. “I’m sure she’d understand if you want to back out.”

Walking down the crowded halls of the Scotiabank Saddledome; in Calgary, Alberta, Canada, I can’t help but stop mid stride and turn suddenly, causing him to stumble to a stop. “Listen, Dad, I love you, I love everything you have done for me. But this is my decision. I’m going to become a wrestler and there is nothing you can do, or say, that will change my mind.”

“I just want…” he begins but I cut him off mid sentence as I continue, “You can either jump on board, and support me like the wonderful father that you are, or you can step aside and watch from the sidelines as I make my way down this path alone.”

“I don’t want to see you get hurt…” he mumbles under his breath as his eyes dip down, staring at his awkwardly shuffling feet.

I reach my hand out and cusp his chin, lifting it so his bright blue eyes will meet mine. “Even if I do get hurt, I know I’ll be okay in the end. Because I know you’ll be there at my side. I don’t need you to protect me, I just need you to cheer me on. I mean, you are my number one athletic supporter, aren’t you?”

The smile that spreads on his face after the dumbest joke of all time, one I’ve heard him say a million times, is infectious. He suddenly rushes forward and wraps his arms around me, squeezing me tight to his ample bosom.

“I love you Belle.” he whispers, as I feel a drop of wetness drip down to my shoulder. I pat his back softly in return, whispering back, “I love you too Dad.”

—---------------------

“Doctor Mirza will see you now.” the nurse offers to the overweight woman seated three chairs away from us.

I never liked doctor’s offices, but this one was something special. An office that specializes in diabetes shared space in conjunction with one specializing in pediatrics. So there is a steady stream of screaming babies, along with screaming obesity.

“Kind of funny really,” I whisper, while leaning towards my dad as a Cancerous thought enters my mind. “If you think about it, how many of these kids will be coming back here in 30 years to see about their diabetes?”

My dad doesn’t laugh. He rarely does when I have a Cancer-esque thought. But if Uncle CJ were here, he’d be rolling at that one. Oh well, I guess my dad’s mind is a little preoccupied, judging by the movement of his far knee. Bouncing up and down a mile a minute, as if it’s screaming SOS in morse code.

“Don’t worry Pop, you’ll be alright,” I offer insincerely as we both know his diabetes has been on a rise as his health continues on the decline. It’s pretty bad when the likes of Ozempic and Mounjaro do nothing for you.

“Yeah,” he offers after a minute of silence, clearly not hearing me. “Funny.”

“Mr. Dean, Doctor Mirza will see you now,” the nurse calls out, smiling that fake smile all bored nurse offer. “If you’ll follow me back.”

Another Cancerous thought occurs to me, why do the nurses in a doctor’s office that deals primarily in diabetes walk so dang fast? Don’t they realize their patients can’t maintain that pace, unless they’re holding out a Snickers bar as incentive? I wisely keep that thought to myself, but I can picture Uncle Cancer in a nurse’s outfit leading my dad on a wild goose chase, all the while holding out a candy bar teasingly.

I begin to snicker at the vivid thought, causing my dad to look at me with his side eye, scowling as he scurries down the hall, with a bead of sweat beginning to form on his brow. With the laughter dying in my throat, I clear it as if I just had a tickle of a cough, easily keeping pace alongside my father.

We are lead down the half and around a bend where a scale sits prominently in the middle of the hall. A walker sits above it to assist the elderly in climbing atop. The nurse stops at the scale, clipboard in hand as my father’s face begins to pale. This is the moment he dreads most.

“Please go ahead and empty out your pockets,” the nurse instructs as the inner voice in my mind speaks once more. “As if a set of three keys, a wallet of credit cards, and a cellular phone would add a hundred pounds to the scale.” Dang it, I really need to stop letting Cancer Jiles.mold my impressionable mind.

My dad steps closer to the scale, having emptied his pockets into my awaiting hands. But as he approaches he realizes his girth is wider than the walker. So with a sheepish look and a redding of the cheeks he moves the walker aside and steps on the scale, all the while refusing to look at the rapidly climbing numbers.

“Okay, four hundred and twenty eight pounds,” the nurse calls out unnecessarily, causing my father to close his eyes in shame, his face reddening further. “Let’s go in Room Four, right there on your left.”

Following my father into the room I see his shoulders slumped, head down, eyes blinking rapidly as if he is trying not to cry. I wonder what is going through his mind at this moment. Entering the room, I notice that he takes a moment to contemplate whether or not he wants to sit atop the medical bench encased in paper, or the chairs meant for visitors.

After the briefest of thoughts we each grab a chair and take our seats, while the nurse walks over to the computer and immediately begin typing. Once the blood pressure and the temperature were taken she quickly leaves with a simple, “The doctor will be right in.”

Having been to more than my fair share of these appointments I pull out my phone and begin scrolling. It doesn’t take me long to happen across the updated PRIME website, in big bold blue letter “PRIME REVIVAL 66.”

My heart does a little flutter before it begins to beat rapidly, I cannot believe it. My eyes grow wide, my mouth drops open in shock, my skin becomes clammy and wet. There, on the site, first name listed reads:

“ANNABELLE DEAN”

My dad happens to glance over at me, noticing my peculiar reaction, but before he can ask if I’m okay I hurriedly turn my phone in his direction. Before he has a chance to read it, I quickly raise it and practically jamb it in his face, too close for him to possibly discern. “I’m in! I’m actually in!”

Roughly grabbing my hand and pulling it away from his face, my dad takes a second to read the screen. A proud smile begins to form as he reads aloud, “Annabelle Dean vs. Blaze Claymore. Well I’ll be. LT sure moves quick!”

“But who’s Blaze Claymore?” I ask, not familiar with the name.

Just as he’s about to respond the door opens and a young doctor of East Indian descent walks in. He shakes my father’s hand with a limp wrist before turning to me, offering a warm smile my way. He quickly takes his seat in front of the computer and begins reading whatever the computer is showing. While looking at the monitor before him, he asks my dad some inane questions, you know, like, “how are you?” “how are you feeling?” “anything new?”

To which my dad respond with equally inane answers, “good.” “good.” “no.”

Funny how this man can run his mouth, jabbering away at the most inopportune times, be it funerals, weddings, bar mitzvahs, even in a crowded public bathroom. Yet, get him one on one with a doctor and he’s as quiet as a fart in church… Which, funny enough, I’ve heard my dad actually fart in church. It’s not as quiet as that saying leads you to believe.

“Well, Mr. Dean,” the doctor begins in a sobering tone. “I’m going to be honest with you, your A1C is climbing. Your weight is increasing. And judging by your Dexcom readings, your blood sugar levels are astronomically high. Your circulatory system is beginning to show early signs of failure in your extremities. All in all, this is about as bad as you can get, and I’m still not quite sure why we haven’t seen any improvements, given the medications I’ve prescribed…”

I bite my tongue, fighting the urge to scream out. My dad, bless his heart, is the most unreliable man when it comes to his medications. Oftentimes he’ll go four or five days forgetting to take his insulin shots. It’s almost like he’s a black market drug pin for obesity.

And don’t even get me started on his atrocious eating habits!

“Ultimately I think we might need to start thinking about alternative measures.” Dr. Mirza says while pulling out a pamphlet from a stand mounted on the wall over his shoulder. “I’m thinking now is the time to start looking into bariatric surgery.”

“What’s that?” I can’t help but interject, asking because I know my father will not.

“It’s weight loss surgery<” he begins, turning his focus towards me. “Gastric bypass, laparoscopic gastric banding, or even the Duodenal switch.”

The next twenty minutes pass by with the doctor explaining to me the different methods of weight loss surgery. Thirty minutes after that and my father is sitting behind the wheel of our Kia Soul waiting to pick up his two double quarter pounder meals from McDonald’s…

“Dad, I think it’s about time you start focusing on what the doctor is saying.” I try softly, knowing the perilous ground I’m trying to navigate could give way at any second. “I’m really worried about you.”

He smiles at me like he’s the happiest man in the world, and I guess, now that he’s out of the doctor’s office, he is the happiest man in the world again. “Kiddo, I think you have better things to worry about than your old man.”

“Like what!?” I cry out, “What is more important than you and your health?”

“Well, we still don’t know who the fuck Blaze Claymore is!” he says in all seriousness, before pulling up to the pickup window and turning all of his attention towards the meal(s) he’s about to devour.

—------------

“Lights,”

“CANCER,”

“ACT…”

“No, no, no!” Bobby’s voice rings out as he steps forward, blocking the camera while waving his arms wildly through the air calling out in wild disbelief. “You can’t start with that.”

“Why not? Uncle CJ does!” I ask, petulantly. “It seems to be working for him, judging by his success rate.”

My dad shakes his head, throwing his hands up in frustration. “Right, it works for him, because it’s HIS thing. Crumbs; lights cancer action; pucker kiss, cocaine the horse: any word you can substitute egg to: every word that can be prefaced with COOL. That’s all his schtick, you can’t just use it as your own because it’s already established.”

“Ohhhhh,” I say as realization dawns on me, quickly shifting to curiosity. “Wait, what’s your schtick?”

“Being fat.” my dad says deadpan.

“Well, judging by YOUR record, you might want to find a new schtick yourself.” I offer with a sly smirk, causing my dad to roll his eyes.

“Yeah, I did, it’s called you. Now, let’s try this again,” he calls as he brings up the film clapper and announces, “‘Little Belle’s First Promo’ take two.”

“Uhm, hiya?” I greet the camera, waving lamely, completely at a loss, what DO you do with your hands while cutting a promo? “My name is Annabelle Dean, and I’m mean, green, with a mighty spleen?”

“What in the world?” Bobby Dean mutters off camera just loud enough. “Why are you rhyming?”

“I don’t know what I’m doing!” I exclaim, my embarrassment rising as I feel my cheeks begin to flush. “What the hell am I supposed to say about a guy I’ve never met?”

“You don’t need to know your opponent,” Bobby explains gently, once again coming from behind the cameras. “Although knowing them would help. Regardless, your job is to sell the match itself. Make people want to tune in to watch you. Whether you’re wrestling a tomato can or Godzilla himself. Sell it. I mean, sheesh, what has Lindsay and Uncle Cancer been teaching you all this time?”

“They’ve been teaching me how to work in the ring!” I shoot back, still full of piss and vinegar. “Who knew there was so much more to this than in ring stuff anyway!?”

Bobby begins to laugh uproariously before trying to say, “You really think I found my modicum of success because of my in ring work?” Followed by more uproarious laughter.

Having your father laugh at your expense could be humbling, if it weren’t so infuriating. I mean, he’s been doing this shit for damn near 30 years and I’ve been doing it for less than a week. The rage building within me is overwhelming, to the point that I throw my hands up and begin to storm off the set.

Pushing roughly past him I mutter aloud, “This is stupid.” and make my way back towards the confines of my bedroom. All the while his laughter follows me.

Stupid wrestling.

Stupid promos.

Stupid Bobby Dean.

Stupid Blaze Claymore.