A Lion's Tale_ Around the World in Spandex - Chris Jericho [41]
Think about it.
But if Bob thought I was on drugs, then on drugs I would be. I bought a package of powdered donuts and rubbed the white powder underneath my nostrils. I wandered into the dressing room bumping into doors and walls and asking Bob in my best Jeff Spicoli voice, “Hey man, can I have an advance so I can buy some shit after the show?” He flipped out and told everyone who would listen that I was completely out of it. Well, one of us was...
Later that summer, Ed asked Lance to replace Brad Young as his assistant for the next (No) Hart Brothers Camp. Even though Lance had only been wrestling for less than a year, he was already a good teacher and was an excellent choice. I was jealous of Lance’s new job because once again it showed that, in most people’s eyes, Lance was better than me. To make matters worse, my bookings had dwindled to zero and I had nothing better to do than hang around the wrestling school. Like Lee Barachie and Steve Gillespie the year before, I gave pointers to kids who didn’t have a clue who I was and acted like a hotshot because I’d had forty matches. I was never asked for my opinions, but I kept showing up every day to give them anyway and I ended up weaseling my way into teaching the class with Lance. After a few weeks I even had the audacity to ask Ed to give me some money for my time, which to his credit, he did. It was pathetic and so was I.
I continued to ride on Lance’s coattails when he got a job as a bouncer and got me hired as well. The place was called Malarkey’s and when we started it was like the Double Deuce in Roadhouse—it needed a lot of cleaning up. The manager, Tom, was working hard on upgrading the club’s clientele and he’d assembled a great collection of doormen to help. He gave all of us nicknames that suited our looks and dispositions. There was Hammer, Creampuff, Guru, Hoop, Turnip, Grizz, Fuji, Chang. I became Biff because I looked like I was from California and Lance became...Lance. He was too serious for a nickname.
We slowly eliminated the barroom brawling crowd by using friendly tactics instead of typical bouncer methods. One night at closing time I told a table of bikers that it was time to finish up and they told me in no uncertain terms that they weren’t leaving. When I calmly reiterated that they had to leave, one of the boys who probably tipped the scales at three bills said, “If you want me to leave, you’re gonna have to beat me in an arm wrestling match.”
What Steppenwolf didn’t know was that I had worked ring crew for a show that featured Scott “Flash” Norton, a world champion arm wrestler who became a world champion pro wrestler. Like a smartass, I challenged Flash to an arm wrestling match in the dressing room and he beat me in about one googleth of a second, almost tearing my shoulder out of its socket in the process. But he admired my chutzpah and in turn showed me a foolproof technique that guaranteed arm wrestling victory.
So I agreed to the contest and the members of our respective groups surrounded the table like the Sharks and the Jets and began to cheer us on. We gripped hands and began the battle. I used Norton’s trick and beat the muthatrucker, barely. My group cheered, his group groaned, but to their credit they all got up and walked out the door without protest. What’s the trick, you may ask? I ain’t telling. If you want to learn it, come ask me if you run into me on the street sometime. If I’m feeling froggy, maybe I’ll jump.
When things were slow in Malarkey’s, I’d get behind the bar and start pouring drinks. I was obsessed with Paul Stanley and Kiss (I dressed as the Starchild for a record-setting seven Halloweens in a row), especially his rap at the beginning of “Cold Gin” on the Alive record. He bragged about drinking vodka and orange juice in his thick New York accent and I thought it was the coolest-sounding drink ever. So vodka and orange juice became my drink, except I eliminated the middle man and