The Ride North
I arrived at the airport in my stretch the next day about 12:30 PM, parked in the garage, and pulled out the pad of paper we use to write our clients’ names on. For a moment, I thought about writing “THE UNDERTAKER” on the sign, but I decided not to. I didn’t want the guy to get pissed at me for drawing attention to him. What if he started manipulating fire and lightning right there in the terminal? I wrote “CALAWAY” on the sign and headed inside.
When I saw the tattooed giant with hair hanging down past his shoulders coming up the escalator, I knew I had my man. Before The Undertaker even had a chance to see me, I smiled to myself, methodically folded the sign in half, and slipped it into the breast pocket of my suit jacket. This was going to be an interesting day.
I discreetly approached him and asked, “Mark Calaway?”
“Yeah, that’s me,” he replied in a gruff, scratchy voice.
“I’ll be your driver today, sir. Do you have any other baggage?”
“Nope, this is it.” He had a small carry-on bag.
“Very good. Right this way, sir.”
I was happy he didn’t have checked baggage. When a client does, I usually suggest they get the car in the garage and pick them up on the airport drive. That way I don’t have to stand awkwardly and make small talk about the weather or their recent hemorrhoid surgery while we wait for the bags.
The Undertaker followed me up the escalator to the parking garage, and it was then that I got my first real idea of the notoriety of the person I was about to move.
“Hey Taker! What’s up, bro?”
“Taker, what’re you doin’ in Seattle?”
“Hey, it’s The Undertaker!”
Strangers called out his name at least five times during the hundred-yard walk from the terminal to the garage. (That was more than when I drove Magic Johnson and Kate Mulgrew combined!) The Undertaker was very modest and greeted his fans warmly as we walked to the car.
He kept his baggage with him when he climbed into the back of the brand-new black Cadillac stretch limousine. I closed the door, got in the driver’s seat, and off we went with a fat tank of gas for the two-and-a-half-hour drive to Vancouver.
It was a hot and sunny August afternoon, and I settled in for a nice quiet drive. After a few minutes, The Undertaker spoke: “Hey man, can you turn on some music back here? Some rock ‘n roll or somethin’?”
“Sure, the controls are above your head, go right ahead,” I replied.
He turned on the radio and searched for a station to his liking. Not surprisingly, he settled on the classic rock format. We continued to drive north on Interstate 5 as the sound of ZZ Top’s “Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers” bounced around the car.
While I drove, I glanced in the rearview mirror at him. (I always tried to keep a low profile with clients—particularly celebrities. They don’t want some jackass driver watching their every move or yammering on during their trip.) He sported a Van Dyke-style beard and a plain black baseball hat pulled down so it barely covered his eyes. As he looked out the window, I saw that his deeply etched face held every year of his 38 on this Earth.
I also noticed that The Undertaker sat right in the center of the back seat. Normally clients sit on the passenger side, so his position was a little unusual. (Donny Osmond sat on the driver’s side, slumped way down so his head was below the top of my seat. That was very unusual.)
We drove for another thirty minutes or so, and then The Undertaker spoke again: “Hey man, I’m starvin’. Can you stop somewhere so I can get somethin’ to eat? Like maybe a Jack in the Box or Burger King, somewhere with a drive-through?”
“Sure, no problem!” I replied.
As we were coming up on Marysville, I saw a sign for Jack in the Box.
“There’s a Jack in the Box ahead, is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s great, man. Thanks.”
I made my way to the drive-through. The Undertaker rolled down his window, and a friendly female voice crackled over the speaker.
I pulled up to the first menu sign.
“Welcome to Jack in the Box! May I take your order?”
“Yeah, I’ll have a Jumbo Jack, a large curly fries, two tacos, a large Dr. Pepper, and a chocolate shake.”
The bigger the boy, the bigger the appetite!
“I’m sorry, sir, we don’t have Dr. Pepper. Would you like a Pepsi or a root beer?”
Sorry, Taker, I thought. You’re not in Texas anymore. There isn’t a lot of Dr. Pepper on tap in the Pacific Northwest.
“Make it a root beer, then,” he said.
“Okay, will there be anything else, sir?”
The Undertaker spoke in my direction: “You want anything, bro?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
“Nope, that’s it,” he replied.
“Okay, that comes to $12.20. Please stop at the first window.”
I pulled up a little further and saw a very sharp left turn on the drive that led to the cashier’s window. I looked in my rearview mirror just in time to see a car pull in behind me. I suddenly had the terrifying image of a crane having to free us from the clutches of the Jack in the Box drive-through.
Given the car behind me, I had no choice but to go forward and hope for the best. I inched my way around the corner and barely made it.
As I slowly drove the limousine to the cashier’s window, I rolled my window down and smiled a goofy grin. I kept the same silly smile on my face as I slowly passed her by, finally stopping so that The Undertaker’s window was even with hers. When she saw my passenger, she shrieked: “The Undertaker! Oh my god, what’re you doing here?”
“I’m headed to Canada for a match,” he replied matter-of-factly.
“Oh my god! You guys! It’s The Undertaker!” she all but screamed to no one in particular.
At that point, I could see a tidal wave of excitement roll through the Jack in the Box kitchen. A couple of workers converged at the cashier’s window and gawked at him in disbelief. The cashier fumbled around her workstation and suddenly presented him with a pen and paper: “Can I have an autograph, Taker?”
He took the pen and paper, asked for her name, and signed the autograph. She took it, thanked him profusely, and then stared at him, seemingly forgetting why she was there. Finally, The Undertaker asked, “Uh, how much do I owe ya again?”
“Oh, oh my god, I’m sorry! That’s gonna be $12.20, twelve dollars and twenty cents.”
He handed over the money, and we pulled forward. At the next window, he received his food—but not before being asked for a second autograph by the next dazed worker.
I drove out onto the street, and the smell of fried food started to fill the Cadillac. “So much for eatin’ healthy,” The Undertaker said.
“Yeah, it’s always tough eating right on the road,” I replied. With that, he started to eat his food, and I got back on the freeway.
We had a smooth trip to Blaine, the main gateway between Washington State and British Columbia. After about twenty minutes in line, I pulled up to the Canadian immigration booth. The stiff officer bid me a good afternoon.
He looked back at the blacked-out windows of the limousine and asked, “Do you have any passengers?”
“Yes, I do. One,” I replied.
“Who is your passenger, sir?”
“The Undertaker,” I said, fighting to keep a straight face.
“The Undertaker? Are you kidding?” In a matter of seconds, the immigration officer’s demeanor changed from a super-serious professional to a giddy schoolboy.
“Nope, see for yourself,” I replied, pulling forward so he could do just that.
The Undertaker lowered his window, and before he could say a word, the officer said, “Hey Taker, how’s it goin’? What’re you doin’ in Canada?”
“I’ve got a match in Vancouver tonight.”
“Vancouver, eh? Wow, I didn’t know that! Okay then, welcome to Canada, and good luck tonight!”
“Thanks, man.”
The fact that we were not asked for any identification or significant questions made me want to find an Undertaker look-alike, rent a limousine, and start smuggling cheap American cigarettes into Canada for easy cash.
