Backstage Pass
After making it to the Pacific Coliseum without any wrong turns, my next objective was to find the performer’s entrance. I turned a corner to find scores of people clustered around a waist-high portable fence surrounding a parking lot. Instinct told me this was the place.
As we pulled in, a security guard waved me through without even checking inside the car. (There’s something about a long black limousine.) I could see other wrestlers in their street clothes getting out of rental cars, so I found a big enough spot and parked.
On an “as-directed” job, I didn’t care what my clients did after I dropped them off. In fact, I usually couldn’t wait to get them out of the car so I could find a store to poke around in. Clearly, this job was different. I knew the Pacific Coliseum would hold a uniquely enriching sociological pageant, the likes of which I may never see again. I had to get inside.
I stopped the car, peered back through the space that separates the front cabin from the rear, and sheepishly asked, “Hey man, do you think I could get a pass and come inside?” (Getting a pass was critical. I didn’t just want to go inside; I wanted to be able to get backstage and come and go as I pleased.)
“Sure, no problem. I’ll get you one. C’mon in with me, bro,” he replied.
The crowd couldn’t see who was inside when we pulled up, but when The Undertaker rose out of the car, a collective roar came up from the gathered throng. The crowd was screaming in unison: “Taker! Taker! Taker!”
My short walk with him to the back entry was surreal. Fans reached out toward us with arms flailing, asking for autographs. I felt like the anonymous driver for a big-time wrestling star!
We walked right past security and entered the coliseum. The Undertaker said, “Wait here a sec. I’ll get you a pass.”
He walked off, leaving me alone underneath the seats that stretched out above me like a giant concrete accordion. I noticed a stack of programs and grabbed one. After waiting several minutes, I got worried he had forgotten about me. Just when I was about to give up, a chubby man in his forties sporting a goatee, black WWF t-shirt, and baggy shorts walked up to me.
“So, you’re Taker’s driver?”
“Yeah,” I replied.
“Okay, here ya go,” he said, handing me a rectangular sticker with a WWF logo. In the blank space on the bottom, someone had written: “TAKER’S DRIVER.” I peeled off the backing and stuck it on my breast pocket. Now I had the key to the coliseum.
I wandered freely along the corridor surrounding the ground floor. The place was buzzing with activity. I saw dozens of WWF staffers and coliseum workers talking and toiling. I eventually found a stairwell that led to the arena and went up to check it out.
I was surprised when I saw the inside of the packed coliseum. The wrestling ring stood unlit, but the rest of the building looked dumpy and smelled like a stale flea market. The facility was probably built in the mid-1960s—and it looked like there had been little renovation since.
I passed by a concession stand and saw the typical foods one would expect, except in Canada, they have ketchup-flavored potato chips and a snack called Humpty Dumpty Ringolos. Nearby, there was a separate booth offering WWF merchandise. I approached the crowded booth and gave the goods the once-over. T-shirts, headbands, calendars, posters, foam championship belts, hats, action figures, magazines, and books. It was impressive. (My personal favorite was the Undertaker plush bear, complete with trench coat and black hat.)
After roving around for a while, I got bored. I wasn’t interested in the early matches, so I went back downstairs.
As I approached the staffer checking credentials at the entrance to the backstage area, I dramatically pulled my jacket aside to show my pass. He immediately let me through. (That’s right, bitch, I’m Taker’s driver.)
Once downstairs, I turned a corner and saw a wrestler warming up. He was a handsome black man with short dreadlocks, wearing tight trunks emblazoned with the American stars and stripes. He had huge muscles, and his body glistened with oil. As I watched him, I thought he reminded me of myself. A younger, fitter, better-looking, more successful, and charismatic version of myself. So actually, he was nothing like me at all.
While the scene was interesting, I was getting hungry. I wasn’t in the mood for Humpty Dumpty Ringolos, so I left to find dinner. I saw a commercial area a few blocks away and passed a Denny’s, Taco Bell, McDonald’s, Subway, and Pizza Hut. I chose a casual Chinese restaurant instead.
On the way back, I noticed just over half a tank of gas. I thought about topping it off but figured I’d be okay for the trip back.
The outside of the Pacific Coliseum looked a lot like the inside: shabby. The boisterous knots of wrestling fans, along with peeling paint and blowing trash, made me feel like I was walking through the set of a post-apocalyptic 1970s B-movie. I had already seen Warriors and Escape From New York, so I went back inside.
When I re-entered the arena, I knew this event definitely would not be televised. There was a definite lack of production value. No strobe lights, no fog, no ramp for a Harley, no devil’s head set pieces spitting fire. All that stuff was probably still in the semi-trucks.
I went back to the parking lot, fired up the limousine to get the A/C going, and made a couple of phone calls. I noticed an attractive young woman waving at me. She had long bleached blonde hair, tight cut-offs, and a Harley-Davidson t-shirt knotted at the waist.
“Uh, yeah, so you’re Taker’s driver, eh?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied.
“I have some gifts for The Undertaker,” she said, holding up a brown paper bag. “Can you give ’em to him for me?”
I was a little worried about what sort of gifts they might be. I had images ranging from a fresh-baked cake to a vial of her blood.
“It’s just some t-shirts for Taker, is all,” she replied.
“Oh, sure, I can do that. No problem.”
I got out, she handed me the bag, and I checked the contents. Sure enough, there were two black t-shirts with Harley-Davidson graphics, with a post-it note attached. I tossed the bag on the front passenger seat.
The girl broke the ice, and soon other fans gathered, asking me questions.
A nerdy-looking guy asked, “Hey man, what’s Taker like? Is he cool?”
“Yeah, he’s really down-to-earth. He even offered to pay for my lunch today, but I wasn’t hungry,” I said.
Another guy asked how I got the job. I told him I just applied, ominously adding, “There were a series of extensive background checks and special training involved.” He was duly impressed.
A kid wearing an Undertaker t-shirt at the edge of the group looked about 10. He blurted out: “So, you’re Taker’s driver?”
“Yes, I am,” I replied. His eyes widened in awe: “Wow!” Quit college to play drums in a punk band, kid, and one day you could have a job like mine.
