Not taking into account the semiregular callers inquiring about “happy endings,” this was the life. I would work five days a week, full-time, at the spa. On weekends I would travel around the tristate area taking wrestling gigs. I finally bought my first cell phone and went on my first date. There are those who would argue that’s late in life, but for me, they were both things I felt only came with maturity. I was in no rush to throw extra bills or responsibilities onto my plate. But I finally started to feel like I was getting my shit together.
When the second WWE tryout camp was announced for May of 2009, I knew I couldn’t miss out on it. Though I had saved up an impressive amount of money for someone who reused paper towels at least three times before throwing them away, I still hadn’t met the amount I needed to pay for the whole trip. And so I cut every corner I could think of. Each trip to the grocery store was twice as long as I carefully sought out the cheapest chicken breasts, even if it was only by five cents. And forget name brand anything. The Mendez girls would enjoy meals of “Compare to Kraft!” macaroni spirals. I began cutting meals altogether. Knowing what was at stake, I decided it was worth it to skip the beloved morning coffee I was just getting used to spoiling myself with. Eventually I calculated how much I could save if I skipped lunch too. I had some moderately cheesy macaroni spirals or white rice waiting for me at home. I could survive a workday without food.
Luckily, the spa always had a cracker and fruit plate out for guests to nibble on in the waiting room. So when a phone wasn’t ringing and no one was around to catch me, I would tiptoe into the tranquilly decorated haven and stuff as many crackers and grapes as I could fit into a napkin without making too much of an obvious dent in the display. I would make several trips throughout the day, basically living off the lightest of finger food. One day I almost blew my cover by eating too many crackers while only one guest had checked in. “Wow, Mrs. Anders must’ve been really hungry before her Brazilian. Half of the fruit plate is gone,” one of the aestheticians suspiciously noted.
In three months of skimping on food to afford the tryout, I lost fifteen pounds, weighing in at a scant ninety-six pounds. I looked sick and dangerously thin, like if someone blinked fast enough, the wind their lashes created could thrust me across the room. But I had done it. I had saved enough money to apply to the tryout, pay the admission fee if I were accepted, and travel to the majestic faraway land that neighbored Donald Duck.
Erica and I were struggling to get by now that a healthy portion of my checks was being squirreled away on a pipe dream. She was generous enough to let me come up short on rent so I could afford the tryout, but we were sorely lacking in simple essentials like food and bus fare. My spending over two thousand dollars on a mere chance was painful for her to sit back and watch. But she had enough faith in my determination to not stand in my way.
A ray of glimmering hope came in the form of an e-mail from a Hotmail account. Yes, that was once a thing. A small wrestling company offered me the opportunity to make some serious cash, and, no, it was not to support a foreign prince in a pyramid scheme. A legitimate up-and-coming wrestling company offered me four thousand dollars to take part in a two-day shoot for its television pilot. That was more money than I had ever seen, and it was being extended to me like a lifeguard’s hand the several times I almost drowned in a public pool. It could pay our rent for the next few months and stock our fridge and provide endless amusement when I inevitably covered my bed in it to make snow angels.
I was beside myself with joy…until I read the proposed date of the shoot. The pilot taping would overlap with the tryout camp I had prepared a year for. So here was my choice: shoot a television pilot, be flown first class and put up in a fancy hotel, on top of being handed more money than I had ever known could exist in one place—or pay my last dime for a sliver of a chance I would see a return on that investment.
It was as if a siren call was trying to lure me into the promise of riches. It took every ounce of Erica’s strength to not slap me upside the head and order me to go earn the rent money I owed her. But we both knew I had to see this thing through.
For a year I had given my all to make this tryout possible. It was an investment—though a painful one—in myself. Though it hurt me to walk away from guaranteed money, I chose to take the chance.
—
When I arrived in Tampa, I took one step off the plane and my hair grew three sizes, like the Grinch’s heart. Humidity was not my friend. The temperature and atmosphere, though wreaking havoc on my already frizzy hair and oily skin, gave me a sense of nostalgia. Florida reminded me a lot of Puerto Rico, except there were more paved roads and slightly fewer machete-wielding grandmothers.
Immediately I was struck by the difference in attitudes of the locals. When I walked into a Walgreens an employee greeted me with “How’s it going? Let me know if I can help you with anything,” and I had to bite my tongue from yelling “You wanna start something?” in response. It took me a minute to realize people in the South actually greeted strangers, as opposed to prolonged eye contact starting a fistfight where I came from. I wasn’t sure if she was really helpful or if I just looked really suspicious, but her alarming warmth actually turned out to be genuine. I would have to get used to this development if I succeeded in getting hired.
If I got a contract, I would have to move here. I would leave cold winters behind for a solid year-round eighty degrees. I salivated at the idea. The palm trees and warm air reminded me of our time on the farm, the only time in my childhood I felt truly safe. Maybe that was a sign this tryout would go my way.
The first day of the camp, over seventy applicants filled the small warehouse converted into a small wrestling arena. Three rows of metal chairs surrounded the ring used for the developmental roster’s local shows. Behind the curtain at the top of the wrestlers’ entranceway were two more rings meant for daily practices. There was too much for my excited brain to absorb. First I noticed how large the ring was compared with the indy ones I was used to. These were twenty by twenty, and would require an extra four bounds from my tiny Chihuahua gait while running the ropes. Next my eyes fixed on the story-high fabric posters covering the entirety of the walls around the main ring. They were posters promoting pay-per-view specials and had the faces of every famous wrestler plastered on them. I made a mental note that I would have to make sure I made it onto one of these one day.
Only three other women were among the candidates: a tall blond foreign model; a dancer with a body so sexy if I had it I would never leave the house because I would be too busy staring at my naked body in a full-length mirror; and a fellow indy wrestler with five more years of experience than I had. Welp. I’m boned, I thought. The candidates were split into three groups, one in each ring, and made to run basic drills together. After an hour, I felt a tap on my leg. Turning around, I met eyes with Tom Prichard, a trainer at the school and a former wrestler in the tag teams the Heavenly Bodies and the Bodydonnas.
“They want you to cut a promo in the main room,” he said as he motioned for me to follow him.
“Cutting a promo” is wrestling terminology for performing a monologue. I quickly tried to figure out what was happening. The main room, housing the main show ring, was currently filled with all the candidates with over five years’ experience as well as agents, producers, and writers for the main roster program. I figured the less experienced wrestlers wouldn’t have to worry about facing these intimidating decision makers for at least another two days. My event schedule had listed Promo Day at the end of the week. I was nowhere near ready, during hour one of day one. But I didn’t exactly have a choice now.
When I entered the room, I immediately spotted the head of Talent Relations, Ty Bailey, along with a few main roster wrestlers. I walked into the center of the ring. Alone. With a microphone in my hand. And completely froze up. Why don’t I have anything prepared? Everyone is staring at me and I’m holding this microphone like I’m about to jerk it off. Say something. Anything! And
then, as if guided by some sort of fairy godmother magic, words seamlessly escaped my mouth.
There are two types of characters in wrestling: a “babyface,” aka the good guy, and a “heel,” aka the bad guy. For two years I had practiced as and played the role of the babyface on the independent circuit, but for some reason known only to my frayed nerves, I cut a heel promo. I insulted everyone watching me and talked myself up like a conceited villain. It was nice to find out that my fight-or-flight instinct was to be a total dick. Whatever nonsense that came out of my mouth was ridiculous and off the cuff, but I delivered it with an unfaltering bravado. Fake it till you make it, I thought, shrugging, but apparently the performance was good enough to get the attention of the people whose opinions mattered.
For the next two days I was filled with a confidence I had rarely felt within. Something about being noticed early on made me approach every camp challenge and task head-on. I had several matches, performed a few more promos, and was critiqued daily on how to improve. And then one of the wrestlers from the main roster watched a match of mine and gave me his two cents on what I needed to work on.
“You’re really skinny. I feel like someone could just break you in half.” Then, directing his comments toward the crowded room of contestants listening, “You guys have to be prepared to look the part. Not like some wannabe off the street.”
This comment devastated me. A wrestler talented enough to be on the main roster took one look at my body and let me know it wasn’t up to snuff. I knew I had lost weight skimping on meals, but I was tired of being reminded how I was too small to be strong. My bubble of confidence was being tested.
At the end of the week, all the hopefuls were gathered in the building’s main room. We had heard rumors that someone might actually be announced as a contract winner that day in front of the whole group in some sort of ceremony. Sitting in rows facing the main ring, it felt as if we were at the Oscars and everyone was nominated for the same award. Tensions were high. Nails were bitten. I crossed my legs in my chair and stared at the floor. I heard rumblings that besides the one main contract winner, a few people might be offered contracts in the weeks to come. I had my hopes set on one of those. I knew that there was no way that out of seventy burly men and three more attractive and skilled women my name would be called that day. I was at peace with that realization and excited to see which of the guys would get the chance of a lifetime.
Ty Bailey stood in front of the shaking sea of muscles and self-tanner and thanked everyone for participating. He made some sort of moving speech, but all I heard was white noise until I saw everyone turn and look at me. As if his words traveled on a delay through sound waves, it took me what felt like an entire minute to actually hear the words “Congratulations, April Mendez!”
My fingernails clawed at my cheeks as I shot up from the chair. My legs were still crossed so I almost face-planted, which would have been entirely consistent with my luck before that moment. Ty handed me a card that had something written on it, I shook his hand, and then just collapsed onto the floor in a messy crying heap. Imagine Halle Berry winning the Oscar but with a heavier nose drip and looking substantially less endearing. I looked at the card in my hand and realized it was a business card on which Ty had scribbled, “Contract with WWE.” It was hilariously unofficial, but only enhanced the absurdity of the moment. My competitors were genuinely warm and congratulatory, and I received seventy bear hugs in a row. It felt like the closing montage of every cheesy sports movie in existence. But it was actually the beginning of an even more absurd, trying, beautiful journey.
A legally binding document.
—
The first person I called was Robbie.
“Hey, remember that thing I promised when I was twelve?”
If you are reading this, congratulations; you can read! I am proud to have apparently done at least one thing right in your life. (I once left my iPhone in the fridge for an entire night and in the morning checked for my alarm on a Dorito, so forgive me for appreciating I have gotten you this far.) As I write this, I am twenty-nine with abs of steel and an ass that I have—on multiple occasions—dared people to bounce a quarter off. If for some reason you have ruined any of this, I need you to know that I do not forgive you.
I never really imagined myself as a mother. While my sister cherished her baby dolls, I created various, ID-Channel-worthy reenactments in which they were kidnapped. Somewhere along the line I must have become slightly more tender. The fact that you exist at all must be a testament to my newfound maturity, my embraced womanhood, my courage in accepting that life’s greatest accomplishment is creating a lasting legacy in the form of a loving family, or I forgot to take my pill that day. Either way, I might as well give you the guidance you need to become a strong, confident woman who never takes a duckface selfie. May your journey through life be easier than mine, but not so easy you become an ungrateful dick. Here are some tips I hope will help.
1. Tame that mane. You are half Puerto Rican, which means that you have a great chance of inheriting my gloriously thick, shiny head of hair. Coupled with this enviable gift are strong, defined eyebrows. Women around the world spend exorbitant amounts of money to create the illusion of what you have been naturally given. But don’t get cocky. For it is not just a gift, but also a curse. Did you think your dark tresses would just contain themselves to your shiny mane? No. This hair has been passed down from generation to generation because it is powerful. And it is determined to take over your entire body. So to avoid ever being confused with a small bear cub, I want you to investigate body hair bleach at a very early age. Don’t even bother waxing. This hair cannot be killed. Only pacified. You should, however, tweeze your eyebrows early and often, as you will find that throughout the day you will inexplicably respawn a unibrow. This ability is both useful when the hair on your head is long enough to fall in a rich cascade to the small of your back within seven days of cutting it to your jawline, and horrifying when by lunchtime your eyebrows are seemingly the first step in a full-body transformation into a werewolf.
2. Your skin hates you. While you watch whatever is on MTV in your generation—I’m assuming something about pregnant teenage wolves getting scammed through Facebook—you will see commercials that would lead you to believe that acne is something you can conquer while singing pop songs into a shampoo bottle as you shower. This is a lie. Unfortunately, being born into a family rife with hormonal “eccentricities” means that acne is not something you will be able to throw a delightfully scented wash at and call it a day. That would be like sharpening a chopstick and bringing it to a gunfight. Acne is packing an Uzi. You come from a lineage of troubled skin, I assume because one of your ancestors killed acne’s wife and acne is still avenging her. Please demand I take you to a highly skilled dermatologist the second you feel puberty knocking on the door. Which brings us to number 3…
3. You’re not dying, you just got your period. My mother firmly believed that if she did not educate my sister and me about our bodies, we would simply never hit puberty. It is because of this blissful ignorance that at the age of thirteen I stormed into the school nurse’s office shouting, “I think I’ve been shot!” Upon further inspection, I realized that a tiny, silent assassin had not made her way into my Ninja Turtle briefs, but I did just start my first period. So let’s plan that somewhere between the ages of nine and thirteen, you and I will thoroughly discuss the war your maturing female body will wage on you. My mother believed tampon use was a virginity litmus test, as its insertion clearly meant a hymen was no longer guarding the perimeter. And birth control pills were basically a license to fuck (note to self: License to Fuck, possible title of next book). That methodology is nonsense. It is okay to embrace maturity if it means sparing yourself inconvenience and pain. You are going on the pill the second that first egg drops a beat. Not only will it help clear your skin, make your cycle shortened and predictable, and soothe the fetal-position-in-bed-all-day cramping that is hereditary in your
family, it will also help prevent you from forcing me to raise a grandchild. I firmly believe every woman should have complete control over her body as well as the comforting knowledge of when it is safe to wear white pants.
4. Be a kid and like it. While I will help you understand the natural evolution of womanhood by putting you on the pill, sharing my makeup, teaching you to shave, and buying you one sensible thong, I demand you embrace your girlhood while you are in it. When I was fourteen, I spent my lunch breaks challenging friends to spirited games of Duel Monsters or arguing why Vegeta was clearly the superior Saiyan. Now, I assume, most teenage girls spend this time posting their boobs to Instagram. Be the girl who plays tag with the boys and not the one supplying handies behind the bleachers. Be the girl who can confidently wear asexual sweatpants and Chuck Taylors, and not the preteen in clothes so short and tight a passerby would have no trouble describing her fallopian tubes to a police sketch artist. Don’t rush to be an adult. Just enjoy being a kid for as long as you can. Because once you are not a kid, you have to open a bank account, buy prophylactics without blushing, and get approved for your own cell-phone plan.
5. Never fit in. Your mother can be googled alongside the phrase “ass shots,” so understand you are never truly going to “fit in” among your classmates. But who the hell cares? The desire to fit in is basically resigning oneself to the comfort of inferiority. It may feel safe to be a face among the crowd, to have someone else dictate your style and attitude, but it takes guts to stand out. Be your own leader. Set your own standards of what is cool and beautiful. Make people follow YOU.
Crazy Is My Superpower: How I Triumphed by Breaking Bones, Breaking Hearts, and Breaking the Rules Page 15
