Post by ocwnewsline on May 31, 2016 20:43:59 GMT -5
It was time for the third interview. Some guy named ‘The Booker’ was on his way. I have to be honest, the idea of placing a company the size of OCW into the hands of a person with no legitimate name seemed concerning. This Booker guy would have to win me over.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could sit out on the beach. I’m one tan, old man. Yet even my leather skin has its limits. Plus, the wind was messing up my hair.
I was working on my second margarita, trying not to get drunk. But, hey, shit happens. Not like I was going to do something silly to prevent. Something goofy along the lines of…not drinking.
I looked around for my guitar. Maybe I’d play the eventual winner a melody signaling their victory? Or, maybe I just wanted to hit this Booker guy in the head. Sounds like the tequila might have been talking. These fucking things were strong.
Alas, The Booker’s arrival was imminent. I hoped he’d surprise me. I hoped he’d sweep me off my feet, ending the interview process. I yearned for Another Saturday Night filled with alcohol, women, and a room filled with my greatest hits.
The Booker approached. He was wearing plain khakis, a white buttoned up shirt, and a rain coat. A fedora sat atop what appeared to be his bald head. A thin patch of dark hair formed a crescent around the lower portion of his skull. His head was basically an egg seated atop a nest.
He had a tiny ice chest in his left hand. The type parents take to swim meets or day long soccer tournaments. I was sure juice boxes, sandwiches and whatever else this man liked to chomp down on would be located inside.
Upon stepping into my beach side office, he tipped his fedora. My suspicions were confirmed. The guy was bald. “Mr. Buffet, nice to meet you!”
That mother fucker. He called me ‘Buff-ay’…you know, the all you can eat kind. I looked for a weapon. Sadly, I wasn’t much for weaponry, so all I could locate was a handful of sand. I threw it at him.
“What the?!”
I then took stock that The Booker is around six feet five and a shade over three hundred pounds. “Oh, sorry, it’s an interviewing ritual here on the island.” His eyes were shut as he spat grains of sand from his mouth.
“Weird,” he didn’t seem upset, buying my explanation. He placed his cooler atop the table, opened it and removed a tall boy of beer. Cracking it open, he thrust a good portion back, allowing a bit of spillage to run over his lips. He smacked them together, “Alright, think that got rid of some of the sand.” He took another generous sip.
“Drinking during an interview, eh?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all, my kind of guy!” I reached out and gave The Booker a fist bump. His return was awkward. The guy was not hip to my jive.
“So, your vision, how bout it?”
His face lit up like a hooker’s face after applying a pound of makeup minutes before hitting her favorite street corner. “Yessir! I’ve been a wrestling promoter most of my life and, what I’ve found, is that if you focus on a mat based, old school style, you will draw the bigger crowds. There’s no need to try and draw outside audiences into the product. Wrestling is and will always be a niche industry. Cater to the diehards, the lifers, if you win those people over, you will do just fine.”
“So, no flips, no characters, just old school wrestling?”
“Exactly, submission matches, a strict emphasis on count outs and disqualifications…none of this hardcore nonsense and limited top rope action.”
“Isn’t that a little slow for today’s audience?”
“It might take a month or two for people to get used to the new --- old style…however, once the transition is completed, they will desire nothing else. The slow burn, Mr. Bu…”
“Buff-eht!” I jumped in correcting his pronunciation, knowing another handful of sand might ruin my most recent manicure.
“Really? Hmm,” he thought for a moment. I think he may have recognized my name, now that he had the correct delivery. “Anyway, the slow burn yields the greatest eventual gift. Feuds will mean more, wins will mean more and the championships will be more prestigious than ever. After six months or so, we will be the hottest product in the industry.”
The guy believed every word he said. He truly believed a return to wrestling, as it was known in the 1950s or whatever was the way to go. He believed going back in time was the future of the industry.
“The workers? How do you see their treatment?”
“Eh, it’s all relative based on their drawing abilities. Give them a downside, so they know how much they are going to walk away with no matter what, then pad their contracts with a bunch of incentives. If they meet those incentives, they get an increase in pay. It’s pretty simple.”
That structure sounded like the best I had heard thus far. I decided to end the meeting, “Okay, The Booker, that was highly informative. I need to mull over what you presented, go through a few more interviews and make a decision.”
He finished his beer, crushing the can and depositing it in the cooler. He unearthed a cold sandwich and ate it quite impressively. Two bites and the damned thing was gone. He popped open another beer to wash it down.
“Mr….uhh, sir, it was a pleasure.” He sought past attempting to pronounce my name a third time. He was, apparently, not very good at remembering names.
And, that was that, The Booker left, with his ice chest. I assumed he was heading to a local, hole in the wall bar somewhere to drink beer until closing time.
I crossed his name off my list. Three were down, five left to go. Next on my list was a strange one…he went by the name of The Eastern European.
I wasn’t sure how much longer I could sit out on the beach. I’m one tan, old man. Yet even my leather skin has its limits. Plus, the wind was messing up my hair.
I was working on my second margarita, trying not to get drunk. But, hey, shit happens. Not like I was going to do something silly to prevent. Something goofy along the lines of…not drinking.
I looked around for my guitar. Maybe I’d play the eventual winner a melody signaling their victory? Or, maybe I just wanted to hit this Booker guy in the head. Sounds like the tequila might have been talking. These fucking things were strong.
Alas, The Booker’s arrival was imminent. I hoped he’d surprise me. I hoped he’d sweep me off my feet, ending the interview process. I yearned for Another Saturday Night filled with alcohol, women, and a room filled with my greatest hits.
The Booker approached. He was wearing plain khakis, a white buttoned up shirt, and a rain coat. A fedora sat atop what appeared to be his bald head. A thin patch of dark hair formed a crescent around the lower portion of his skull. His head was basically an egg seated atop a nest.
He had a tiny ice chest in his left hand. The type parents take to swim meets or day long soccer tournaments. I was sure juice boxes, sandwiches and whatever else this man liked to chomp down on would be located inside.
Upon stepping into my beach side office, he tipped his fedora. My suspicions were confirmed. The guy was bald. “Mr. Buffet, nice to meet you!”
That mother fucker. He called me ‘Buff-ay’…you know, the all you can eat kind. I looked for a weapon. Sadly, I wasn’t much for weaponry, so all I could locate was a handful of sand. I threw it at him.
“What the?!”
I then took stock that The Booker is around six feet five and a shade over three hundred pounds. “Oh, sorry, it’s an interviewing ritual here on the island.” His eyes were shut as he spat grains of sand from his mouth.
“Weird,” he didn’t seem upset, buying my explanation. He placed his cooler atop the table, opened it and removed a tall boy of beer. Cracking it open, he thrust a good portion back, allowing a bit of spillage to run over his lips. He smacked them together, “Alright, think that got rid of some of the sand.” He took another generous sip.
“Drinking during an interview, eh?”
“Is that a problem?”
“Not at all, my kind of guy!” I reached out and gave The Booker a fist bump. His return was awkward. The guy was not hip to my jive.
“So, your vision, how bout it?”
His face lit up like a hooker’s face after applying a pound of makeup minutes before hitting her favorite street corner. “Yessir! I’ve been a wrestling promoter most of my life and, what I’ve found, is that if you focus on a mat based, old school style, you will draw the bigger crowds. There’s no need to try and draw outside audiences into the product. Wrestling is and will always be a niche industry. Cater to the diehards, the lifers, if you win those people over, you will do just fine.”
“So, no flips, no characters, just old school wrestling?”
“Exactly, submission matches, a strict emphasis on count outs and disqualifications…none of this hardcore nonsense and limited top rope action.”
“Isn’t that a little slow for today’s audience?”
“It might take a month or two for people to get used to the new --- old style…however, once the transition is completed, they will desire nothing else. The slow burn, Mr. Bu…”
“Buff-eht!” I jumped in correcting his pronunciation, knowing another handful of sand might ruin my most recent manicure.
“Really? Hmm,” he thought for a moment. I think he may have recognized my name, now that he had the correct delivery. “Anyway, the slow burn yields the greatest eventual gift. Feuds will mean more, wins will mean more and the championships will be more prestigious than ever. After six months or so, we will be the hottest product in the industry.”
The guy believed every word he said. He truly believed a return to wrestling, as it was known in the 1950s or whatever was the way to go. He believed going back in time was the future of the industry.
“The workers? How do you see their treatment?”
“Eh, it’s all relative based on their drawing abilities. Give them a downside, so they know how much they are going to walk away with no matter what, then pad their contracts with a bunch of incentives. If they meet those incentives, they get an increase in pay. It’s pretty simple.”
That structure sounded like the best I had heard thus far. I decided to end the meeting, “Okay, The Booker, that was highly informative. I need to mull over what you presented, go through a few more interviews and make a decision.”
He finished his beer, crushing the can and depositing it in the cooler. He unearthed a cold sandwich and ate it quite impressively. Two bites and the damned thing was gone. He popped open another beer to wash it down.
“Mr….uhh, sir, it was a pleasure.” He sought past attempting to pronounce my name a third time. He was, apparently, not very good at remembering names.
And, that was that, The Booker left, with his ice chest. I assumed he was heading to a local, hole in the wall bar somewhere to drink beer until closing time.
I crossed his name off my list. Three were down, five left to go. Next on my list was a strange one…he went by the name of The Eastern European.