The news was significant for a lot of reasons. First off, I get nervous around celebrities. I feel like they have the power to pluck me from my otherwise mundane existence with a simple gaze of recognition. Everyone feels this to some degree, I believe, that if we interact with a powerful pop culture figure the interaction somehow counts as social currency which we can use to buy “Ooo’s” and “Awww’s” amongst our friends. It’s glorious having a name we can drop, and knowing others wish they could drop that same name makes us feel good, superior, and fulfilled as the shallow, needy people we really are.
Second, his picture hangs on the wall above my therapy table. In fact, it was widely considered HIS table. His steely, slightly psychopathic eyes loomed above it, judging all those who would occupy it in his absence. On more than one occasion I felt as if they were locked upon me in disappointment as I writhed and squirmed in effort to get back to health. His massive arms were thrown up in a V for victory, flexing beefed up super muscles that look as if God made them under inspiration from a comic book. “I will kill you,” says his facial expression, “I will kill you, and I will deeply enjoy it.” He is all that is man, right down to the tight leather pants and tapped wrists. The poster reads: “I AM THE GAME”… Hunter Hurst Helmsley, also known as, Triple H.
I KILL FOR FUN!
Ever since I found out he was going to be coming back to the rehab facility, I began hatching a plan to get him a copy of my book. I don’t know much about wrestling, but I knew who he was and I new he had a big following and thus my desire to fulfill the needy, shallow, publicity mongering side of myself took over. I would, I decided, sign one book for him ahead of time and have an extra blank one on tap should I get the chance to sign one for him in person. I would get a book into his hands, even if it killed me— which, as it turns out, it very well might.
Every day I came in I asked the therapists for updates, a regular Triple H weather report. When was he coming? Would he indeed be in here? Would he want the table with the poster of himself above it so he could stare at himself as he tried to get better? How long would he be around, should I need to use the bathroom or should miss a day of therapy? Which hand should I put the book into to guarantee a read? Does he prefer a certain name; Triple? H-man, Hunter? Mr. Helmsley? Paul?
I prepared as best I could. Searching the Internet for Youtube videos, looking up the fan sites, and tracking down the history of my target. My research didn’t teach me much I didn’t know, but it did reveal how obsessed and borderline crazy some folks in the wrestling world are. Some private sites were as close to digital cult landing pages as it got, scouring the net for news and updates on their icons. It made me wonder if they knew something I didn’t? Who were these Speedo wearing, tan, oiled, protein refineries that they could command such dedication and loyalty from their worshipers?
Then, it happened. Tirple came to see Dr. Andrews for a surgical procedure. The day after, he was released form the hospital and wheeled into the rehab facility, drugged up like a bear being transported to the zoo. I stared at him as he lay groggy on the training table two down from my own. I expected him to have theme music when he entered, to spit water and scowl. In his current state, however, he might only have been able to dribble water but at least he could have had theme music, right?
I tried to work up the courage to take the book to him but he seemed sleepy and out of it. I went to plan B, leaving a pre-signed copy for him to discover. I put a sappy message inside about how he was big and awesome and I was small and needy. Then I put a post-script about how I’d love to, you know, hang sometime or became email pen pals, or maybe grab a smoothy with a protein boost?
Triple passed out on the table and I handed the book of to medical personal to be implanted in his grasp upon awakening. Satisfied he would arise to a NYTimes Best Seller, I left rehab for the day and went home to tell all my friends that Triple H and I had a nice long talk about life and times and how he thought i was real good dude. However, I didn’t want to tell this to everyone individually, that would take for ever. No, getting the word out to the masses is what Social Media is for, and, in this case, Twitter.
When I first broke the news on Twitter, I didn’t think it would be a big deal other then the “Ooo” and “Awww” big deal I was planning it to be. I’ll admit now that I didn’t factor in just how ravenous wrestling fans are. How they live and die on news of their cherished modern day gladiators. In fact, when I left the hospital earlier that day, I made small talk in an elevator about meeting HHH to a gentlemen riding with me. He nearly defecated on the spot. He implored me to tell Mr. Hunter Hurst Helmsley that he was a huge fan, the hugest in fact, and that Triple’s return to wrass’lin was required by this gentleman’s entire trailer park community lest they loose their will to work and return to food stamps. I explained that Mr. Helmsley doesn’t talk to just anyone, but I would do my best, should I get the opportunity, which I was sure I would, considering how close we were…
When the news hit the net, it took but five minute for those wrestling fans savvy enough in the tech world to begin plastering my HHH Twitter emissions as breaking news all over the WWW. Soon I was receiving emails begging for insight. Then WWE wrestling pages broke my Tweets as headline news. Then angry letters at me for violating HIPAA laws and regulations from individuals that had confederate flags in the background of their profile pics. No one knew Trip[le was having surgery. It was a private matter and I just outed him.
Oh, Dear God.
Terrified, I pulled my news off every one of my venues and shut down my computer. I turned off all my hotel room lights and locked the door and drew the curtains. I had just broke headline news about the private life of the largest, scariest man, I had ever not really met.
TBC…