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| What Victor must have looked like in the wild |
For those who attended Marco's celebration of life reception at the Cinema Bar in Culver City last month. Many said they'd liked to read a story they'd heard published in an online blog called, La Bloga, something to do with Marco wrestling a bear. Here it is. Rest in peace my dear friend.
The trendy Whole
Foods at the corner of Barrington and National in West Los Angeles has ended
its run. Before it was Whole Foods, it had been Westward Ho, and before that
the Lilywhite grocery store. Today, the vacant building is hidden by a
mesh-covered wired fencing. It’s hard to believe how fine the building had
once been, especially as seen through teenage eyes, when larger grocery stores
were replacing the neighborhood Mom ‘n Pop stores.
At its
grand opening in the 1960’s, Lilywhite’s parking lot was filled with kids, parents,
teenagers, music, rides, and an assortment of activities. There were local rock
bands, a kiddie roller coaster, and exhibitions, the most popular, “Victor, the
Wrestling Bear.”
Victor
wasn’t a full-sized bear, more like a cub, but definitely fully formed and taller than five feet on his powerful hind legs. Declawed and muzzled to
avoid tearing or biting anyone, Victor could still slide his long, wet tongue
through the muzzle and lick away, slobbering all over an opponent’s face, as if adding insult to injury, once he dispatched each enemy.
Like many
California black bears, Victor didn’t look particularly ferocious, but looks,
as they say, can be deceiving. His handler offered to pay anyone in the
audience $10.00 if he or she could pin Victor to the mat for at least five
seconds. Of course, all takers had to pony up a “buck” just to step into the barred
enclosure with Victor.
We had come
to the grand opening to listen to the rock bands and meet girls, not to wrangle
with Victor, who would eventually draw some knucklehead, usually an older
teenager out trying to impress his friends. It only took a little taunting before some sucker would cave to the pressure. Most of the time, it was a guy who
thought himself the toughest kid in the neighborhood.
Of course, the
first kid didn’t last more than a few seconds before he’d go flying through air, Victor falling on him and pinning him to the matt, as if read to say, "Next." It was pretty much the same
with anybody who tested Victor’s prowess, his handler reaping the rewards and walking
away with the spoils, as well as the kid's dignity. You know, just like in Vegas, “The house
always wins,” or in this case, “Victor never loses.”
Our friend Marco
had been a battler all through junior high and entering high school, a string of
victories behind him, with his fists or wrestling. He thought it was pretty cool, a wrestling bear. Other
than at a county fair or at the Long Beach Nu-Pike did you get a chance to see
that. We all could see Marco sizing up Victor, even as each of Victor’s
opponents went down to defeat. Somebody finally challenged Marco to get into
the cage with Victor. It didn't take much.
Short in
stature but more muscular than any of us, Marco stepped for a closer view of Victor,
who, incidentally, had the same name as Marco’s father and older brother. We
recognized the expression on Marco’s face. He had no doubt he could kick the
wrestling bear’s ass, but he just needed a little encouragement, so we gave it
to him. I’m sure Marco liked the idea of reveling in glory and walking away
with the prize money. It would make the news at schools from Venice to Santa
Monica, across Mar Vista, and on to Westwood, where kids knew Marco’s name,
usually because he had whupped somebody from their neighborhood.
Marco was
no slouch. His older brothers had taught him to bob and weave, to lead with a
jab, find openings, and throw combinations, hard “rights” and “lefts.” He knocked out a 21-year-old bully who had given Marco' friends a bunch of shit. The guy was on his back before he even got off one punch. Marco was strong, and tough, losing his mother
at barely twelve, his dad working all day and playing guitar in a Mexican trio at
night, Marco’s three older brothers raised him to fend for himself.
He had
whipped some of the toughest guys in town, even bigger than him, from nearly
every junior high to high school in the area, a few of the older guys, too, but
Marco, like his dad, and one older brother, had the heart of an artist, a romantic, the guitar and singing his true passions, and the reason we were all at Lillywhite, to see our friend,
Joe Ramirez’s band, the Mojo Dave’s, perform on a stage in the parking lot
turned street fair.
Don’t get me wrong. It wasn’t that Marco went
looking for trouble, but more like trouble would often find him, even when he
was just minding his own business. By fifteen, he was like one of those old
gunslingers in the television westerns. He’d built a reputation for himself, and the younger gunslingers wanted to see if he was as
“bad” as everyone said, so they had started to come around to test him. Of course, he hadn't won every fight, but that never stopped him. That’s
why we figured he had as good a chance at beating Victor the bear in a
wrestling match as anybody. Though, the omnivore’s name, alone, should have
been an omen.
Marco was fearless.
If he had any hesitation at all, it was embarrassing himself in front of the hometown
crowd, and all the pretty girls watching. As a fighter, Marco wasn’t a brawler.
He was strategic, always looking for an opening, a weakness in his opponent. Marco
loved reading history, his nose in the Encyclopedia Britanica, and he could
tell you exactly how Attila the Hun, Alexaner the Great, and Genghis Khan
marched their armies across hostile territory and defeated their enemies. Marco
was also analytical, played the odds, like assessing if Victor had beaten all
comers, where had they gone wrong? He realized they had no plan of attack.
So, Marco stepped
up to meet the challenge, man over beast, brains over bawn. He handed over his
money and strutted into the cage, eyeing Victor, who had a few inches on Marco,
but bigger opponents never intimidated him. Marco looked into Victor’s eyes,
and snarled, a method he always employed with a rival. Marco must have seen Victor
had no emotions, nothing but darkness in his eyes.
He considered
how easily Victor had tossed his prior victims around like rag dolls because
they tried wrestling Victor by clamping down on his arms and taking him down,
little by little, but Victor’s arms, or upper legs (The technical anatomical
term unclear) were way too strong, and his short lower legs gave him a strong
center of gravity, like a catapult, shooting his adversaries into the air
before they’d hit the ground, where he’d fall on them, lick their faces with
his long tongue, and pin them to the mat.
Marco’s
strategy was to rush Victor, get under his arms, and ram into his chest, like a
fullback crashing into a linebacker, Marco’s position of the high school J.V.
team, get Victor onto the mat, wrap him up, and pin him, as quickly as
possible, utilizing the age old “element of surprise”. So, right at “Go!” Marco
flew across the ring, like metal to magnet, and he drove his shoulders into
Victor’s chest, taking him down, not only surprising Victor but surprising
himself and everyone watching.
Marco hung
on, tight, a barnacle to a boat’s hull, so tight, the bear couldn’t wiggle
loose. Marco had his arms wrapped about the bear’s strong body. After a minute,
Marco felt victory was his, that is, until the bear’s short legs, made their
way under Marco’s stomach, and like a medieval contraption for lobbing boulders
over castle walls, Victor catapulted Marco so high into the air, Marco could
only watch as the matt came speeding towards him. All he could hear were
Victor’s triumphant growls. When he hit the ground, Victor pounced, licking
Marco’s face and slobbering all over him, and pinning him to the canvas. The
handler said, “My gawd! Victor likes you.”
With no
coaxing from us, Marco reached into his pocket, pulled out another dollar, and paid
his fee. At Go! he went at Victor again, this time, thinking he had the wily
champ figured out, aware of the short, powerful legs. Marco stuck to his game
plan. He again had Victor on the matt, Marco’s face buried in the thick, furry
blanket. He’d last longer than any of Victor’s other adversaries. Marco thought
he had the bear beaten this time. He stayed clear of the legs.
Marco’s
confidence soared, his past achievements flickering through his mind, a strong,
bulky, linebacker in football, a baseball catcher, a junior lifeguard, and
water polo player, Marco had stamina. He could feel the bear going limp. Marco
gripped Victor’s hide to spin his massive upper body to the mat and pin him,
except, Marco, something wasn’t right.
Marco could
feel the muscles under Victor’s hide, but when he went to turn Victor, his hide
shifted, as if he was wearing a coat. Marco readjusted his arms and hands, and,
again, the fur rolled, at the same time, Victor’s little legs slid under
Marco’s belly, and the next thing Marco knew, he was sailing, looking down at
his friends, an astronaut entering earth’s atmosphere, and Victor, letting
loose a loud growl. Again, when Marco landed back on earth, Victor was there to
greet him, licking his neck and face, Marco hollering, and adding quite a few
curses, for the handler to get the bear off him.
Of course, we
all had a great laugh, Marco, a true showman, whether singing lead in a band or
wrestling a bear. When he dusted himself off, metaphorically speaking, Marco tried
explaining the damn bear’s hide rolled like had wheels, but nobody was really
listening. Marco said, “The guy should warn people about that, or I would’ve
had him.”
