Make your own free website on Tripod.com
Waiting For Somebody
Ella


My night off. Guess what I'm doing? Watching Raw, and keeping my eyes peeled for any glimpse of HIM on the screen. Okay, well, that's not ALL I did. I flipped to Nitro during the commercials. I did have a few friends down in Atlanta, believe it or not. There are times I miss the guys down there. I miss Chris Benoit's quiet, but very wry humor. You wouldn't know it by watching him, but he's got the greatest sense of humor. Not to mention that he's abso-friggin'-lutely beautiful. I mean . . . damn.

But anyway, I guess I'm getting off the subject. Did I ever even have a subject? Not really, except watching Raw. Well, here I am, flipping channels. Ernest Miller, ugh. So I flip back, and there he is, in the midst of a little tongue wagging that is part of his ring entrance. I remember that tongue. I remember just how weak that tongue can make a woman.

Damn, he's gorgeous. I don't even pay attention to his opponent, or the outcome of the match. I spent these ten minutes of my life just watching him. His movements, his facial statements, just everything. Christ, he turns me on. And absolutely INFURIATES me. He's heard about my newfound independence. Hell, who hasn't? The entire women's locker room has applauded me and laughed uproariously at Jeff. I've been doing it for years, and NOW everyone catches up.

You know, that Rodney kid is kinda cute. Not like you know who, but cute.

I digress. (He's still cute, though.) Anyway, he heard about it. I don't know what I was expecting for his reaction, but I was hoping for SOMETHING. I haven't gotten that, I've gotten NOTHING. Unless you count the shit-eating grin he flashed me last night after a house show. I hadn't intended on being around for it, but we were close to home, so I figured, why not?

I was looking for the ladies locker room and somehow found myself in HIS room. One wrong turn, or kismet? Who knows? His shower was running, his match having just ended. I couldn't help but snoop around a bit. A copy of Maxim magazine peeked out from underneath his open bag. Inside, I could see those Adidas windpants and a neatly folded white t-shirt. I could feel the smirk cross my face. Mr. Hyper-hyper, the neat freak.

I really shouldn't be snooping like this, I thought. He could come out here any minute, dripping and naked, or very nearly so. Like that would be a bad thing. It's not like I haven't seen it before. Not like I wouldn't mind seeing it again.

If I had spent any more time there arguing with myself, he WOULD have caught me in there. But I stopped and turned to leave. Knowing that to continue standing there like a fool was not a good idea. But I couldn't leave without leaving a little message. Even if HE had yet to say anything in the three weeks since my 'declaration' of sorts, didn't mean I couldn't. So I stripped off my Victoria's Secret red Angels 2000 panties and dropped them into his bag. Just a little message to let him know I was thinking about him.

I didn't see him until we had all gone back to the hotel after the show. He was hanging out in the lobby with Joanie and Paul. He was kind of lounging back in one of the chairs expensive hotels ALWAYS have decorating their lobbies. I was just breezing through with Terri; on our way to some club she wanted to check out, since Dustin had Dakota for the night.

Joanie had stopped us to ask Terri a question. I stood just outside the little circle the chairs made, trying NOT to look at him. My attempt was pitiful at best, and he caught me taking a peek. He smirked and then let the biggest shit-eating grin cross his lips. I'd like to have slapped that smile right off his face, but Terri was calling me away.

Sometimes I wonder if that night was just a conquest for him. I suffer some severe moments of doubt about the whole incident. And right about that time, I'll look up from my musings, and catch him staring at me. His statement is blank and his chestnut eyes are dark with an emotion I can't comprehend. Then my doubt passes, and I know he's waiting.

What the hell is he waiting for though? I'm not very patient, if you haven't noticed by now. It's driving me nuts that he won't say anything, much less do anything. Maybe I'm just being paranoid, thinking deep down he really doesn't want me, and I'm pretending to see those smoldering glances he sends my way. That grin was the first response I've gotten out of him. But I still wanted to slap him for it. Well, there's nothing more I can do. I'm adopting his method and waiting. I just hope he does something soon, or else I'm gonna pull all my damn hair out.

--

Debra McMichaels. The first words that came to mind when I met her? Shallow, snotty, Southern bitch. That's exactly what I thought of her the first time I met her in Atlanta. It's really shitty of me to have jumped to that conclusion, but I did.

She had the whole Southern belle act down perfectly. I was convinced she was one of those types for whom the South had never died, who lived by that strict code of unwritten Southern law.

My opinion of her followed us both up north. And it never wavered. Until one snowy November night, when I decided to stray away and do a little soul-searching. I don't really know what prompted it, I just felt like going out by myself rather than with the guys.

I went to the seedier side of town, knowing they wouldn't find me and get all pissed that I had blown them off. I picked some joint called Crosely's. It was built underneath a Skyline Chili and some video rental place. So you had to go down to get inside.

I don't know if it was the ivy overhang, or the ridiculously vibrant neon signs, but I didn't see her until I had already sat at a table and given the waitress my order. Debra McMichaels. In some run-down, cracked-mirror bar. And she was drinking, hard.

It struck me as kind of funny, because I knew I had seen her earlier that night in the hotel bar. She was in a modified version of the suits she wore as her in-ring gear. Modified in that it actually covered her breasts. The skirt was still incredibly short, but who could blame her for wanting to show off those legs? She was listening to Jeff talking to Sean Morley, and she APPEARED to be paying attention, I only got a brief glance though. I guess I was wrong, if she had ended up here.

In this place, she looked so very different than she had earlier, but very out-of-place, not like in the stuffy hotel bar. Her long blonde hair was pulled back into a bun, and she wore a really faded Skynyrd tour t-shirt and jeans. JEANS!! I have never seen Debra in jeans and the shoes totally floored me. Hooked to the bar stool's footrests were a pair of black Adidas Sambas. Debra was wearing gym shoes! Christ, what next?

I wasn't sure what I should do. Should I go up to her, say something? Or should I pretend I hadn't seen her at all? I opted for pretending. Something in my gut told me that she didn't come here to be found. She was there for quite sometime. Four double shots and three beers, to be exact. When she got up, she didn't even stumble. You'd of thought she'd been drinking water all night.

After that, my interest was peeked. Any woman who could potentially drink me under the table, and I was sure she could, was worth a second opinion. So, I started paying more attention, at shows, traveling, backstage. The more I watched, the more convinced I became that the whole Southern belle act was just that, an act. Debra was no snottier that I am. Sometimes I would catch her laughing at her own private jokes, most of which revolved around Jarrett and his lack of charisma.

And I kept tabs on her after hours, too. Apparently, her late night trip to that bar wasn't a one-time thing. She did it quite often, and always to places where no one else she knew would be. At first, I thought this was to guarantee no one from the company would learn her secret. Later, I realised, it was because she honestly liked the more run-down, darker bars. And those types ALWAYS stocked Jagermeister, her shot of choice, followed by a Heineken chaser. Never varied, Jagermeister and a Heineken.

Sometimes, she was really talkative and cheerful. She would chat with the bartender, or people at the bar. Others, she stared off, lost in her thoughts. All my observations led me to believe, there was more to Debra than anyone realised. And I was probably the only one who knows that.

By now, I had figured out I was wrong about Debra. She was worth knowing, not judging. Which led me to make my first move, that night in the hotel bar. Everything had gone just as I had hoped, until I woke up that morning and she was gone. I was upset about that, but I didn't stay that way. Later, I could see that being with me forced her to face some demons.

So I sat back and waited.