From Zero to Hero: A Road Map to Success

by ,

By Chris Curtis as told to Larry Widen

Lemme say this up front. Even as a kid I knew I’d become a pro wrestler. I loved watching the Crusher and Verne Gagne defeat the masked villains and rule-breakers in the ring on Channel 18. My mom hated “All-Star Wrestling”and took me to see Father Tom at the church to discuss a different career path. OK, fine, but every Saturday I went to Kohl’s department store and watched wrestling on one of the showroom TV sets.

I turned 16 in April 1973 and got a job at Barnaby's pizza parlor on Capitol Drive. They put me on dishwasher duty, and I loved it. It was noisy and hot as hell in my corner, and no one ever bothered me. The machine dragged racks of dinnerware through a wash and rinse cycle and came out dry on the other end. I couldn’t go to Kohl’s anymore so I brought a little black-and-white television in and put it on a milk crate so it wouldn’t get wet. The restaurant manager was a lower-than-average cognitively challenged guy who never left his office, so I was free to watch wrestling while doing dishes. I kept a cooler of ice and pitchers of root beer nearby so I wouldn’t miss any of the show. And yeah, I only hit the john during commercials.

One day the manager warned me that a guy with giant hearing aids and a battery pack had just been hired. When I asked why I was the only one getting the lecture, the hammerhead replied, “Because you’re the biggest instigator of shit around here.”

The next day, the dishwasher wouldn’t turn on, and I saw a switch in the fuse box had been turned off. One of the cooks, Bill Burczyk, walked past me with a big guilty-as-hell grin on his face and I grabbed the spray hose to douse him. Just then our new employee walked around the corner and got hit in the face with a blast of water. His battery pack sparked, and his hearing aids began to squeal. I ran into the office and swore it was an accident and the water was meant for Billy. 

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As usual. It was my mom who picked up the pieces. A friend told her that a telemarketing company was hiring enthusiastic, bright young people to make sales over the phone. She got job interviews for Larry Widen and me, saying, “Don’t screw this one up!” We reported to the office on Mason Street and met the boss, Frank O’Monahany.  

Frankie, as he liked being called, was a big boy who weighed in at about 300 pounds, his chair protesting loudly whenever he moved. The Milwaukee Police Brotherhood was holding a fundraiser with some country western stars in a show at the Red Carpet Expo Center. Tickets to the event were to be sold over the phone. Simple, right? Frankie handed us sales scripts and pages torn from a phone book before turning back to his desk. On the way out, Larry looked at me and said, “Does this mean we got the job?”

Our trainer was a chipper, five-foot bundle of energy who pulled into the call center. “Hi, guys. I’m Kathy,” she said brightly. “I’ll show you how to use the phones.” After a five-minute tutorial, she said, “Remember, if you need anything, I’m Kathy.” And then she dropped the A-bomb. “You won’t forget me. I hold the Moon Fun Shop record for selling masks.” Now I knew what Charlton Heston felt like at the end of “Planet of the Apes.” Masks? The Moon Fun Shop? Actually I kinda liked her after that. 

Halfway through the shift I posted my first sale. Frankie came out of his office and put a can of soda next to my phone. Kathy said it was a tradition to acknowledge a newbie’s first accomplishment. I’ll never forget that nasty Jolly Good blueberry pineapple soda as long as I live. I couldn’t wait to see what flavor they gave Larry when he finally made a sale.

Every night we dutifully dialed numbers from a seemingly endless stack of White Pages, and the calls usually went something like this:

Customer:  Hello?

Chris: Hi, my name is Chris and I’m selling tickets to a country western show to benefit the Police Brotherhood.

Customer: What?

Chris: The Police Brotherhood. As I was saying, it’s a great show for the …

Customer: Who is this?

Chris: It’s me. Chris. I’m selling tickets to a show starring Tommy Cash and Redd Stewart and …

Customer: (excitedly) Johnny Cash, you say?

Chris: Well, not exactly. I said Tommy Cash. I think he’s Johnny’s cousin. And then there’s Redd Stewart …

Customer: (yelling) Rod Stewart?

Chris: Uh, no sir, not Rod Stewart. It’s Redd Stewart, no relation. But there’s Tommy Cash. And Pee Wee King!  I’m sure you’ve heard of him.

Customer: Who’s Pee Wee King?

Chris: He’s part of the big Police Brotherhood country western show. Tickets are just $8.50 for the whole family, or $6.50 for two people.  It’s a worthy cause—How many would you like?

Customer: Who the hell is Pee Wee King?

Chris: Well, Pee Wee King is Pee Wee King, sir. He wrote “The Tennessee Waltz.”

Customer: “The Tennessee Waltz?”

Chris: Yes, sir. It was recorded in 1950 by Miss Patti Page, “the singin’ rage.”  Sold a couple million copies last time I checked.

Customer: When is Rod Stewart playing?

Chris: He starts at 10:30. Tickets are $8.50 for the whole family, or $6.50 for a couple. How many can I put you down for?

Customer: Who is this?

Chris: It’s Chris. I’m selling Johnny Cash tickets … 

Cold calling was the hardest work I’d ever done. Many times, I stopped myself from yelling at one of the useless, brainless m*****f*****s before slamming the phone into its cradle. I think we averaged one sale for every ten calls in the first week while Moon Fun Kathy batted .425. No wonder she sold all those masks. But a guy could only push Pee Wee King, Redd Stewart, and Tommy Cash so many times before heading to the roof with a high-powered rifle. 

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The next night Larry waited until I dialed a number from one of those torn-out phone book pages before whispering, “What do you think Mr. O’Monahany looks like in a Speedo?” I burst out laughing and hung up the phone. I waited until Larry got on a call and shouted into my phone. “Hello?  Mrs. Vachon?  May I speak to Mad Dog?” This time we both laughed uproariously.  For the rest of our shift, it went back and forth. “Hello, Mrs. X? Is the Doctor in?” “Hello, Mrs. Von Raschke? May I speak to the Clawmaster?” You know …  funny wrestling humor that would get you kicked off “The Gong Show.”

Our sales were in the toilet, but we had too much fun to notice. Most people would have buckled down and tried to improve their numbers. Not us. One day we got off the Wisconsin Avenue bus and saw the Centre theater was playing “The House on Skull Mountain” and “Dr. Terror’s House of Horrors.”  I used the pay phone in the lobby to call the telemarketing office. Frankie answered, and I blurted out, “Hi, number 26 and number 34 are sick today. We can’t come in,” and hung up. 

The next day, Frankie’s massive frame darkened the doorway as he motioned us into his office. His assistant, Susan, said she’d been listening to some tapes of our calls. What was this?  Nobody said anything about taping calls. Larry was facing her directly and I was sitting to the side. As she ticked off a list of our shortcomings, I pantomimed cupping her breasts and made a kissing face at Larry. He laughed out loud while looking at her. “You think this is funny?” Susan said angrily. She glanced at Frankie, who drew a finger across his throat.

 I can’t say we were surprised. Neither was my mom. All she said was, “I knew you’d screw it up.”

Chris Curtis become a pro wrestler and spent 25 years facing Jesse Ventura, Hulk Hogan, and countless other stars. His mom was his biggest fan, often sitting at ringside shouting, “Don’t twist his legs. He’s got bad knees!” Curtis’ autobiography, Job Man, was published by the Wisconsin Historical Press.