I hear the shuffling of feet, the combined mutterings of a crowd already hostile towards me. I haven’t said a word to them. They haven’t even seen my face, it’s just the teenage way. Damn near every single person in those seats, doesn’t want to be there. I know that back when I was in their position, I didn’t want to be there. I didn’t want to be ushered into an auditorium, against my will (albeit a little happy that I’m not in class), just to listen to some jerkoff trying to motivate me to reach my potential.

Never in a million years did I think I’d find myself in a position where I’d be the jerkoff trying to ‘inspire the uninspired’. I haven’t even thought about what I’m going to tell these kids. How do I relate to them? Sure, this is Cambridge High School, the same school I attended. They’re Year 13, I once was as well. But aside from that, we grew up in completely different decades, experience completely different things in life, and though we share this same physical existence, we live in completely different worlds. For any other place to have contacted me about bridging that gap, I’d have politely told them to go fuck themselves, but I’m a little attached to this school so I agreed. I immediately regret that decision, because now I find myself in a position where I can bring people into my world, and I’m not sure I wish that on anybody.

The chorus of voices begins to fade, but never dies. The youth of today do little to show respect to their elders, as the school principle takes the stage. I stand in the wings, waiting for my cue. Only now my mind begins to race, looking for a starting point. I’m a hugely successful guy, exceeding my reach far beyond what would be thought of a mere professional wrestler, and for once I’m actually unprepared for something. Odd, considering I’ve had to be prepared for everything else in life. Maybe that’s a good starting point, or maybe I’ll just brush up on my improvisational skills.

“And now, for you’re benefit,” I hear the principal finally say, after delivering what was essentially a lecture about being good little boys and girls, “we have a guest here this morning to assist you in your studies for the year. He got his start in this very institute, in fact, one of you will be sitting in the same seat he was over ten years ago. Now, he is a multi-millionaire, owning a large amount of property in central Hamilton, as well as Auckland, Tauranga, Surfer’s Paradise on the Gold Coast, and in various states in America, such as California, Florida and Ohio. You may have also seen him on television where he competes for the Xtreme Wrestling Federation, and is currently one half of the Tag Team champions, and one of the company’s most popular stars. I give you, Lee Stone!”

Quite the introduction, now it’s show time. The morning sun is blocked out as black curtains drop down, engulfing the hall in darkness. The crowd, just about to formally applaud to welcome me, now falls into a panicked murmur. The occasional immature shriek, serves as a reminder to me that this isn’t an arena of screaming fans. The problem is, I only know one way to capture people’s attention, and that tends to involve treating them as paying customers. That’s what this darkness is for, and the theme music that now begins to play. I hear some groans and some cheers in regards to a Nelly song being played. Apparently everybody in the room can be divided up into just two categories in relation to what their musical preference is: ‘bogan’ and ‘gangsta’.

A golden spotlight now hits me, making use of the equipment I bought this school to help with their school play last year. I make my way through the aisle in the middle of the rows of chairs, approaching the stage. The light follows me all the way. Reaching the stage, I take each of the steps slowly. I turn around and face my audience, Aviator sunglasses reflecting their image right back at them. The spotlight clicks off, the music stops and momentarily, we are in darkness again, this time, it is accompanied by the familiar sound of silence. You can get across your point a lot more easily when you choose to replace words with nothing. My point is that I now have their attention. Good. The curtains fling back up and the accompanying roof lights help to fight the darkness away. I am able to be seen again, and now, with my sunglasses pushed up onto the top of my head, they can see me properly.

“Morning,” I say, scanning the faces below me. Holy shit, my old English teacher is still teaching here! I wonder how old she actually is. “I hope my little light show didn’t cause any problems. Nobody has had an epileptic fit, so I guess that’s a positive. I’m going to try to do my best to not bore you to death either, but you can’t hold me to that.” A few muffled laughs are scattered throughout the room, and with each action that any person in this room makes, I start to pick up on just who they are. All of the decisions made, conscious or unconscious, from a sitting posture to chatting away with friends, show me a little about a person. That’s all it takes for me to judge you.

“Before I even get to the reason I’ve been asked here, let me tell you a little about myself so you can get a bit of a feel for just why I’m up here talking. My name is Lee Stone…” I pause, mostly for dramatic effect. Once you say this sentence once, the flood gates are opened and it’s easy to say it again. “…and I’m an alcoholic. I’ve been medically dead for two minutes. I’ve spent approximately one whole year of my life in a hospital bed. I’ve had most of my ribs broken, and some of them twice. One of my lungs collapsed after one such incident. I have a permanent scar on my abdomen thanks to a stab wound. My two children were stillborns. My best friend is dead. I don’t speak to my father very often. Oh, and I’m also a lot richer than any of you are. Who wants my life?”

The audience looks confused, and my seemingly jovial expression probably isn’t helping. The question is rhetorical but a few hands actually do shoot into the air. Fucking money-hungry rats. I continue to smile, and begin to pace about on the stage.

“Hands down, you can’t have it.” All the hands fall. “Now I’ve told you all that, because I now want to pose a hypothetical question to you all. If you had an opportunity to go back and change it all, would you? Come on, you can use your hands now. Give me a show of hands as to who would go back, and make sure my heart never stopped beating, or that I never picked up a bottle of alcohol.”

A few more hands shoot into the air, but I know for a fact that some people wouldn’t have raised their hands regardless of what the question was. To put that to the test, I ask this next question.

“Okay, know that I’m going somewhere with this,” I begin, “give me a show of hands if you were drinking last weekend?”

More hands than I expected raise up from the sea of people. A noticeable amount of teachers have their hands raised quietly at the back of the room. Any student who sees that, shares a brief chuckle at their expense. Still, my theory is proven to be correct. With a country where the legal drinking age is 18, and many of these kids will be at that age, many more still who would know somebody who is 18 and can therefore buy alcohol for them to further the terrible drinking culture amongst New Zealand’s youth. There should be a hell of a lot more hands.

“I don’t believe that for a second,” I remark. “But that’s okay, I’m not here to warn you against drinking or anything like that, I’m here because apparently you need to be inspired. I want to ask you all another question now, who knows what they want to do with the rest of their life?”

An uncomfortable silence follows, but I wait it out, and sooner or later a few shaky hands reach upwards. This is the exact response that I expected. I walk down the stairs now, and head towards one of the young man who raised his hand.

“What’s your name?” I ask him. His eyes nervously flit around for a moment.

“Gary,” he eventually answers.

“Alright Gary,” I start, “help me and everyone else out by telling me what you want to do with the rest of your life.”

“Maybe a cop, or a lawyer, or a doctor,” he says. It looks like he’s thinking of more possibilities, so I think I’ll interrupt him.

“So pretty much, you actually don’t know at all.” A few laughs are shared at Gary’s expense. Some inside joke is brought up that encourages the laughter further. “Great. Anyone else?”

The guy right beside Gary, actually raises his hand now, even though he didn’t before.

“What’s your name?” I ask, turning to him.

“Mitch,” he replies.

“Alright Mitch, do you actually have an answer or are you going to pull a Gary?” A few more chuckles as Gary’s face turns red. He probably doesn’t like me now. Oh well, not many people seem to.

“Yeah, I wanna work on cars,” Mitch grins.

“That’ll do great Mitch,” I nod approvingly. “Do you want to jump up on stage?”

“Do I have to?” he asks confidently, or at least lacking the nervousness that Gary had.

“Nah man, I asked you, I didn’t tell you.” You’d be surprised the difference that makes. People rebel against orders, but are much more willing to comply if you simply phrase what you want as a question. It makes them think that they have control, while you’re pretty much playing puppet master. This is evidenced by Mitch’s reluctance fading, and him squeezing past Gary to get to the aisle, and walking with me up to the stage.

“Yeah Mitch!” a couple of yells come from all over the room as Mitch strikes a little pose and waves. The kid actually gets a pretty good applause.

“Alright Mitch, you said you want to work on cars, do you have anything in particular in mind?” I inquire.

“Nah, it’s just a hobby,” he tells me.

“Do you know your stuff?” He shrugs, not really the answer I was looking for, so I go further. “As in, do you know enough that you could make an occupation out of it?”

“Not yet,” he admits. “I don’t know exactly what job I want.”

“KFC!” somebody shouts out. I’m guessing that Mitch works at KFC right now. I resume speaking.

“So Mitch, you told me that you knew what you wanted to do with your life, and you didn’t take that as what job you wanted?” I look for clarity, and already know my angle with this regardless of what he replies with.

“Yeah, I guess,” he shrugs again.

“That’s exactly what I wanted to hear.” I pat him lightly on the shoulder. “I’m not here trying to tell you to get a really high paying job. Hell, I didn’t even go to University and now look at me. I’m here, trying to tell you that your job doesn’t matter. If you want to become a cop, a lawyer, a doctor, or whatever else Gary was about to mention, then don’t do that for any material reason like money. As cheesy as it sounds, do it because it’s just what you want to do. Hell, having a low-income job can be fine, as long as you keep happy.”

I hear a collective groan at the cliché.

“Hmm… I’m sorry about that sounding so generic, but what the fuck do you expect?” Any time you make a cliché, you need to do something to bring your speech back from the brink of disaster. Curse words are always a good way. Sure most of the staff seem a little shocked, especially my old English teacher, but it’s the price I had to pay. “I am forced to look at things like that.”

“Do I still need to be up here?” Mitch interjects. I shake my head and let him go back to his seat.

“When I was at school, I maintained an impressive 50% average. I mean, I actually went out of my way to keep from putting in much effort, but also keep from failing.” This garners a few more laughs, courtesy laughs mostly, but it lets me know that I’ve safely distanced myself from the previous cliché. “The reason is, because I didn’t give a crap – to put it bluntly. I had no love for the subjects, well, except for physical education, and that probably contributed to me heading off the path that I did. I also did always have a fascination with understanding how people think and behave. We’re not talking Freudian level psychology, but I just find it extremely interesting. I like to think that I’ve gotten to where I am, because I found things that challenged me, and that I actually wanted to rise to the challenge of, and followed those paths with stubborn intent. You’ve got to be stubborn sometimes, you’ve got to never stay down. I asked you at the beginning, if you wanted my life. Unfortunately, I’m not willing to give it away. I do wish that all that has happened to me, had never happened. I often wonder what I’d be like if it didn’t. I wonder if I’d like that person. And then I realize, that if I hadn’t gone through everything, then I wouldn’t be able to stand here, proud of whom I am, even happy about it. I’ve finally got my shit together, and it seems the greater the trials and tribulations, the greater the reward if you just refuse to lose.”

Suddenly, my XWF theme song begins to play once again. It’s not over the speakers though, instead it’s from my damn phone. I glance around as people giggle at me.

“For the record, you should always turn your phone off when it says too. There’s probably a good reason that it should be off, such as saving you from embarrassment,” I muse out loud. “I’m sorry, I’ll get rid of them.”

I flick the phone open and before I put it to my ear, I notice the caller’s name reads as Stan – my older brother.

“Can’t talk Stan, I’m in the middle of something.” Without waiting for the response from Stan, I flick it closed and turn my attention back to the audience to explain myself. “One of the drawbacks of what I do, is that there are certain situations that may require my immediate attention, no matter where I am. Therefore, my phone, or at least one of them, always stays on. If it’s important, they’ll call back.”

Destiny has it in for me today, Stan calls back right as I say that, and immediately I can’t help but find myself becoming visibly concerned.

“What is it?” I ask, having flicked the phone open once more. The audience looks onwards, silent once more, as my face becomes grave. My hand starts to shake a little.

I’m speechless.

“Yeah, right away man,” I eventually say, somberly, clicking the phone off. Turning, again, to the audience, I can’t hide my distress. “I’m sorry, but I have to go.”

I race down the aisle in a half-run as heads turn. People look at each other, and then back at me, puzzled. Heads then begin to stare at the principal for answers that he doesn’t have. Soon, he takes off after me, running, and catching up to me just as I’m about to climb into my car.

“Mr. Stone!” he calls after me, stopping me as I’m half in my car door. “Mr. Stone, why are you leaving?”

All I need to say are the two words that matter the most to me in the entire world.

“My mother…”