The Wahlberg Express | Weldon Ryckman

This is a great story.

These are the words Mark Wahlberg says after reading a script. He is discriminate, yes, but moreover he is polite. Just because he thinks, or says, that a story is great doesn’t mean he will help make a movie out of it.

It will make a good movie.

These words are said to just over half of the scripts he reads. He doesn’t say it directly to the script, though he does speak to scripts on occasion. What are you trying to do to me? is something he says to scripts, just loud enough for the script to hear him. He likes the word script instead of screenplay. More Latin, and thus Romantic. Just like him.

Legend has it.

We are ecstatic. Mark is in attendance at the contest this year. He has attended in the past, but not for six years. We had begun to lose momentum, particularly when we had to cancel last year after the measles outbreak. It’s because of our resilience that we believe Mark will join us. A show of faith.

Six years ago was when Mark got food poisoning at our contest from the bad shrimp cocktail. We aren’t serving that this year. We are serving Jersey Mike’s. If anything should happen, it’s on them.

All weekend there are rumors of Mark’s presence. Seen serving hot dogs at the Red-Hot Hot Dog tent. In line for a balloon animal. In various tents, watching himself. How many Marks are here is a question on everybody’s mind. And will we end the weekend with more Marks than we began? We should hope.

We met on the internet. The founders began with a primitive message board hosted on an independent server before we were accepted to migrate to a bodybuilding forum. They are gracious hosts and allow us to moderate ourselves. In the last few years, there have been many advancements in online communication. The forum is falling out of use. Many of the newcomers communicate only in images within their own private chat groups. Don’t ask me how I know.

In the early days, longform narratives dominated. You would see, from time to time, the urgent and detailed retelling of this or that member’s encounter. Now we are lucky to a receive photo of him in the wild. Not for any lack of encounter, but for the walls erected between groups. Nothing is public anymore. And it is more likely than not a regurgitation of someone else’s luck. We still have the Contest, which is more like a celebration, and which has, to this point, defiled the odds.

It’s because of our resilience that we believe Mark will join us. A show of faith.

Our site: the state fairgrounds in Lowell, Massachusetts. fourteenth annual mark wahlberg lookalike contest hangs on a banner above the entrance. This year there is even a Marky Mark-alike for the children. Two Marks stand welcome, doling out wristbands, checking lists, calling superiors.

Mark 3 to Mark 7. Mark 7 copy. Can you confirm a name for me. Melissa Theroux. Yep, she’s a Mark. Copy that. Mark confirmed.

Once you pass through these gates, you’re Mark until Sunday.

The parking lot is filling up quite nicely, working its way across the pavement to the overflow zone, a grassland that rolls down a gentle hill. A caravan of wise Marks wait to make their entrance, for down the hill on the lawn is where we will celebrate, one Mark to another.

I’m here with my brother Harold and his friend Yonny who on short notice decided to enter the contest. We’ve driven from Midland, Missouri, to attend. Though they don’t state it publicly, it’s widely accepted that living in your hometown boosts your profile. Despite this, there is little chance either of us will win. I come because I love Mark, yes, but I really love the community. As for Yonny, it’s unheard of for a rookie to win. In any event, neither of us are all that serious.

In the Recitation Tent, Marks take turns performing their favorite moments from his films.

“There was a student . . . just the other day . . . who said that my problem, if one’s nature is a problem, rather than just problematic, is that I see things in terms of victory or death, and not just victory but total victory. And it’s true: I always have. It’s either victory or don’t bother. The only thing worth doing is the impossible. Everything else is gray.”

A round of applause. The Recitation Tent is standing room only.

We have brought a propane grill to set up outside our black Ford Explorer. This is a great way to make friends. We have a station for mustard and ketchup. If people want, we can toast the buns. We don’t have relish, which a couple people have asked about. We will have to get some.

Viewed from above, the campus, with all of its tents, parking lots, and spaces, make the shape of his face. You enter through the chin, and Main Stage is right between the Elevens. The tents screening his movies orbit around his cheeks, holding deep-dive panels between screenings. His pursing lips form a network of artists and vendors. The ears are quiet this year, with each inner ear itself being a sensory nook. Each year they tweak the setup. There is a sense among veterans that things are going downhill. We assume, because of him, that we will improve each year, but sometimes it feels we are trying too hard. The best days have passed. But Mark is still making movies.

In the Chamber of Reflection, Marks sit face to face and repeat:

“What do you have to say?”

They say the attendance this year is over two thousand. In Year Three, there were just over thirty of us. Beginning last year, there were stories about attendees repeating the phrase “Oh, hi Mark” throughout the contest grounds. It is safe to say that this felt like an infiltration.

You need not be a true lookalike to participate these days. I need not my brother and sister Marks to wear some kind of emblem, but there are times when I wonder who’s who. When will we see Mark? Many newcomers ask this question on the first day. When will we see Mark?

The orbital cheek theaters screen some of his bigger movies:

The Italian Job

Boogie Nights

The Other Guys

The Fighter

Shooter

Ted

Another screen, along the left jawline, shows The Departed and Four Brothers on rotation. And there is a viewing tent showing Fear. The man himself is much like a celestial body to us. Always returning. Outside the grounds, they say it is the end of time. Everything must go. There is a furniture store near my house that has been closing for three years now. Who are we? What do we love? How should we feel? Mark doesn’t do this. He has two eyes on the future. This is why we gather.

The opening up of the contest made space for genders and skin colors beyond Mark’s. There was no sense in competing with that one guy anyway. The winner of that sixth contest, who went by Luke Mookberg, looked so much like Mark that many were convinced that it was Mark up there, holding the bronze statuette of himself. That day was really emotional.

To be an official contestant you must apply. There is a small amount of paperwork. But anyone can go. Many who are not competitors nonetheless look like Mark in their own way.

“I’ll do anything for a dollar.”

They watch interviews with Mark on their phones. People huddle. When people come here, they like to huddle. They like to form enclosed groups. Blend as one. A pack of Marks.

A protest breaks out at the Italian Job Green. There are two men: one is covered in blood, poured from a pail above his head, the other has glued his hand to a statue of Mark. The man in blood begins throwing hot dogs at people, and screams, “I am a big, bright, shining star!” A young woman wears a white shirt with the word MAKR written in marker. It’s unclear what they are protesting.

We are out of hot dogs and must get more from the 7-Eleven. There are no Wawas around here. On the drive from Michigan, we made a point of stopping at as many Wawas as we could. Outside Lancaster, we saw a man bearing the likeness of Bruce Springsteen buying a hoagie. One of these years we are going to take a detour.

I shared a moment with Mark just yesterday. It happened at the 7-Eleven. It was not until Mr. Wahlberg and I were gazing at the same final glass bottle of Mexican Coke that I realized I had never spoken to the man. I have had countless conversations with impersonators, and even graced the presence of some distant relatives at some funerals I attended as field research, but never have I been as intimate as that moment in the 7-Eleven. I looked over to judge his desire for the Coke. He was wearing a bucket hat and cargo shorts with Air Jordans and Nike crew socks. I lifted up the hem of my sweats to show him my own Nike crew socks so that he knew we were sympatico. Without looking he abandoned the Coke.

In the Recitation Tent, it is the group session.

“What am I trying to say.”

There is a sighting today. He is smiling among others who look like him, and some who do not, but still bear a resemblance. To be graced by his presence is no longer unusual to many of us. He is known to appear from time to time, but there is nonetheless something transcendent about the moment. “How are you. How is your family.” The sincerity nobody can imitate. It is what many Marks fail to grasp. To look is to appear, but to resemble is so much more. How can I be more like Mark today? That’s the question. Not, do I have the eyebrows down? How does my shirt look?

It’s a picture that isn’t talked about enough, found on near zero lists. A lot people say he’s just playing himself, but they aren’t looking close enough. You can already hear sniffles as we wait for it to begin. But there is a bug going around. The audience is almost all men. A cool breeze filters through the gaps where the tent’s flaps meet the grass. As stragglers trickle in, people squeeze and snuggle into each other on the worn oak pews. They bring with them the smell of onions and rosemary parmesan bread. My stomach growls. Thanks, Jersey Mike’s. The VIPs up front with the faux-leather bean bags and shaggy blankets are unconcerned. I check my watch. We’re running late. Though there are no lights to dim, you can feel the darkness descend as Fear begins. And we are all silent.

Elsewhere—that’s where things happen. This refrain plays through my head when I’m home in Michigan working at the adult video store. I had worked at the Family Video before it closed down. Now the only brick-and-mortar shops are the dirty ones. We get all kinds. When I vended real movies, we kept a stand at the front with Staff Picks. I’d include one from each genre of his pictures, as well as two of the most recent release. At the time that it closed, that was The Departed. Things happened elsewhere then too. But at Family Video, it felt like those happenings were still out there, waiting for me to find them.

We are attending an Autograph Workshop, where calligraphic and handwriting experts within the community are helping people recreate Mark’s signature. It’s going okay for Harold, and very well for Yonny, though I am not having a good time, and I do not think I am alone. It is difficult to attain the proper tilt and emphasis writing with the right hand. Yonny is left-handed, like Mark. There are many within the community who feel that The Talented Mr. Ripley would have been a better movie if Mark played Tom Ripley instead of Matt Damon. Next door is a group reading of Mark’s latest instructional memoir, Be A Man: How I Came to Be a Man.

We are enjoying our Hebrew National hot dogs by the SUV when we hear the news. It is as if a shadow has passed over the gathering. A body resembling Mark’s has been found lifeless behind the Shooter screen. We await more information. We put down our hot dogs.

Golly, what a story. Boy, this story rocks. I can imagine him saying these things.

Rumors fly through the day. Marks gather in the parking lot. Of course it is difficult to parse the opportunists from the dedicated. Some say that it was not Mark at all who died but a dead ringer. Luke Mookberg is deployed as a possibility.

Reality falls on us like January snow. We cannot exist without Mark. But he cannot exist without us, either. We are the lifeblood of the Wahlberg Express: engine, fuel, and railroad. It occurs to me that I may be one of the last people to have seen Mark alive. Does that make me a suspect? I throw up in my mouth a little. Who will come forward? We are all of us looking at each other, wondering if we are the one. Likeness. When we say this could be any of us, it holds a deeper meaning.

A couple Marks question another Mark on his whereabouts.

Your story makes no sense. It’s just donuts and dance music.

He’s afraid, then defensive: I don’t even know my character’s mother’s name.

It doesn’t take long before the paranoia takes hold. Marks question Marks, who by turn descend into recitation:

“It’s kind of like bread. It rises, it hardens, it gets stale if you leave it out too long. But you can always wrap it in a damp paper towel, nuke it for fifteen seconds, and voila: good as new.”

“I’m a firefighter.”

“Hey, I know how it is, I’ve been there. We’ve all done bad things. We’ve all had those guilty feelings in our heart. You wanna take your brain out of your head and wash it and scrub it and make it clean.”

“I’m sick of being a fucking disappointment.”

“I’m the best friend you have on the face of this earth, and I’m gonna help you understand something, you punk.”

“We’d all be heroes if we quit using petroleum.”

The Lowell police show up and close off the scene. It could be months before they sort this thing out. Chances are whoever did it is long gone. How do you begin to look for a suspect who looks like the victim?

My favorite Mark movie is Father Stu, where he plays a boxer. This time, he is called toward priesthood. It’s a story about redemption. Plus it really cuts the onions. Should have won an Oscar.

As I leave, I imagine Mark reading whatever script might have fallen on his lap next. This is a beautiful story. Not sure he ever got the chance to say this. Golly, what a story. Boy, this story rocks. I can imagine him saying these things. Jeez, have you ever heard a story like this one? This is a real story. I can hear him now. My story, what a story, wow. My story. What a guy.