Up comes the garage door at his mansion-size home, in slides the Bentley, off Cena goes to find Garcia, passing a Gatsby-like aquarium built into a column along one wall ("The fish are mostly saltwater tangs") and a gigantic painting of soldiers raising the flag on Iwo Jima that Garcia one day would like to swap out for something a little warmer.
Oddly, there's no wrestling memorabilia anywhere – the reason being, none of it really means anything. "It's fiction," Cena says, which of course it is. All the belts, all the titles, all the moments bloody and not, all of it is vapor, none of it real except to the degree that it makes money and provides him with an outlet for his various talents.
He finds Garcia in the kitchen, slender and buxom in tight black everything, briefly presses his lips to hers. They then angle off from the reality-TV camera crew to have a few words in private. She maybe looks like she's frowning, he maybe looks like he's not, and later she will say that, for better or worse, he is not one for venting. "Like, I can't talk crap about anything having to do with wrestling, just venting, without him saying, 'If you're not happy here, go somewhere else,'" she says. "He never complains about it, never needs to vent. My sister and I used to joke about him being a robot." She also says that "Oven" was an early nickname for him, "because sleeping with him is like sleeping with an oven: He just lets off so much body heat!"
Soon, the couple film their stuff, then he is out the door again, this time headed to the gym to work out. Along the way, he mentions that he was once married and it didn't end well. "A lot of that was because of my inability to be a good husband, but then Nicole strolled into my life, and that did it," he says. He and his latest love do have issues, however, mainly revolving around marriage, kids, their dog Winston, and his love of his job. "Look," he says, "I know I cannot handle raising a child. It's like with the dog. My biggest thing to Nicole about the dog was: Love dogs, but I can't contribute to taking care of one. I don't have the time. And just because everyone else is happy with children doesn't mean that's how I have to live. I've been upfront about this. I just have things I need to get done. It's not negotiable. We've been to therapy over it. I don't think it will ever be over with. I'm stubborn as fukk and extremely selfish as well. I don't want kids, I don't want marriage. That's me just saying, 'Hey, this is my life and this is how I'm going to live.'" And why should he not?
He first got into pro wrestling back around 2000. He had moved from his hometown of West Newbury, Massachusetts (population: small), to Venice Beach, California (population: all muscles), pestered his way into a low-level job at Gold's Gym, failed the exam to become a CHP cop, momentarily thought of joining the Marines, but instead took a buddy's suggestion to give wrestling a go. He tried various personality gimmicks on for size, but none worked out until 2001, after he'd earned a developmental deal at WWE and evolved into a white-bread, rapping heel who went by the name Doctor of Thuganomics, wore a lock and chain around his neck and thought he came from Compton. He got heat from it, but when McMahon announced the move from blood-and-guts TV-14-type antics to family-friendly PG, he turned into a baby-face ultrapatriot, which almost immediately won him the adoration of the important kiddie demographic, with WWE's creative team making sure that its new superstar rose to the top and became a super-duper merchandise cash cow. Soon enough, you could buy John Cena hats, T-shirts, action figures, wristbands, videos, sunglasses, dog collars and leashes, gym bags, plush monkeys and boatloads more.
He arrives at the gym, where stapled to a wall are the results of all of Cena's many drug tests. "There's 60 or 70 of them," he says. "I've passed them all." He spends an hour or so pushing a bunch of iron around, and then is back in the Bentley, little by little telling the somewhat crazy story of how he grew up. His father, John Cena Sr., was a real-estate appraiser who mostly left it to his wife, Carol, to deal with their kids – five boys who ran through the Massachusetts countryside blowing stuff up with fireworks and constantly getting in brawls and fights with one another and all their friends. There was blood on their faces and trips to the emergency room. "We were a pack of wolves, and anything went," Cena says. "And then when my dad came home from work, he'd get the report from our poor mom. It was a typical American household before political correctness. Four of us would make it away free, but one of us would get fukked, and we knew that getting fukked meant our dad saying our first name out loud and then asking us to get the belt down from on top of the refrigerator. It once belonged to my grandfather. We called it the Strap. He would make us get the weapon and hand it to him. And then we would get beaten." And then the next day, rinse and repeat.
The only calm came when they settled down with John Sr. on the living-room couch to watch pro wrestling. The boys loved it, as most boys will, but no one loved it more than their dad, so much so that when he lost his appraiser's job and Hamburger Helper became a family dinnertime staple, one expense he did not cut was the cable bill. He had to have his wrestling. "My dad is not a sports guy," Cena says, "but was drawn to the theatrics of wrestling." The old man also liked to share R-rated comedies (Porky's,Used Cars) with his sons, allowed them to use the f-word when they were still single-digits in age, and peppered them with a constant barrage of dikk jokes. "Yeah," Cena says, "he dug dikk jokes." Everything was OK, except for showing emotion. "You don't do that," he says. "You don't cry. Everything like that is swept under the table. Combine that with a bunch of dikk jokes, a bunch of nudity, and you begin saying, 'OK, this is the way it is.' It was a man's-man house and macho as fukk."
At first, young Cena wanted to be a pro wrestler, then a heavy-metal rock star, then a baseball player. His bedroom walls were plastered with pictures of cars and bodybuilders, as well as motivational sayings clipped from magazines ("Balls to the wall," "Stop at nothing," "Achieve"), which would later morph into the tag lines he uses as Super Cena ("Never give up," "You can't see me," "Set the bar, now raise it").
For a long time, he was just a typical longhaired, beanpole kid who dressed in jeans, a T-shirt and crappy sneakers, but at the age of 11, he came under the influence of an older cousin. Soon, he was dressing to match him, in the hip-hop style – high-top fade, wingtips, baggy rayon MC Hammer pants – which made him a standout in his small town and a target for high school bullies who picked on him constantly. Finally, he got tired of being pushed around and persuaded his dad to buy him a set of weights. He started off weighing 115 pounds, and left high school at 215 pounds.
Oddly, neither he nor his brothers ever got into any kind of serious trouble. Cena, for one, was early into everything. Besides hip-hop, there was sex, with him losing his virginity at the age of 13 to a 15-year-old girl. But he's never done drugs, never shoplifted or smoked cigarettes, and didn't take his first drink until he was 26, in the WWE and wanting to bond with his fellow wrestlers. "I was handed a drink and went from social outcast to sitting with the guys and learning about the business," he says. "I was like, 'OK, down the hatch, I can do this. If they can do this, I can do it' ... and, yes, that led to many more."
He's back at home now, showering, slipping into a fresh pair of underwear ("I would like, if Nicole and I have an intimate moment, to be as presentable for her as possible"), then gliding back to rehab for session number 108, always trying to cut down on the time it will take for him to get back to work. Obviously, when he leaves the WWE, it'll be extremely difficult for Vince McMahon to find a replacement. For instance, he's very good with the long view. At one point, he says that, like his dad, his "life is just one big continuous dikk joke," but ask him to provide a sample and he demurs. "When I'm allowed to unleash me," he says, "my humor would be grossly inappropriate to 99 percent of the WWE audience. So, it is very protected. And you're not going to see it. See, I think about every decision I make. I don't just knee-jerk."
The WWE has tried positioning new superstars over the years, but so far none of them has passed muster. And yet changes are no doubt on the way. As Cena himself says, "I've already overstayed my welcome."
After rehab, goosing the Bentley along into the fading light, he returns to talking about his pop.
"My dad is a showman who always thinks he needs to be on camera," Cena says. "These days he's involved in independent wrestling, which, I mean, at the age of 70-plus, he can do whatever the fukk he wants. But there are moments when I genuinely wish I could sit down with him and talk father to son, maybe about work, like, 'Hey, work is weird,' but I can't ever, because then it becomes a conversation about wrestling, not about work in general. Even when I was a kid, he had this need. During Christmas, he'd take us to Toys R Us, push the cart down the aisles and be like, 'I hate Christmas. It's just a bunch of bullshyt!' Later, we'd get presents as far as the eye could see, but he wanted the attention of everybody looking at him. I don't know why, he just wants to take the stage – which is something I get from him, and directly from him. But it's tough. It's tough, because you know how we talked earlier about the off switch? His is broken."
He turns left, turns right, thinks he's lost somewhere on the outskirts of Tampa, makes a call, turns around, gets the Bentley headed in the right direction and is once again on the way toward where he needs to go next.