Plums and Tobacco (a short story)

I've had the idea for this one floating around for years, but didn't quite have the chops to pull it off. Not sure I do now, but I've taken my best shot.

I

Shoulder feint. Step. Throw your jab for real. No power though. Just touch him. Nose, eye, doesn’t matter. Pay attention to where his head goes after you land. Circle out of range. Wait till he throws something. Get a read on his timing. No counters yet. The first round’s about collecting data.

My toe shoots in, my glove uncoils like a whip. Weightless. Kalvin Sloane’s head snaps back—his straight black hair flinging sweat across the ring.  

Roger’s always telling me, “If you’re properly locked in, your movement under the lights shouldn’t feel any different to hitting pads with me back in the gym.”

Relaxed. Playful. Try to smile if you can. 

This relaxed though? My opponent’s nose is already a candy-rouge. He’s following me around the ring like a geriatric. Flat footed, lunging from a mile away. We’re only in round one.

I split his guard with my jab again. Still no power, but this time I don’t retract my glove back to my chin right away. On my way back, I catch the top of his glove and pull both of our lead hands down to nipple level.

I hop to an angle, away from his right hand, still keeping his lead glove occupied and throw my own. Full power. With nothing to block the path of my straight arm, I land flush on his chin. He goes down like a fainting goat.

 In the neutral corner. I feel none of the confidence I should. Adrenalin is surging. I catch a glimpse of Greta’s beaming face in the crowd. Big black eyes, lips permanently twisted into a smile. My stomach churns. No one’s given her a reason to frown in her whole life. God, I wish she hadn’t come tonight. This is the Kalvin Sloane! A man who does not take a knee. A man who rarely loses a round. Right now, he’s buckled on all fours sucking air in deep wheezing gasps. The ref stands over him. “Five, Six, Seven.”

 My arms and legs feel light—but not in a good way. Too light. Disembodied. I lean across the top rope and watch the champ place a fist on the ground and clamber up. This must be some Wiley veteran tactic, I decide. It can’t be this easy. “Eight, Nine.” He raises his fists to meet the count, dipping his square chin in the affirmative as the ref asks if he's ok to continue. I scramble to centre of the ring like a predator. The bell clangs out for the end of the round.

“Would you get your head out of your ass, Bobby?” Roger’s voice sounds like a two-stroke exhaust pipe as he spits his words down at me. I open my mouth for the water bottle he’s got pointed at my face, but don’t say anything. My limbs are heavier than they should be. My head’s light though.

I glance down at my bent knees. Green shorts pulled taught. Who gave me a stool? I never sit down between rounds. Must be the chaos of my big moment. “Look if you keep throwing your jab out there without some sort of set up. He’s gonna drop you again!” says Roger between gritted teeth. I look up at him, about to offer a mouthguard muffled piece of mind. “Again?” I’ve never been dropped in my entire career. Roger’s sense of humour has always been gallows-dark, but, tonight of all nights?  A ring girl holding up an orange “round four” card steals my words away. I can see stubble in her armpits. Why am I noticing that? Roger slaps me on my sweat drenched back and my stool is pulled out by one of my other cornermen.    

Though my mind says predator, my body demonstrates livestock. I dart to the centre of the ring, ready to slip inside another one of his telegraphed swings, but my trunk responds at a third of the speed I expect. Sloane’s fist grazes the top of my head—thankfully the roll I do manage, takes most of the force out of the punch. I skip backwards and maintain a wide birth near the turnbuckles.

Leather and blood seep into my nostrils, as I snort in as much air as I can get in. Why am I noticing this? Usually, my senses are limited to sight and feel and even those are more instinct than direct. As the champ closes in, I’m hyper aware of how cornered I am. I take a half skip to the left, explode off my lead foot, Kalvin corrects, and I explode back the other way. I’m out.

A wave of energy flows through me as I circle into the centre of the ring. I take stock of Kalvin’s nose. It’s still red, but no worse than what I did to it in round one. Let’s fix that. I wait till he throws a right hand, I pull just out of range and throw a counter jab. Something heavy clangs me from below. Fireworks burst across my entire visual field, all air rushes out of my lungs, then a different type of light—though just as bright-- scolds my eyes.

Greta’s throat wails raw from up in the stands. Roger sounds almost smug. “If you don’t set up the jab. What do you expect?”   

I stumble at first, but by the time I’m back on my feet I find I’m surprisingly lucid. I raise my gloves and meet the ref’s questions with more focus than I’ve had all round.

The champ closes in on me, hips loaded to finish the job.

I give him some space and twitch my shoulder. Not sure I have the energy to throw a real punch even if I wanted to. He slips and swings wide at air. I feed on his wasted lifeforce like a baby on the teat.  The pop returns to my limbs, tingling.   

 I take an angle and show him another jab. He doesn’t bite this time. I watch the veteran’s chest rise and fall as he mentally resets himself. His posture shifts from a forward angled pursuit, into a more laid-back prowl.

Don’t get cocky. My legs are still heavy as I maintain the distance. I throw out my jab, but only half way. I register a ‘nice try kid’ flicker in his eyes as he stays at range without flinching. He throws a wide shot, I slip it and circle out. 

“Defence isn’t gonna win you the round,” shouts Roger from the corner. I raise a Vaseline caked eyebrow and throw another half jab. Kalvin Sloane remains where he is, he’s seen this before. This time, I add a half beat to my shot however, stuttering that fake jab with a real one immediately after. His skin moulds like play-doe around my fist, but I’m not done yet. Just like in round one, I let my glove linger on top of his own. I pull it down, cut the angle and unload all nineteen years of my boxing life into his jaw.

His head bounces off the canvas and the rest of him turns rigermortis stiff. Arms splayed out in what those in the brain health profession call the ‘fencer’ pose.

To describe that feeling as happiness isn’t right. No one wants to see a great like Kalvin Sloane fall like that. Relief is a better word. That pose means he’s not getting up to meet the count. That pose means he can’t come back to defend his title. That pose means Greta won’t have to see the same thing happen to me.

II

Anyone who tells you the journey is better than the destination, has never become the undisputed champ, has never had to go through the immersive “slab of meat in a killing shed” experience that journey involves. Spending twelve rounds avoiding professionally honed bones being thrown at your chin compared with the feeling of having a pair of Homecoming ball Queen’s drape Kalvin’s four titles over my shoulder? Shit…words are just words. It’s the closest thing a mortal man can get to killing a dragon. The moment his belts become my belts? I could breathe fire right now. Shit if that roof wasn’t so thick, I might fly right out of here!

The chaos of bodies piling into the ring post-fight is usually my favourite moment. My team, grinning from ear to ear. Their team looking like pallbearers. As Roger lifts me up on his shoulders though, my endorphins dump worse than my adrenalin did after those missing rounds. 

All these hangers on are piled down below me. All the girlfriends and the fighter adjacent parasites, but not Kalvin. They wheeled him out on a stretcher. I don’t wanna gloat or anything, I just feel like he deserves better.  No opportunity to congratulate me. To witness his own changing of the guard. It just doesn’t feel right to celebrate. But I guess that’s the fight game isn’t it? A merciless bitch.

The microphone smells like a bar mat at the end of the night. Larry merchant sticks it under my nose, while Roger works on my throbbing hands, to get the chunky blue gloves off. He asks me where I get my “relentless heart,” from.

 I gaze through one half closed eye into the camera—not bothering to take out my mouthguard and say, “The Neighbourhood.”

“You mean East-Philly?” asks Larry—showbiz smooth. He knows I moved years ago. He knows I train in Venice Beach these days, where the yoga mums outnumber guys who’ve taken a punch to the face by two hundred to one. He’s covering for me. “You saying you got this grit from your rough childhood?” What a pro. He knows how the journo sharks might spin this. “Sloane knocked that boy back to ’87!” Larry’s held enough microphones for men with spinning heads to know they sometimes need a softball rather than a cross-examination.

I shake my head and grin. “Na Larry,” I spit out the mouth guard in a glob of blood and slobber. “I’m talking about the place I go to up here.” I raise the one hand that Roger has managed to free from its glove and tap my temple. “See Larry, the battle you and all the folks in this arena witnessed tonight was only part of the fight.”

I take my eyes off the camera, when a flash of bronze skin shifts between the ropes. Greta, shiny-white dress and all, pounces at me. Wraps her arms around me. Wetting, probably staining that brand new silk forever. I guess if there was one moment you wanted to be reminded of though….

We do our thing. Kisses, words, hugs. I breath in Greta’s perfume—plums and tobacco—all with Larry waiting patiently with a smile. His adams apple jerks up and down as he gauges whether to touch back on my unfinished explanation. I save him the trouble—with one arm strewn over Greta’s shoulder now—I lean in close to the mic.  “See, you folks only saw our bodies were out here beating the pulp out of each other. But while that was going on, Kalvin and I visited a place that’s invisible to outsiders. It’s a place I like to call the Bad Neighbourhood.”

Larry’s nostrils are flaring, but as long as his grip on the mic is taught—ready to pull it out of reach the moment I take this somewhere he doesn’t like—he’ll let me go on. “The Bad Neighbourhood hah?” Larry clenches his free hand and puts on a movie-trailer tone, “—is this some type of metaphor about grit winning out over a champion’s extravagant resources?”

I crunch up my nose and lean into the mic. “Na, it’s more a friendship thing than a grit thing.”

A look enters Larry’s eye as he puts on a polite chuckle. “—alright then,” he begins to pull the mic away, but I use the last burst of explosion left in my arm to catch it before he can move on. A loud pop rings out as my clumsy groping is amplified across the arena.

 “See on big nights like this, you’re gonna end up in the neighbourhood whether you like it or not. Problem is, most people don’t like to make the visit during training camp. Too uncomfortable, too hostile.” I open my arms and grin into the camera. “I went and visited the locals down in the bad neighbourhood, every week of this training camp. See? It’s a friendship thing.” I shrug and throw a wink at Larry, “So when me and Kalvin visited that place tonight, who do you think the locals were gonna be nicer to?”

Larry smiles, though he’s looking at me like I’m unhinged. “I guess, not the man who’s lying in Sunrise Hospital and Medical centre right now.” He says with a morbid laugh.

The coaching staff and crew types glance at each other with puzzled laughter. I see Larry draw in his breath, but stop him after he’s said three words in his “wrap up” cadence.

“Hold on Larry,” I say, raising both hands—one bare, the other half unravelled. “Just one more thing.”

Before he can say anything. I’m down on one knee. I hope they don’t cut to commercial break before they get a shot of Greta’s, “Yes.” I’m gonna want this recording later on. Wouldn’t be the same if there’s a Bud-Lite interruption before the big moment.

So, what do you think? The journey’s better than the moment? I suppose most people don’t have a live recording of the best moment of their lives to look back on. In saying that, maybe I’m selling myself short. Tonights gonna be pretty amazing as well. The afterparty. The hotel. Waking up tomorrow morning and seeing my belt. Re-remembering that I’m the motherfucking champion of the word? Yea, I take that back. That is going to be the moment.

III

In some ways, the morning after a fight is like giving birth. You forget the pain. Fall for the same party tricks in the lead up, then when you find yourself back there, it’s like, “Oh yes, I remember swearing I’d never do this again.”

Weird. I feel like I’ve seen Greta go through this cycle more than once. But, we’re Catholics. I didn’t let the boys call me an “old fashioned bitch” for all those years, only to knock her up before we tied the knot. The closest I’ve been to a birthing room, was that near miss with Tracey Stout in high-school. Past life maybe?

The sheets weigh down on me like a straight jacket. I feel like if I try to move, my shoulder joint is going to tear right out of the socket like slow-cooked brisket. Weirdly I can’t feel the bulky invasion of stitches above my eye I’m used to dealing with post-fight.   

This room is white, but my whole vision feels dimmed down. Another feeling I’m familiar with—the old concussion blues. If I can manage to squeeze out half a dozen smiles in the next three weeks, I’ll be happy.  There’s a black dresser in front of the bed that I don’t recognise. Also, a handful of picture frames that don’t look like the stock photos you usually find in a hotel room. The curtains are open to a bay that looks almost European—sailing boats, ancient ruins on the shoreline—definitely not Vegas. Last night must have been one hell of a time!

I try to sit up, but my spine screams “no fucking way!” I’m also colder than I’ve ever felt. I sink back down and close my eyes. Only opening them again when I hear footsteps.

A girl enters the room. Familiar, but a stranger. Big black eyes, like Greta’s but sadder. Similar lips, but this girl looks like she’s had her share of pain. When she looks at me, I seem to cause her some more.

“How you feeling this morning?” she asks, pre-loading a sigh.

I lift my head just enough to look around the room. An empty chair in the corner with a folded up pile of clothes that look like they’re fit for an old person’s home—or perhaps it’s just the walking stick propped up against the wall that makes me think this.

“I’d be better if I could get a glimpse of my new belts!”

My god, my voice? Sounds like I’ve smoked for seventy years, died, started again at age five, then gargled on thumbtacks for the next twenty-two years!

 I must have picked up a virus last night. Rogers always saying, “lay off the drugs on fight night. The immune system can’t take it…”

At some point I become aware of the girl watching me in my daydream. She’s sitting at the foot of the bed. Looks so sad. God, I hope I didn’t make a terrible mistake last night.

Clearing my throat, I strain my face muscles—which feel like rubber bands that have lost their slack—into a smile. “Hey sweetie. Sorry to be rude. But do you know where my fiancé might be? Her name’s Greta Jade.”

The girl’s lips twist further downward. Not a good sign. She releases a long exhale and turns her gaze to the window. Her eyes tear up. For a moment, I get a pang of anger. Shit sweetie, if I am paying you, this is not part of the service!

She’s in that position for a long time, before she finally stands up, straightens out a crease in her skirt and wanders over to my side of the bed. She bends over and pecks a soft kiss on my forehead. “Dad. I love you. But I just don’t have the energy to go back there, today.”

She smells like plums and tobacco. For some reason this makes me sad.