You've Got Something Coming

by Starke, Jonathan;

  “We’re far away from the bad people who kept taking you away. I did everything I could to get us as far from them as possible. And I’m not boxing anymore. I’m looking for different work, you know that.”

  “I just don’t want you to come home all hurt anymore. It makes me sad to see you with all the bruises. And your cuts are gross and scary sometimes.”

  It was true. Sometimes he’d get cut real deep, and it would continue to open as the rounds wore on. As his opponent focused on the gaping wound with jab after jab, followed by heavy crosses and hooks. Hoping to get a TKO stoppage because of all the blood.

  “But you know I toughed those out. You saw me after. You saw I was all right.”

  Claudia folded her arms. “I don’t like it. It’s not fun watching you hurt,” she said.

  “Look, I’m healed now. You’re doing fine, I’m doing fine. Let’s not worry about it. We can think instead about me getting that library job. Then we’ll have something. Get a place of our own in a good part of town. You’ll see. It’ll really happen this time.”

  Claudia didn’t look convinced.

  “I’m not boxing now, am I?”

  She looked down.

  “Am I?”

  “No.”

  “Well, so be happy with that.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Hey,” he said.

  She looked up.

  “How about you tell me more about the fish world. Something else about us as fish.”

  “I don’t wanna anymore.”

  “Okay. What about some food?” He raised the sack of supplies.

  “Okay,” she said.

  “Let’s keep going for a bit. There’s a place I wanna show you, and I figured we could have a little picnic there.”

  “It’s too cold.”

  “We make our own rules,” Trucks said. “No weather ever stopped us, did it?”

  Claudia didn’t respond.

  “How about a smile, Pepper Flake?”

  Claudia looked away. Trucks led the way forward along the bending Yellowstone River up into Two Moon Park. He’d seen it on a map of town pasted to the wall of the shelter lobby. Something about the name drew him to it.

  It was disappointing inside the park. Trucks hadn’t thought about the winter stripping the branches of leaves, flower stems withered into the ground, the snow covering the usually vibrant grass. They walked around a while and cut through paths until they found a bench. Trucks used his coat sleeves to sweep the snow off the benches and tabletop. They sat across from each other. Trucks opened a bottle of water and handed it to her. She drank a third of it. He cut the apples and spread peanut butter on the slices. They each took one and raised them up.

  “To getting that job at the library,” he said.

  “The spaceship,” she said.

  Afterward, still hungry, Trucks pulled out the bag of crackers and spread peanut butter on them too. They bit into the crackers in silence and warily looked around at the bare trees lining the park. Trucks let Claudia lick the knife clean.

  As they walked out of the park, Trucks took her hand. She was reluctant, but he was glad she didn’t pull away. The river alongside them was still and hard.

  Out of nowhere, Claudia said, “I’m glad we’re not fish.”

  They walked a bit in silence.

  “Why do you say that?” Trucks asked.

  “If we’re people, we can go anywhere. The fish are stuck. And I know I said I wanna be a flying fish, but I’ve never seen one. Maybe they’re real somewhere, but I don’t know. I like that you showed me we can go anywhere and do lots of things. But sometimes it makes me sad. And sometimes I have bad dreams. I guess it would be good being a fish ’cause I don’t think they dream. I don’t know if they could when they have to swim all the time so they don’t die, and probably they don’t sleep. And I wouldn’t like it if all I did was swim and run away from bears and fishermans and snakes, like you said. It wouldn’t be fun. And maybe ’cause you’d be a bigger fish with muscles the fishermans would see you better and wanna catch you. And I’d be alone, and it’d be dark, and I’d be at the bottom of the river hiding.”

  Trucks squeezed her hand as they walked. He didn’t know what to say. So he said, “I meant to bring you out here to show you something pretty. The river and the big park. I just had a lot on my mind. I didn’t think about it being winter and everything being dead and buried and frozen and all.”

  They walked in silence. He kept hoping the sun would come out of the clouds, just a small piece of it, but it didn’t. All along the road back, he couldn’t stop staring at the bare trees lining the way. Their dark branches like withered arms praying to the sky.

  THE DEEP SICK PARTS

  In bed that night he dreamed. When he woke in the dark, it was nothing he could remember. Like he was dreaming in shapes without words. The twisting origami inside his mind. Nothing he could put together.

  Trucks sat up in his cot. He put his face in his hands and rubbed his eyes. Then he looked over at Claudia. This time she was sleeping faced away from him. She didn’t start out that way. He figured she’d turned in the night during a bad dream. The scratchy blanket was half off her. He reached over and pulled it back until she was covered again. He hated how harsh and itchy the material was and wished he could give her something more. Something better.

  He watched her sleep, knowing that to be grateful was key. To appreciate the little they had now. To be thankful for all those who’d reached out and helped them so far.

  Trucks bent down and sifted through Claudia’s coat until he found the copper coin. He couldn’t make out the meadowlark or the cutthroat in the dark. Instead he ran his fingers over the embossed metal. Felt the flying of the bird. The swimming of the fish. What it was to be free. He breathed in deep and put the coin back.

  The nighttime hum filled the room. There was a louder chorus of snoring than he’d heard before. It was strange sleeping again in a mass of broken humanity. He wondered if anyone else was awake. He tried to look around, but it was dark. The nightlights had been taken again. He wondered if they were ever returned. It was one of those stupid things he thought of in the dark when there was nothing to do but contemplate as he lay beside his girl. Trucks always tried hard not to think of boxing and Elle and June and Gerald and all the pieces of the hard life he’d cobbled together. Not something to brag about. Maybe something to be ashamed of. He really didn’t know.

  He rose out of bed. He hadn’t moved around the room in the night before. Dozens of bunks lining either side of the walls. A walkway down the middle. A door at one end and a row of covered windows at the other.

  Trucks walked down the middle aisle. He touched each metal bunk frame as he passed. Nobody stirred. Nothing seemed to move. But he could imagine the rising chests. The way he’d seen his own go in and out against the old mirror back in the boxing gym. And he could see the heaving chests of all those men he’d laid flat, eyes rolled back, mouthpieces hanging off a lip. It depended on how bad he’d slugged them. Hinged on the force of the punishment. The power in the movement. Pah-pah-pah. What had he caught them with? Everything. Every damn punch in his arsenal. And they’d gone out stiff. Arms thrust above heads or tucked at the waist. Stiff like mummies. But shaking. Always that quaking in the limbs. The body in the shock of its existence. So much force meeting all that bone and brain. Rattle, rattle. The hard impact of a pugilist life.

  When he got to the end of the aisle, Trucks pulled aside one of the thick curtains. Pulled it just enough so he could see out. Have a crack at the world. He blew his breath on the glass and looked at the fog. He wiped the fog away and blew again. It was a strange sensation fogging up the world like that. If it weren’t for the streetlights, he’d see nothing out there. He was aware of this. But even under the lamp glow, he saw nothing. It was a cold, gray world under so much ice and snow.

  Trucks pressed a hand against the glass. The pane was frosted over. His skin felt nearly numb. The shock of i
t put a spark in his belly. And he thought about all those poor boys lying on the cold canvas. Their backs against that powder blue, arms spread, eyes closed. Like they were flying through some absurd fist-socking sky.

  He thought about that rush he always felt after he’d clipped an opponent with his dynamite. Something he’d never talked about, but they all knew what it was. Had felt it at some point or another. The ultimate connection of knuckle to jaw or cheek or temple. The shock of the contact. The swift movement forward to pounce with combinations. Those blood-smelling instincts like they were all sharks in leg-walking human skin. He didn’t talk about the high in the head and the heart whenever the ref pointed him to a neutral corner. Turned and started the count. Like that faux-flying boy on the canvas was ever going to stand.

  It was real late now. Trucks didn’t know the time. But if his body ever woke him from a nightmare, it was always three in the morning. No other time. The naturopath had told him years ago that he woke because of his liver fire. Like a sickness down so deep he needed to use the strength of all his energies to work it out. And he’d taken shot after shot to his body in exactly that place, but she’d said that wasn’t it. That the body shots weren’t the problem at all. That he needed to look far into himself. Scan his emotions. Find all those sick places he didn’t understand or was too afraid to look at.

  Trucks took his hand off the window. The curtain fell back into place, covering the outside light. His palm tingled in the warmth of the room. The frigid glass so harsh that his hand felt almost hot now. Like his fist was burning up.

  Trucks stepped to walk away, then turned back and pulled the curtain aside once more. He just wanted another look and imagined he could see the wind blowing under the low streetlights. But he knew that wasn’t true. You couldn’t see the wind. But still. Somehow over the humming in the room he could hear the wisps out there. Like the world was saying it was coming for him. It was inching closer. And the deep, sick parts of him told the world to bring it and load up with all its best shots. And he felt a warm sensation down in his abdomen after that. Like all he ever was was ready for it. And all the rest of that night he kept walking away from the window and coming back. Telling himself it was just for one more look. Only one. And then he’d make it to a place of peace. That at some point, he really would.

  GERMS OF THE DARK AND LIGHT

  After breakfast they sat in the shelter lobby again. Trucks had his hands folded between his knees. He stared down into the space between them like he was in a trance. Claudia picked at the edges of her chair. She’d put on the perfume too thick again and smelled so much like June that it gave him a headache.

  Whenever the phone rang, Trucks looked up. But no calls had come for him since he’d filled out his application at the library. Still. There was a warmth in him when he thought about the job. The promise of hope.

  Trucks turned to Claudia.

  “How’s the breakfast settling?” he asked.

  “Good. I liked the cereal and juice.”

  “Me too,” he said. But he hadn’t eaten any of it. He’d drunk a water and taken some fruit and oatmeal, but all he’d done was stir it around. He still had the night on his mind. Sometimes he just missed the old days too much. When everything was simpler. Or maybe just in retrospect it seemed that way. When his days were about popping the bags and his nights about having a drink or two with the boys. Even a few smokes if he thought his wind was good enough from all the running. Roadwork is what the boys called it. And he did miss the road work. The tah-tah-tah-tah-tah-tah-tah-tah of his foot slaps against the pavement. Pushing the body to breathe against the cold, the heat, any damn condition nature could throw his way.

  Claudia smelled her hands.

  “We didn’t wash,” she said.

  “What?”

  “After the breakfast.” She pointed at his pocket.

  Trucks had forgotten to take out the antibacterial wipes. It wasn’t like him. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the sachet. It was much lighter now, nearly empty. He handed her a wipe but didn’t take one for himself. He watched to make sure she scrubbed hard. Then he borrowed the wipe and cleaned his hands and wrists until there was no moisture left. Trucks stood and walked over to the trash can. He threw the wipe away and came back.

  “At least we had our hot showers before we ate,” he said. “That should have killed all the germs.”

  “Are germs ever good?” Claudia asked. “Why do we always kill them?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not a scientist.”

  Claudia laughed.

  “That funny?”

  “Yeah. You don’t look like one.”

  “No, I sure don’t,” he said.

  Trucks found it hard to imagine himself in any skin but what he was. A boxer with a lean body and a cracked nose. A bend in the bridge like all the other boys. But he’d taken care of Claudia with those breaks. Earned enough money with his churning fists and shuffling feet. At least it was a trade. At least it was something. But he couldn’t think like that anymore. He needed to remember the warm feeling about the library. The possibility of a newfound life. Something golden he could give to his girl without the pain and the bruising and all those worried looks.

  “But the germs,” he finally said. “I imagine there are good ones. Something has to fight the bad ones, and I think in nature there’s a balance. And to keep that balance, something has to fight them. It can’t just be that people came along and invented antibacterials, and that was it. Germs existed since, I don’t know, millions of years.”

  “Millions?”

  “Sure. How old do you think things are?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. She looked at her hands. She counted to herself. “A thousand years?”

  “People have been keeping dates far longer than that, Pepper Flake.”

  “Oh.”

  Trucks patted her leg.

  “What do you think? Are there good germs out there fighting the bad ones?” he asked.

  “Hmm. But what if they don’t fight? What if they work together, like friends? And the bad germs and good germs belong all over the world, and everything only works ’cause they get along. And sometimes when they fight, then people get sick. Cause when they’re fighting, nothing feels good.”

  “I never thought about it like that,” he said.

  “Yeah,” she said.

  “You’re a clever girl,” he said.

  “I am?”

  “Yeah. And you’ll do good things when you grow up. I’ll hope a lot for you, but I won’t pressure you to do anything. It’s your life, and I’ll want you to live it how you want. Probably why I haven’t taught you boxing or anything. As much as I’d love to see you throw a hook, it’s maybe not in your best interest.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “I could do it, I bet.”

  “Of course you could. I just mean. Well, you’re a lot more delicate. You’re tough, that’s for sure. There’s not a question about that. And you could do it well. Hell, I’m sure you could do anything well. I just wouldn’t wanna see you hurt, is all.”

  “But you do it, and you get hurt a lot.”

  “That’s true.”

  “So I could do it.”

  “Of course,” he said. Then he thought for a moment. “But remember how you didn’t wanna chop that piece of wood back at Gerald’s?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, I don’t know. Sorta like that, I just can’t imagine you doing anything that would hurt something. Even if it’s for sport. Even if there’s a god-awful bunch of beauty to it.”

  “I wouldn’t wanna hurt anything. Not unless I was real mad. ’Cause sometimes when I’m mad I get a hot feeling and wanna hit stuff.”

  “Boy, do I know that feeling.”

  She looked at him like she was trying to read his face. “And it’s bad?” she said.

  Trucks thought it over.

  “Just something a person has to learn to control, that’s all. I’d ask you wha
t you wanna be when you grow up, but I think that’s a stupid question.”

  “How come?”

  From the counter, the woman said, “Mr. Kadoka. Excuse me, over here.”

  Trucks didn’t respond at first. He wasn’t used to hearing his false name.

  “Mr. Kadoka, the library’s on the phone for you.”

  Trucks snapped out of it and stood.

  “Stay here, Pepper Flake,” he told Claudia, excitement in his voice.

  Then he walked up to the desk and took the phone. He nodded a few times. Switched the receiver from one hand to the other. It didn’t take long, and he handed the receiver back to the woman to hang up the phone. Trucks breathed in deep. He rubbed his fist against his leg as he stared out the window. The white of the snow so lit, it was almost blinding.

  Trucks walked over to Claudia and held out his hand. She took it without saying anything. He walked her over to the opportunities board. He tried to say something, but nothing came out. Everything around him went muffled. A blur. He started to shake and let go of her hand. The fire in his belly rose. And the next thing he knew he was ripping the opportunities board off the wall and smashing it with his dark boots.

  THE DEVASTATION WORDS

  Staff members at the home had tried to subdue him, but Trucks blasted the two males with vicious punches. He’d hit one with a crushing liver shot that sent the guy to his knees. The other he’d knocked out with a short hook to the jaw. The guy’s arms flew up over his head and stuck there even after he hit the ground. Like the stiff branches of a human tree. And Trucks knew he’d gone overboard when he shoved the woman who came from behind the counter. And with the woman retreating behind the counter, trembling as she called the cops, the two male workers laid out on the floor, Trucks did the only thing the civilized world had taught him to do: run.