You've Got Something Coming

by Starke, Jonathan;

  “I’m here about the fights you put on. I heard you run a couple cards a week. That true?”

  “Our venue hosts some boxing extravaganzas each month and a few smaller cards each week. Sometimes it’s hard to get the lineups together, but we manage.”

  “Who arranges the cards, you or the local clubs?”

  “A mix of both. Are you a trainer?”

  “No.”

  “Are you looking to sponsor a fighter?”

  “You’re looking at the fighter.”

  Wendell smoothed the lapels of his tan suit jacket.

  “You’re getting up there in age. Maybe a little worse for wear.”

  “Nose give me away?” Trucks said.

  “The scars. Some divots. Hard times?”

  “Hard times.”

  “How old?”

  “Thirty-five.”

  “Let’s not bullshit each other here.”

  “Forty-one.”

  “Thought about there.”

  “Good guess.”

  “Let’s see your hands.”

  Trucks put the tote bag on the carpet and raised his hands.

  “Have they taken much damage?” Wendell asked.

  “Broke the left three times. No real damage to the right.”

  “Do you take dives?” Wendell asked.

  Trucks dropped his hands and looked over at his girl. Claudia was sitting on a plush chair across the room. He’d told her to stay there because he didn’t want her listening to the conversation.

  “Never taken a dive,” Trucks said. “Is that how these cards go?”

  Wendell shrugged. “Sometimes. Most of the fights are legitimate. I just wanted to see what kind of guy we might be working with.”

  “I’m a guy who takes straight fights. Cash. You got any light-heavy openings?”

  Wendell looked Trucks up and down. He pointed at him. “You look more like a middleweight, unless you’re going to magically add ten pounds over the next few days.”

  Trucks hadn’t weighed himself in weeks. They weren’t eating much. His coat fit looser. His body didn’t feel right. What did feel right was the familiar smell of the rundown casino. Old carpets and cigarette smoke and burnt popcorn. Guys like Wendell with fancy titles who dressed like an executive to give the small-time casino the illusion of class. But it was the same old rundown bullshit Trucks had known all his life. He’d lived it again and again. A dream on repeat.

  “Haven’t eaten much lately. Just moved to town. I’ve been showing my girl the sights.” Trucks pointed at Claudia with his thumb.

  “She’s adorable. Where’d you take her?”

  “Around. So you got anything at middle, then?”

  “I’d suggest cutting to lightweight, but if you’re not eating much, it’d probably kill you.”

  The guy had a touch of sinister. Trucks didn’t like it.

  “Anything at middle?” Trucks repeated.

  Wendell pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. He flipped through some pages.

  “Can you be ready in two days?”

  “Sure.”

  “We had a guy from Babb pull out with a sinus infection. I can mark you down to replace him at middleweight.”

  “Okay.”

  “You sure you can be on that weight?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What do I pencil you in as?”

  Trucks thought a second.

  “Kadoka,” he said.

  “All right.”

  Wendell put his notebook away.

  “What’s the pay?” Trucks asked.

  “Forty dollars.”

  “Rounds?”

  “Four.”

  “Ten bucks a round?”

  “Look, math whiz, I don’t know anything about you. You come in, fight hard, do good, we’ll pay you more. For now, yeah. Undercard fight, ten bucks a round.”

  Trucks nodded. He looked over at Claudia. She was watching him. She looked desperate to know.

  Trucks looked back to Wendell.

  “Win bonus?” Trucks asked.

  “Sometimes. Twenty bucks or so. Depends on the finish and quality.”

  “That’s fair. Cash after?”

  “Come find me.”

  “I appreciate you writing me in. We need this,” Trucks said, almost pleading.

  “Just remember, the event starts at seven. You’ll go on third, unless the promoters flip the card. You’re fighting a guy in his thirties out of Whitefish. A little washed up. You’ll make good ringfellows, I’m sure. He’s got a decent gas tank, a sharp hook.”

  “All right. Nothing new. Eaten a few of those in my life.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Any chance you can spot me the gloves and ring attire?”

  Wendell laughed.

  “Just checking,” Trucks said.

  “I get it. Believe me,” Wendell said. “Hard times, right?”

  Trucks picked the tote bag off the floor. The weight of all they had.

  “Hard fucking times.”

  THE CLEAN AND THE GOOD

  They say ring rust is real. And Trucks was feeling it that night. He’d lost all his wind from weeks of not training. He was taking a lot of damage. Blood ran from his nose to his upper lip. He hadn’t landed anything clean in three rounds. They were about to start the fourth. Trucks was sitting on his stool in the corner.

  The volunteer corner man talked to Trucks as he jammed cotton swabs up his nose. He needed to end the fight. Get the win bonus.

  “You gonna make one more round?” the corner man said. “You’re gassing out there.”

  Trucks nodded.

  “You’ve been gassing the whole time.”

  “I’m gunning for him this time. Get the smelling salts ready.”

  The corner man snickered, clearly not buying it. He tossed the swabs in his bucket and gave Trucks a last drink of water. Then he popped Trucks’s mouthpiece in. The one they’d given him when he showed up early at the casino. He’d had to boil the mold in a pot in the casino’s kitchen and apply it to his teeth. And now it was earning its worth in punishment.

  “Catch him if you got something to throw,” the corner man said. “Breathe, for fuck’s sake.”

  Trucks stood.

  The corner man took the stool.

  Trucks adjusted his shorts. He alternated driving each foot into the mat. Looked down at his black wrestling shoes. Tied tight. Secondhand. The gloves and shorts and shoes. Everything lifted the day before.

  Then the bell rang.

  Trucks took the center of the ring. Both men were tired. Whitefish was carrying more muscle. Stocky. So he was losing oxygen faster trying to feed those muscles. Trucks let him get off a couple flush shots to the body. A few knocks to the head.

  Trucks clenched with Whitefish and went limp. He made Whitefish carry all his weight. Let him bully Trucks into the corner and blast away. Trucks put up his gloves and felt the vibration of the blows along his arms. He was calculating it real smooth. Blocking most of the punches.

  Trucks worked out of the corner and moved down the ropes. He felt the burn along his back. Whitefish followed him with heavy straights. Left hooks. He was getting tired chasing after Trucks.

  Before Trucks got to the next turnbuckle, he pivoted and caught Whitefish with a short uppercut. Pah.

  It stunned Whitefish.

  Trucks rolled around and pushed Whitefish against the ropes. Then he got off a flurry—pah-pah-pah-pah. Everything to the body. When Whitefish dipped to protect his midsection, Trucks torqued his hips and launched a nasty left hook that connected with Whitefish’s jaw. It was real stiff. The kind of shot that could lay a man clean out. The kind of shot that did.

  Whitefish fell to the canvas. The ref ushered Trucks into a neutral corner. Whitefish got to a knee, took a heaving breath, and stood. He put his gloves out, fists together. The ref gave him the mandatory eight-count, grabbed his wrists, and asked if he wanted to continue. Whitefish nodded.

  Trucks r
ushed forward, ready to kill.

  And just in that movement, Whitefish came out of the haze and caught Trucks with an overhand right that wobbled him. A barrage followed. Trucks went blurry. Had he timed it wrong? Moved in too soon? Too reckless?

  Before Trucks recovered, the bell sounded. Trucks and Whitefish hugged and raised each other’s hands in a show of sportsmanship. Whitefish thumped Trucks on the chest, told him he’d caught him clean and with wicked power. Trucks said something back. He didn’t know what. His temples were pounding. His mind in a fog.

  The judges’ scores were read as Whitefish and Trucks stood side by side. Trucks lost a unanimous decision on the cards. Whitefish raised his hands. Trucks looked for Claudia.

  THE LETHARGY OF BULLSHIT

  “There’s twenty,” Wendell said. He handed Trucks the bills. They were standing in a small alcove near the casino lobby.

  Trucks eyed him with frustration. Wendell owed him forty. His hands shook as he counted the money, just in case Wendell had misspoke. Nope. Only twenty there. Trucks folded the bills and put them in his back pocket. He’d changed into his winter clothes for the long walk back. His gloves and shorts and wrestling shoes packed away. Claudia was silent beside him. Their tote bag on the ground.

  “You were really going for that win bonus,” Wendell said. “I like guys who dish it out like that. Excites the crowd. Creates buzz. Gets people charged about coming to the next event. Maybe next time don’t wait for the last round to turn it on, huh?”

  “Yeah,” Trucks said. “Maybe.”

  He stared into the distance. Clenched his fists. His hands were swollen and red. His head still spinning. He didn’t feel right. And now he was angry.

  “Your boxing days over, or are you looking for more work?” Wendell asked. He pulled the notebook from his breast pocket. “Got another one here in a couple days.”

  Trucks looked at Claudia. She was tired and upset. There was such a distance in her energy, like she was long gone away.

  “Pepper Flake, you wanna get some candy from the machine over there?” Trucks pointed across the room. Then he worked through his pockets and pulled out a quarter. “Go get yourself some of that candy.”

  Claudia took the coin and walked away. She looked like a little zombie, out of heart.

  Trucks turned back to Wendell.

  “Nice parenting,” Wendell said.

  “Go fuck yourself,” Trucks said.

  Wendell smiled. “You’d have knocked him out if you used that kinda fire from the get-go.”

  “Where’s my other twenty? You said ten dollars a round. Forty bucks.”

  Wendell smoothed a hand over one of his lapels.

  “How would you score your activity in the first couple rounds?”

  “Did all right.”

  “You were gassed in the first. Chugging in the second and third. You’re lucky you got half. If it wasn’t for your effort in the last round, you wouldn’t have gotten shit.”

  The fire was burning in Trucks, all right. This man had no idea. If he wanted the storm-bringer, Trucks would oblige with fists like flame.

  But then he thought about his girl. He couldn’t settle matters that way anymore. It had to be about his girl. Only his girl. He repeated that in his broken mind until all he was hearing was only over and over. Only. Only. Only.

  “So the job,” Trucks finally said. He put a hand to his temple and rubbed.

  “Like I said, a couple days. From the looks of things, you can’t go heavier than middle. I got one at super-welter. You think you can drop six pounds?”

  Trucks looked over at Claudia. The little red candy machine had jammed. It was round and looked like a fat parking meter. She was hitting it with her palm.

  “Yeah, I can drop the weight.”

  “All right. I’ll mark you down for super-welter in two days. This guy’s out of Chouteau. Don’t worry, he’s not French or anything, so he’s going to give you a real fight.” Wendell laughed at his own joke. Then he said, “Bring it from the first bell. He’s younger and faster than you. You’ll get your full pay when you earn it. Quit stepping in the lethargy of bullshit and bring it next time. Like your life depends on it.”

  Wendell walked off.

  Trucks picked up the tote bag and went over to Claudia. His back muscles were already feeling sore from throwing all those punches. He hadn’t truly thrown any for a while. The few shots he’d popped off at the shelter didn’t count. And his head. It hurt so bad.

  Trucks walked up to Claudia. She sat cross-legged on the ground in front of the machine.

  “It’s broke,” she said.

  “Well, don’t give up on it. I’m sure we can get the candy out.”

  “I don’t want the candy. I wanna go home.”

  He hated to hear that word. He didn’t know anymore what her use of it would mean. Like a weapon she wielded over him.

  Trucks set down the tote bag. He turned the little metal lever on the machine, and the quarter spit out. He put it in his pocket. Then he held out his hand. Claudia sighed, reached up, and he pulled her to her feet. She stood there resigned as he made sure her hearing aids were snug, adjusted her headband over her ears, pulled her hood on, buttoned the throat flaps of her coat, and stood. Trucks grabbed the tote bag from the ground. He wanted to carry it to save her any burden.

  They stopped at the glass exit doors in the casino lobby. Gathering as much warmth as they could before they made their march.

  “It’ll get easier, Clarinda. You can count on that,” he said.

  He’d called her the wrong name but didn’t realize it. His mind rattled and coming apart. Claudia heard it but didn’t know what it meant. His words had become like a fog ever fading. Too many promises. Too many speeches. His words meant little now.

  They stared at the windows. Their soft reflections against the harsh streetlights beyond. Snow blowing outside like pale confetti floating across the landscape.

  “Trust me,” he said. But he didn’t know if he was saying it to her or trying to comfort himself about their long road ahead. Not just the walk through the cold. The dark. Maybe it was about their difficult walk of life together. But wasn’t it that word—together—that made even the harsh feel beautiful? He was glad more than anything to have her. And then he told her. He said it outright. The fire burning in his faded mind and sloping body.

  Time passed. It was slow. Or it was fast. He couldn’t tell. Then Claudia grabbed his wrist. A touch he’d keep eternal.

  His mind stormed with all the shots he’d taken. It was more disorienting than it had ever been. He couldn’t shake off the haze like in years past. And the boxing just didn’t feel the same.

  When she let go they launched forward. Pushed through the doors and trudged on. Their breaths flowing behind them like smokestacks. The licks of the night fresh on their cold faces.

  AN IMPOSSIBLE PENDULUM

  He wasn’t eating. He had to drop the weight.

  Trucks had awoken several times in the night with intense headaches. He’d tried hard not to disturb Claudia, but he’d seize awake. Whether it was from a nightmare or pain, he didn’t know. But he’d shake awake, and sometimes it’d disrupt her sleep. As if the wind wasn’t enough. The groaning boards. That incessant nighttime howling from so far away.

  Trucks bought her gas station pancakes again. He might have been screwed out of the other twenty dollars Wendell owed him, but the money he had given Trucks really meant something. It wasn’t enough to get them much, but it was a start.

  They sat at the same table by the window. Trucks watched Claudia eat. Sometimes he stared at the fuel pumps. Fingerprints all over the window to the outside world. He was looking at those fuel pumps now. So isolated. So stuck. Rooted to that unforgiving cement foothold.

  “You better finish those, Clarinda,” he said. “You need your strength after all the walking.” Trucks was still staring out the window.

  “Stop calling me that!” Claudia said.

  Trucks t
urned to her.

  “What?”

  “You keep calling me Cluhrinna.”

  “I do?”

  “You said Cluhrinna. You called me that again.”

  “Clarinda?”

  “Stop, I hate hearing it!”

  Claudia dropped her plastic fork and covered her ears.

  “I called you that? When?”

  Claudia uncuffed her ears.

  “When? When did I say that?”

  “Last night when you said to watch for cars.”

  Trucks closed his eyes. He tried to think. He felt a constant dull headache. Like a dying radio wave.

  “I did?”

  She nodded. “And after we brushed our teeth. You made us do it twice.”

  “Twice? Why?”

  Claudia shrugged.

  “And I called you Clar—that name?”

  “Yeah, and I don’t like it. I really don’t like it.”

  Trucks was baffled. He didn’t recall it last night or this morning. Even now he remembered saying her name, but hadn’t he said Claudia? But he never called her that. Why would he start now?

  “Pepper Flake,” he said, like he’d just remembered. “You’re my little pepper flake.”

  Claudia was agitated. She took her fork and cut her smooshed pancakes into ever-smaller pieces.

  Trucks looked out the window again. A shiny red jeep pulled up to the pump. A pretty blonde stepped out and rubbed her hands together. He thought of June. He wondered about her. How she was getting on in South Dakota. He felt so guilty for messing up at the shelter. For causing Claudia to lose June’s scent. And Gerald’s gambling token too. All the special things they’d gathered. Gone in one shot.

  “How about we head back to that big old library again? Remember how it looked like a spaceship inside? That crazy ceiling. All the colors. We could grab some books and read. It’s warm in there. We’d have to hide from the front desk, but I’m sure they wouldn’t notice. And maybe it wouldn’t really matter. Maybe the shelter never told them about what happened.”

  Claudia stabbed her pancake.

  “Think it over while you’re finishing breakfast. It’s really our only free day before the next match, and I want it to be good for you.”

  “Fight,” she said. “It’s a stupid, stupid fight. And they already hit you so hard they messed up your bruiseity brains.”