by Jinx, Hondo
So no Marvella, no spies, nobody but him. Which meant Johnny had to face up to the truth. He couldn’t blame this madness on Marvella. He was doing this because he wanted to.
Or at least because he’d made the decision.
Running blew, and running at this hour blew dead rats, but to hell with it. He said he was going to run, so he was running, and if he was going to give up sleep to run, he might as well make the most of it.
So he stepped it up, sprinting ahead, then fell into an easy, loping gate for a block before throwing on another burst of speed.
His lungs burned and his leg muscles glowed with exertion, but he kept pushing. If he had to get up at this hour and run, his body could quit bitching and get with the program, too.
A short time later, his body complied. His breath came more easily. Now warm, his muscles moved smoothly. He glided over the sidewalk, flying past bars and restaurants and shops and warehouses until he found himself all the way over on Whitaker, right at the edge of the Ward, which he knew ended at the railroad tracks.
And there, lo and behold, just on the other side of the tracks, another figure jogged along, throwing hooks and uppercuts. The runner was all in shadows, and Johnny couldn’t make out his face, but he figured the guy was around his size. Hell, it could be his future opponent.
Johnny jogged up Whitaker, keeping his eyes on the guy, who looked up then and saw him. There was a second’s hesitation as the two men saw each other, each recognizing the other for what he was—another fighter out for an early morning run, putting in his roadwork while the rest of the world slept, each man repping a different neighborhood as they trained to fight with every iota of muscle, wind, and will in their bodies, perhaps even against each other.
But there was no one else here. No coaches, no crowd. Their neighborhoods were deep asleep.
And rather than animosity, Johnny felt a stab of poignant kinship in this moment out of time.
Apparently, the other man felt something similar, because neighborhood rivalries be damned, he raised a fist to Johnny.
Johnny returned the gesture, and without exchanging a word, the men turned and ran back toward the heart of their neighborhoods.
It was a strange and delicious moment, almost moving to Johnny, and he decided then and there that this was his moment, no one else’s, and that he would never tell anyone about it, not even Marvella or Freddie. No, this was a special moment, a secret moment, his moment, his and that other fighter’s, whoever he was, may God bless and protect them both.
The rest of the run, he felt great, happy to be alive, strong and ready, even when the stitch hit him, and he took a longer loop than he’d planned, cursing his pain for the weakness it was, pushing through it and sprinting hard at the end until he reached The Oasis and walked back and forth on the street, gasping desperately for air, his heart pounding so hard in his chest that little doilies of light spun before his eyes.
As he finally caught his breath and the pounding in his chest slowed to the point that he no longer wondered if his heart would explode, Johnny laughed aloud.
He had run probably two or three miles at a good clip, maybe even four, and it was still dark.
Was he a madman?
Yes, he was a madman. But he’d done the miles. He’d gutted them out and pushed hard at the end, witnesses or no witnesses. He’d done the work. No matter what else happened today, he’d done that. He’d kicked it out hard, while his future opponent had lain in bed, warm and soft, sleeping like a little baby, maybe even sucking his thumb.
Absurdly, the image pissed Johnny off, so he embraced it, going deeper, imagining a light-heavy repping some other neighborhood not just sleeping but sleeping with his thumb stuck in his mouth and a smile on his face.
It was an affront to Johnny and the sport, sleeping in while serious fighters earned their wind.
Johnny would punish the big baby for that.
Unless, of course, his opponent ended up being not a big baby but the guy he’d seen across the tracks.
In which case, Johnny would still try to punish him. Just as that man would come at Johnny with everything he had, with every ounce of muscle and power, every trick he’d drilled in the gym, and, yes, every ounce of bitter pride that he, too, had earned getting up in the middle of the night to put in roadwork.
Let him bring it, Johnny thought, grinning grimly as he headed upstairs, and let the best man win.
He entered his room, closed the door behind him, and peeled out of his sweaty clothes. Naked, he padded into the bathroom for a shower.
He reached for the light switch but hesitated when he heard a loud bang outside.
Then another, followed by crunching and scraping.
Looking out the bathroom window, he spotted a small, shadowy figure rooting around in the dumpster.
A pencil-thin tail twitched back and forth as the tiny person rooted through the trash, retrieving numerous small items and setting them on the edge of the dumpster.
Due to the poor light, Johnny couldn’t really see the person or what they were retrieving, but based on the figure’s size, he guessed it was a homeless child rooting for food.
That broke his heart.
He was ready to call down and offer to buy the kid a meal when the figure moved into the light and Johnny saw that it wasn't a child after all.
It was a woman.
In fact, it was a woman he knew.
Millie was down there, rooting around in the trash.
Seeing her climb from the dumpster in a stained smock, his heart broke all over again.
He hated that she was smiling. Her teeth glinted in the low light. She was clearly pleased by her discoveries.
Millie gathered her treasures from the edge of the dumpster, picked another item off the ground, and disappeared into the room directly below his.
So, that’s where she lived? Must be.
A place to stay was probably part of her pay. Or all of her pay, knowing that cheapskate Lucinda.
Clearly, the poor girl didn't even make enough to feed herself. No wonder she was so skinny.
Millie's eyes had lit up when he'd given her the six-cent tip for taking care of his laundry and dry cleaning, which she had returned on the same day clean and neatly folded, the suit looking as good as it had likely looked when new.
He wished he'd given her more. Much more.
He would just have to track her down and ask her to do his laundry again soon. Only this time, he would give her a bigger tip, enough that she wouldn’t have to go dumpster diving in the middle of the night to feed herself.
Could he afford to pay his rent, feed himself, and feed Millie, too?
Yes.
He wasn’t sure how. But he vowed to find a way.
Maybe Lou would give him extra hours. Probably. The guy liked him after all, and Johnny was a hard worker.
None of which he would confess to Millie, of course. It was okay if she thought he was generous, frivolous, even foolish with his money.
But she couldn’t know he pitied her.
Because the poor girl deserved to keep whatever pride remained to her. It was likely all she had left.
Chapter 15
First, Johnny stretched out.
Work had gone well. He was getting to know people, and better yet, it was Friday, which meant payday. After three shifts, despite paying Lou back, he had twenty bucks in his pocket.
Progress.
He hadn’t seen Millie before work. The next morning, he’d knock on her door, ask her to do his laundry, then give her a dollar tip.
Marvella hobbled over. “Shadowbox for three rounds,” she said without so much as a hello. “No breaks between rounds.”
He nodded.
“After that, jump rope three rounds. For now, you can rest between rounds. Then Freddie will tell you what to do.”
Before he could thank her, Marvella limped away, tapping her cane, heading toward the ring.
When the bell rang, he stood and lifted hi
s fists and started punching the air. He felt dumber than hell.
Outside of the gym, he now felt like a fighter. In here, he felt like a pretender.
That was okay. He’d get it. Just had to keep listening, keep learning, keep working.
Glancing at the other shadowboxers, Johnny was thankful none of them seemed to be paying him any attention. They were intent on their own work, breathing through their noses as they pummeled invisible opponents.
Each working round lasted three minutes. The rest period between rounds zipped away in a single minute.
Freddie came out of the girls’ locker room, wearing the gray sweats again. Her purple tail wagged behind her as she walked. Seeing him, she smiled and raised a fist.
“You came back,” Freddie said, sounding happy.
“Yeah, thought maybe I could catch another beating,” he joked.
“No talking, Johnny. If Marvella put you on rounds, that means you’re actually working now. And if you talk while you’re training, Marvella will crush you. Just keep working.”
He nodded, feeling ridiculous as he threw another flurry.
“Imagine there’s an invisible opponent in front of you,” Freddie said. “Remember what I showed you. Keep your hands up and throw sharp punches. Don’t get lazy. And don’t just stand there like you got your feet stuck in cement. Imagine Jobbo coming at you, trying to take your head off.”
Johnny nodded, marching ahead, throwing heavy shots at a phantom Jobbo. Because someday, that’s what he was going to do. Not run and jab and scramble for his life. Rock him and then walk him down, hook him into a corner and pound him to hamburger.
At the bell, Freddie clapped his shoulder. “Better. This round, watch yourself in the mirror. You’re dropping your hands some. That’s why your face looks like it does. So this round, focus on keeping your hands up, all right? And keep your chin tucked. Those things are what’s most important right now.”
“Will do. Thanks for the help, Freddie.”
She smiled again. He liked her dimples. “No problem, Johnny. I’m glad you’re here.”
“You just earned ten extra sets of steps after your workout, kid,” Marvella said, appearing out of nowhere.
Johnny nodded.
After Marvella limped away again, Freddie said. “I warned you, Johnny.” She grinned. “I’ll run them with you, though, and give you a kick in the ass if you slow down.”
Johnny grinned back at her but kept his mouth shut. Those stairs were steep.
After shadowboxing, he and Freddie jumped rope for three rounds.
If shadowboxing made him feel awkward, jumping rope made him feel downright foolish. He couldn’t get the hang of it. He’d whirl the rope a couple of times then get it tangled in his feet. A few times, he stepped on the leather rope. The handle jerked from his grip and clacked loudly off the wooden floor, making people look and making Freddie grin.
Meanwhile, she was a blur of perfect motion, chin tucked, eyes up and staring into the mirror, feet tapping and skipping in a shifting dance as the rope whirled, barely visible with speed. She crossed and uncrossed her wrists, never missing a beat, and occasionally jumped higher and whirled the rope even faster, bringing it around twice before her feet touched again.
When the bell rang, she kept jumping.
Johnny nursed his battered pride, holding the rope in one hand and catching his breath as he studied his bruised face in the mirror. It wasn’t so bad anymore, thanks to the zip.
During the second round of jumping rope, he improved a little. For one glorious stretch, he jumped twenty seconds straight before stepping on the rope again.
All these years, he’d never suspected how hard jumping rope was. And how tiring.
By the end of the second round, his calf muscles burned, and he gasped for breath.
By the end of the third, he was sweating like crazy, breathing like he’d been doing wind sprints, and messing up almost as much as he had the first round.
"I haven't even started boxing yet and I'm already exhausted," he said, walking over with Freddie to hang up their jump ropes between rounds.
"Don't talk like that,” Freddie said. “Never give voice to weakness. Marvella doesn't tolerate complaining. See, when we work out, the pain we feel, that's weakness leaving our body. You suffer through, you get stronger."
“That which does not kill us and all that, huh?"
“Yeah,” she said as they joined the line at the fountain for a quick drink. "But when you complain, you let the weakness back in. It's like when you push yourself, you got a choice to make. You can either go all in and become a new, stronger person, or you can bitch about it and stay weak. The moment of pain puts you to the test. It asks, Are you here to get strong, Johnny? Or to hunt sympathy?"
He wasn't looking for sympathy. He’d always been strong and had never thought of himself as a whiner.
But in his life, people pissed and moaned all the time, as a matter of course. It wasn’t the same as real complaining. In fact, surly complaining could even be sort of masculine. It was definitely part of guy talk, at least in Philly, something you did with your friends or at work, kind of like busting balls.
Something tough came up, guys in Philly bitched about it. Shit, they'd say, can you believe this heat?
But these same guys, they’d never tell their buddies, I am so hot, I don’t think I can take it.
It was more like communal bitching, a kind of camaraderie.
Or they’d make a joke out of a bad situation.
What's the matter, boss? they’d ask, unloading a flatbed heaped sky high with cinderblocks. You couldn’t fit any more blocks on this fucking truck?
Johnny wanted to explain these things to Freddie, but the bell rang before they could even get a sip of water.
So they went back to work, and ultimately, he was thankful the bell had stopped him from trying to explain the nature of his bellyaching. Because when you try to explain why you did something wrong, it never works out. You just sound whiny.
Besides, the past didn’t matter. Freddie was right. The whole purpose of coming to the gym was training to fight. And if you’re going to fight, you can’t afford weakness. Not even if you dress it up in work boots and a Carhartt jacket.
Freddie led him through calisthenics, speaking only to direct the exercises and count repetitions.
He was surprised how few push-ups they did. Only twenty-five. They racked them out on the mats by the mirror, face to face, a couple of feet apart, looking each other in the eyes, rising and lowering in perfect time with each other.
Freddie’s eyes were interesting. At the center of her blue-gray irises, hazel coronas encircled her black pupils, which swelled as he stared, nearly eclipsing her beautiful irises.
Next came jumping jacks, mountain climbers, and the hard-ass exercise with the world’s stupidest name, burpees. They wrecked him, but he kept pushing.
After this, they duck-walked back and forth across one corner of the gym near the meditation mats.
Between rounds, he asked Freddie why people were meditating.
She quirked a brow and looked at him like she was trying to figure out whether he was joking. "Not meditating would be like not doing your roadwork. Worse, even. That’s one way we cultivate juice."
He just looked at her.
“Wait, you don't know cultivating?"
He shook his head.
An incredulous smile spread across her pretty face. "Man, Marvella said you were from the country. But you must be from the middle of some big swamp not to know cultivating. You know juice, right?”
Again, he shook his head. “I know it has something to do with power.”
“Power, strength, speed, and a bunch of other stuff. It’s like… our vital energy, I guess? I mean, you grow up knowing something, it’s hard to describe it. What did you guys call it?”
He just shrugged.
Freddie laughed. “Don't you watch the fights on TV? They talk about cultivating and show juice
stats right there on the screen."
"I never had a TV." In this world, at least, that was the truth.
"Well, I’ve got one about as big as a toaster. You should come over and watch the fights sometime."
"I'd like that. But tell me about meditation and cultivating. I hate looking stupid."
“Cultivation builds up your juice. That’s how you get stronger and faster and hit harder, how you get more durable, you name it. It all comes down to juice.”
“So, like training and getting stronger.”
“Yeah, but training without cultivating, you’ll never reach the top. You gotta have that juice. There are other ways to improve. Marvella knows a great juice mistress who works with top fighters, and rich people can buy treatments, but for most of us—”
The bell rang. And that was that. Without another word, Freddie went back to work like a well programmed robot.
Johnny respected her for that. He also respected the fact that she wasn’t just telling him what to do. She did all the work with him. Every jumping jack, every mountain climber, every burpee. She even duck-walked back and forth.
The difference was, when they finished the second round of duck-walking, his legs were killing him, and Freddie had barely broken a sweat.
He wondered what her stats were. Would she know?
She’d said they showed juice stats on TV, so maybe. It was a weird thought, something clearly game-based being a part of her reality. But not as weird as the thought that all of this was manufactured and people were presumably still riding along inside him, suffering with him through this torture, and eavesdropping on his conversation with Freddie.
Best not to even entertain those thoughts. He had to take this world and everyone in it seriously. One glance in the mirror told him that while this might have been a Vicarus setup, for him, at least, it was no game.
As one of the posters on the gym wall read, Boxing’s no game, and ain’t nobody here playing.
Any Vicarus rider stubborn enough to stay onboard for the beating he’d taken now knew that as the gospel truth.
Which made him wonder: had he lost all his riders?
The prospectors had encouraged him to please riders, explaining the bonuses he’d receive if he did. But they hadn’t mentioned what would happen if he failed. If he lost all his riders, would that be it, game over?