Fight Town: Inspiration

by Jinx, Hondo

  He pushed these thoughts from his mind and sat there in a lotus position with his eyes closed, sweat pouring off him.

  Freddie’s soft voice cooed, “Breathe in. Hold it. Six, five, four, three, two, one. Exhale through your nose.”

  Johnny did as she directed, concentrating on his breathing and clearing his mind. His whole body glowed with energy. A nameless joy filled his skull and body, displacing thought and motion. It was euphoric.

  “Find your grid,” Freddie whispered. “Go to its center.”

  Johnny plunged inside of himself, searching his inner darkness for that bright point, the hub of his power, the place just behind the solar plexus from which all juice flowed.

  And then he had it. As soon as he felt it pulsing there, he sensed the lines of power shooting away from it like lit-up streets in an otherwise black-dark city seen from above, a grid of illumination that covered his entire body like the street map of a sprawling metropolis, lines of juice spreading out across the very neighborhoods of his being, not just the flesh and bones but also the spirit and mind and that resolute toughness fighters everywhere call “heart.”

  He felt the whole grid at once, sensing its thoroughfares and boulevards, back streets and twisting alleyways. In some places, the juice rushed freely; in others, it crawled; here and there, streets were completely clogged. In these places, juice eddied, unable to pass, unable to feed the spaces beyond.

  As if she were feeling what he was feeling, Freddie whispered, “Cruise your grid. Feel it. Learn its streets. You feel how some of the streets are blocked?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All right. Zero in on one of the blocked streets.”

  Johnny did as he was told.

  A moment later, Freddie’s voice asked, “You got it?”

  Johnny nodded.

  “Good. Something closed that street. Could be bad food or bad design or bad living. Now, unblock the street.”

  Johnny laughed. “Unlock the street? How can I—”

  “Shh,” Freddie hissed.

  And suddenly Johnny was back in himself. Speaking had broken his contact with that inner world.

  “No talking, Johnny. You go back in now.”

  Frustrated, Johnny plunged back in. He found the grid more easily this time and raced along its streets until he came to another roadblock.

  “All right,” Freddie said. “You’re back in? Found another jammed street? Good, Johnny. You’re doing well. Now, focus on the block. Why is it there? Bad food? Bad wiring? Bad thinking? Settle into it. Feel the nature of the block. Then, once you feel it, clear the street. Okay? No rush, Johnny. Take your time. I’ll just sit here cultivating while you meditate.”

  For a long time, Johnny felt ridiculous. But after a while, he pushed all judgment from his mind and just focused on the block.

  He was focusing on, of all places, his ankle.

  His left ankle.

  Why? No idea. But he was sure of it.

  The longer he meditated, the more it seemed he was sinking into his own grid. It no longer felt small and theoretical. After twenty or thirty minutes of focused meditation, he felt like he was sitting in the street within his grid staring up at a towering obstruction that blocked the lane from one side to the other.

  From the outside, he’d thought of the grid in terms of streets, the juice in terms of vehicles, the pinch points in terms of roadblocks.

  But the grid wasn’t a series of streets, it was a series of interconnected conduits meant to carry his juice, which flowed like water or electricity. Except here, of course.

  Here, his juice eddied, unable to pass.

  Question was, what was blocking it?

  He focused on the obstacle.

  And sometime later, he realized its nature.

  The wall damming juice in his left ankle was comprised of aluminum cans.

  And not just any cans.

  Beer cans.

  Thousands of them. Tens of thousands. Perhaps even hundreds of thousands.

  Initially, it struck him funny. He’d somehow blocked his ankle by drinking beer?

  Did that explain why his footwork sucked? Why his feet were always getting tangled in the jump rope? Why he’d never been much of a dancer?

  Staring up at the wall of cans, he grew angry.

  He hadn’t drunk that much.

  Sure, the wall was symbolic, but all the same, it wasn’t like he was some raging alcoholic.

  How could—

  But then the cans came into focus.

  Staring at the red-and-white cans, he felt instantly agitated.

  He didn’t even drink Old Milwaukee.

  That was his dad’s brand, not his.

  In fact, Johnny wouldn’t even drink the stuff out of spite. After all, when you grew up around somebody who—

  Then the truth blasted him in the forehead like an overhand right.

  This block wasn’t about Johnny’s drinking at all.

  It was about his dad’s drinking.

  For a while, he was awash in bitter resentment.

  He wanted to punch his dad. The same guy who’d put the family through hell was back again, fucking up Johnny’s life, holding him back.

  But the longer Johnny meditated, the more he understood that he was wrong.

  He’d been misreading the nature of the block again.

  The cans, he had decoded correctly. This block had to do with his father’s drinking, not his.

  But his father wasn’t holding him back any longer. Hadn’t been for a long time, in fact.

  How could he? The man was dead.

  Sure, Dad’s drinking had caused the block. But his drinking wasn’t holding it together.

  Johnny’s resentment was doing that.

  Staggered, Johnny had to wonder how much resentment he’d been holding onto. He wouldn’t have thought much, but how well do we really know our inner selves?

  Whatever the case, one thing was for certain.

  His dad was gone. This block was all Johnny now.

  He didn’t need anything from his dad to get past the block. He didn’t need a pep talk or therapy or any sort of resolution.

  He just had to dismiss it, had to remove its significance.

  So that’s what he did. He hadn’t even known he’d been holding onto it all these years, but now, he let it go.

  An instant later, the blockade vanished. Not even a single can remained.

  And his juice flowed on down the street.

  Coming back into himself, Johnny could feel juice flowing through his ankle into his foot.

  He took a deep breath and smiled.

  Amazing.

  As the warmth and light of the rising sun once again greeted them, Johnny told Freddie all about it.

  “Johnny, that’s great!” she said, giving him a big hug. “I’m so proud of you!”

  “Thanks, Freddie,” he said, holding her. “That was amazing.”

  She leaned back and grinned at him. “One block down, thousands more to go!”

  “Great,” he laughed.

  Then they wrapped up and headed back into the building.

  Chapter 30

  “It’s still early,” Freddie said. “Want to come up to my place?”

  Johnny bounced his eyebrows up and down. “My fantasy is coming true?”

  Freddie smirked at him. “I don’t know. Is your fantasy doing some mitt work before breakfast??”

  “Not the last time I checked, but I’m still up for it.”

  “Cool. I don’t have to work at the pool today, and I have mitts and gloves in the apartment. We can go get them. Everybody should still be asleep. Then I can show you a few things.”

  Johnny’s stomach was growling, but he grinned. “What, since I whipped your ass at chess, you have to reassert yourself as the boxing authority?”

  “Something like that,” Freddie laughed. “My greatness overfloweth.”

  They went downstairs. Freddie’s family lived on the fifth floor in a corner apartmen
t overlooking Holyfield.

  Freddie opened the door.

  Johnny leaned against the corridor wall and settled in to wait, but Freddie beckoned him inside, her purple tail twitching back and forth as he followed.

  Through the gloom, he registered a small yet uncluttered apartment with a ten-by-ten dining and living room and a cramped kitchen that smelled like an Italian restaurant.

  Everything looked tidy, even the corner of the kitchen counter covered in medicine bottles and prescription vials.

  Through the pale glow coming through the blinds covering the balcony slider, he saw a single bathroom and two bedrooms, one in each corner. A wheelchair was parked beside one of the doors.

  Framed pictures hung on various walls, but it was too dark to make out much.

  Freddie led him to the bedroom without the wheelchair. “Wait here,” she whispered. “I’ll grab the mitts.”

  She opened the door slowly and slipped silently into the shadows. A shaft of dim light fell into the darkened bedroom, spotlighting the lower half of a slumbering body stretched atop a bed near the door.

  Clad only in silky pink panties, the legs and bottom were perfectly sculpted and firm-looking, one leg drawn up, the other straight as a poker.

  Johnny couldn’t help but stare for a second.

  Freddie’s sister, Lennie, apparently…

  He was just getting ready to pry his gaze away when someone cleared their throat behind him.

  He jumped a little, turned, and found himself face-to-face with Freddie’s mom.

  At least he assumed it was Freddie’s mom. Whoever the woman was, she looked a lot like Freddie, though her tousled purple locks were lightly streaked in gray.

  She stood there with her arms crossed, glaring at Johnny, whose face burned hot.

  After all, it was kind of an awkward way to meet the mom of a girl you liked, getting caught staring at her sister’s naked legs and panty-clad butt.

  “Um… hi,” Johnny said lamely.

  “Hello,” the woman said. “You must be Freddie’s new friend.”

  He smiled and held out his hand. “Yeah, I’m Johnny. Nice to meet you.”

  She looked at his hand for a second before taking it. Her small hand gripped his firmly, and her blue-gray eyes bore into his face like the eyes of a leopard ready to pounce. “Paulette Lopez.”

  “Hey, Mom,” Freddie said, slipping from the room with a small gear bag and closing the door quietly behind her. “You met Johnny, huh?”

  Mrs. Lopez nodded, still giving him an appraising look. “Let’s go out in the kitchen.”

  Freddie threw an arm around her mom’s shoulders and kissed her cheek. “We didn’t wake you, did we?”

  Mrs. Lopez shook her head. “Your father had a bad night. I didn’t get much sleep. I was lying in bed reading when you came home. So, Johnny, what are your intentions with my daughters?”

  Johnny winced at her use of the plural. Great. She was going to make something of this…

  But Freddie said, “Mom, give me a break.” Even in the half-light, he could see she was blushing. “We’re going up to the roof to train.”

  Mrs. Lopez frowned at her daughter then shifted her eyes to Johnny and frowned more deeply. “Just make sure that all you do up there is train.”

  Freddie rolled her eyes. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Mom. Johnny’s a gentleman.”

  Mrs. Lopez quirked one brow. “A gentleman, huh?”

  Johnny braced himself, expecting Mrs. Lopez to say something along the lines of If this guy’s such a gentleman, why is he drooling over your sister’s ass?

  But Mrs. Lopez merely shuffled over to the counter and started making coffee.

  Freddie kissed her cheek and headed for the door.

  “Nice meeting you,” Johnny said, following her out.

  Mrs. Lopez raised a hand without looking up.

  Out in the hall, Freddie said, “That went well.”

  “Yeah, right. She looked like she wanted to kill me.”

  “Don’t mind Mom. She’s sweet. She just doesn’t sleep much. She’s a whole different person after she’s had her coffee.”

  “It wasn’t exactly the best way to meet. I think she thought I was staring at your sister’s butt.”

  Freddie smiled mischievously. “Oh yeah? And were you staring at my sister’s butt.”

  He shrugged. “Yeah.”

  She popped open the stairwell door but paused there, eyeing him playfully. “And?”

  “And what?”

  “What did you think? Of my sister’s butt, I mean.”

  Johnny felt his face burning hot again. But he wasn’t going to lie. “It was… nice.”

  Freddie tilted her head and crossed her arms over her chest, looking suddenly combative. “Only nice?”

  Johnny didn’t know what she wanted, but as usual, he stuck to the truth. “Honestly? Super nice.”

  “Perfect?”

  Remembering Lennie’s toned legs and firm-looking ass, he nodded. “Yes. If you really want to know the truth, your sister has a perfect ass and perfect legs, too.”

  “Good answer,” Freddie said with a smile and slipped into the stairwell. “Since Lennie and I are twins.”

  Chapter 31

  The next few weeks flew by.

  Johnny and Freddie stuck to their routine.

  Every morning they rose at quarter to four and ran. They ran faster and farther and worked in more sprints.

  Johnny felt stronger than ever. Johnny’s endurance still lagged, but it was improving. His soreness was gone, replaced by a thrumming vitality that had to be his increased juice.

  Each morning they sipped cult coffee as they played chess. It was hilarious, watching Freddie choke down the cup of black coffee. She made a real show of it, wincing and sticking out her tongue and asking him over and over again in strangled whispers, “How can you drink this shit?”

  He just laughed.

  As the following week progressed—they were in the month of June now, Johnny had learned—he went on a tear, beating Freddie several chess games in a row. Then she battled back, winning a few with uncharacteristically aggressive play. Since then, they’d gone back and forth, winning, losing, and drawing, Johnny holding only the slightest of leads in their overall win-loss tally.

  Meditation grew more and more intense. With Freddie’s help, Johnny learned to tap quickly into his grid, and he spent their sessions zooming along its microscopic avenues and back alleys, unjamming blockages and improving juice flow throughout his body.

  For breakfast they hit El Gallo Gordo. Johnny tried a few of the truck’s other tacos, and they were all great, but he always came back to the bacon and brisket breakfast taco. Once you find perfection, why meander through merely delicious alternatives?

  Then they would split up for work, Freddie going off to the pool and Johnny heading to the diner to wash dishes.

  He got along well with everyone there. Lou stopped frequently to ask questions about the gym and came to full life whenever Johnny explained what he was up to.

  “Have you been getting in the ring?” Lou asked nearly every day.

  And Johnny would shake his head. “Marvella won’t let me spar. Not yet.”

  “A cautious woman, Marvella. Fierce in the ring, fearless, but as a trainer? She’s cautious as a new mother. A good thing for you, Johnny. A very good thing. Trust her.”

  Johnny did trust Marvella. But he wished the wolfwoman would let him get in the ring. All of this running and rope jumping and punching bags and mitts was fun enough, but he wanted to get back in there and do some real sparring. To hit and get hit.

  Especially with Jobbo. Though, truth be told, the fire Johnny had once tended toward the overweight journeyman had mostly dwindled.

  He would still avenge the beating he’d taken that first night. That eventuality was carved in stone. But the accompanying emotion had largely faded.

  Jobbo wasn’t evil. He was more like a force of nature. The guy liked to fi
ght and eat. Period. He was always looking for fresh meat.

  Johnny would get him back eventually. That would be satisfying. But in the meantime, he could pound fists with the guy and laugh when the heat got to Jobbo and the bearman started singing opera in his winter coat and cap, shadowboxing in the corner with five-pound dumbbells in his fists.

  Johnny’s body was changing. And not just down in his grid. Every time he lifted a rack of steaming dishes at work, he felt new muscle flexing in his forearms and across his back. Every time he jogged up the stairs of the Oasis, he felt new energy bursting in his legs.

  His muscles were growing stronger and leaner. What little fat he’d had was melting away. By late June, he weighed 181 pounds, and Freddie said she was certain Marvella would start him off at light heavyweight, the 175-pound weight class.

  A few weeks out from her final novice fight, Freddie’s own weight was already on point. She was hovering half a pound over the 125-pound limit, which meant she wouldn’t need to deplete her strength or endurance losing a bunch of weight before the fight.

  She, too, was feeling stronger than ever, and she was kicking a lot of ass sparring.

  Johnny watched every minute of every round she sparred. For the first few days, he watched while hitting bags, doing sit-ups, or whatever else Marvella told him to do.

  But then one day when Freddie was going to spar a pro visiting from Deer Park, Marvella handed Johnny the spit bucket and told him to help her corner the session.

  Freddie held her own against the pro, who fought in a similar style, relying on footwork and quick hands to control the action.

  Freddie didn’t beat the woman, didn’t even win a single round, but she blocked most of her opponent’s shots and landed a few of her own, and throughout the sparring match, Marvella kept telling Johnny how well Freddie was doing.

  “She looks good, really good. Girl is ready. This other girl’s no joke.”

  But between rounds, as Johnny popped out Freddie’s mouthpiece and squirted water in her mouth and held the bucket for her to spit into, Marvella merely pointed out what Freddie was doing wrong or could be doing differently.

  At the end, despite the glowing praise she offered while Freddie jabbed and ducked and feinted, Marvella simply said, “Not bad. You gotta work on that double jab. You gotta really bring that second punch. Make it count or don’t throw it at all.”