by Jack Tunney
“All right then.” He picks up his extra clothes for the gym and stands to leave. Stokes calls his name before he can open the door.
“You covering for the boy or Jeff?”
“I just don’t want that boy hurt.”
“What’s this all about?”
Neck can only shrug. “What’s anything about?” He steps out of the trailer and looks both ways for Henry, finding him a block down, chucking rocks at the transformer on a phone pole.
“You know what happens if you break that?”
Henry tosses another one. “We practice on the blue-light boxes. Nothing ever happens.”
“Those are just Big Brother. That transformer is actual electricity.”
Henry considers the rock in his hand, tosses it anyway. “How’d it go?”
“It went.” Neckbone waves with his extra clothes. “I need to get some hits in. Let’s move.”
The walk takes almost thirty minutes, long enough for Neckbone to apprise Henry of the situation, leaving out exact totals so he won’t worry too much. However, he’s likely seen enough at home to have a good idea of how much his father’s comings and goings cost. Still, Neck doesn’t see any reason to pile more on this kid than need be.
Halfway over, the boy complains he’s tired and asks Neck to sit on a stoop for a minute. “I’m hungry.”
“You just ate half my cereal. And we could’ve driven, if I could see out of my windshield.” He nudges Henry to keep moving.
“I told you I didn’t do that.”
“I didn’t say you did. Now walk.”
Though Neck isn’t keen to drop half his rent on an unrepentant gambler and possible dust-head, he sees it as only the honorable thing to do.
Come next week, though? Kid better improve his footwork.
ROUND FOUR
When Neckbone closes his eyes, he feels his hands detach from his arms as they thump the speed bag and become part of the rhythm of his reptilian brain. They spin in circles so fast they look slow, like watching helicopter blades. He relaxes the muscles behind his eyes, the muscles in his neck, lets his body slip below the surface, away from Clancy’s gym, and merge with the non-being, become the fwap-fwap-fwap echoing in his skull. The sound of knuckle on leather takes over and transports him.
The whole situation is his fault, really. If he hadn’t become so defensive of Ally – the line between overprotective and defensive being as malleable as the cartilage in a man’s nose – he wouldn’t have lost his temper. If he hadn’t lost his temper before, he wouldn’t have lost his construction outfit and wouldn’t have to haul away the bones of houses all day and then fight men all night. However, even if he had his own crew, he’d still fight by choice.
If he hadn’t defended Ally from the go, she might not have stayed around, even if she didn’t really need defending. If doing something was as effective as doing nothing, did complete passivity equate with compulsive activity? Did any of it matter anyway if he was just going to fight men he knew he could beat? Whether they know to fall or just couldn’t hang with him, Neck went down for nobody, and everybody knew it.
“Are you crying?” Henry says.
Neckbone’s hands trip up, the speed bag smacking his right and knocking it into his left, which kisses his cheekbone just beneath the eye. He stumbles back a step, blinks a few times.
“What?” Neck says.
“It looks like you’re crying.”
Neck wipes his hand across his cheeks and forehead. Both are wet. “It’s sweat. That’s what you do at the gym.”
“Or meditating. You look like you’re meditating.” Henry speaks at a normal volume, though he likely can’t hear his own voice because of the ear buds he’s wearing.
“Take those out of your ears. I can’t hear you.”
“I hear you fine,” Henry says.
“Take them out or I’ll drop you by Stokes’ office.”
Henry takes out the ear buds, spilling tinkling piano and Victrola hiss into the gym.
“What the hell are you listening to?”
“King of Harlem Stride?” Henry’s tone raises the hair on Neck’s arms. It’s the same one his college girlfriend Nancy used when he’d go to work. You’re going to the studio again? You won’t be home till when? “The all-time victor of the cutting contest?”
“I don’t understand a word you just said.”
“Fats Waller, man. Come on, get with it. You don’t know Dixieland? Ragtime?”
“What are you, ninety-years-old?” Neck shook his head. “I thought you kids were supposed to be all into gangster rap or whatever.”
Henry throws a fist at Neck and it slaps against his chest. “Now who sounds old? That was twenty years ago.”
“You really need to learn how to punch.” Neck cracks his fingers. “So you don’t hurt yourself.”
“You saying I hit like a girl?”
Neck bites back a laugh. “No, I had two sisters and they colored me black and blue. They would destroy you.”
“Whatever,” Henry says. He turns around and surveys the gym, as if he actually understood what was happening before him. Two middleweights spar in a taped-off square, metal trashcans in each corner acting as posts. Behind them flyweights lay on the floor, one sitting up then tossing a bag of flour to the other, who then sits up and tosses the bag back. They act in unison, like pieces on a glockenspiel. To their left, a wrinkled brown man with hair like cigarette ash moves in slow motion, displaying for a kid not much older than Henry the proper body mechanics of an uppercut.
Neck crouches beside Henry’s ear. “You see how Clancy’s arms move, how it’s all part of one system?”
“Sort of.”
“That’s how you swing. If you don’t know how to fight, you try to generate power with your shoulders, like this.” He moves Henry’s arm through a simple right cross. “I don’t care how ripped you are, nobody’s muscles are strong enough to make it through ten rounds that way. Not if you’re trying to do any damage at least.”
“So, what, you kick them?”
“Most pugs generate power from their hips. They twist into the punch, putting their body weight into it.” He points at Old Man Clancy. “But watch how he starts with his legs – the strongest muscles in the body – then uses them to power his hips, which swing your arms.”
“It’s like a food chain, the power of ten.”
Neckbone pauses for a minute then nods. “Close enough. Here watch this.”
Henry watches Neckbone lay a three-punch combo on the heavy bag. “I’ll do it a couple times. Watch my hands first, then waist, then feet.” With each combo, he can feel a little more of the stress leave his body. Three combos and the Stokes conversation never happened. Three more and there’s no turn-off notice from BGE. Three more and Nancy is no longer dead, Ally is kissing his cheek and telling him she’s okay.
“I don’t want to hurt my hands,” Henry says, pulling Neck from his momentary reverie.
He presses his hands into his waist. “That’s why I’m showing you how to do it. So you won’t break your wrists when you throw one of those half-ass punches at whoever’s trying to collect on your dad.”
Fists smack bags. Pugs grunt and yell. Clancy goads the young boy into opening up his fury. All the while, Henry stares at Neck.
“So,” Neckbone says. “You going to throw or what?”
Twenty minutes later, Henry’s shirt sports a half-moon of sweat. Neckbone braces the heavy bag, smacking spots for Henry to hit. It’s more for Henry’s benefit than actual protection because, by now, Henry’s punches couldn’t part hair. That’s not really the point, though, because Henry’s smile is beatific.
Neckbone unwraps Henry’s gloves and, figuring the kid doesn’t have the strength to do it himself, squirts some water in his mouth.
“Is that a boxing ritual or something? Squirting water?” Henry wipes the dribbles with the back of his hand.
“In sanctioned bouts, you can’t take your gloves off. I figured your
hands were hurting, though.”
Henry snatches the water bottle from Neckbone and takes a long drink, then squirts some at Neck. “I’m a piano man. My hands are strong.”
Neck raises his hands to his shoulders, deferring to the boy. “My mistake.”
“Who’s that?” He points at a black-and-white photo of a priest standing before a boxing ring, surrounded by a crowd of young boys, each of their hands taped the same way as Henry’s.
“That’s Father Tim.”
“Who that?”
“Clancy came up in Chicago, on the Southside. His mom wasn’t so motherly and eventually gave him up to an orphanage. Saint Vincent’s I think it was called. Anyway, he met Father Tim there. He was the one who taught all the boys to box.”
“He learned how to fight from a boxing priest?” Henry tries not to smile.
“You know how hard it is to fight off Catholic guilt as a parishioner? Imagine being a priest.” The look Henry gives leads Neck to believe the boy can’t sympathize with his residual Catholic guilt. “Long story short, Clancy came here, got in trouble, got out of trouble and started a gym to be like Father Tim. Though I don’t know if even Father Tim could help you to punch.”
Henry fakes a punch, but Neck doesn’t move.
“That boy’s going to give you a run, Neck.” Even across a crowded gym, Rollo’s voice is still dominant. “Better watch yourself.”
Neckbone just holds a hand behind his ear.
When the big man comes over, Neckbone says, “Henry, this is Rollo. He took care of me when I needed it, so now I shave his throat so his wife knows where his chest ends and face starts.”
“Obliged,” Rollo says to Henry. “You know your friend here was a regular on Seinfeld?”
“He can’t hear you,” Neck says. “He’s too busy listening to Fat Halls on his Walkman.”
Henry exhales hard. “It’s Fats Waller and an iPod.”
Rollo leans back. “You into Fats?”
Henry cocks his head. “Are you?”
“More of a Jelly Roll man, myself, mainly for his swagger,” Rollo says. “But Fats rules the cutting roost like no other man.”
Neck gestures at Henry. “You mean you understand what he’s talking about?”
“Nine years in prison gives you a lot of time to explore your interests,” Rollo says.
“How has this never come up in conversation before?”
“You never asked.” He shrugs then turns to Henry. “You should really talk to my cousin, though. He’s got Bird on vinyl and Billie Holiday broadsheets and all that. You could spend a week with that man and never hear the same song twice. I don’t understand half of what he’s talking about, but you might.”
Henry just stands there staring at the two pugs.
“Don’t look at me,” Neck says. “The Stones covered blues songs. I don’t know nothing about jazz.”
“Every once in a while, he’ll get drunk and play the piano,” Rollo says. “He’s pretty terrible, but they love heckling him. Makes them drink more, he thinks.”
“Your cousin has a piano bar?” Neck says.
“No, my cousin has a bar with a piano in it.”
Neck smacks Henry on the back. “Grab your stuff.”
ROUND FIVE
“Ain’t no way I’m paying a kid that much. The hell’s a ten-year-old going to spend two hundred a week on? Pop Rocks?”
Henry starts to speak up, but Neck steps in front of him. “He’ll be eighteen in two months, and he’ll be worth the investment. Trust me.”
Junior strokes his beard, staring at Neck like he’s some strange bird landed on his barstool. Shave his head and put a decade of jail on his face and him and Rollo could be twins. Uncanny, Neck thinks. Frightening, even. He imagines one of their grandparents must’ve been a walrus.
“Look at it like this,” Neck says. “You sell Bohs for what, two bucks? A case costs you twelve, so that’s thirty-six to you, per. Bring six extra people in a night, Henry gets them moving, you keep their thirst quenched, his fee’s covered. Six people ain’t nothing round here, and once their friends hear bodies are swaying and drinks are pouring, there’ll be more by the week. Plus, once you really get people going, they’ll kill four Nationals like water and your numbers go up from there. That doesn’t even take into account you selling them the uptown experience, get them some brown liquor with cherries and ice and they feel right out of the Roaring Twenties. Mark-up on bottles has to be two-three hundred percent, and you can spread it out because pouring heavy is just going to make them wobble faster.”
Henry and Junior can’t do much but stare at Neck.
“But that’s off the top of my head. I’d have to see your books to tell you real numbers.” He gestures around to the five people in the bar. “But anything will help, right?”
Junior sips from a sweating plastic cup, resumes the beard stroking. “Why would I hire him, though? Who has pianos anymore?”
“Exactly,” Henry says. Neck shoots him a look to quiet him.
“You wouldn’t have to play that old thing and get heckled either,” Neck drains the rest of his water. Junior gives a noncommittal grunt. “Did I mention he’s the next Jelly Fat Roll?”
Junior stops stroking and looks at the kid. “You know Fats and Jelly Roll?”
Henry cracks a broad smile. “Hell, I invented them.”
They both try to stifle a laugh, but it breaks through their composure, rolling so hard they bend over at the waist. Junior slaps his thighs. Neckbone refills his cup from the drink gun below the bar and looks around the place as if there’s something interesting to see. A couple old whiskey barrels standing on end. Two crab pots holding the peanuts whose shells litter the floor. A series of reclaimed mirrors hung behind the knotted wood bar. He thinks Junior saves more than two hundred a week by not doing a thing to the bar in terms of upkeep. Maybe that money goes into his record collection instead.
After minute they calm down, Junior slapping Henry on the shoulder a couple times. “You’re a good kid, even if you ain’t more than fifteen.”
“Jelly Roll Morton claimed he invented jazz,” Henry says to Neck. “That was the joke.”
“Right.” Neck taps his wrist, though he doesn’t even own a watch. “We good then?”
Junior levels one last look at Henry, at Neck, at Henry again, then extends a hand and says, “We good.”
“Great,” Neck says. “I’ve got to get going. We’ll see you tomorrow night.”
Neckbone and the kid leave the bar, Henry all but jumping as they start walking home.
“You better be good,” Neck says. “I won’t be made a fool.”
“Course I am, man. Didn’t I say that?”
“Just be it, hear?”
“Two hundred dollars! I never had two hundred in my life!” His voice echoes off the brick rowhomes.
“You’re not going to have it, either. You get paid, you give it to me, I give it to Stokes.”
“What?” Henry stops walking. “Why?”
“Because I can’t subsidize your old man’s gambling problems, and I can’t have your broken hands on my conscience.”
The kid still stands there.
“I’ve been working since I was thirteen too. Crap jobs my whole life. Get moving kid. I’ve got to bring Ally some food.”
“I’ll come.” Henry runs to catch up with Neck. “I mean, if you need someone to help. I can go with you.”
“Don’t get any ideas, Henry. She’s a little old for you.”
“Closer to my age than yours.”
Neckbone’s fingers curl into fists. He keeps walking, his longer legs giving him two steps ahead of the kid.
“Does it get any better?” Henry says.
“Does what?”
“You said you’ve been working since you were thirteen. Is it any better now?”
“You mean work or life?”
“Either.”
Neck pauses this time. “It isn’t any better or worse. It jus
t is.”
ROUND SIX
The smell of a bag filled with tacos makes Neck feel uncomfortably conspicuous as they enter the theatre. The lanky teenager with a dirty face and ripped jeans by his side doesn’t help, either. He eases the door closed as if that will alleviate some of the awkwardness.
It’s been over ten years since Neckbone set foot in a theatre. Back in college, he used to run around with some thespian girls. The art department was fairly incestuous, and his sculpture cohorts tended to hang with the theatre group because their parties were the most out of control.
Standing in this theatre, the scent of sawdust and pancake makeup and burnt coffee hanging in the air, Neck gets an old twitch in his fingers, his palms instinctually cupping to bring clay or porcelain up in a long, lean curve. The heat of the kiln room accenting the jasmine oil worn by Nancy, the girlfriend who OD’d less than a year after they split.
There had been rumors of an old boyfriend, one who rekindled the affinity for needles that had lain dormant while she was with Neck. Your fingers fill all the holes in my arms, she’d said in her typically melodramatic way. Your hands create me anew.
Intellectually, he knew it wasn’t his fault, that when no longer bound by rococo glaze and theatrical makeup it was only natural for a college romance to drift apart. But still there was something jagged that scraped at his chest, telling him he should’ve protected her more or he’d had his head too far up in the clouds as usual to notice her slipping away. That he should’ve cared more, or cared the right way, and regardless of how much her friends consoled him, absolved him, he couldn’t pull himself from the hole her death had created. The six months after her funeral passed in a bourbon-tinted blur, and when he blinked and cleared his eyes he found all his sculptures smashed, found his carpet and clothes covered in construction dirt.
Something jabs his ribs and he startles back and says, “I’m sorry,” right fist cocked. Henry has his hands up.
“She called you three times.” He points at the stage, where Ally waves with both hand like she’s directing plane traffic.