Punching Paradise (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  “Don’t dance with me,” Rollo says.

  He throws another right and Neck slips it, counters with a jab-cross connecting with Rollo’s chin, snapping his head back, sweat flying off. Rollo lowers his gaze and smiles at Neck.

  “That’s my boy.” Raising his fists, he steps toward Neck and unleashes two heavy jabs as he closes the space between them.

  Rollo lashes out with a pair of rights. The second one catches Neck on the cheek, tosses his head to the side. He advances for another shot and Neck slips back, lets the big man hang his jaw out.

  Neck sees a giant target on it, the skin throbbing and begging to be tenderized, but Neck only doles out a weak jab that glances off Rollo’s shoulder before swishing through the air behind his head. Rollo pulls his hands back in and grits his teeth.

  “Do not do this, Neck.” He sends a probing shot toward Neck’s head, slow enough Neck can slip it, but enough to send a message. “Be a man. Fight.”

  When Rollo attacks with a sweeping left hook this time, Neck dodges back, lets the fist slice the air before him, then sets in with a three-hit combo to Rollo’s gut.

  The big man hunkers down, trying to catch his breath, and Neck drops two more on his face. Rollo stumbles back into the crowd, who scream the way a bull does when pierced by a matador’s lance. A surge of humanity throws Rollo back into the ring. He shakes his head to clear the static, then smiles and sets into his friend again.

  They exchange punches for another minute, Neck tagging Rollo twice more on the chin hard enough to scramble his thoughts for a moment, Rollo landing his knuckles on Neckbone’s solar plexus with a shot that vibrates down through Neck’s gut.

  Rollo misjudges a cross and leaves himself open, but when Neckbone attacks with a long arcing hook, Rollo tags him with three hard shots to the ribs, just above the kidney.

  Neckbone swings a wild haymaker at Rollo, trying to get some space to push his organs back into their proper place, but misses terribly and Rollo puts him down with one cross to the chin.

  Red yells time and Rollo retreats without issue. Neckbone props himself up on hands and knees, forcing his lungs to expand, squinting his eyes as he tries to bring his head into focus. He can hear Gus’ voice behind him, but swats away the wrinkled hand, lets his chest rise and fall twice more then stands under his own power.

  Raising his hands up over his head, Neck feels a hundred hot needles stab the skin on his right side. He forces himself to breathe, to keep his eyes open and face stoic, to not give away anything.

  When he turns to the opposite corner, he sees Rollo giving the dead-man stare as well. Rollo’s right eyebrow is swollen halfway over his eye, a bruise rapidly blooming under on his left cheek. The man’s chest rises and falls a little faster than normal, but for such a mass of muscle, he’s in surprisingly good shape.

  Neck can’t figure out why this is such a surprise to him, given they train together four days a week. Lowering himself onto a broken milk crate, looking across the bloody sawdust floor while surrounded by men who crave seeing two friends dismantle each other as bad as they crave their alcohol, he can’t blink away the cognitive dissonance of seeing Rollo in this way.

  He can see Rollo with a few less splotches, a brow less ridged by scar tissue, his tattoos a little brighter, protecting him from two groups of inmate gangs, each side trying to claim Neckbone as their own. He remembers Rollo’s veins standing out like rope wrapped around a piling, fists swinging to make inmate teeth arc through the air.

  He sees Rollo standing next to Ally in their kitchen, showing her the right way to beat eggs so they make a fluffy omelet, that it’s all in the way the wrist flicks and traps in air. He imagines Ally sitting in the theatre chair with a clipboard, Neck and Henry and Rollo sitting a few rows behind her so they won’t disturb her as she calls out to the actors, relaying her vision.

  Gus slaps Neckbone on the cheek. Neck feels it splash through his skull.

  “You got a concussion?” He pulls down Neck’s eyelids and examines his pupils. “You sick?”

  “No,” Neck says. He watches Rollo stand and toss his head side to side, shadowbox a few times to loosen his joints as he makes his way to the middle of the ring. “You got any advice, Gus?”

  The old man stares into Neckbone’s eyes for a long few seconds then glances over his shoulder, not looking at anything so much as not looking at Neck.

  “No, son. I don’t.”

  ROUND SEVENTEEN

  The two men circle each other in the ring, fists held tight before their faces, thin rivulets of blood trickling down their temples. Neckbone has a strange sensation, wishing he could look into the crowd and find Ally and Henry watching him, cheering and clapping their hands and yelling for him to finish the fight, but he know that’s not the way it is.

  He sends out a short jab, landing on Rollo’s fists. He lets three more go, drawing Rollo’s hands to the left, then pops him in the mouth with a quick right. Rollo charges him, laying into his torso with a flurry of crosses and uppercuts. Neckbone tries to cover up, get his elbows together to protect his organs, but Rollo’s fists are too fast and slip through Neckbone’s defenses before he can react.

  Neckbone gambles and takes a giant step back. Rollo lunges forward, now off-balance as his prop has been taken away. His left leg stretches out, arms falling akimbo to keep himself upright and Neck seizes the chance.

  He lashes out with a wicked right to the gut that makes Rollo wobble, then follows with a cross-cross-left hook-uppercut sending Rollo to the ground. Neck starts to hold out his hand then pulls back, fighting back the familiarity of sparring civility.

  He stands there, watching Rollo compose himself, then the lights flash before him and the back of his skull slams against the concrete floor. White dots float before his eyes. He rolls to his side, trying to assess the situation, and sees Rollo pushing himself up, a long arc in the sawdust just before his foot.

  He tripped me, Neckbone thinks. His anger is sharp and fast..

  Neck stands and gets in close to Rollo, keeping his hands up.

  “I don’t want to go back in, but I won’t take no mercy shots,” Rollo says. “You fight me like a man and we’re still friends. You try some of that pansy crap and I’ll beat you till you see black.”

  Neckbone flexes his fingers. Someone in the crowd throws a drink that smacks against the side of Rollo’s head, the beer’s foam covering Rollo’s bald scalp, and Neck swings.

  He sinks his fist into Rollo’s cheek, presses his left into the soft spot above Rollo’s kidney. He throws a right that rattles Rollo’s teeth, a punch so hard it carries Neck forward a step.

  Blood pours from Rollo’s split lip, but he sees Neckbone extended and swoops in with an uppercut to Neck’s chest.

  Neck contorts upward, swinging back with a wild elbow, clipping Rollo’s ear, but doing nothing to stop the two lefts that land on his ribs. The pain is visual, an explosion of jagged color covering the basement of Paradise City. He swings his head around, trying to orient himself and feels knuckles press against his forehead then cold cement and dry sawdust.

  For a moment, he’s lying on his cot in prison, staring at the underside of Rollo’s top bunk, letting his eyes pass over the swell of metal beneath the bulk above him. He wonders if the linked steel would make a good armature for a large sculpture, if it could support much weight, then realizes if it’s keeping Rollo aloft it must be strong enough.

  Numbers echo through his ears. He blinks twice and sees Red Fabian standing above him, yelling, “Five, six, you going to get up or just sleep a spell? seven.”

  Neck rolls to his side, working his way to standing. Rollo’s face is blank, but Neck can see something behind the façade, some kind of fear in Rollo’s eyes. He wonders if it’s fear of going back inside or fear of breaking his friend.

  And all of this, for what? So Stokes can exploit his people, and Beigler has some entertainment for the evening. Neckbone wants to peel the tape from his hands and drop it in the
middle of the sawdust then buy his friend a beer – but then Henry’s hands would pay the price ... then Ally’s play would languish and all her evenings of hard work would blow away like the sawdust coverings the floor.

  If life was fair, Neckbone thinks, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

  Neckbone takes a deep breath and advances toward Rollo, fists up and ready to swing. Rollo tucks in his elbows, ducks his head down. Whatever had been in his eyes has disappeared, or been hidden, the way a shark rolls down its second protective-eye during a feeding frenzy. They meet in the middle of the ring and appraise each other.

  Red Fabian calls time.

  ROUND EIGHTEEN

  The ref calls fight. Fists swing and tenderize flesh. Blood and sweat flow.

  In the fourth round, Rollo splits Neck’s lip, a cascade of red down his chin that flicks and splatters with every movement. The counterpunch misses and Rollo opens Neck’s eyebrow.

  Red tries to separate the men and staunch the bleeding, but catches an errant right from Neckbone. He hits the ground and scuttles to the edge of the ring, wiping away the smear on his face.

  In the sixth round, Neck catches Rollo off-guard and mashes his knuckles into Rollo’s temples. The tower of muscle and flesh wobbles, his hands floating somewhere near his stomach, his torso only marginally guarded and head completely vulnerable. Neckbone steps forward, his fists clenched and able to end the fight.

  With one punch, he can ensure the safety of Henry’s hands. With one punch, he can fund Ally’s future. With one punch, he can knock Rollo unconscious and end this fight before anyone gets permanently hurt.

  Neckbone cocks back and slams his fist into Rollo’s shoulder, spinning the man around. Rollo lands against the crowd of people, enraged at being denied a killing blow, and they push him back into the ring. His hand lashes out, more out of an attempt to keep balance than destroy, but he catches Neck on the eyebrow, sending blood curtains over his vision.

  Red Fabian calls time, calls fight, calls time. Blood pours and pours. Between the eleventh and twelfth round, Red yokes one of the crowd into service, helping him clean the cups from the ring’s floor and spread more sawdust.

  Neckbone leans back against Gus’ legs, conserving whatever energy he has left. His lap is wet with the ice water Gus dumped to roust him. Across the ring, Rollo fairs about the same. With no Avitene or adrenaline, the cutmen have only bandages and Vaseline, Superglue, and duct tape to keep their fighters together.

  “Gus,” Neck says. “How was your anniversary?”

  The old man leans forward, raises an eyebrow. “I had veal, she had steak. We split a bottle. It was nice.”

  “Good,” he says. “That’s good to hear.”

  “You sure you ain’t concussed?”

  “Just hoping you might shed some light on me.”

  Gus slaps and kneads Neck’s shoulders to work the lactic acid out of muscle. “Might want to ask my wife. She’s the one put up with me for all these years, though I think she’d say if there’s something you care about, or someone, you do whatever you have to do for them.”

  Neckbone looks up at him. “So which one am I fighting for?”

  Gus keeps his eyes out across the ring, refusing to look at Neck. “Might be, you’re not the one who’s fighting.”

  Tilting down his head, he catches a glimpse of Rollo, duct tape holding a wad of bandage to the side of his head.

  “Why didn’t you tell me that half an hour ago?”

  Gus smiles. “Didn’t know it then.”

  Red motions for the men.

  “You’re a good corner, Gus.” Neckbone stands and claps his hand on Gus’ shoulder, then meets Rollo.

  Both men waver on their feet as if there’s a stiff breeze tearing through ring. Neckbone’s skull throbs against his skin, and he half worries it will soon burst through and spill over the floor.

  Red calls fight.

  The men circle each other again, moving at what looks like half-speed, though neither pug can force himself to move much faster. Rollo slaps his fist against Neck’s chest a couple times. Neck tries to return the shots with real muscle, but Rollo leans forward and grapples him. They shift around, spinning in slow-dance circles.

  “Stop moving so fast,” Rollo says. “I’m just trying to stand.”

  “I thought you were moving,” Neckbone says.

  “That’s cause you never know if you’re coming or going.”

  “You just,” Neck says, gasps and tries again. “You just never listen to what I’m saying.”

  Rollo tries to laugh, but it comes out as ragged breathing. He notches a small jab into Neck’s side to appease the crowd.

  “You can’t go back in,” Neckbone says. “Money ain’t this important.”

  “I can handle a couple years inside. You can’t handle a couple years with Stokes.” Rollo starts to push Neck up to look at him. “You got to think about Ally and knock my ass out.”

  “How am I supposed to look at Marnie after that?”

  “I’m going to push you back and swing. If you don’t knock me down I’m going to put your eye out.”

  “Rollo—” Neckbone starts to protest, but the big man has already shoved them apart, his fist reared back. Neck lunges forward, his falling body powering his ragged fist, which connects with Rollo’s chin. The two men stumble and fall into a pile on the floor. Red Fabian stands over them, calling out numbers. Neckbone tries to push, but his arms won’t move. He tries to roll, but just wants to lay and sleep. Beneath him, Rollo’s chest rises and fall. His eyes are closed. Neck calls his name, but he doesn’t move.

  By the time Red calls six, Neck has pushed himself to his knees, then rolls back onto the balls of his feet.

  “Rollo!” Neck’s voice is barely audible over the slurred screaming.

  Red calls seven. Neck slaps Rollo, but he still doesn’t move.

  “Get up!”

  Red calls eight.

  “Rollo! Get up!”

  Red calls nine.

  Rollo’s eyes flutter open. He mouths the word ten.

  Red yanks Neck’s arm above him, declaring him the winner. The crowd collapses on them, drunken construction workers and stevedores and delivery men crookedly hoisting Neckbone up on their shoulders.

  And though he knows his body is high up in the air, riding the crest of men, he has the distinct feeling he’s sinking.

  epilogue

  Neckbone shuffles down the hallway to his apartment. With a heavy gym bag slung over his shoulder, his body tilts to one side, making the ringing in his head shift with every step, a Doppler wave crashing into a pile of broken glass and embedding it in Neck’s skull.

  The light bulb beside their door continues to flicker, exacerbating the throbbing. He reaches up into the fake brass sconce to unscrew the light bulb. The weight of the bag shifts and his aching muscles have trouble holding him up, but he props himself up against the wall and pulls out the light bulb. When he shakes it he can hear the cheap filament rattle inside. He throws it down the hallway, smashing against the wall with a dull pop.

  Despite all the aches keeping him from moving properly, Neckbone feels vaguely self-satisfied. The bag on his shoulder will pay off some of Jeff’s debt, keep Henry safe, and give Ally two weeks to bring in as much of an audience as she can. Maybe she can get enough word out on the play it becomes self-sustaining.

  His bruises are worth that and more. However, he’ll also have to speak to Rollo through a visiting room telephone for the next two years and drop by Marnie’s house twice a month to make sure she’s getting by okay. No bruises are worth that, but there wasn’t much maneuvering either man could have done to avoid it.

  Like Stokes said when Neckbone first started fighting beneath Paradise City; if you want lighted dressing rooms and nurses to powder your shorts, go talk to a professional. If you want a challenge, to see how much of a fight you can handle, you fight in the dark.

  Neckbone had seen how much he could handle, though w
here the line between enough and too much lies, he still isn’t sure.

  Inside the door, he can hear the hushed sound of conversation, but can’t think of who Ally would be talking to. Niall’s in the hospital. Maybe his boyfriend? Maybe Marnie, come to seek vengeance on the man who put her husband, her protector, back into custody.

  He opens the door to find Ally and Henry drinking Cokes from glass bottles.

  “Where’d you get glass Cokes?” he says.

  “Oh, honey,” Ally says, standing and cupping Neckbone’s face in her hands. “Did you fight The Hulk?”

  “Why’re you here?” Neck says to Henry.

  The boy shrugs and mumbles something into his bottle. When Neck tells him to speak up, Henry almost shouts, “You told me not to forget where you lived.”

  “Come here and let me clean you up,” Ally says.

  “I’m fine,” Neck says. He nods at Henry. “What happened to your Dad? Thought he was teaching you the sweet science.”

  Henry cocks his head to consider Neckbone. “Don’t look like you learned much.”

  “He’s in jail,” Ally said.

  Neck feels cold at the thought that she knows he put Rollo away.

  “It’s three strikes,” Henry says.

  “It’s only two,” Neck says, suddenly defensive.

  Ally and Henry glance at each other, puzzled.

  “Trust me,” Henry says. “He’s been in twice before. Dumb fool got pulled in on a B and E last night and he’s staying in.”

  “Watch your mouth, Henry,” Ally says. Henry apologizes.

  Neckbone’s head tingles, the living room wavering like a heat from a desert highway. He lowers his broken body to the couch.