by Anielka, Ina
Sara returned from lunch, and feeling somehow even more tired, she sat in front of her computer and sipped her coffee. She had precisely nothing to show for the day’s work, and at her current pace nothing would get done. She was fine with it all. It was then that she heard a knock on the wall of her cubicle. She turned. There was Ethan.
He looked tired. A little worse than he had been on Wednesday. He smiled at her
“Hey stranger.”
She didn’t return his smile and it quickly disappeared from his face.
“Is everything alright?” He asked, his concern genuine.
“Is this about Emily? Did she contact you?”
Sara looked at him, surging all of her limited fortitude into constructing a disinterested and uncaring demeanor.
“Yea. She told me everything. You’re a bastard.” Sara caught herself being louder than she had wanted to be. Everyone in the office could likely hear her.
“This just isn’t working out. I think you need to leave.” Sara seethed quietly at Ethan.
Ethan, caught off guard, reacted slowly, stammering. “Whatever she said is a lie! She’s crazy!” Even Ethan had to admit, he sounded unconvincing. He was too tired to rally the energy for a better display.
Ethan looked at her; struggling between speaking up and the risk of making a commotion at work. The last thing he needed was to look like he was harassing employees. Ethan stared at Sara for a few moments longer, Sara glared at him with her best steely gaze. Ethan turned and left.
* * *
The sound of leather hitting leather echoed in the otherwise empty gym. The normal class had since let out for the night, only Ethan and Joe remained. Joe held punching mitts as Ethan’s glove-clad fists hit them again and again in a strange, staccato rhythm. Ethan’s breathing was heavy and labored. Sweat dripped from every extremity. Ethan’s shirt was soaked. His focus was absolute. His eyes locked on Joe, and then the mitts, as Joe called out punches to be thrown.
For Ethan, his concentration was perfect. Performing correctly demanded absolute unwavering focus in the moment. As long as Joe held up the mitts, Ethan’s mind couldn’t think of anything else. The dexterity and speed that MMA training demanded made wandering thoughts impossible. For Ethan, training like this was the most relaxing part of his entire day. Especially on a day like today. This was really the first time since being treated so dismissively by Sara that he felt something like normal. But before long, the timer chimed, bringing the workout to a close, and Ethan back to a harsh reality.
The pair sat, exhausted on the floor in the corner of the mat as Ethan began to undo his gloves. Joe turned to him.
“How are you feeling, man?” He asked
“I’m feeling good. Feeling ready.”
“That doesn’t sound convincing.”
Joe is damn perceptive for his own good.
Ethan looked at Joe, “Sara’s pissed at me for something. I think Emily might have tracked her down and put some crazy idea in her head.”
Joe looked at Ethan with sincerity. “You want my advice?”
Ethan knew Joe was going to give it in any case. He stared blankly at Joe. The younger man continued,
“You have bigger fish to fry than some girl you’ve been seeing for a few weeks. She isn’t going anywhere, and what’s done is done. You need to put that shit on the back burner, and focus on this fight. Once you wrap this up, then sort out Sara and Emily.”
Ethan nodded. Joe’s logic made sense. It had been a common story throughout his adult life. Fighting was far more a fixture than any woman had been. And with the biggest fight of his life only a week away, Ethan’s energy needed to be focused on his fight, not on some girl and her drama. These kind of outside the ring distractions wreaked havoc on a fighters’ careers. And it only took a single loss to derail a young career like his.
“You know, Joe,” Ethan said with a smile, “That might be the best advice you’ve ever given me.”
Joe smiled back, “Even a broken clock is right twice a day.”
Feeling as good as he had all day, Ethan left the gym, and drove back home.
* * *
Sara, now alone in her apartment watching TV, was as clear-headed as she had been all day. The redhead had felt downright oppressed at work, the anxiety of being in the same building as Ethan was disquieting. She was more than looking forward to the weekend—two days without work, and without drama from Ethan. Sara, with little else to do, went to bed early, and slept fitfully at best.
She awoke earlier than she expected to, feeling strange. Sara flung open the curtains; oddly comforted by the piercing early morning light illuminating her apartment. She made herself breakfast and ate it in silence. Sara, having finished breakfast, began to clean her apartment. She vacuumed, scrubbed the floors, and cleaned the tub and bathroom. She even washed her sheets and clothes. By mid-afternoon Sara had cleared her entire apartment more thoroughly than she had since she had first signed the lease years ago. Still feeling herself in a daze, Sara wandered to her car.
She climbed into the driver’s seat and took off. She made her way to the highway, and took the onramp going south. She wasn’t sure where she was going, but something compelled her to drive. She watched the city fall away, giving way to endless fields lying fallow in the winter. Sara wasn’t sure what she was looking for. She eventually found a rest stop. She stopped there, got gas and dinner. Sara watched the cars pass on the highway as the sun began to set. Everything felt transient. She finished her food and rose. She went the bathroom, but couldn’t quite bring herself to look in mirror. Sara drove back home as the sun slipped beneath the horizon, its rays still illuminated the clouds in purple and red hues.
Ethan spent the weekend rotating between his bed, the couch in front of the TV, and reading. He did everything he could to keep the stimulation coming. He was an old hand at being hungry, and he knew that constant distraction was his friend. Ethan’s constant companion was his giant water jug. The large, one-gallon plastic container was his friend in the last week of weight cuts. It followed him and sloshed around as he took swigs from it like drunk moonshiner. His hunger kept any thoughts of Sara or Emily or the drama they seemed to bring at bay. Serious hunger had a way of focusing the brain on priorities. By Sunday Ethan’s body was no longer aching with soreness. The two days of true complete rest left him feeling better than he had in weeks. By the time Monday came around, he actually felt good, despite the intense hunger from the dieting.
Ethan awoke and made his way to the shower, downing a few swigs from his jug that rested next to his nightstand as he entered the bathroom. He looked lean as ever, but somewhat less tired. He thought so anyway.
Ethan drove in to work and entered the building. Against his better judgment, he made his way to Sara’s cubicle. He turned the corner and was shocked to see it empty.
Ethan turned to the adjacent cubicle. “Did Sara get transferred?”
The older woman turned to Ethan, “No, she came in early and said she was taking her remaining vacation days, and that would be her two weeks’ notice. She quit.”
Ethan was shocked. He simply stared at her.
“Were you guys sleeping together?” The woman asked invasively.
Ethan pretended not to hear her. He turned and left, moving toward his office, all of a sudden feeling exhausted. He went to his cubicle and tried to throw himself into his work, but he found his mind flooded with questions. Why had she quit? Did I have something to do with it? Did something else happen to her? I hope she’s alright.
* * *
That evening, Ethan found himself bored at home, flipping through channels when the door slammed. Joe walked in.
“How was sitting on your ass, slacker?” He chided.
Joe sauntered to his room, and Ethan heard the shower run as Joe washed after practice. Joe emerged dressed and began to make food in the kitchen. He yelled over to Ethan.
“How’s your weight?”
“Good.” Ethan responded apat
hetically.
“Guess who quit at work today?”
“Who?”
“Sara.”
“No shit! She up and left? Did she say why?”
“No,” Ethan said, speculating, “I don’t know. Maybe it was me, maybe she had some personal thing going on that made her fight with me, and bail on the job. I don’t know.”
Joe seemed to regard Ethan thoughtfully. Ethan continued.
“She was better than Emily.”
“I know, man. I liked her more than that bitch. Is she still texting you?”
“I haven’t gotten anything from Emily since Friday. Maybe she’s stopped.”
She’ll be at the fight though, Joe thought to himself, I bet they both will be. That won’t end well.
But Joe reasoned that Ethan didn’t need to be troubled with any of it. He had the biggest fight of his career coming up, and he needed to be focused, 100% on it. No distractions. And as Ethan’s friend, Joe wanted to make sure that stayed true.
* * *
The week wore on and Ethan soon found himself consumed with the fervor of the upcoming fight. A few national websites and podcasts wanted him for interviews, and so for the first time in his life, Ethan felt like a quasi-celebrity. Still, when under the burden of a weight cut, the obligations quickly grew exhausting. Often, he found his mind wandering off, wondering where Sara had vanished to. What had made her up and quit. But she was a big girl, mature in her decision making. She was fine, where ever she was.
In a blur, the week passed. Ethan took Friday off for the weigh-ins. He had a brutal final workout, where he sweated out the last of the water before he stepped on the scale. After sweating out what felt like gallons of water, Ethan dried off and made his way to the site of the weigh in.
The weigh-in happened in two parts. One was an official affair run by the state’s athletic commission. It was strangely anti climatic. The dozen or so fighters on the card all gathered, and one-by-one stepped on the scale. Ethan saw in the corner of the small room was his opponent: LC Roberts. The man’s face looked older than Ethan remembered it, though Ethan had watched him fight on TV several years prior, and the TV always had a way of hiding age.
Roberts was wearing a baggy hoodie and sweatpants. Ethan was curious to size of his physique. Sometimes you could infer how well a fighter was prepared based on how he looked. Roberts, in his own interviews, and trumpeted a number of changes to his own training regimen. Ethan and his coaches were curious to see if it was true.
The commission called Ethan’s name, and he rose to the scale. After stripped down to his underwear, he unceremoniously stepped on. He had done this a dozen times before. He made weight with no issue. Thirsty, he sat and began to sip water gently. He watched as Roberts’ name was called. Ethan’s opponent stepped to scale and stripped Ethan was surprised, Roberts looked good, his body rippled with thick, hard muscle. Roberts had more muscle mass than he ever had in any of his prior fights. Clearly, this new training had paid dividends. Ethan wasn’t sure how to react. His coach whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry, he looks like he didn’t cut that much weight.”
Somehow Ethan didn’t believe it.
* * *
Ethan always found seeing his opponent to be an anxiety-filled experience. Somehow it made everything more real. He had difficulty sleeping that night. He tossed and turned. When he finally found sleep he dreamed he was looking for Sara in the gym. He kept walking in circles calling her name. He got the vague sense she was there, but for some reason he was looking wrong, and couldn’t quite get himself to her. He awoke early, can couldn’t get back to bed.
As fight day, arrive, Ethan found himself feeling better, the comfort of routine helped the anxiety. He ate a simple meal of healthy food, and hydrated as much as he could. He watched TV. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on the fight this close to fight day. He would cross that bridge as the fight drew closer. Joe stayed close by. They watched by Sci-Fi movies and complained about the bad acting.
Before long, it was 5:00 and Ethan had to make his way to the arena. Once he got in the car, it was like someone flipped a switch, the nerves began to fire. He felt the adrenaline start to gradually enter his system. His brain knew that as the final fight, he was hours away from entering the cage, but none of that mattered to his instincts.
As soon as he entered the arena’s backstage area, he was grabbed by the promoter. The promoter, ever the politician, greeted him with a smile and handshake. He brought Ethan back to a small room in the back of the arena. It had been refitted as a pre-fight exam room. Waiting for him was a doctor dressed in khakis and a polo with “state athletic commission” emblazoned on the chest. Ethan shook his hand and the doctor administered an examination that was so cursory it was almost comical, given that in a few hours, he would be fighting another trained opponent inside a cage.
There was one hitch, somewhat unusual for Ethan. He was asked to give a urine sample. Allegations of steroid abuse were rampant, but Ethan always fought clean. He doubted he could even afford steroids if he wanted them. After some discomfort, he provided a sample and went back to the locker room. Now it was all about waiting.
The ‘locker room’ wasn’t really that at all. It was a conference room, cleaned out of its tables and chairs. In every corner fighters were in various stages of preparation. The later card fighters were lounging in sweats, resting on the floor listening to music. The fighters closer to their respective fights were wrapping their hands and donning their gloves or even warming up. And Ethan watched slowly as one by one the men warmed up, then walked out of the room and onto the main arena floor.
Some fighters returned joyous and victorious. Others came back despondent from defeat. Some were bloodied and battered from long, grueling contests. Others had little damage. Once could hardly tell that had been in a fight, save for their glistening coat of sweat.
Ethan was soon jostled by his coach. He pulled out his own earbuds and began to warm up. His nerves felt more and more frayed as the adrenaline slowly built in his bloodstream. Ethan tried to focus on the mechanics of the warm up; the punches and kicks against the mitts his trainer held. He tried to ignore the rising anxiety caused by the tiny voice in the back of his head that reminded him this was the biggest fight of his life, against the toughest opponent he ever faced.
Ethan felt off rhythm. His punches against the mitts felt awkward and lethargic. Minute by minute he threw his fists against the pads. He knew he had to push through the tightness, the slowness that seemed to inhabit his limbs. As he worked up a sweat, he ‘burned off’ the adrenaline, leaving him more ready for the fight. Gradually, Ethan felt droplets start to form on his brow. His concentration on the pads became more intense. His breathing and heart rate increased. Ethan entered the place of quiet concentration, where everything seemed to melt away but the pads, and his trainer. Ethan blinked the sweat from his eyes as he hits the pads. His fists moved with their normal ease and purpose. Everything felt right, like a car finally shifted into gear.
“Okay, take a rest, E. You’re gonna be up in 10.” Ethan’s coach told him.
Ethan laid down on the floor. Most of the other fighters had left the room. Ethan was closed his eyes and felt his heart settle. His breathing slowed. He just had to focus on doing his job now.
A few short minutes later, his trainer spoke up. “On your feet, Ethan. It’s show time.”
* * *
Sara had purchased a ticket at the gate. While far from the cheapest option, it did allow her to avoid interacting with Ethan or any of his friends. Things were still too raw for anything face-to-face like that. But she was here.
Somehow, after all the effort, drama, and build-up, Sara wanted to see what sort of outcome Ethan’s training would yield. And so, after an afternoon working herself up to it, she willed herself to drive to the arena, and buy a ticket. She didn’t have a ton of money, but her savings were substantial enough that a few bucks on a ticket wouldn’t kill her.
Sara bought her ticket from a vendor at a table. She couldn’t help but compare it to entering a county fair. And, looking around at the other patrons, she saw they were likely drawing from the same crowd. Maybe a third were young, tattoo-covered men with bulging muscles. They were either self-styled ‘fighters’ or were just guys that believed that being close to this sort of sport somehow made them more masculine in the process. For hyper-masculine men, Sara couldn’t help but notice their T-shirts appeared intricate and expensive. The women, what few there were, looked as one would expect to see with men desperate to move their masculinity. Yoga pants, pieced bellybuttons, midriffs and what looked like cosmetic surgery abounded. Sara with her understated dress and a midriff that was best kept covered, actually looked the part of an outsider.
She put her head down and made her way to the area floor. She passed the vendors selling hotdogs, and the long line selling overpriced, terrible beer. Sara made it to the main floor. She found herself a seat in a darkened corner and sat down. The fights had already started. It was early in the card, and two ‘heavyweights’ of questionable fitness were swinging wild haymakers at one another with almost comical abandon. In the row in front, an obnoxious, middle aged man—clearly already drunk—was yelling at them for “More Elbows!” even Sara knew at their level of the sport elbows weren’t even allowed. She settled in for a long night of listening to drunken idiots.
The card ebbed on. The fights proved intellectually interesting, if not entertaining. Some were comic mismatches. One fighter clearly well trained and ready, the other dangerously ill prepared. These Sara suspected were tune up fights, to get the skilled fighter acclimated to the sights, sounds, and sensations of the cage, without the actual risk of fighting someone who could actually beat them.