by Don Bajema
Except at his house, because his little brother wasn’t buying it. Whopper and his little brother had problems. They hated each other and I guess I was a part of it. We did things to him we shouldn’t have. He was only a year younger than Whopper but we treated him real bad. He brought it on himself because he demanded so much attention. So we used to beat him up all the time. Like one year on his birthday, we tried to set records for making him cry. We got him eleven or twelve times on his tenth birthday. And he was real hard to make cry, because he had a lot of pride and he was tough as hell. In a way, he was even tougher than Whopper. Everything we did was as far as it could go. We were masters of ridicule, and knew how to cover what hurt our feelings, and say things that would really hurt his. We didn’t want it to be that way but the meanness had a life of its own. Nobody could stop it.
Then Whopper decided he needed to bridge the gulf of trust between him and his little brother. The time had come to put hate behind them and form a team of brothers, a gang. All for one and all that. It sounded like a good idea since we were getting into too much shit with the old man over all the “roughhouse crap,” as he called it.
Whopper stopped fucking with his little brother, told him how sorry he was, that he was his brother and, as such, they had to trust each other. And what they needed was a ritual to restore that trust.
His brother told him, “Yeah? Well fuck you.”
This went on for days. Whopper telling him that it was the most important thing in the world for him to reestablish the trust that brothers need to become men. A couple of times Whopper nearly cried. He meant it, I could see that. It was always on Whopper’s mind; they just had to pass this test of trust together or they’d never become men.
Finally Whopper proposed the “ritual of trust” as he said it a million times all day long whenever he had the chance. Whopper wanted his brother to stand on the edge of the roof, with his eyes closed and his arms spread like an eagle, with Whopper standing behind him. After that they could trust each other and be true brothers . . . after the ritual of trust.
It took Whopper all summer to get him to listen. Around Halloween he got him to come up on the roof with him for just one minute, no blindfold, and Whopper on the far side of the roof. But his brother wouldn’t go back up there, saying that was enough ritual of fucking trust for him. It took working on him day and night during Christmas vacation to get him to finally do it. His little brother was beginning to believe. I would have, too. Whopper had been the perfect big brother since the fight at the bike racks.
It was the day before Christmas. There was Whopper, walking with his blindfolded brother. Whopper talking in a low quavering voice, speaking of the ecstasy of blind brotherly trust, right into the ear of his brother. He led him to the edge and told him he had to let go of his hand so that he could stand behind him. His little brother stood unafraid, free of the mistrust and hurt of the past. Ritual of trust. Solemn occasion of brothers turning into men.
They looked like angels up there, their faces in the blue sky. The winter sun glowing golden and pale behind them. I was amazed again at what Whopper had become. I knew I could rise too. I could become a man who could atone for my wrongs. I could stand up for the right things, all of that. A smile broke under the blindfold. Whopper’s face went cold and he pushed his brother off the roof.
His little brother didn’t believe it. He thought it was a cosmic trick. Or maybe he went into shock or was just dumbfounded, because he held his position like a diver. He did a head plant from a ten foot roof onto a cement stair. Everything slowed down. The blindfold jammed down to his little brother’s shoulders, his neck disappeared, and he looked like he stood on his head for a long time before he crumpled. I swear, the noise is what made the neighbors look out of their doors. The sound wasn’t like anything else I’d heard, a melon or something. I got scared, like we’d finally done it this time. Whopper was ecstatic. His arms spread like an eagle, his head cocked to one side, looking over the edge at his unconscious brother.
“Sucker.”
It was plain Whopper thought he had done something important. He didn’t feel the need to celebrate it with me. I don’t think Whopper thought there was anyone else there. It was his thing. His brother was a part of it but it was his. I got my voice and said:
“Shit Whopper, ya killed him.”
The little brother wheezed a deep breath and his eyes fluttered like mad.
“He’ll be OK. Don’t sweat.”
As weird as it sounds, Whopper looked kind again, more like an angel than ever.
“It’s the best thing I could have done for him.”
I started walking and it was like the street was asleep. People were looking out of their doors. The cop across the street was frozen on his lawn with his hands on his hips and his mouth open. Nobody moved, except Whopper, who was doing a little slow spin dance with his arms spread out and his face to the sky above.
I took the long way home through the canyon bottom, winding along the edges of trickling storm ditches, slipping along mossy stones, old underwear and wads of stringy paper. I can still see Whopper on the roof, turning in that circle.
After he got out of the hospital, the little brother wore a white turban on his head until after Lincoln’s Birthday. Talked like he’d been drinking for the rest of the year. Their mother never trusted Whopper again. She hardly spoke to him for a long time. Their big sister left that year for Texas. And then the years just passed like clouds and all of us lost touch.
Jimmy Johnson got killed in his second tour in Vietnam as gunner on a helicopter. Whopper got murdered in a bad drug deal. He brought his little brother along — they killed him too.
HEY KID, YER A BANGER
There’s a beautiful black tile doorway leading into the Sixth Avenue Gymnasium and Boxing Club in old town San Diego. Bookmakers, sportswriters, slumming socialites, sharks, punch-drunks, pimps, trainers, and fighters have been crossing its threshold since 1912. Sixty years ago, fighters coming up and going down fought just across the border in Rosarito Beach. The Hollywood elite spent summers below the border, gambling and lavishing purses heavier than anything a guy could squeeze out of the cutthroat promoters in the USA.
A bent old figure rose from the drinking fountain, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. His age suggested a crisp discolored leaf, or days when horses still rattled their carts down Sixth Avenue, when one war was won and the next three were yet to be fought.
The old man turned painfully and tottered around the outside of the ring, reeling over his collapsed hip.
Eddie looked down at his own skinny white legs swinging beneath him toward the heavy bag. He shuffled to his left, released a flurry of punches into the bag’s midsection and backed up. He took a lot of pride in his speed. He figured in a few more months he’d develop a punch to go with it, and then after a little more time with the old man, maybe he’d get in the ring and see what he could do. He sensed a change in the room. His hands dropped to his sides.
A young woman stood two steps in from the front door. In the bleachers, conspiratorial heads bent closer together, eyes fixed on her. She was tiny, a perfection of hips and curves, all the more appealing in miniature because of the power that emanated from her like a contradiction. Fighters began to hit harder, dance faster. In the gallery, forced laughter rang from one corner to another. Whispers grew into audible comments. If her body understood the craving around her, she seemed oblivious to it.
Her gaze searched the corner where Eddie stood. She took a place by herself in the bleachers. Eddie turned to the heavy bag, but dropped his hands again. Embarrassed, he pretended to need an answer from the old man. He crossed the room. She ignored him, fanning herself with a folded sports section. She crossed her legs and her skirt rode to the middle of her thigh.
The old man cleared his throat.
“Yeah, kid,
whatja want?”
“Oh, uh, I was wondering if. . . . ”
“. . . Maybe that girl in the stands is looking for a fighter?”
Eddie’s face grew hot.
“No . . . I uh, . . .”
“She’s got a fighter.”
“No . . . I wasn’t. . . . ”
Eddie lowered his voice.
“. . . thinking about the girl. . . .”
“Bullshit, kid. I can see right through you. Is that what you are? Bullshit?”
“Hey, c’mon.”
“I’m putting you in with Ray in twenty minutes.”
Eddie’s mouth opened and shut. He was not ready for Ray. He wasn’t ready for anyone, especially Ray.
“That’s what yer here for kid, am I right?”
Fear jumped jagged through his bones and spun in his stomach. He couldn’t reply. His heart thundered.
“Isn’t it? Kid?”
The old man yawned wide and turned to end the discussion, calling over his shoulder, “Twenty minutes, kid.”
Eddie made it to the heavy bag.
“Ray Starkey, you’re in with Eddie Burnett in twenty minutes.”
The old man’s voice boomed. The bleachers responded with a flurry of activity.
Ray Starkey’s voice echoed as he came out of the locker room.
“I had five rounds yesterday, Pops.”
“Yer getting five more today. Twenty minutes.”
“OK, Pops. Whatever you say.”
Eddie fought the urge to unwrap his hands, to take a little humiliation and leave. He tried to think up an excuse that would sound right when he’d have to explain. The room closed in.
He lost his heart. He began unwrapping his hands. He heard mumbling from the bleachers. He heard steps coming up behind him. The old man unwound the remaining twists, smoothed the wrinkled cotton and rewrapped.
“C’mon kid, just do what I taught ya.”
As Eddie began to plan a way to lose like a man, the thought hit him.
“I’m a coward. I’m too afraid to walk out of here, and too afraid to fight.”
The old man pulled the tape tight, breaking Eddie’s trance.
“I just want you to get a feel for it, see what it’s like. Starkey ain’t gonna kill ya, kid. You’ll be alright.”
Eddie could hear Starkey walking down the bleachers. He heard him begin to hit the bag. The thuds shuddered through the room.
“Just use your speed to stay out of his way. I just want him to get a little tired. Just don’t trade any punches with him for Christsake.” Eddie’s corner faced the bleachers.
Bell.
Everything was brighter, higher, quicker. Eddie and Ray started innocently. But after the first two exchanges, they went into another world. They stepped in. They stepped up. They slugged it out.
“Hey hey, kid.”
Eddie’s footwork was reduced from flying strides in workouts to a shift of one inch, enough to find room to return a shot under the elbows, into the ribs, on the side of the head on the way out, all the while holding ground and absorbing the thuds and jolts of pain. The intimacy horrified Eddie.
Bell.
“Hey, kid. What the hell ya doing in there?”
Eddie waited in the corner for the second round. No stool. Headgear isn’t right, gloves too clumsy to adjust it, too tight, too loose, something. When Ray connected, he might as well not have the thing on. He knew he didn’t get to Ray half as much as Ray got to him. He wanted to quit. That was impossible now. He wanted to puke. That might be possible.
Bell.
Ray rushed him and pounded him backwards. Six unanswered punches landing first on his face and then falling to his neck and arms as Eddie lost ground and headed back to the ropes.
“Easy, Ray. Easy.”
Eddie exploded into Ray, desperate to give him some back. A few men in the bleachers started yelling. Eddie connected, missed wild, and connected again deep into Ray’s ribs.
Someone yelled, “Upstairs!”
Eddie shot a hard jab into Ray’s nose and blood blew over Ray’s mouth. The gym groaned. Ray went into another gear.
“Ray! Ray! Hey!”
A tide of bloodlust washed from the outside into the ring. Eddie saw the ropes beside him. His elbows drew into his body. His face dug into his gloves. A hammer was denting the bones of his forearms, banging in a slow, controlled rhythm. Ray was measuring him. Ray was setting him up. Eddie was his heavy bag.
“Kid, get outta there!”
He felt Ray move to his left. Something hurt Eddie to the point of a kind of horror. From just above his left hip, a flash exploded into the middle of his chest. His breath exploded out his mouth. His left foot left the canvas, his body rose, his mouthpiece fell. His mouth empty. He had to get out. He could not take — Another flash exploded near to the impact of the first, but his feet swept the floor and turned. Something whistled past his ear. His stomach caved in over a hot busting blast that took what little air he had. He got his shoulders square to Ray and slid along the ropes. Ray took deep breaths, waiting. He let Eddie move to the center of the ring.
Eddie realized Ray thought Eddie beneath him. Someone to punish, someone to put away and to smirk, “Nice fight,” after the pats on his back were over. Eddie pulled Ray toward him, feigning collapse of nerve. Ray’s pursuing shots were weak taps. He believed Eddie would retreat to the corner again. But Eddie stopped two feet from the corner and caught Ray walking into him with a right. The thumb caught him over the lips. His knuckles spun the headgear and Ray’s head followed. Ray lost his balance. Eddie stood over him. A feeling similar to God standing Eddie on his feet. Ray was nearly down and Eddie knew he could hit him a lot harder if he could last long enough to see his chance. It was something joyful. A promise of what he needed from somewhere within that he never knew existed.
Eddie swung on instinct, the wrong hand. A left landed under Ray’s neck. Ray regained his balance. Then Eddie threw a punch that couldn’t really have happened. Ray took it on the hinge of his jaw. He dropped like a doll.
Bell.
The men in the bleachers looked at each other then shook their heads. They were still solid on Ray. Men leaned on hips digging wallets, jackets opened and money changed hands.
Voice yelling, “Ray all the way!”
“Oh! Fuck you! You want Eddie?”
“I’ll give you two to one! You like that kid?”
“Twenty bucks? Come on!”
“Ray’ll kill him.”
A second passed. Same voice, “Anybody. Three to one, Ray nails him in the next two rounds!”
Eddie sick and dizzy, looked at the straw hat above the seated bystanders. The man wearing it defying them to take his bet. A small crowd of heads met over the bag of a man in the stands. The straw hat reached down and everyone started to laugh. He threw a towel in Eddie’s corner. It bounced off the top rope and landed down on the floor.
Eddie nearly laughed himself. Everything stopped cold. Everything changed. Eddie knew it was a different world now. Those outside saw him but didn’t want to believe it. Wanted him to fade on himself, knowing it was the only chance they had to remain above him. Eddie stared at the towel knowing that all that was behind him.
The room was loud and then it settled to silence. Ray was getting checked. Eddie wanted it over. The conversation went on. The bell should have rung. An argument. What was going on? The bell should have rung. Ray was nodding his head. Ray argued. Ray wanted more.
Bell.
Ray charged, but his heart wasn’t in it. He had talked his way in. Or someone had talked him in. Eddie was part of that too. The bets were all laid against him. Everyone sat in hopeful consensus. They were calling it a lucky shot.
Eddie had
a mean surprise. From the top of his shoulder down through his wrist, electricity jumped through the flesh of his cocked right arm. He tapped his left into Ray’s face. Ray wanted more rib. He crouched smaller hoping to set up an uppercut. Eddie could have laughed.
Eddie shuffled twice to the left and there was Ray’s huge slow head trying to turn to face him as Eddie’s left hook spun his wet hair in a wild circle sending a shower down the front of Eddie’s legs. Eddie planted his feet and drove a right between Ray’s elbows losing half of its power. Ray nearly fell. His eyes widened and he backed up. Eddie realized the intimacy of this fighting brought with it telepathic communication. He saw Ray so clearly he could hear what he was thinking. He addressed Ray and his face responded as though he were saying the words:
Com’ere motherfucker I got this . . .
Another left exploded on Ray’s face. Ray dropped his left glove, his eye dimmed.
. . . for ya.
Eddie popped up on his toes and flashed down with a right, then popped a left under his shoulder to stand him up. Then threw again with everything behind it, something crunched behind Ray’s headgear and he dropped, unstrung. Eddie made his way to the corner looking over his shoulder. Ray was flat on his back, one knee twitching. Eddie stared for less than half a second. In it, Eddie saw the woman in the doorway, her legs spread, his tongue soaking her.
The old man was saying something. Five words, began with, “Hey, kid. . . .”
But the rest didn’t matter. Eddie knew he could kill and it turned out to be closest to the awe of church. He wanted to get down on his knees before something and beg for an end to what evil remained in his heart. He had the knowledge of the pulpit, he wore black without being ordained. He could comfort, he could punish. He’d come close to the left hand, and he hated what it had made of him. His life had come down to one monstrous moment of self-love.