The Housekeeper: Love, Death, and Prizefighting

by Josh Samman

The third is a sci-fi version, set in the future as an amalgamation of the first two timelines. The hero is in a vehicle heading towards a nebula in the sky, called Xibalba. He is accompanied by the tree he planted with the ashes of his wife. Death is the Road to Awe is the title of the song in the background, as their shuttle reaches the star and explodes on impact in exultation.

  I never equated The Fountain with Isabel, but that was the one that struck a chord in her. “Can this be our movie?” she asked, after watching. I didn’t know couples had movies. Girls were the ones to pick those things I guess. If they did, it was probably The Notebook 99% of the time.

  After thinking about it for a moment, I understood, the story of a warrior and the queen that touched him, the story of a sick woman and a man by her side. It was unobservant to have not drawn parallels earlier.

  She went to the mall that day, sending me pictures of her in the dressing room for hours, asking which ones she could get. She was the most gorgeous thing I’d ever seen, and I told her so. I don’t know why I was so blinded by her, I’d been with beautiful girls my whole life. She dizzied me in a way others never could, even with just pictures.

  I attached the package of gifts with a small note and inscription. “Meet me in Montauk,” the phrase from Eternal Sunshine. It was an anchor that was a special place for both characters. For us, Montauk would be Las Vegas, and we’d be there in less than two weeks.

  60.

  Early Winter, 2007

  I was 19, and realizing that life had a way of being seasonal. Things were up, down, up again. Izzi and I weren’t a couple, but she gave me enough to keep me around.

  When I was training and competing, I was happy. When I got home from the last fight, I had a broken foot, and couldn’t do a thing. The doctor had given me a bottle of Percocet. I sold the whole bottle to a friend, and Izzi had been there while I’d done it.

  She and I never talked about taking drugs like that. She’d never once asked me about Disc Village, though I knew she knew. I tried to separate that part of my life from her. I was embarrassed by it, avoided the conversation like a recovering alcoholic avoids a bar.

  I hadn’t eaten a pill since rehab. The extent of Izzi and I partying together had only been drinking, and smoking occasionally. There was once that she and a friend had stolen some Xanax from her parents, but I didn’t join them.

  “Why’d you get rid of all those?” She asked after my friend left with the Percocet.

  “I’d rather have the money.”

  “What if I wanted one?”

  That’s how we started. I wasn’t hard to convince. An outsider may have thought it was her taking drugs because I was, but it was the other way around. For all I know, it could’ve been both of us doing it because we thought it was what the other wanted. I wanted to party however she wanted to party, and she knew I’d be an easy target. At her worst, she was just as cunning and manipulative as any of us.

  While I didn’t set a good example for her drug use, I damn sure hadn’t started it. She’d tried plenty of things by the time she met me. She had a friend whose boyfriend fed them all sorts of things, gave them all their “firsts.” Even when I remind myself of that, looking back at it now is horrifying, thinking what it turned into, how far she took it. She had far more factors at play than just me. Some thought it was in her DNA. Some of the very people that would tell me that were her family members. The males in her life stuck with things from the earth, she and her mother took to things made in a lab. At one point or another, we all became casualties of it.

  We never did hard drugs together. We ate valium here and there. I still had no interest in opiates, nor would I ever again, not that that was of any significance. What narcotic we indulged in didn’t matter to her, or the people that knew what we’d been doing. I was the weed dealing, cagefighting, atheist, high school dropout, and now I looked like a pill pusher too. All the folks that had questioned my intentions with Izzi finally had something to throw rocks at.

  Drugs had a way of making things more turbulent. My relationship with Izzi took a turn for the volatile, and other areas of my life began to implode. An officer came knocking one morning, and in a panic my roommate and I flushed a half pound of weed down the toilet. It turned out he was just there about a complaint of Juice running loose in the yard. Days after that, my house was broken into, and the last few ounces stolen from my room.

  I became desperate. I owed my usual weedman money for all the bud I’d just lost. I had some profit left over from what I’d already sold and wanted to squeeze a bit more out of it before paying him back. I called another dealer, a sketchy guy from the other side of town, and asked him to bring as much weed as he could for $1,200. He told me I had to come to him.

  When I arrived, he got into the car, locked the doors, and put a pistol on my skull. I’d known the asshole for years and couldn’t believe what was happening. He grabbed my cash, my phone, and my car keys, and got back in his Chevy Impala, peeling out of the parking lot next to his scummy apartment complex.

  I was rendered helpless, and walked back home with a feeling of defeat. I’d gone from having a few thousand dollars saved up, to being thousands in debt. I sold my black six-string Ibanez from childhood and borrowed money from mom to pay him back. I deserved every bit of retribution that I got that month. All of it was child’s play though, compared to what would happen next.

  61.

  “The treasure is right there on the other side of the dragon. We’ve got to approach the dragon head on, feel its fiery breath.”

  -Chris McCombs

  I’d gotten the call to fight Kevin Casey. “King,” the fighter that had tried to punk me for my seat on the van, the guy I had lived with for seven weeks, a BJJ black belt of the highest caliber. It was nice to finally know who I’d be fighting, a face to put with the crumpling body in my visualizations.

  I arrived in Vegas on the Tuesday before the fight. When I landed, a limo driver stood next to baggage claim, carrying a sign with a UFC logo and my name. We waited for Bubba McDaniel before heading to our destination, which was our first round of photo shoots at a studio. The whole thing was reminiscent of my first arrival to The Ultimate Fighter.

  It had been a few months since I was around anything UFC, and I was quickly reminded of the monstrous scale of things. The promotion was one, giant, well-oiled machine, every cylinder firing on cue. I’d always dreamt of these big league moments, and being back was a great feeling.

  I remained in awe for quite a while as we were chauffeured around, doing promotional duties, signing posters and taking pictures. In between my eureka moments of self-actualization, I was trying to take notes on everything I could, wondering if there was anything that Mitchell and I could learn from them as promoters. It blew my mind, seeing the huge staff behind the scenes, everyone with a job and a purpose. Being on TUF had given me a glimpse into the reality television world, but didn’t give much insight into how the inner workings a promotion this large really was.

  Besides all the hoopla, I was excited to be competing again. The last time I’d been seen on TV, I was getting choked out by Kelvin Gastelum, and I was entering the cage with a chip on my shoulder. I was heartbroken about not being in the finals, my “Dreams Dashed,” the aptly named title of the episode I’d been beaten on. I had a good training camp for this fight and a great group of people with me. I was ready to get my first real win in the UFC.

  Tuesday turned to Friday, and it was time to weigh in. For the 19th time in my career, I made the journey down to 185 lbs. The weigh-ins were held in a large area in the MGM Grand, with a crowd to watch. They lined us all up in the back and one by one we stepped on the scale. I looked out into the crowd as they announced my weight, to find my mom and Isabel, which never took long because of how loud my mom was.

  I made weight, put my clothes back on, and went to go face-off with my opponent. Dana stood between us as we proceeded with formalities. After weigh-ins, we went to a huge dinner party set up by a f
riend. Around 50 people had flown and drove from across the country to see me fight, and now we had them all in one room. It was Isabel to my right, my mom to my left; family, friends, and coaches. I did my best to soak it all in. I’ve always tried to be cognizant of these moments. I knew this would be a special one that I may not ever get again.

  My mom stood up for a rare speech, something I’d only ever seen her do at work functions. I’d forgotten how good she was at it. She waxed poetic for a few moments about how my name meant “fierce one,” and how she had no idea how true it would be. It was touching, perfectly worded and executed like only she could do.

  I feasted as much as I could fit before finally going back to the hotel. The UFC had treated us with a suite at the MGM Grand, one with an amazing view and California King bed. I slept like a baby and woke up as I did all fight days, hungry and focused. Isabel and I walked down to the cafe in the bottom of the hotel before saying our final goodbyes. I wouldn’t see her again until after the fight.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll curl my hair,” she teased, as if that was all I had to worry about. She put so much work into making sure she had the right outfit, nails manicured, skin tanned; she wanted to look perfect for the occasion, and I felt flattered by it.

  I went upstairs to grab my gear and began the trek back to transport. As soon as we got to the arena we were drug tested, and Burt Watson, the UFC employee in charge of the fighters, came by to tell us the exact times we’d be walking out for our fights. Every fight in my life before this one, the walkout time was far from certain, because we never knew how the fights beforehand would play out. This was the big leagues, on live television. Those gaps were filled with perfectly timed commercials, and there was no uncertainty about walk times.

  Bruce Buffer, the announcer synonymous with the UFC Octagon, came to the locker room to greet me and ask if I had any nicknames, as well as how to pronounce my last name. I told him no nicknames, but that I’d been waiting for him to announce my entrance forever, and asked him to give me a good one. “I give what I get brother!” He said. “You give me that energy, and I’ll give it right back.”

  I was scheduled to be the last fight on the undercard. I didn’t care much where I was in the order, I was just in bliss at finally being there. I couldn’t help but move around once we got to the locker rooms. I shadowboxed, stretched, hit mits, and rolled around on the mat for at least three hours before my fight. I was so damn excited.

  Finally, finally, finally, my name was called to make the walk to the Octagon. I heard the familiar drum beat of the song I’d chosen, “Sympathy for the Devil” by The Rolling Stones. I came out of the locker room screaming, accidentally bumping security guards, all the way to the cage. My opponent had walked first, and stood inside of it as I arrived, fists clenched, pacing back and forth.

  I reached the octagon, got checked by the referee, and took one final look at the crowd. Like at weigh-ins, I tried to find Isabel and my mom, only this time the music was blasting, and the arena was far too loud to hear either of them. I gave up and started looking around the cage for Dana White.

  “What are you looking at? Focus!” Cesar, my coach from MMA Masters, screamed over the roar of the crowd. This was the first time he and Daniel had been in my corner. Joe was just standing above the cage, grinning ear to ear that we’d finally made it.

  The familiar bright lights shone down on me, only this time much hotter. I made sure again, as I did many times that week, to notice every small detail. Bruce Buffer glided towards me as he belted his signature voice into the microphone.

  “...And hailing from Tallahassee, Florida!” It was music to my ears. God damn right. I imagined everyone at home going crazy as they heard it.

  Buffer finished his intro, and referee Herb Dean stepped in to be the third man in the cage. “You ready?” he said as he looked across at Casey. He stood and nodded, fists still clenched from minutes before, doing his best to look menacing. He wasn’t doing a bad job.

  “You ready?” Herb looked at me and asked the same question.

  Behind my Garnet and Gold mouthpiece with “850” inscribed on the front, I clenched my jaw.

  I nodded. The bell rang, and my UFC debut began.

  62.

  November 7th, 2007

  “Come out tonight,” Izzi texted. It was a crisp, fall evening, the first cold of the year, and we’d just got home from loading a bale of firewood for the house. We all had fake ID’s for years, and would go to bars around town. She and her friends were going to a local club, Chubby’s, and she invited me.

  A week prior we’d had an incident at my house. It was 3 in the morning, and a friend of hers saw her car in the driveway as she passed by. Izzi had lied to her about where she was staying. She stopped, let herself in my house, and dragged Izzi out of bed. We weren’t even doing anything, just watching TV. She yelled at Izzi the whole way out. Izzi and I were both humiliated. I still remember her helpless look as her friend pulled her by the wrist. That friend wasn’t with her this night, otherwise she wouldn’t have called me. I came running, as I usually did, and dragged Chris out with me.

  We were at Chubby’s for a couple of hours when my phone started ringing non-stop. It was loud in the club, and I didn’t answer. It was my other two roommates calling, and they rang several times each before I went outside to check my voicemail. The first was calm.

  “Hey Josh. Uh.. Something happened at the house. You should definitely come home.” I didn’t think much of it. I listened to the message from my other roommate. His was frantic.

  “Holy shit Josh. The fucking house is on fire. The whole thing is on fire. Holy fuck.” I grabbed Chris and ran out. We raced home, and I told myself the whole way that it was just a bad joke.

  I knew it was real when I smelled the smoke from blocks away. I could see it billowing in the sky before I even got on my road. I swerved into the driveway, nearly hitting the fire truck that was already going to work on the flames rising from the roof. They were 20 feet high. The heat was unbearable. Somehow there were firefighters inside, trying to extinguish it.

  Everyone else was out of the house, Juice included. We were all safe, but my mind began to race, thinking of what else was in the house. Money, electronics, and keepsakes, but nothing as valuable as my hand wraps. My fights memories were in those wraps, and they were in danger of being reduced to ashes.

  I’d never felt so helpless. It was one of the most traumatizing things I’d ever experienced. My whole life was in there. I tried to convince myself as I watched that it was repairable, that it would go out any minute and we’d still be able to live in it.

  In an instant, the roof collapsed. I burst into tears, the first time since that courtroom a half decade ago. Juice was in the back of my friend’s truck, crying the whole time with me. He howled for hours as we watched. For the rest of his life, he wept when he heard sirens.

  It wasn’t until the sun was up that they’d vanquished the flames. We stayed awake the whole time. I don’t even know where we would have gone had we left.

  The firefighters called Red Cross for us, and we met them at a Waffle House down the road at 9 am. They gave us food vouchers and clothes, and booked us hotel rooms.

  I tried to go to sleep, unnerved. I laid there and stared at the ceiling. I wondered if karma was real. If it was, I didn’t know that I deserved that much.

  63.

  “Everything that you are as a human being gets tested, gets challenged, and ultimately gets exposed in a prizefighting ring.”

  -Jim Lampley

  My UFC debut began with Casey trying to kick me in my head. We’d anticipated him throwing a high kick, and I threw a low kick to his leg that was still on the ground. He went tumbling to the mat as his leg crumbled, and I followed him down, something we had not planned. He specialized in ground fighting, and too anxiously I flew, face first into where he was most dangerous.

  I became even more aware of my mistake as Casey wrapped his powerful legs around my
neck, and began to squeeze. He transitioned perfectly from the scramble into a deep triangle choke and began to cut off the circulation.

  Holy shit. I am 20 seconds into my UFC debut, and I’m about to get put to sleep. I flew Isabel all the way to Vegas to watch me fail. My mom is about to see me lose.

  I tried my best to avoid letting him have full control and give myself any amount of room to breathe. I began to lose consciousness. It’s funny what our brains think about in moments like these when time is slowed down, and the universe affords us the luxury of turning seconds into minutes. Casey was below me, choking me unconscious, and my last remaining sense of fight or flight was fleeting. I drifted off somewhere that was not Mandalay Bay Arena.

  I was in the jail visiting room. I saw her behind the glass wall, then on the hotel room bed in Orlando crying. I saw the pictures of her in the dressing room, picking outfits for the night. I saw her in the sauna, with her steadfast demeanor, then her satisfied grin. I felt her stubbornness, and her refusal to quit, and in an instant I felt her coursing through my veins, just as much as I did the adrenaline. It was beyond powerful. All I needed was one of those memories, one of tens of thousands of her. I mustered the last bit of energy I had. With Casey’s legs cinched around my neck, I picked him up as I high as I could, and slammed him on his head.

  He released the choke hold, and immediately switched to an armbar, beginning to hyperextend my elbow with his hips. This time, I had a better grip on my senses, and while I was done reminiscing, I did think about one more thing. I remembered him behind me in the van, whispering in my ear.

  This is a fight show homie. I’ll get you sooner or later.

  At that point, I made the decision that he’d have to break my arm to win, because there was no giving up. All my years of hard work, all my ambitions and aspirations, everything was in jeopardy. I did the same thing I did when I’d exhausted all other resources in the triangle choke; picked him up and slammed him on his head.