by Thom Jones
Cancer Frank spoke matter-of-factly, without rancor or malice. He said, “Those were prelims. Kids that don’t know how to fight. This other fighter, Reine, has his number. The kid is scared. He isn’t going to win. He’ll blow it.”
Kid Dynamite was suddenly up on the edge of the bed in a rage. He pounded his fists on the tops of his thighs. Through clenched teeth he said, “You don’t know shit!”
Cancer Frank heard him and said, “Hey!” The voice that had so terrorized Kid Dynamite for so much of his life stabbed him now like a punch to the solar plexus. Stepfather or no, the man was supposed to guide and encourage him, not run him down and disparage his every move. Cancer Frank was the original and main source of his travail in the world thus far. Kid Dynamite imagined him poised up in bed next to his mother. C.F. said, “Watch your goddamn mouth or I’m coming in there!”
Kid Dynamite got up and crossed the hallway to the master bedroom saying, “Well, come on then, you son of a bitch. If you want some, come on!”
The Driver leaped out of bed, rushed to the door, and locked it with a skeleton key just before he got there. “God! I knew this was going to happen.”
Kid Dynamite grabbed the door handle and shook it. Then he began pounding the door with the balls of his fists. His hands were already sore from the tournament. This only intensified his rage. He threw his hip and shoulder against the door. It was an old door. Solid oak. “I’ll knock down the wall,” he screamed. “I’ll kill that cocksucker!”
The Driver’s voice was a vicious rasp, “You get the hell out of this house!”
In the middle of a coughing spasm, Cancer Frank choked out the words, “Call the police!”
Kid Dynamite stood at the door and listened to his stepfather cough. From the sound of it, Kid Dynamite knew he was overdramatizing. He shouted, “Go ahead, call them, you car-selling motherfucker. I hope you die!”
He gave the door a last thump and went back to his bedroom where he dropped to the floor and pumped off two hundred push-ups. He knew the police would not be called. But someone would be brought in to straighten him out. Uncle Mikey, a seriously bad guy and a notorious overreactor. Since the onset of Frank’s disease, Uncle Mikey had more than once dragged his nephew out of bed, kicking his ass all the way down to the basement. He came early, too, when the kid was most vulnerable. He was like some Eastern European goon squad in that regard. It would be better if the police were called—better they than Mikey.
Kid Dynamite lay awake all night in rage and anticipation. Mikey didn’t show up until noon. He was wearing a suit and tie, an indication there would be no violence. At forty, the former heavyweight champion of the Seventh Army looked like he could still fight at the drop of a hat. Unlike his brother, Kid Dynamite’s old man, Mikey did not become a professional fighter; he was too smart for that. Instead he went into sales and had become the most materially successful member of the family. As far back as Kid Dynamite could remember, Mikey had the best cars, houses, clothes—the best of everything. It was Mikey, however, who had introduced Cancer Frank to his mother, and the kid’s admiration for him was severely mitigated by that factor. In his suit and tie, on an early Saturday afternoon, Mikey was very solemn. Kid Dynamite knew grave matters would be discussed and threats would be issued. Compromises and concessions would be few.
After shooting the bull with C.F. and the Driver, Mikey politely invited Kid Dynamite for a drive in his new Mercedes convertible. It was a nice car and Mikey was proud of it. He talked about the virtues of German engineering as he took the river road and drove south toward Oswego. Kid Dynamite fell into a pout and nothing was said for a few miles. Then Mikey looked over at him with mounting irritation and said, “What the fuck is the matter with you? Why are you giving Frank such a hard time? He has cancer, for Chrissakes. What are you busting his balls for?”
Kid Dynamite looked straight ahead and said nothing. His body was coiled to dodge a side-arm blow, but better that than surrender his pride.
Mikey looked over and said, “I know what it is. It’s Mag—your goddamn grandmother. She’s been poisoning your mind against him, hasn’t she?”
Kid Dynamite kept his eyes straight ahead. “No. She doesn’t poison anybody. In fact, she pays Frank’s bills,” he said.
“Don’t get sarcastic with me!” Mikey said. “I’ll pull over and give it to you right now, you stupid little fuck!”
Kid Dynamite removed the wiseass from his voice and said, “It’s true. She pays.”
Mikey shook his head and sighed. He removed his Italian sunglasses and threw them on the dashboard so he could rub the bridge of his nose. “Okay, I’m thinking…let me think. You’re in over your head in this boxing tournament. ‘Hard’ Reine is going to fall all over you, is that it? I saw a piece about this motherfucker in the Sun Times. The same guy that got you last year. He ran over you like a freight train.”
Kid Dynamite was sullen. “I’m better now. But how would you know? I haven’t seen you at any of the fights. Personally, I’d rather be me than him. In fact, I feel sorry for the guy. Frank was out of line badmouthing me. It wasn’t called for. That’s what the whole beef is about. I don’t know what they told you, but I didn’t do anything except raise my voice a little.”
“Raise your voice a little?” Mikey said. He pulled the car over to a gravel culvert where two men in bib overalls were fishing with stink bait. Kid Dynamite braced himself as Mikey switched off the engine. The big man took a deep breath and exhaled. Nephew and uncle sat watching the river for a moment. Each of the fishermen had a can of Budweiser in hand. “The beer drinker’s stance,” Mikey said. “They always stand that way. Isn’t that something?”
“Nothing in there but carp and bullheads. How can you call that fun?” Kid Dynamite said. “They ought to get off their asses and do something more active. You can buy fucking fish.”
Mikey laughed, “The problem I’m having here is that I like you. You act like a spoiled little brat. No harm in that. I’m trying to get past that so I can help out. As troublemakers go, you’re just a pissant. I was worse. Shit. There was a depression. It was different. It took the law of the fist to salvage me. Is it the same with you? I treat you decently, things are okay for a while and then you start in on him. Look,” Mikey said, pointing his finger in the kid’s face. “I’m on your side on this one. But you can’t terrorize him in his own home. You scared the fucking shit out of him.”
“I’m not a scary person,” Kid Dynamite said. “I’m mild-mannered as all hell.”
Mikey laughed again. He reached over and clapped his nephew on the shoulder. “Loosen up, kiddo. You’re tighter than a drum.”
Kid Dynamite shrugged. “I’ll win the fight. I trained. I’m in shape. Once we start exchanging punches, I’ll know what to do.”
“Your dad had balls. He was half my size and would take on anyone. But the thing that makes you good in the ring is the very thing that makes life outside the gym impossible. I was hoping you would end up more like myself than your crazy father.” The glare of the sun bounced off the river, and Kid Dynamite used his hands for an eyeshade. Mikey replaced his sunglasses and said, “You’re sure Mag hasn’t been ragging on Frank?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. She knows he’s sick. She doesn’t rag on him. In her way, she’s trying to help him.”
“He’s dying! And he’s cracking up a little bit, too. I mean, why else would he be going to church three times a week? Would you like to walk in those shoes?”
“Fuckin’ wingtips, not me,” Kid Dynamite said. “I don’t think he’s going to die, either. Two packs a day. The two of them are screwing night and day—”
Mikey spoke abruptly, “You call off the dogs, okay? I don’t want to hear the piss and moan.”
Kid Dynamite shrugged. “They fuck like animals; it’s disgusting; I got to hear it—”
Mikey raised his hand like a stop sign. “I don’t want the ‘wah wah, boo hoo.’ Confine your violence to the ring or you’re going to end up in
the bughouse, like your father, a paranoid freak. The world is not that bad a place.”
Kid Dynamite turned his palms up in exasperation. “I’m not a violent person. I’m a shy person. What do I do? I don’t drink. I don’t smoke. I work. I help around the house. You don’t see my name on the arrest reports. I’m still a virgin. I don’t even jack off. Fuck, I’m a super guy. The only black marks against me are that I flunked geometry three times in a row and I’ve got a filthy mouth. You gonna come and see the fight? I’m going to pretend this guy is Frank and I’m going to kick ass!”
Mikey patted his nephew on the cheek just a little too hard. He laughed and said, “All right, kiddo. In the meantime, stay out of his way for a while.”
“Serious, Uncle Mikey! Are you coming to the fight?”
“I’ll be at the fight. If you don’t kick the guy’s ass and make it worth my while, I’ll be coming after you when it’s over. Deal?”
“Hey! I’ll kick his ass all right.”
Mikey laughed at this and exchanged seats with his nephew. South of Oswego, Kid Dynamite found a straightaway and got the Mercedes up to 130 mph. It didn’t seem as if the car was doing more than sixty. “German engineering,” Uncle Mikey said. “Hard work, attention to detail, and a willpower that never quits.” He gave his nephew a punch on the shoulder and said, “You’re lucky to be a German. Who knows, someday you might conquer the world.”
In spite of the cold garage, Kid Dynamite quickly broke into a full sweat. After the assault of advertisements, Dick Clark popped on the air with “Big Girls Don’t Cry” by the Four Seasons and then Paul Revere and the Raiders. Kid Dynamite expected a full day of “suck” radio and he was getting it. Still, any music was better than nothing. The kid was working hard now, gliding around the floor with his hands carried high at the sides of his head and his chin tucked down. The plank floor creaked as he moved in and out on the bolo bag. It rebounded with such speed and velocity and from so many unexpected directions that he had to concentrate intently to avoid having it slap him in the face. He did flunk geometry and that was ironic. Boxing acumen involved calculating angles. The angles of the ring, Kid Dynamite understood perfectly. He would show Louis Reine angles aplenty.
Kid Dynamite had boxed him beautifully for two rounds the year before. He had fast hands and could hit Reine at will. Listening to Lolo was the mistake on that one. Reine was discouraged and out of gas after the second round. Lolo told Kid Dynamite to stay on the outside and box his opponent, “Take this one on points.” So he followed the advice and boxed at long range. Then as Reine recovered his wind, Kid Dynamite got trapped on the ropes, where Reine went to work on his body. As soon as Kid Dynamite dropped his elbow to cover his liver, he got clocked along the jaw and after that it was essentially over.
This year Kid Dynamite was in shape, but he didn’t actually have any better plan for Reine than before. He wasn’t going to slug with him, he was going to give him angles and box. He was the superior boxer, and he was stronger than he had been the year before, if he saw a clear shot he would tee off, but he definitely wasn’t going to go in trading. Although Kid Dynamite had earned a small notice on the Beacon’s sports page, as his Uncle Mikey had said, Louis Reine was touted in the Chicago Sun-Times as the premier fighter of the tournament. At eighteen, he had won forty-two fights and lost none. He had been fighting stiffer competition from the South Side and the paper said he was likely to go all the way to the Nationals.
Kid Dynamite had more fights than Reine but had suffered, in all, seventeen losses in CYO, AAU, and Golden Gloves competition. He had also got his ass kicked in a half-dozen street fights. He had been knocked cold three times, hospitalized twice. His family doctor prevailed upon his mother to make him quit after the loss in the finals the year before. But Kid Dynamite had had the fight with Reine in the very palm of his hand and he knew it. Too often, after a fighter took a single solid beating, he did not come back to the gym. Or if he did, he wasn’t the same. He was gun-shy. The test of mettle was to come back with burning desire, which Kid Dynamite had done. He had not lost a fight since. He tried to explain this to his girlfriend, Melanie, the first time he saw her after the initial loss to Reine. It was a conversation that happened a year before. A tall brunette with perfect posture, she stood waiting for him at their usual rendezvous point on the corner of North Avenue and Smith Street. Melanie’s ankles were squeezed together and she held her schoolbooks clutched against her breast. She was a beautiful young girl and Kid Dynamite was still something of a mess. He had a sore neck, a broken cheekbone, a black eye, and swollen purple lips. He was somewhat mystified by her tears, since his appearance had improved considerably since the fight and he had prepared her to see black and blue. Still, there were tears. He tried to reassure her. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said. “I’m just sore is all.”
Light snowflakes fell on her shiny hair. Melanie had high cheekbones, a well-shaped nose to set them off, and a resolute but nice chin to better complement her heart-shaped face. She had a wide mouth and full lips, and she was quite beautiful. Her sparkling green eyes were the feature Kid Dynamite liked most. He learned to read her moods by watching her eyes. She had been the only girl he had ever cared about, and the two had been seeing one another since junior high school. Melanie was thin with frequent acne flare-ups but this bothered Kid Dynamite very little: she easily was one of the best-looking girls in the entire high school and one of the most loyal. Melanie was enough to make him believe that God was looking out for him. She approached him, reaching out to his cheek with a fuzzy woolen glove. Kid Dynamite gave her a gentle hug.
He stepped back and said, “You look so beautiful this morning. I never get tired of looking at you. It’s so good to finally get out of the house and actually see you again.”
“Oh, boy,” she said cautiously, “are you okay? What happened?”
Kid Dynamite started to laugh but the pain of it stopped him. “He hit me so hard every tooth in my mouth rattled. But with you standing here in front of me, I’m an ace.” Melanie wore a navy car coat with bone-colored toggles over her cheer-squad uniform. He said, “Why have you got the uniform on?”
“Basketball in Joliet tonight. We have a morning pep assembly. I don’t want to go. I want to be with you.”
They embraced again. Kid Dynamite kissed Melanie’s slender neck. He could feel an erection coming on and tried to back away but she clutched him tighter. He gave in and let her hold him completely. Students were walking by, the late ones. He felt her tears rolling down his neck. “Baby, my ribs, careful!” he said.
She said, “I’m not going to the game tonight. I want to be with you.”
Kid Dynamite felt hot tears of his own. He pulled his head back and kissed her. “You smell so good, you look so pretty. What you just said was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.”
“Oh God,” she said. “If it wasn’t for the basketball team, I would have been there.”
“You would have just seen me get creamed,” he said. The procession of students hurrying to school began to thin out. Suddenly five black students came out of Fiddler’s Grocery. Fid himself came out after them. He was a short heavyset man in a white apron. He stood on the wooden porch and took a final drag off his cigarette before flipping it out into the street and going back inside.
Kid Dynamite recognized the students, one of them was his friend, Eloise Greene, the club’s middleweight. Jarvis Jackson packed a wet snowball and fired across Smith Street. It hit the top of the corner mailbox. Kid Dynamite tossed Jarvis the “bird” and Jarvis Jackson cried, “Hey, motherfucker! You can suck my motherfucking dick, man!”
Kid Dynamite dropped his books and packed a snowball of his own. He aimed it at Jackson, but the snowball didn’t even make it across the street. It felt like one of his ribs had broken loose and punctured a lung. He bent over, clutching his side, as the students who had stopped to light cigarettes laughed at his pathetic toss.
Kid Dynamite looked u
p at Melanie and said, “I’m okay! I’m okay! Just sore and glad I missed. Jarvis a bad mo-tah scooter.”
They watched the blacks proceed down Smith Street hill toward school. Kid Dynamite dried his hands by sticking them in his pockets. There was a brisk wind and he pulled his watch cap down over his ears. Both sides of North Avenue were lined with oak and maples, barren of leaves. It was a gray morning and the pristine snow was fouled by the black smoke of coal fires coming from the chimneys of the homes. Kid Dynamite stepped into a yard and snapped a small branch from a pussy willow, the first sign of spring. He traced a furry blossom around the edges of Melanie’s mouth. He used his finger to trace the tears rolling down her cheeks. She wiped a wisp of tear-drenched hair from her face. She said, “My parents are at work. We can go back to my place.”
Melanie’s parents were both cops. Her stepfather, Vic, had been a boxer himself, a heavyweight from New Jersey who fought in club fights as a teenager. He still followed the sport and took an interest in Kid Dynamite’s career. The summer after Kid Dynamite lost in the finals of the Golden Gloves tournament, Vic drove Melanie and the Kid out past the North Aurora Downs Race Track to watch Sonny Liston train for the first Patterson fight, which was set for September in Chicago’s Comiskey Park. Kid Dynamite watched Vic shell out twelve bucks to get into the old Pavilion dance hall, where a gym had been set up for Liston’s camp. Kid Dynamite had never actually been inside before, but the Pavilion was the site of a number of his father’s professional fights before the Second World War.