I lean away from Maddox, folding my hands and lowering my head.
“I got kicked out of a few bars for starting fights but in a city as big as this, there are always other places to go. I made a bad reputation for myself, though, and cut myself off from people because of the fights. I never wanted to admit that I had a problem and that the drinking only worsened it.”
Maddox looks to me, then it seems like he’s staring through me. He has a choppy rhythm in his speech, like he’s been saving up the words and can’t get them out fast enough.
“I started training at this gym where Frank Castro was based out of. He was this crazy good coach who could basically take anybody off the streets and turn them into a martial arts genius. I wanted to train with him and make some money with my fighting. I figured, you know, I was pretty good and if I could win enough fights, maybe I could show my parents that I wasn’t just an angry kid. But Castro had heard the stories about a drunken slob going around the city, smashing up furniture and wrecking people while they were just trying to have a good time.”
I could see Maddox now as Wernicke did: a brute, a menace.
“When I tried to talk to him personally, his assistants told me Castro wasn’t interested. Whatever image I had cultivated wasn’t the kind of thing Castro wanted his name near and I don’t blame him. That didn’t stop me, though. I trained every day in that gym, by myself. And I kept asking to be given a chance to speak with Castro.”
“Why did he let you stay in his gym?”
“I knew if he really wanted me gone, he would’ve kicked me out. I was never told to leave, so I assumed he was, if nothing else, curious about my dedication. Eventually, I got to talk with him. He sat down with me to tell me he was interested in training me, but the training came with a deal. He told me as long as I stayed away from alcohol, he would offer his coaching.”
“What’d you say?”
“I agreed. I didn’t drink that night. It felt like an eternity, but I made it through and the next day we began.”
Maddox has his elbows on his thighs, but now he leans back and starts moving his hands to help tell the story. He takes his time as he speaks.
“In a fight, you have to condition your mind as much as your body. I learned how to use the doubt I had when my muscles ached and I felt sore to the bone, to my advantage. The mental game of a fight is the most elusive aspect. You might think about intimidating the other fighter with stats, physical presence, or a general nasty look, but if you aren’t completely settled in your own head, you’ll come undone. I experienced this a few weeks into training.
“I was doing fine, you know, showing up, learning from Castro and applying his lessons to fights. I won, too. But something was wrong with me. I couldn’t focus and I was up all night trying to convince myself I didn’t want a drink. My body couldn’t keep up. The lack of sleep and concentration were too much. Even though my form was slipping, I was still winning, so I felt like I was doing alright. I guess drinking makes you feel invincible. But then I lost a fight and then another and another. In a terrible sort of way, I wanted to lose because I knew I could start making excuses again. I could go back to the bottle because I had a bad fight or a bad session, or my body was sore. Any excuse would do.
“Castro found out and I was let go. I had an entire day and some new money...I used both for drinking. When my money started to run low, I sold the furniture. You can live without a bed but when it came to food, I had to pick between drinking, or eating, and that kept me sober for a while. I caught a break when my grandmother found out about my addiction and offered to help. Again a deal was made. She lived in a huge house. I mean, it was like a mansion or something and she didn’t want to leave that a for a retirement community, so she told me to come live with her, provided...I take care of her.”
Maddox rubs his eyes and leans forward, resting his elbow on his knee. I ask him, “What did you do to help her?”
“Well, besides the usual, fixing her meals and helping her get up and down the stairs, I mostly just kept her company. Every night, I’d read her a poem and she would spend the last hours before sleep trying to remember it, then in the morning I would bring her breakfast and she would recite the poem to me. She did it to keep her mind sharp. So there I was, caring for my grandmother, offering her poems and food and trying my best to help her from room to room. She couldn’t stand being in any one room for more than an hour.”
Maddox smiles at this thought. “She sounds like a good person. But about your drinking? What did she think about that?”
“We didn’t talk about it... much. It was nice to be around someone who didn’t let my mistakes dictate the mood of the room. Maybe it was because I was family and she didn’t see the point in vilifying me. Maybe she didn’t know what to say. Maybe the poems weren’t helping at all and she had no idea. I think she knew, but realized that beating me up over it, or setting barriers, would only intensify my cravings. She gave me autonomy, gave me my space, anyway.”
I wish I could let Wernicke see this version of Maddox. But he wouldn’t allow for it. He, in his narrow mindedness, would only see this act of kindness as a small favor, with little implication of true meaning.
Chapter 26
One Month Earlier
Maddox
One night, I was reading from one of the many anthologies I had from college when Grandma told me she wasn’t in the mood for sonnets. I let her sleep, but found that I had nothing to do after shutting her door for the night. I found a bottle of red wine. I drank the entire bottle without a thought and when I wiped the last drops from my lips, I moved on to the next bottle. I cleared the entire wine rack in her kitchen, then moved to the racks of dusty bottles she had in her garage.
I woke up with what felt like an axe in my head and a migraine. When I saw the devastation, I ran to the market and covered my tracks by buying all new bottles. I spent a lot more that day on wine than I had ever imagined I would, but the trick worked. She didn’t notice they were gone; she probably never really drank them, anyway.
Now I can see from this vantage point in my history that excuses were my crutch more than the alcohol. Well, you know what they say, hindsight is always twenty-twenty. So I showered the stench of ancient grapes from my pores and brushed the decay of fermented hopes out of my teeth before checking on her. I knocked on the door and she welcomed me in. She was sitting up against her headboard, reading from my literature book from school. She said something funny, although I can’t remember exactly what. I just know it caused me to laugh a little and push out the deep rotting air from my guts. I was terrified she might smell the wine and beer I had stolen from her. But she never noticed.
We moved from room to room all day. She always liked the way the sunlight came through the windows in the morning. I brought her the paper, read more poems to her, we ate lunch, then dinner and that was it, really. It was just another boring day. But that night?
That night, I could feel the cravings set in early. I couldn’t concentrate on a single thought. It’s like I would start thinking and then another idea burst into my head, and then another and another. I needed to take the edge off. I needed to something to calm me down, even me out and make me more sociable. She was in her room for the night and I thought, like, maybe she wasn’t interested, like the night before. I thought about shouting up the stairs at her to tell her that I was going out for a bit, but I decided to leave a note instead.
I took a cab into the city that night and drank. I remember a really nice restaurant. I saw the bar from the sidewalk. It was this great big mountain of liquor bottles and they were lit up from behind, making them look like some sort of angelic pipe organ. I paid for a twelve-dollar scotch while steaks and lobsters were being devoured by suited men with money in their pockets. I can’t remember the rest, except when I got home.
The note I left on the banister was still there. I wrinkled it in my hands, then put it in my pocket. The stairs looked like they went on for miles. I was in no
good condition to climb them. Each step was calculated to the best of my abilities and it was dark, too. Certain places on each step would squeak and creak, but I was clever enough to avoid those bad spots.
I made it half way up and I thought I was so damn sneaky. I would pass by her room, undetected, and slip into bed. In the morning, I would shower out the barrel-soaked scotch and brush out the beer from my teeth. I stumbled for a bit in the darkness. Grabbing the railing, I secured myself and continued up. Her door was open just a bit; not much, but enough for an eye to see, though. Enough to spot me and ask where I was all night. I slipped past her door and made it into my bed. I remember how satisfied I was with myself. How I had won two nights in a row.
I woke up in the morning with ten pounds of rotten booze in my guts. I showered and brushed my teeth just as before. My brain felt like it was two sizes too big. I sat at the kitchen table for a while till I noticed the absolute silence of the house. I could hear the refrigerator humming. I could hear the house creak and settle. I got this strange feeling like I was the only one in the house. I--
I called up to my grandmother’s room, but I heard nothing. I made my way up the stairs, thinking like maybe she just went out while I was sleeping. Maybe she tried to wake me or something, but I didn’t respond, you know? I pushed her door open and found her lying on the floor. I remember my stomach felt like thousands of needles were being forced into it. I ran to her side, shouting her name, but she wouldn’t respond. She was gone.
They said she passed sometime around nine thirty. For the second time in my life, I failed someone because of my addiction. It’s weird, but I knew then exactly what I was going to do. I mean, I knew it as soon as they told me she was gone. I kept replaying the night before, where I walked up the stairs in triumph. I was so pleased with myself. I had deceived her and was proud of it. They carried her away and I remember thinking, I am never going to be able to forgive myself for this.
I didn’t know how I was going to do it, with a gun or a leap? Would I sit in a bathtub and open up my veins? I wanted to cry, but I wouldn’t allow myself to do that because I felt like it was too little, too late. She died when I should have been there. I don’t know if I could have saved her, but honestly, that doesn’t matter. I should have been there.
I went back into the city to drink my last drinks. There was this weird feeling I had. Every now and again, I would forget why I was so upset. It was like I couldn’t figure out why I had this sinking feeling inside. Then I would remember. When I remembered, I couldn’t move, or talk, or even breathe. It felt like a joke, like a dream, like it didn’t really happen. My head was swirling, so I thought it was just a bad nightmare and that I just needed to wake up.
No more excuses, I told myself...I didn’t even try. I just accepted my negligence and kept drinking. I was walking through the city with no particular destination in mind. I felt the booze and the liquor coming up my throat. I ducked into an alley and spewed hot beer out onto the side of a building. After my body had rejected all the contents of my stomach, I sat down against a wall, wiping my face over and over. I had this thought like I wasn’t going to be able to live like this any longer. Like I should just sit there against the wall and waste away for everyone’s sake.
But then I heard this sound. Voices. People were talking or shouting I couldn’t really tell. Then, glass was breaking. Bottles, something small like that. The voices would rise and then I heard a smash. I got up, and for some reason, I walked towards the sound. I remember hearing more voices as I got closer. I guided myself along the side of the building with my right hand. The voices were definitely shouting now. They were all shouting at something; all the voices were aimed at one thing. The side of the building ended and opened up to a small area, I think the back of a store or something.
There were seven guys standing with their backs to me. They swayed side to side the way drunk people do when they don’t know they have had too much. They were in a half-circle but I couldn’t see what they had surrounded. I didn’t know what was happening, but even in my state, I knew it wasn’t good. I remembered they were dressed in slacks and polos. Collared shirts underneath sweaters. They had black leather shoes, their hair was gelled and combed. They would take a drink, throwing their wrists up and swiveling their bodies in my direction like they were expecting someone else to show up. I hid back behind the wall. I looked down the alley that led to a brighter street full of more bars with mountains of liquor glasses. But I couldn’t move again.
All at once, the failures in my life came roaring into my head. I could see all the people I let down, all the family members I had pushed to the point of frustration. I could see my grandmother lying in a grave. I felt like my brain was being forced out through my eyes.
I peeked my head out from the wall, and in between the swaying bodies I could see a person. At first, it was just an arm, then a leg, a torso, but as I kept watching, I put the small fragment of what I could see together. And finally I saw a face. It was bloody, the eyes half open. Barely any response was expressed from it. Except for an outstretched hand, there was no movement.
I had seen that kind of worn-down face before, in fights that went on too long. Whoever this person was, they had had enough from the seven guys throwing bottles and shouting. This was not a fight, it was torture. I hid again as one of the seven turned back towards me. I pulled out my phone but I couldn’t unlock the screen. I was too drunk and my hands were shaking. I saw people walking out on the sidewalk, so I ran to them. I tried to articulate what I had seen but they ignored me and walked faster away from me. I was too damn drunk to even call for help. I slurred too many words and couldn’t keep my head from bobbing.
But now I could hear a sound that felt like a jagged blade being forced in my ear. That guy on the ground was shouting for help and I knew no help was going to come. I knew that those seven would kill tonight because they were too fucked up to stop. I walked back into the alley way while the shouts of help rang off the sides of the buildings. His voice was garbled and I could hear the thud of sharp kicks to his body. I could hear the smashing of glass. I heard the drop in his voice when they drove their heels into his chest. He was ganged up on, outnumbered, against the wall and scared. He was going to die in that alley.
As soon as I cleared the edge of the wall where I hid, I could see all seven. I picked out one of them and locked my eyes on his head. As soon as I secured my target, I bolted towards him. I didn’t have much room, but I still got up a lot of speed. I poured every ounce of energy into my legs. I braced for impact and threw my shoulder into the side of his head. I drove his head into the side of the wall like a nail.
I was dazed from the hit and I was seeing two of everything. The next guy swung a heavy hand at me. I dodged, cocked my arm back and threw my punch straight up in to his chin. He stumbled out of sight and then two more charged me. They grabbed my arms and pinned me against the wall. Next thing I saw was a fist flying at me with a silver ring jutting out of it. He was punching madly, with no form or discipline in his shot. He sent his knuckles careening into my cheek until he gave that up for my ribs. Every shot to my gut was sapping the air out of me. I had to break free, so I picked up my leg and pushed it off the wall. We lunged forwards so fast he lost a firm grip on me.
I kicked out at the ringed fist but missed. He gained control of me again and smashed me against the wall. I remember his hair was blond; it came undone from the gelled and combed rows that made it look so neat. He threw so much of his weight into the punch that even his tucked-in shirt came flying out of his black leather belt. He spent too much energy laying into me so he backed away to catch his breath. I mustered my energy and raised my leg. The guy to my left was changing his grip so I drove my heel into the side of his knee. I remember the crunching sound of sinews and tendons snapping under my force.
The guy to my right started hammering me on the head, but he wasn’t sure-footed. He staggered to catch me but I moved too quick. I sent as many shots t
o his chin as possible. He closed his eyes, trying to block my hits with his forearms. I tagged him just right and sent him to the ground. Every breath I exhaled stung. Suddenly, I was checked into the wall. He grabbed the sides of my head and began smashing it into the wall behind me. I thought maybe I could break out of it, but his grip was too strong and I was blacking out.
I heard the sweetest sound then. Sirens. Blaring out loud into the air. He let me go and I sunk down next to the bloodied face of the poor kid they were all beating on. One of them looked down at me and the kid. He looked right into the kid’s eyes and said in a low voice, “This is what you get for being what you are,” then the seven guys tore out of the alley.
A small piece of rectangular paper was on the ground before me. It had no place in the alley. It was too neat, too clean. Not just another piece of trash. I picked it up and stared at it. It must have flung out of one of their pockets. It had a name on it, a telephone number and the name of a business. One of those idiots had left their damn business card.
The guy next to me was losing consciousness. His eyes were half open and he was mumbling something. I wasn’t too great, either. I moved closer to tell him it was over, help was on the way. I didn’t understand what it meant, “This is what you get for being what you are?” I asked the kid, but he said not to tell. He said no one was to know. He used all his strength to raise himself to me and say, “Promise me, no one. No police, no paramedics and especially no doctors.”
Lily's Temptation Vol. 1 Page 16