by Cosca, Paul
There are other groups that have used Enhanced in different ways...but if I’m honest, I can’t really talk about that. I mean...I can’t reveal everything and spoil my own book, you know? Plus, I still have to sit down with the lawyers and figure out what is okay and what isn’t. So I gotta play that a little close to the vest.
But anyways, we come on up to ‘63. And all of a sudden, the lid is about the blow off the top of this big government secret. See, I gotta think that everyone was just blind there. Stupid. Just because JFK didn’t come right out and say all of his thoughts on these kinds of things didn’t mean you couldn’t figure it out. That guy was a hell of a politician, and he knew that making a statement in Washington is as good as writing it in stone. So he said
what he had to and kept the rest to himself. But I don’t look at words. I look at actions. All around him you had the seas churning. You had that study that came out that “discovered” the virus, like the government didn’t already know about it. You’ve got civil rights bubbling up. And yeah, JFK was quiet about it, but his actions weren’t quiet. We all know how close he was to MLK. And then he put William Brown on his presidential detail. I mean...not only was this kid Enhanced, but he was black. If you want a statement, there it is.
I really wish I could have seen that kid in action with my own eyes. William Brown, I mean. You know he ran the mile in under three minutes? I mean...holy shit. At the top of my game I was running it in five and thinking I was pretty good. These days, I can’t even ride a bike as fast as that kid ran the mile. But he was damn fast. And probably even faster that day in ‘63. Maybe he knew it, and maybe he didn’t, but that split second was what he’d been training for his whole life.
So it’s a sunny day on November 22nd, 1963, and the president is down in Dallas. He and Lyndon Johnson, that’s his vice president in the first term, they’re headed to a meeting with business owners there. You know, banging the drum. And JFK really wants to make a show of it, which was one of his strong points. So they take the presidential limo and take it right through the city. Put the top down and everything. Some of the secret service guys were wary about that, but you know what kind of guy JFK was. Bold. He made the world turn in his direction. So they put the top down.
Just about 12:30, and the motorcade turns onto Elm street, right by the Texas Book Depository. You’ve seen the film, right? The Zapruder film? You’ve got the president and Jackie O. You’ve got the governor and his wife in the front seat. And right near the edge of the frame you’ve got William Brown running behind the car. The rest of the secret service guys rode or drove, but Brown never had a problem with running.
So on the film the motorcade comes close, then it passes behind a
sign. In between frames, I mean that’s how fast this guy was. In between one frame and the next, William Brown dives over the president. A couple seconds later, you see the governor get shot and lean over in his seat. Then one more big spray of blood as Brown gets shot for the last time.
Later on, Jackie O said that Brown was pushing JFK further down to try to get him out of the way, even as that boy was dying. Bruised a bunch of JFK’s ribs because he had this stiff back brace on, but he saved his life. The first one got him in the shoulder. He slowed the bullet down enough to not hurt the president too badly. But that last shot severed Brown’s spine. And even as he was bleeding out, he was pushing the president down further. Pushing him to safety.
It was nothing short of a miracle for the people who saw it. He moved faster than anyone could believe. But there it was on film. Proof. They never figured out exactly how many shots were fired that day. Witnesses say that there was one that missed everyone, and that must have been what William Brown heard. But that really doesn’t matter. What matters is that he was faster than the time it took for Lee Harvey Oswald to work the bolt action on that rifle and pull the trigger again. That kind of speed...that reaction...he might have changed the whole world in that instant. Who knows?
What became abundantly clear was that the government was going to have to say something about Enhanced people. It couldn’t be avoided anymore, because one of them just saved the president of the United States. Kennedy was in the hospital for a couple days while they fixed his shoulder, and by that point they’d already caught Oswald. But they never did catch anyone else for it. And yeah, I know, the official stance is that Oswald was alone. But really? I don’t buy that. You can see right there in the Zapruder film that the last shot comes from a totally different angle. The bullet trajectory is all wrong. Unless Oswald was shooting from a moving airplane,
he was not alone that day. And why would he be? If you’re going to take out the leader of the free world, are you really just going to send one guy?
But I guess that’s neither here nor there. Kennedy got better and the wheels began to turn. He held a press conference where he finally gave a little acknowledgement to the Enhanced. He talked about the “extraordinary skills” that William Brown had. He didn’t come right out and say it, but it was there. It was a little bit of acknowledgement, and the Enhanced community was listening.
Now, I hate to beat a dead horse or anything, but the whole notion of the lone gunman...that just kills me. That’s more blindness, I think. Of course, JFK went right along and agreed with it, but like I said, you had to watch what he did, not what he said. Truth is, JFK was a really polarizing figure. There were a lot of people who wanted him dead, for all kinds of reasons. He was a philanderer. He tried to launch a coup in Cuba. He was tough on organized crime. He was also in favor of peace where others wanted war. He made a lot of enemies. But you want my opinion? Look at the people who made speeches and those who didn’t. Who kept their jobs and who didn’t. If not for William Brown, Lyndon Johnson would have been sworn in as president. Instead, he made no more speeches for the rest of the term and was replaced with Bobby Kennedy for the second go ‘round. And then of course, there’s Hoover. Maybe no one on earth was as suspicious as Hoover. He kept files on everybody. He was the father of wiretapping, and those in the know know that he was no fan of civil rights. JFK’s second term started off with Hoover needing to find a new job. That’s just my opinion. Maybe I’m wrong but...it makes you think.
He stops. This may be the very first pause he’s taken since he started talking. He seems to be searching for the words that extend just beyond his grasp.
There are some moments in history that feel like a hinge. In that moment, the entire world has the opportunity to change direction. If JFK dies
that day in Dallas...how would the world look after? I bet you everything I’ve got that we’d have gone to war in Vietnam. JFK knew that was a loser and pulled us out before we were up to our necks in it. If we’d had a major loss in a war that wasn’t ours...the whole sentiment of the country might have changed. Everything. And who would we have been left with. LBJ? Or worse, that prick Nixon? Can you imagine what kind of shape we’d be in with someone like Richard Nixon as president? Would civil rights have gotten passed? Would Enhanced people be even more screwed than they already are? What the hell would the world look like without JFK? It’s a scary thought, isn’t it?
April 2nd, 1992
I’m in the Garden State today, but I’m hard pressed to find a single garden in the place. However, I’m not here for greenery. I’m here for boxing.
Truth be told, I’ve never really been a fan of boxing. I’ve never seen it live, and have only sat through one match on television. But being here in Fabiano’s Gym, I can see a bit of the appeal. Watching these two men spar in the ring, it’s hard for me not to think of the gladiators fighting in Rome. Obviously this isn’t that extreme, but that vital brutality is alive and well, especially because the boxers here aren’t your usual combatants. Fabiano’s Gym is only for Enhanced fighters, and these men wear a lot more protective gear than you’d usually see in a boxing ring. The punches they throw could indeed be deadly. And that’s not just guessing: that’s history. And no one knows more about that than Frank
ie Fabiano.
Frankie couldn’t be more perfectly crafted if he’d been called in from central casting. He looks like he should be giving motivational speeches to Sylvester Stallone, though he’s easily a foot taller than Burgess Meredith. As I enter the gym, he’s standing beside the ring, watching the men trade blows. He’s shouting at them at the top of his lungs.
FRANKIE: Hey, you sons of bitches! Move! MOVE! Did someone cut your fuckin’ feet off? My cock moves faster than that! Go! Go! GO!
The young men move even faster, getting their feet in the action. He continues to yell at them. After a couple of minutes, he blows his whistle and the men separate. He takes hold of one young man as he steps out of the ring, grabbing his head gear and speaking to him in a low voice. Then he gives an affectionate pat to the side of the young man’s head and sends him on his way. Finally, he turns his attention to me.
You see that one there in the yellow? That kid might be the best featherweight boxer there ever was. Kid throws punches that could knock down doors. He’d knock out a goddamn bull if you threw one in the ring with him, but you and me know he’ll never get that kind of attention. He’ll work like hell and nobody’ll ever know his name. It’s the rules. The goddamn
rules that gutted this sport for the best of us. You saw ‘em. They have to wear so many pads...nobody wants that. Nobody wants to see a boxing match when everyone looks like the fuckin’ Michelin Man. And...yeah, yeah it pisses me off because I know I got a big part to play in all that. I helped make this whole thing what it is, and that feels like shit.
And I’ll tell you what else pisses me off. What pisses me off is that I was a good boxer even before all this shit happened. Before they gave me this...curse. I won the Golden Gloves at eighteen. I could stand in the ring and throw a punch as good as anybody. But then the next year someone decided we were goin’ to war in Korea, and they decided I was comin’ along with ‘em. Personally, I never met a Korean who ever pissed me off, so I didn’t know why I was going to go fight ‘em. But when they told me I could join with some program to maybe improve who I was...I figured that might make some good out of the whole stupid situation.
By the time I got back stateside, my poor mother was on her deathbed. It killed her to see me leave. And god bless her, she was stuck on the drink. When I left, she couldn’t pull herself out of it. So just a few months after I got back, I was alone.
For the next couple of years, I didn’t do too much. I got fat. I felt sorry for myself. I wallowed around and was real pitiful. And I’ll tell you, pity feels great. If it didn’t, nobody would ever do it. But it feels great to wallow around in your own shit for a while.
Finally, a buddy of mine from my old unit came into town and took me out to a fight. Watching those guys in the ring...it was a pretty low rent kind of deal, so these weren’t great fighters...I got mad. I got mad because I knew I could jump in the ring and beat these assholes. What right did they have fighting when I wasn’t? I decided right then I was gonna get back in the
ring.
I found a gym and found a featherweight pro to spar with. I figured,
since I had a good forty pounds on the guy, I’d stack up pretty well. But that guy was quick and he beat me right into the ropes. The next day I picked myself up, went back in, and did a little better. I kept on doing that, getting a little better every day, for the next few months before a trainer finally took notice. And a couple months after that, I had a fight.
First guy I went up against was a real washout. I mean, at that level everybody’s a washout. But he was even a little worse than me. He had decent hands, but he was slow. He went two rounds before I caught him and dislocated his jaw. It felt good to be back in the ring. Felt real good.
I spent the next two years building myself up. And I won’t lie, I was miserable for a lot of it. Had to watch what I ate. No drinking. I wasn’t making hardly anything. But I was fighting. And I was never as happy as when I was in the ring. Not ever. I wasn’t gonna be world champion, but I was doing what I loved. And then I met the son of a bitch that ruined it all for me.
I’d put on a real good show that night. Pummeled the shit out of some poor bastard. TKO’d him in the second round, and barely broke a sweat. I wasn’t in perfect shape, but I was looking a lot better. And I was a hell of a lot stronger. It shocked me how much stronger I’d got. After the fight, this black fella comes up to me. Says he wants to be my manager. I’d never had a manager before. He looked wild. Had this wild hair and he talked real fast. But my trainer was shit at scheduling fights, so I figured I could use a little help, and I said yes. What was the worst that could happen, right?
Well I had to feel pretty good about this guy, because he wasn’t my manager for barely a week before he’d lined up another fight for me. And this one was a hell of a step up. This guy was ranked, and he even put up a bit of a fight for a few rounds. And after that, I pretty much did whatever my manager said. He set up my fights and I knocked ‘em down. We seemed to be doing a lot better money-wise, though I never really thought to ask about it. I
just told him when I needed things and he got ‘em for me.
In a year I was at the top of my game. Taking down bigger guys. Winning matches. Living the kind of life that I had dreamed about. I went from a low-rent nobody fighting other low-rent nobodies to someone movin’ up the ranks. And moving fast. I didn’t really want to believe it, but I thought I might actually get a shot at the big time.
See that last fight...he set up a hell of a thing for me. I was set up against this big...I think he was a Polack or something. Big guy. But the winner of this one was going to be on the road to maybe going up against Sonny Liston for the title. No joke. That...that was the big time. That was my shot. So I trained harder than I ever had before. I knew this Polack guy was four inches taller than me, and had a longer reach. I wanted to make sure that when I got ahold of him, I’d make it count.
By the time we had our weigh ins, I knew I had him. He was tall and in good shape, but I knew I looked like a goddamn animal out there. In six months I’d put on over twenty pounds of muscle. I mean...holy shit. I looked like one of those steroid freaks, but I wasn’t on nothin’. I looked over at him, and he looked over at me, and I saw the fear. He knew he was in some serious shit.
I don’t want to talk like I’m all proud of what happened in there. But I’m not really ashamed of it, either. I didn’t do anything wrong. I fought well. And I fought clean. For the first three rounds he did his best to dance away from me. Try to wear me down with little rabbit punches, but I was patient. I knew all I needed was one real good opening, and in the fourth round I got it.
He took one step back. Then another. His hands raised up just a little too high and I saw my shot. My first shot jab him in the chest, just hard enough to make him drop his hands. Then I had him. A right, a left, and one more right, all to the head. See, if you hit a guy in the face, maybe you’ll break his nose or bust his eye. Maybe he’ll cry a little. But if you hit a guy in the
head and really jumble up his brain, he’s down. So that’s what I did. Three clean shots. And on the third, I heard...and felt…a horrible POP. Like cracking your knuckle, times a thousand. Felt it all the way up my arm. Ugh.
I knew something was wrong before he even hit the mat. And others saw it too. By the time people started piling in the ring, that so called “manager” piece of shit was gone. Never saw him again in person. I barely had time to take my gloves off in the locker room before the police came to take me down to the station. And I didn’t resist or nothin’. I knew something real bad had happened.
They called it “internal decapitation”. Doesn’t that sound like the most brutal fuckin’ thing you ever heard? His skull disconnected from the rest of his spine. Now, that’s the kind of injury you get from a bad car wreck. You don’t get your block knocked off fighting in the ring. Not really. When a guy dies in the ring, it’s usually because he was getting the shit beat out of him and someone should have stopped t
he fight long before they did, or maybe a guy stroked out or somethin’. But this...three clean punches. That’s all.
The cops were real nice to me...though I guess it’d be a mistake to be mean to someone who just killed a guy with his fists. But they asked me about my gloves. Asked if I was carrying anything in ‘em, which I wasn’t. They just wanted to know the same thing I did...how the fuck does something like that happen? They left me in there awhile, mostly because the cops can’t just let you go have a steak dinner after you kill a guy, and then I got to thinking.
When I was in the service, they’d told me that there might be some effects to me being in that special program. I’d heard of guys comin’ back with all kinds of crazy things. And though I hadn’t really changed much while I was over there...maybe I’d changed when I got back. I didn’t know if they’d care or even believe me, but I told ‘em about it. And I guess the cops took it pretty serious, because the next person I was talking to was the district attorney.
May 17th, 1992
The morning fog has burned away, the sun is shining, and San Francisco is marvelous. After availing myself of a few touristy delights (if you haven’t eaten at The White Whale near the water, you really must), I take a trolley ride up to the office of Geraldine White (“Call me Gerry,” she insists). She runs a law office in a rather tiny space above an Indian restaurant. Having been in the office of one or two lawyers in the past, I can say this is the most liberal law office I’ve ever been in. The walls of the cramped space are decorated with old protest signs, for everything from women’s suffrage to civil rights to Enhanced rights. It is quite an interesting collection belonging to quite an interesting woman. Gerry is short, barely five feet tall, with fiery red hair that is barely contained in a ponytail. She wears a business suit, but her feet are bare. The clunky heels she must have worn in now sit forgotten in a corner.