by Jeff Zentner
Then there are the terrible tattoos snaking up arms: barbed wire loops around biceps, tiger and koi sleeves, pat inspirational sayings (THAT WHICH DOES NOT KILL YOU MAKES YOU STRONGER; THE MORE YOU SWEAT IN PRACTICE, THE LESS YOU BLEED IN BATTLE), and ghoulish portraits of what I can only assume are children and deceased relatives.
“This is so goofy,” Delia says, taking in the scene.
“It’s as cheesy and weird so far as I was hoping it would be,” I say.
“I can’t believe Lawson thrives in this culture.”
“I mean, I can. He seems really into honor and such.”
“Is honor something you can be into?”
“Why not?”
“It sounds weird. The knights were very into honor.”
“Sounds fine to me.”
Delia shrugs. “I guess. But it kinda sounds like the knights dabbled in honor.”
“Like they would do some honor on the weekends?”
“You have an honor boat you take out on Sundays to go waterskiing.”
As we make our way to seats as close to the octagon as we can find, I scan the crowd for the guys I saw in the YouTube video, who I thought were Lawson’s brothers.
“I do kind of love this,” Delia says. “I’m excited for the gratuitous violence we’re about to witness.”
“Oh, that’s the part I thought you would like the best,” I say.
“I’m really responding most of all to the general cheesiness.”
We’re not the only girls in attendance, but men heavily outnumber women. Our fellow attendees treat us with a mix of exaggerated chivalry—like we’re maidens at a joust—and the expected catcalls. It’s nicer than what I anticipated, which was only catcalls.
“Are you so excited to see Lawson fight?” Delia asks.
I’m careful to inject studied nonchalance into my voice, lest Delia get the wrong idea. “Yeah, it’ll be cool. He does such great work with boards, it’ll be exciting to see what he can do with a rib cage.”
“I hear roundhouse kicks are doing amazing things with the human face these days.”
“Speaking of, I’m gonna let him know we made it.”
Me: Yo dude, we’re here.
Lawson: You came!!!!
Me: I said I would, doofus!!!
Lawson: People don’t always do stuff they say.
Me: I’m big on promises. Are you psyched?
Lawson: Little nervous. The guy I was gonna fight had to drop out with an injury, so they subbed in a new guy who’s got a better record and might be harder to beat.
Me: Aww you’ll do great.
I nearly say “I’ve seen you fight,” but no need for that right now.
Lawson: I gotta go do some stretching and warm up. I’m glad you came! I’ll look for you!
Me: Cool. We’ll talk after? When you’ve won?
Lawson: For sure.
The fifty-something, pasty, wilted-corncob-looking guy sitting next to Delia has slipped in to engage her in conversation. Delia emits some pheromone that attracts weirdos. There was this dude at school who liked her, and she told him jokingly that she’d go to a dance with him if he’d pee his gym shorts on purpose during PE, and he did and got sent home. (She didn’t go to the dance with him.)
“No,” Delia says to the guy, who has a face even a mother would admit, in all candor, was not her best work, and whose gray goatee looks like a bedraggled mouse humping his chin. “I’m saying that if I were to eat something at any time of the day, I would eat it at breakfast. A salad is something I will not eat, no matter what time of day it is. Therefore, I will not eat it for breakfast. Pizza is something I will eat. Therefore, I’ll eat it for breakfast.” Delia casts a rescue me look in my direction.
“You and your friend can come to Buffalo Wild Wings with us after. Our treat,” Corncob says, nodding at Delia and me and then back at his son (?) and/or friend (?), who looks like a sub sandwich that was dipped in Elmer’s Glue and then propped up in front of a fan through which someone had tossed handfuls of hair clippings.
“We are literally in high school for like two more weeks,” Delia says.
Corncob shrugs and gives a grunt that somehow says, The only time I’ve ever willingly read something was to look up age-of-consent laws.
“Also we’re a super-specific kind of vegetarian where we don’t eat any kind of animal’s wings,” I say. “No bird, bat, cockroach. No kind of wings.”
“I ain’t ever heard of that,” Corncob says.
“Also we have to do some production work for our TV show after,” Delia says with a delicious air of casual haughtiness.
“Y’all are on TV,” Corncob says like he’s the one telling us.
“Yep,” Delia says.
“What’s your show called?”
“Midnite Matinee.”
“What’s it about?”
“We show old horror and sci-fi movies.”
Corncob shakes his head. “I don’t believe you.”
“Well, guess what?” Delia says. “We don’t believe that you’re really going to Buffalo Wild Wings.”
“Yeah, you’re not allowed in because the last time you were there you both got chicken bones stuck up your noses and they had to call nine-one-one because you kept blacking out from lack of oxygen,” I say.
“One of you passed out from wing poisoning and your face landed in the ranch dressing trough and you almost died by ranch drowning,” Delia says.
“No,” Corncob says.
“Never happened,” Hairy Sandwich says.
“Oh yeah? Prove it right now,” I say.
“Right now. Do it, prove it,” Delia says. “Photographic evidence.”
“We go to Buffalo Wild Wings all the time. We ain’t lying,” Hairy Sandwich says.
“And yet you can’t prove it,” Delia says.
I can see her scanning the room for new seats. But it’s pretty full. That’s also the upside to this situation. There are so many people around, we don’t even have to pretend to be nice to these two clowns.
“Also, FYI, both of you guys’ tattoos look like they were done while you were sitting in a canoe,” I say, praying in my heart for some deliverance from these thirsty idiots. And just like that, as if my will caused the universe to turn on its axis, a tuxedoed announcer makes his way to the middle of the octagon with a microphone. The lights go out, except for inside the cage. Spotlights sweep the room chaotically.
“Laaaaaaaaaaadies aaaaaaaaaand uhhhhh gentlemen. Welcome to Ahhhhhhctagon uhhh Valorrrrrrrrrrr Sixteeeeeeeeeen.” The crowd goes bonkers, hooting and hollering for blood.
“Toniiiiiiiight’s fights will consist of three five-minute rounds, which will be scored by our judges. And now, without further ado, lehhhhhhhhhhhhhhht’s ruhhhhhhhhhhhmble!”
Delia winces as Corncob and Hairy Sandwich stick pinkie fingers in their mouths and give piercing whistles and make what sound like hog calls.
The fights begin. We’re into it ironically at first, but then start genuinely having fun trying to top each other yelling stuff. We get looks, but so what?
“Make him feel like every day is Monday!” Delia shouts.
“Embarrass him in front of everyone he’s ever loved!” I shout.
“Dip your hands in his blood!” Delia shouts.
“Send him back to school to get his degree in computer science!” I shout.
“Show him how angry you are that stuff that’s supposed to smell like green tea doesn’t smell like green tea!” Delia shouts.
“Okay, that one was a stretch,” I say.
Corncob and Sandwich, meanwhile, really bring the creativity with “Whup his ass!” “Beat his ass!” and to change things up, “Kick his butt!” And occasionally, “Git some! Hoo-whee!”
&nbs
p; “Being here is making me realize that I like almost everything,” Delia says.
I test her assertion in my mind. “Is that true? I’m trying to think of a thing you don’t like, and I’m coming up empty. Hallmark movies?”
“Love them.”
“Malls.”
“Love. It’s weird to me to be super resistant to things that are designed specifically to be liked. There are so many other ways to use your energy. Just enjoy stuff that’s fun. And the mall is fun.”
“Outlet malls.”
“Love even more than normal malls.”
“Okay, I give up. Wait!” I cast Corncob and Hairy Sandwich an obvious side-eye.
“Got me there.”
There’s a bizarrely exciting monotony to the fights. Plenty of circling each other, testing for openings, lots of what looks like cuddling on the ground, punctuated with jackhammer explosions of action. Delia’s and my tolerance for sitting through badly plotted movies—which is what we’d otherwise be doing at this time on a Saturday night—serves us well.
Finally, the fight immediately before Lawson’s ends with a submission.
“Lawson’s up!” Delia says, as if I forgot.
I nod, watching the entrances where the fighters have been coming and leaving. My nerves are suddenly alive with jitters. I don’t want to see him get hurt. I somehow put out of my mind that that was a possibility.
“What?” Delia asks.
“Nothing.”
“You had a weird expression.”
“No, I—Hey!”
The announcer has made his way to the middle of the octagon with his microphone. “Laaaaaaaadies and gentlemuhhhhhhn, we have come to our welterweight bout. In the red corner, at one hundred seventy pounds, with a record of nine and oh, fighting out of Memphis, Tennesseeeeeeeeee, Noooooooooooooah ‘Niiiiiiiightmaaaaare’ Puuuuuuuurdue.”
A fighter in a hoodie with the hood up emerges to some terrible heavy metal that sounds like it was written for a U.S. Army commercial and makes his way toward the ring, punching and feinting. My heart sinks. He looks twice Lawson’s size. Aren’t they supposed to be the same weight? He whips off his hoodie and tosses it to his coach or whatever. He looks like he’s made out of steak and veins draped over a sledgehammer. He’s covered in creepy tattoos. I heard somewhere once that clowns are supposed to do their makeup with soft, rounded edges so as not to frighten kids (we can leave aside the question of whether that’s ever successful). His ink is lots of spikes and teeth and blades and pointy things that look unwelcoming. Like the human version of a reptile that advertises its venomousness with garish colors. And speaking of, his hair and beard are dyed in blond and black streaks. He has the arrogant half smirk of someone who knows you’re using the bathroom after him and leaves the toilet seat up on purpose.
I want Lawson to punch him in that smile for me.
Steak ’n’ Veins does a slow lap around the ring, pumping his fists, punching the air.
“Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaand in the blue corner, at one hundred sixty-nine pounds, with a record of three and oh, fighting out of Jaaaaaaaaackson, Tennessee…Laaaaaaaaaaawson ‘Lahhhhhhhhhhst in Translation’ uh Vaaaaaaaaaaargas!”
I squeal involuntarily and turn to Delia.
Her face shines like she already knows. “Are you serious?!”
“I was totally joking when I suggested it to him.”
“Hey, it’s no dumber than any of the other fighter nicknames.”
She’s right. One of the fighters was nicknamed “Hot Dog.” And if we’re being honest, “Nightmare” is pretty on the nose.
“No Light” by Florence and the Machine starts booming through the arena. It makes my heart feel swoopy, like suddenly remembering on Thursday night that you have a three-day weekend.
I snap back to meet Delia’s eyes again. “Okay.”
“All right. But seriously.”
“But seriously. I did not tell him to pick that.”
“Whatever.”
“There he is!” I stand. Delia stands with me.
Lawson emerges, doing a bouncing sort of strut, shaking out his arms. He’s wearing a stiff, new-looking ball cap and a T-shirt—his clothing choices are peak Lawson, no attempts here to impress me. His face is pure titanium resolve.
I cup my hands to my mouth and shout, “Go, Lawson!”
It somehow catches his attention, and our eyes meet. He allows the hardness of his face to soften into the faintest hint of a fearless smile. He raises a gloved hand and points in my direction before bounding up into the ring, handing his hat to his coach (?), and whipping off his shirt.
He’s bigger now than he was in the video I saw. Honestly, I’ve never been super impressed by muscles; in fact, I find them sort of comical and eye-roll-y, like Wow, I bet you’re fascinating to talk to. Tell me more about creatine. All of my past boyfriends have been either much more wiry or much more teddy-bear-like. But…he has a nice body.
“Lawson looks like he works out,” Delia says, reading my mind.
“I gotta think it helps with the punching?”
“That one your boyfriend?” Corncob asks.
“My friend,” I say. “But mostly none of your business.”
“Nightmare’s gonna beat his ass.”
“Nightmare’s gonna beat your face’s ass,” I say.
“That don’t make no sense,” Hairy Sandwich says.
“You know what doesn’t make any sense? Literally your face. Your face does not make sense,” Delia says.
Hairy Sandwich starts to gabble something.
“Hey, I know,” I say. “Let’s play the not-talking-to-each-other game. Let’s see who wins that.”
“We don’t wanna talk with y’all. Y’all ain’t as pretty as you think,” Corncob says.
“Awesome, then you’ll probably win,” Delia says.
Lawson and Steak ’n’ Veins, who’s several inches taller than Lawson, square off, staring each other down. Neither blinks. Steak ’n’ Veins eyes Lawson the way my mom eyes me when I track in mud. Lawson returns his caustic stare with yet more serene confidence. It’s a nice look on him. Objectively speaking.
The ref finishes conferring with the two. A woman in Daisy Dukes and a neon-pink bikini top struts a lap around the ring, holding a sign with a “1” on it. Lawson puts up his gloves to touch gloves with Steak ’n’ Veins the way the other fighters have done. Steak ’n’ Veins turns his back on the gesture. Even though I’ve seen very few fights, this seems like a clear dick move. Anger mixes with my surging adrenaline as the fighters circle each other warily. I’m suddenly petrified of seeing Lawson get hurt. I forget I’m still standing until Delia sits down beside me. I wipe my sweaty palms on my legs.
The fight begins. Steak ’n’ Veins immediately comes on strong, attacking hard. But Lawson avoids his punches and returns a few of his own. Steak ’n’ Veins charges at Lawson and narrowly avoids a high kick to the side of the head. He takes Lawson to the ground and gets on top of him, and they start that weirdly intimate tangled embracing the fighters do, throwing short punches and elbows at each other’s heads and faces.
It’s both thrilling and terrifying to see Lawson in his element. It’s hard to watch, but at the same time, I can’t look away. I’m trying to reconcile the goofy, sweet guy I’ve been on a sorta date with and the calculating warrior I’m watching.
Lawson slips out from under Steak ’n’ Veins and jumps to his feet, and the two square off again. Lawson throws a kick and knocks him off-balance. He charges and forces Lawson to retreat with a flurry of punches. So on and so forth.
Time spills out like ketchup from a bottle, but the bell finally rings, ending the first round. The fighters go to their respective corners and get water and pep talks.
I’ve been clenching my fists for the last five minutes.
I breathe and relax back into my seat. I feel like I’ve been fighting.
“You nervous for Lawson?” Delia asks.
“I mean, yeah, but he seems to be doing fine.”
“I’m thoroughly enjoying this. We might have to start a second show where we watch MMA fights and comment on them.”
“If Jack Divine doesn’t leave us too busy, I’m in.” Cold guilt runs through me as I say it. I have the urge to confess the promise I made my parents, to get it off my chest. But now isn’t the time—she’s having too much fun. I would be too, were I not so worried about Lawson.
“I was mostly kidding,” Delia says. “But a little bit not.”
“Heard anything else from Jack Divine?”
“No. But I wasn’t expecting to. We sort of left it at ‘We’ll talk at the con.’ ”
“Should we, like, try to get a firmer plan down for what we’ll be talking about?”
“I’m afraid of bugging him. We probably don’t want to come across as too needy.”
The break ends, and Lawson and Steak ’n’ Veins meet in the middle of the octagon again. My heart resumes its hurried patter.
“Put him away, Nightmare!” Hairy Sandwich yells.
“Knock his ass out!” Corncob yells.
“Go, Lawson!” I yell.
Maybe he heard me, because Lawson goes on the attack. Steak ’n’ Veins absorbs the force of the assault, somehow remaining standing. He grapples his way behind Lawson and grabs him around the torso in a sort of bear hug. He leaps backward, taking Lawson with him, slamming Lawson’s head and upper back onto the mat. The crowd goes bonkers, drowning out the sound of my involuntary gasp.
“Suuuuuuuuuuuuuplex,” Corncob hoots in Delia’s face. “Suuuuuuuuuuuuuplex, come git you some.”
Her face puckers and she turns away, fanning in front of her nose. “Your breath seriously smells like you have a raccoon graveyard inside your body.”