Rayne & Delilah's Midnite Matinee

by Jeff Zentner

  I wasn’t in the mood for these clowns even before they were rubbing Lawson’s getting hurt in my face. “Your breath smells like you ate a bowl of dog turds with a spoon made of cat turds,” I snap.

  He shrugs matter-of-factly. “I had some garlic bread from Little Caesar’s in my truck and ate it before I came in.”

  “You just keep garlic bread in your truck?” Delia looks at him like he told her his favorite drink is warm milk with a handful of cat hair thrown in.

  “It’s truck bread. If I need a snack.”

  “Truck bread isn’t a thing. That’s gross. You’re gross,” Delia says.

  “Joke’s on you because it’s delicious. Gets crunchy like chips.”

  I lean over to Corncob and hiss, “Shut up. You’re making the arena stink. Shut up.”

  I turn my attention back to Lawson, who’s back on his feet, visibly dazed and unsteady. He parries a flurry of blows from Steak ’n’ Veins. My heart feels like it’s under a board that someone is stacking books on. I’m so far forward in my seat, I’m barely sitting. My thighs are burning. “Come on, come on, come on, Lawson, come on,” I murmur urgently, over and over.

  Almost as if he can hear me, Lawson dodges a knee strike, takes a couple of steps backward, and delivers a ferocious kick directly to the side of Steak ’n’ Veins’ head. Steak ’n’ Veins stumbles back and lands on his tailbone. The crowd’s reaction is almost as explosive as after Steak ’n’ Veins’ suplex.

  I jump out of my seat and scream, “Go, Lawson!” I turn to Corncob and point in his face. “Kick in the heeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaad. Kick in the heeeeeeeeeaaaaaaaad.” I chant it a few more times, Delia joining in.

  Lawson tries to capitalize on Steak ’n’ Veins’ fall, but Steak ’n’ Veins manages to tangle him up on the ground so he can’t get in a clean punch.

  The second round ends, and the third round begins. Both fighters are obviously tired. They spend a lot of time circling each other, moving more slowly. During one of the grab-ass interludes on the ground, Steak ’n’ Veins catches Lawson over the right eye with a lucky elbow, opening a cut. Blood starts streaming down Lawson’s face. The sight turns my stomach into a balloon animal.

  I don’t know how he’s doing this—down there, all alone, injured, bleeding, fighting through the humiliation of being slammed on the ground in a giant room filled with shouting people. In front of me. After he invited me. He’s made of something different from every other guy I’ve known in my life. He’s made of something solid and warm that feels nice to run your hand over, like a wooden banister in an old building.

  For the last few minutes of the fight, I sit completely still and watch him the way you watch an animal you don’t want to scare off. It’s like I’m worried any wrong move on my part will throw him off for that split second and cause him to catch an unlucky punch or kick.

  “Hey,” Delia whispers, startling me.

  “Huh?” I keep my eyes fixed on the octagon.

  “You’re way pale.”

  “I can only handle the sight of blood when I know it’s red corn syrup.”

  “And also probably when it’s not on your friend.”

  “That helps for sure.”

  The bell ending the match finally rings. Lawson moves toward Steak ’n’ Veins to shake his hand, but Steak ’n’ Veins turns his back and stalks to his corner. That guy is a serious nut sack, if you ask me.

  This has been one of the longer fifteen-plus minutes of my life. I’m not sure how I feel. I don’t regret coming—I know that much. I guess maybe it’s like watching childbirth or something. You’re not gonna be all That was so fun to watch you suffer and see stuff that’s supposed to be inside your body outside your body, but you’re glad you were there for them.

  Lawson and Steak ’n’ Veins stand in the middle of the ring with the referee between them, gripping each of their hands.

  “Helluva fight,” someone behind us says.

  “Can’t believe Nightmare couldn’t seal the deal,” Hairy Sandwich whines. “That’s weak. Going to a decision.”

  “Laaaaaaaadies and gentlemen, we haaaaaave a decision from our judges. Judge Collins scores the fight thirty to twenty-nine for the red corner.”

  I can’t remember who’s what corner, but from Corncob and Hairy Sandwich’s quick hisses of “Yes,” I gather Steak ’n’ Veins is red. Lawson’s face is expressionless. No hint that he’s bothered or worried. They cleaned the blood off his face and closed his cut when he went back to his corner after the fight ended.

  “Judge Hamlin scores the fight thirty to twenty-nine for the blue corner.”

  A quick trumpet blast in my heart. I grab Delia’s knee. “Come on, Lawson. Come on,” I murmur.

  “Aaaaaand Judge Patten scores the fight thirty to twenty-nine for the red corner. The winner! By split decision! Nooooo­ooooo­oooah ‘Niiiiiiiightmaaaaare’ Puuuuuuuurdue!”

  The ref lifts Steak ’n’ Veins’ arm skyward for a moment before Steak ’n’ Veins breaks his grip and starts running laps around the octagon, pounding on his chest. He jumps up and straddles the top of the octagon wall, pointing at the crowd, face agloat. He’s acting like he knocked Lawson out with one punch ten seconds into the fight, instead of winning by one point or something.

  Hairy Sandwich and Corncob jump out of their seats and pump their fists like they themselves won a strenuous physical contest instead of sitting in chairs while failing in their gambit to get two high school girls to join them at a chain wing restaurant.

  Lawson lifts his eyes over the faces of the crowd. I know he’s not looking at anything in particular; he just doesn’t want to look anywhere near the ground. Pain grays his face. He’s clearly struggling to be brave in defeat, but it’s obvious how much he’s hurting. It’s heartbreaking. It’s like watching a hawk stumble along the ground with a broken wing. Not that I’ve actually seen that. But I can’t imagine it’s an inspiring sight.

  Then I remember that my being here is probably making this ten times worse. Cold guilt seeps in like water when you accidentally step in a puddle in socks. It’s exactly as pleasant a sensation too.

  I watch him leave the octagon, walking without any of the verve with which he entered, trying to hold his head high while not looking anywhere near me.

  I need to do something for him.

  “He looks bummed,” I say.

  Josie nods, watching him exit.

  “I’d be,” I continue. “And, like, I super don’t care about winning stuff.”

  Josie nods again, still not looking at me.

  “So what should we—”

  “I wanna try to say hi real quick,” Josie says. “He looks like he needs a hug.”

  “You giving out hugs?” Hairy Sandwich asks.

  He’s barely landed on the s in hugs when Josie goes, “Nooooo­ooooo­, we are not.”

  “Not even one of those hugs where we pat you on the back really hard so it’s obvious we don’t like you,” I say.

  “You’re maaaad,” Hairy Sandwich says in a singsong voice. “You’re mad because your boyfriend lost.”

  Josie draws a quick breath through her nose. “Okay, one? Not my boyfriend. But whatever. Two? He has the balls to go in the ring and actually fight, while you two armchair warriors sit and watch. So between you guys? He always wins.”

  “I could take him,” Corncob says.

  “Nope. You could not. He would beat you up very, very badly and humiliate you,” Josie says. “He would take your gross truck bread and stomp all over it.”

  I stand. “We saw Lawson. Let’s go,” I say to Josie.

  Josie stands and says to Corncob and Hairy Sandwich, “Sitting next to you two is as fun as holding in a fart in class.”

  “Ain’t supposed to hold in farts. Bad for your liver,” Corncob says.

  “That’s not correct,”
I say.

  “ ’S my opinion.”

  Josie just stares at him for a second. “A. Not how opinions work,” she says finally. “B. If you take nothing else from our brief encounter, let it be this: you can hold in farts. You can do it for a very long time, and it’s fine. I’m no expert in human anatomy, but I know that the body’s fart tubes are not connected to the liver. So, for the benefit of everyone who loves being around you, if any, please—hold them in.”

  And with that, we leave.

  As much as I was genuinely enjoying myself (in spite of our neighbors), I was only really having fun while Josie was having fun.

  * * *

  •••

  In the corridor where we wait, we can hear the whoops and cheers of the final bout. I look at Josie and notice for the first time how great she looks tonight. She’s absolutely nailed the not trying to look good but accidentally looking really good except it’s no accident thing.

  “This is where he’s coming out?” I ask.

  “That’s what he said in the text,” Josie says. “He’ll be a sec, though. He said he’s supposed to stay until the final fight is over.”

  “You sure he wants to see us?”

  “No. But I want to see him.”

  She seems nervous and unsteady. I don’t see her like that often.

  So we wait. People mill around us. A roar from the arena inside as the final bout ends. A few minutes later, Lawson emerges, wearing his new clothes, carrying a duffel bag. His hair is wet. He walks slowly and with a slight limp. He holds his head high in the way of someone who’s being trained in it, like he’s been told to imagine a book balanced on top of his head. Butterfly bandages close the cut over his eye. A mustard-colored bruise blooms fresh on one of his cheekbones. He sees us and twists his mouth upward into a sort of thin, pained half smile. He looks like he wishes we weren’t there.

  Josie cocks her head and returns his half smile. “You were awesome,” she says as he finally gets within earshot. It was a very long walk.

  “Thanks,” he says quietly, eyes to the floor. “Not awesome enough, I guess.”

  “Whatever, dude. Those judges are dumb.” She steps forward and gives him a long, slow hug, obviously taking care not to hit any tender spots. He unenthusiastically accepts the hug with one arm, not setting down his bag.

  “Super dumb,” I say. “I thought you won.”

  He nods. Not in agreement, but in acknowledgment of what I said.

  I don’t know him well, but I’ve been around him enough to feel the warm, buoyant, good-natured energy he exudes. That’s all gone. There’s a bare patch on the floor where it used to be, like after you move a refrigerator.

  “Thanks for coming,” he murmurs. “But I really wanted you to see me win.”

  “Aw. You’re…still a winner in my book,” Josie says, playing it totally straight.

  Josie and I look away from each other because we both know that if we make eye contact after she laid down some Velveeta cheese like that, we’re going to start busting up, as we do at the most inappropriate moments. Like the time at a school assembly when one of the PE teachers was giving us a pep talk and we realized he was basically plagiarizing the lyrics to “All Star” by Smash Mouth. We got detention for that one.

  Lawson is about to respond, when three big guys who look vaguely Lawson-esque—thick black hair and similar facial structure—and who dress like Lawson, pre-Josie-impressing fashion awakening, rush up and start hugging him and mussing his hair and generally grab-assing. He half-heartedly fends them off. “Stop. Quit, guys. Damn. For real. Knock it off.”

  The largest and oldest-looking one has a large tattoo of crossed American and Mexican flags on his forearm, above “USMC.” “Careful of his eye,” he says. “Bust it back open, he’ll bleed like a damn faucet all over your truck on the way home.”

  “You got robbed, little bro,” another says.

  “ ’Bout took Purdue’s head off with that kick,” the third says.

  “You fought with heart, bro. That’s what matters. You ain’t defeated. Just gotta get back in the octagon,” the second says.

  “Come on. Let’s get. Mom and Dad are waiting. Gotta prove to Mom you’re still alive,” the first says, assuming a fighting stance and playfully swatting at the back of Lawson’s head.

  Lawson bats him away and looks at us apologetically. “My brothers.”

  Josie nods. “I figured from the ‘Mom and Dad’ part.”

  “Great fight, Vargas!” a passerby yells. Lawson waves.

  “You gonna introduce us to your young lady friends?” one of the brothers asks.

  “Josie, Delia, these are my brothers, Connor, Wyatt, and Trey.”

  Hey, how you doin’, what’s up? they say. We nod.

  Lawson sighs. “Okay. I better go. Like they said, gotta show my mom I pulled through.” He still doesn’t make eye contact with Josie.

  She reaches out and grabs his forearm gently. “Hey,” she says softly.

  Lawson looks at her. His eyes are a well of hurt. He tries to smile but comes up short, averting his eyes. He limps away, his brothers romping around him. We give them enough of a head start that we know we won’t run into them in the parking lot and have to face the dreaded double goodbye.

  “Well, that was awkward,” Josie says, unlocking her car. Someone whistles at her. She shoots them a caustic look. “I mean, I almost feel guilty we came.”

  “He was glad you did.”

  “I guess.” Josie backs out until a jacked-up Dodge pickup honks at her, and we’re on our way.

  * * *

  •••

  It’s uneasily silent; I can tell Josie is mulling. I decide to test the waters. “You wanna pick up some snacks for pre-production?”

  Josie hesitates. “Would you be totally pissed if we did pre-pro another time?”

  Yes. “Why?” I try to sound nonchalant.

  “I feel like I should swing by and try to cheer up Lawson.”

  “He seemed like he wanted to be alone.”

  “He seemed like he wanted to seem like he wanted to be alone, but actually he wanted someone to come cheer him up.”

  “He has his family.”

  “I get the sense he feels a little differently about me than his three brothers.”

  “Just go tomorrow.”

  “Haven’t you ever tried to sleep on a night when something really crappy has happened to you? It sucks.”

  “You’re literally asking me if I’ve ever tried to sleep when something crappy has happened to me?”

  “See? You know.”

  Something in my chest feels like it’s pinching me. Drawing me into myself. Making me small inside. “I also know that we always do pre-pro on Saturday night. It’s our thing.”

  “DeeDee. We can do it another time. Tomorrow.”

  “JoJo. That’s totally not the point. The point is: this is a thing we do, it’s our job, and you wanna ditch out to go cheer up a dude you just met because he barely lost his fight.” I know in my heart I’m being super unchill. But I can’t help it. The pinching in my chest worsens.

  “So not fair. He’s my friend—our friend, honestly—not some dude I just met.”

  “This isn’t even about him. It’s about a lack of dedication.”

  Josie gives a clipped laugh. “You cannot be serious right now.”

  I shrug.

  “Lack of—Dude, I have worked on this show with you religiously. We have done legitimately dozens of episodes. And I don’t even—” She cuts herself off.

  “What? You don’t even what?”

  “Nothing.”

  “No, just say it. You don’t even like doing this show with me.”

  “That is not remotely what I was about to say.”

  “Sure.”

 
; “DeeDee.”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “I don’t even know. Geez, it was a half-formed thought. Cut me some slack.”

  I slump in my seat and look out the window. “Whatever. Do what you gotta do.”

  “Can you please be cool about this?”

  “Yessiree!” I say in my most obnoxious faux-cheerful voice.

  “If the shoe was on the other foot, you’d be really grateful.”

  “What, like if I had been defeated in hand-to-hand combat and you came to visit me?”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’d want to be alone, probably.”

  “Whatever, DeeDee.”

  We get to my trailer. Mom’s sign is illuminated in the front yard. The pinching in my chest has become a vise grip. I feel like I’m watching something I dropped in the bathroom bouncing right before it’s inevitably going to fall right into the toilet. I’ve been a total clown dildo. But I think Josie has too, a little.

  I get out.

  “Are you cool?” Josie asks.

  “Yeah. Whatever.”

  “DeeDee, we can do pre-pro another time. I kinda gotta go comfort Lawson now if I want to be a good friend.”

  “It’s fine. Go.”

  “Love you, DeeDeeBooBoo.”

  “What are you even going to do over there?”

  “I was thinking about making him some pancakes. They’re his goony favorite food.”

  “You’ve never cooked even one thing.”

  “I’ve cooked pancakes! How dare you?”

  “You should go get that premade batter they have in squeeze bottles at the grocery store. That’d be hilarious.”

  “Wait, are you serious? They sell pancake batter in bottles?”

  “Yep.”

  “Obviously it’s gross, right?”

  I shrug. “I’m guessing it’s not terrific?”

  “How amazing would it be to carry one of those bottles in your water bottle carrier while you’re out biking, and you stop to talk to some people, and while you’re talking, you just casually squirt some in your mouth and swish it around.”