by Tom Sheridan
Franco’s buns were ablaze as he blazed down Bunns Lane. Had cramps in his quads as he passed the quads. All on calves unstable as a newborn calf’s. Still, he was much enjoying the run. Much enjoying running behind the cops rather than the reverse. Much enjoying the town running with him. Much enjoying throwing clean lefts and rights with equal ease. Thanks to his old man making him a righty when he was really a lefty. Much enjoying that he actually appreciated his old man as he passed his old apartment. Much enjoying wrapping his run in record time as he doubled over on the double yellows. Right in the middle of the road. Right in front of his humble abode. Much enjoying the swarming coaches, kids, and countless other neighbors. Much enjoying a second listen of Fitty. As his town rallied around him, all in a fitty.
Cuz if Franco couldn’t do it. It couldn’t be done.
TRACK 14. BATTLE OF NEWARK
TWO TONIO FRANCOS walked out the front door that day. The younger set a screen on the screen. The elder shuffled out with a duffel. Closed the warped wood door.
The two Tonio Francos walked into yet another winter wind brought about by the bipolar month. March madness. Behind them, the screen screamed shut. They continued under a down comforter of cumulus. Covering up what The Dealer had in store for Franco’s final hand. The down comforter clouds shoulda been downright discomfiting. Especially when a fresh fleet of sleet flew in. But nah. The two Tonio Francos just threw up their hoods up and walked their hood. It was their weather. The badder the better. Smoke fumed from the pitbulls’ mouths as they walked in-step. The duo so wired, even their brains were wired. Like an Na and Cl unknowingly held together by invisible bonds far stronger than any physical phenomena. An Na and Cl that, when alone, were unstable and incomplete. But when together were part of something bigger. Father and son’s invisible bonds blared an obscure track through both their brains. One with an incessant piano key. A synth as stressed as a boiling kettle. With bass and drums that made it all hum. “Winter Warz” as they marched toward their winter war.
The two Tonio Francos crossed to the Cross Keys Tavern. They rolled up on the Washington memorial as they both harkened back in their bonded brains. Back to all the Jersey battles they had learned about in elementary. In fifth-grade Social Studies. The year designated for Jersey history. The last time Franco earned an A outside gym. The year Joey Yo crossed out JERSEY on his book’s cover and Sharpied in JOISEY.
Washington and his ragtag crew. Got their asses handed to them battle after battle across the Tri-State. Pushed back to Pennsy. Starvin n freezing. Ill n injured. Plenty to grieve on Christmas Eve. Could’ve spent all Christmas morning in mourning. But yo. Fuck that. They crossed the icy Delaware with ice in their veins. Packed boats for pig iron with wills of iron. Ran ashore on Jersey in their tattered jerseys.
The two Tonio Francos planned on patting the memorial and moving on. But. There was an envelope taped to it. Handwritten in all caps: FOR FRANCO.
The elder pulled the handwritten letter out. A scan of it told him it was from G-Dub.
Yo. Franco. The way we came up we don’t never talk about our feelins or nothin. I don’t know if you even know but I was their the night Youngin OD’d.
Franco. G-Dub. Youngin. The three OGs. The three soccer team refugees. Back of the bus blastin Fugees.
And I was watching the night The Prince ended your career. Or so I thought if I’m keepin it real. Outta the three of us I always thought you were the one with the chance to really do somethin. End then to see you lose Julie. Your family.
As Franco stood before the memorial of his nation, he had finally found that Jersey Haitian. As he read the letter from his guy, he was hearing “No Woman, No Cry.”
But here you are. The man of the hour.
It’s time to do work. See you in Newark.
Franco unslung his duffel. The one he had to dust off after giving the other away the other day. The one from his high school soccer days. The one with the broken zipper. The one with Youngin’s Asics Aggressors looking right at him.
Franco placed G-Dub’s envelope next to Youngin’s Asics. With emotions like he was age six. Franco and TJ then patted the memorial together. Something T wanted to do since age six. As they walked away, Franco wiped a tear from his eye. Under the gray sky. Still hearing “No Woman, No Cry.”
At the Woodbridge train station, Joey, Coach Nelly, Brazil, Taz, and Lama all joined the revolution. A militia ready to overthrow The Prince. Their own general looking like Prince. They his band. The Revolution.
Lama lofted, “Where’s the Stang?”
But it didn’t sting. Wasn’t a second ominous sign. The two Tonios wanted to take the Transit train. Wanted to walk along the linoleum tiles splitting the peanut pleather seats. Wanted to sit among pardoned prisoners from Rahway and those sentenced to The City grind. Wanted to sit in the seats with the rockable backs that allowed the Francos to rock back. And sit right across from each other. Just like back in the day. Back in the day when Franco and Julie would take little T to NYC. They’d arrive at the tracks under MSG. Unfold the stroller. Rock the little feller up to Rockefeller. Little T loved The Tree. Julie the Macy’s sprees. Franco the Big East Tourney. All three the Statue of Liberty. Julie talking about her Ellis Island heritage like a preacher. Followed by watching the Bombers from the bleachers. Where Dad became the teacher.
As the Transit train lifted past Linden, the Francos’ melded mind drifted. To all the events they couldn’t see. The Knicks tickets too big a nick in the pockets. The Rangers hockey tickets hocked for hundreds. The common man Billy Joel jams the common man couldn’t afford. They almost went crazy. When they couldn’t see Jay-Z. But not tonight. The Francos were the show and the front row. The brawn ready for anything his opponent could bring. The brains having plotted the whole thing. The premonition personified.
The conductor made his way through.
“I got us. What do I owe ya?” said Franco as he grabbed a money clip from his bag with the broken zip.
“One of those,” said the conductor, pointing to Franco’s chest. A W. The conductor made a fist. Went on conducting his business.
General Franco and his fight team crossed the freezing Rahway River. A river run black in the dusk. A dusk that accentuated the harshness of the marsh. A dusk that deepened the rust on the refineries they rolled by. The brick Budweiser plant churned out smoke. Brewed Bud Heavy as the sky grew heavy. The General and his son shared a look. Optimal conditions. To make a run on royalty.
The train pulled into Penn Station. The other Penn Station. The one in Brick City. Perhaps a third ominous sign. That they didn’t quite make The City. No way. Where better to get down n dirty? Than in Turnpike Jersey.
The doors opened.
The General and his militia stepped into the frosty New Jersey night. It was time for the Battle of Newark.
The militia stood atop the hill. A path before them cut to the battlefield below. A caged octagon. At the center of an A-plus arena crowded with 20,000 colonists. All who came to see blood. Hoping to witness a revolution. General Franco surveyed the scene. T at his side. In red Adidas pants with the white stripes. As jacked as Jack White. Joey Yo at Franco’s other side rockin a star-spangled bandana. Around—not over—his hair of course. Coach Nelly in Woodbridge red from toe to head. Brazil in blue warmups. Lama in a white pantsuit. Taz in a razzmatazz of all of the above.
The General took one last look as he stood in the lucky trunks he always wore. The ones that were white and blue when Julie bought them for him. But that was many bloody battles ago. Now? Now they were red, white, and blue.
As the challenger, General Franco’s war drum beat first. Julie may not have been there, but his song remained the same. Their song from the second he heard it. Back in the day. He was on his way home from a double shift down the docks. Spring rain pelted the metal frame of his first Mustang. A 1985 5.0. Ten years old and ready to fold. The washed-out windshield offered a watercolor canvas of Turnpike tailligh
ts. Franco himself still soaked as he sulked. He had just started down the docks. Was saddled there all of Saturday. While Joey Yo and a co of coeds were far from the bleakness. Down at Preakness. The bring-your-own-kegs-and-coolers infield shit show at the second leg of the Triple Crown. Joey drinking a triple Crown. In a caravan goin down to Marylan. Living the best part of “Everyday Struggle.” While Franco was living the whole fuckin song. And to top it all off, it was a sunny weekend down in Baltimore. Just to bust Franco’s balls some more. Right then and there at the red light in the rain. On the corner of Amboy Ave and Main. It hit Young Franco. This is it. His job at the docks. The favors for The Frog. A family to support. The rest of his life. Nineteen and nuked.
He pulled into the driveway around 5 am. Ready to sleep till 5 am. But Julie bolted out the front door clutching Baby T. Even in the dark, he could make out her eyes. Incredible. Baby T was wailing like Franco never heard. Julie hopped in and told him to head to the hospital. TJ was running a fever. 105.
Franco drove. Turned the station to 105. He was transfixed by the opening piano keys. Even Baby T’s wails gave way. To the soothing voice of Mary J. Franco looked into Julie’s blues. If Franco was bein honest, he didn’t like a lot of songs, even some of his favorites, the first time or two he heard them. But this one. This one went to the top of his list in the first few lyrics. Then the peaceful song went to a whole other level. When Meth blew it up like a rebel. And was that…Biggie…in the background? It was an embarrassment of riches.
By the time they pulled into the hospital, the rain had subsided. The pink dawn was peeking. And Mary just kept on peaking. Baby T had stopped crying altogether. He was asleep. With a sweat-streaked forehead that darkened his hairs. His nose stuffed. His toothless mouth open. His breathing raspy. His one little hand wrapped around Julie’s finger. Franco put his callused hand around Baby T’s other. As if God had sent Franco his own little cloud to clutch.
Julie’s blues looked to Franco, much obliged. Thanks to the words of Mary J Blige. Julie could finally see. Franco was her destiny.
Franco and Julie. Hearing Meth and Mary. “I’ll Be There For You/You’re All I Need To Get By.” Franco staring into those blues. His Jewels. Their real fortune bundled in her arms. It was an embarrassment of riches.
General Franco broke the marching protocol. Fuck the formality of war. Him and the Americans stormed the battlefield. They had their own method, man, as the arena pumped Method Man.
Franco scaled the cage. Took one last look around The Vault for the Jewels. But. They were nowhere to be found. His song cut out as that other one picked right back up in his head. “No Woman, No Cry.” There Franco stood, encased in an octagon. The same size and shape as one of those inflatable airplane lifeboats he prayed he’d never have to get into. But there he was. Surrounded by sharks circling. In the front row. Arturo. With his petite princesa. To his right in a tight dress. Perfectly postured in Prada. To Arturo’s left was his dough boy, Boy George. As white n soft as the Pillsbury Doughboy. As tickled as him, too, as he downed a dirty martini with glee. Across the octagon sat The Queen. The Prince’s mother. The medalist once again draped in precious metals. On hand to see her son retain his belt full of them. And who was that sitting somewhere between El Jefe and The Queen? A chinny man. With a full head of gray hair. And a tie. Was that…? And who the hell was with him? Wasn’t his goomar from Belmar. Was that…his wife? Hair cut. Dress cut. Ready to cut a rug. What the fuck? Franco was as shook as Shakespeare. Fair is foul and foul is fair. What did the idiot say when Miss Lane taught his remedial class that quote? Oh yeah. Ay Miss Lane. Is Shakespeare tryin ta invent baseball? Good one, Franco. That’s when Franco heard the drums. As something wicked this way comes.
The lights went down on the sharks. Illuminated an even more imposing threat. The army from across the Atlantic. Standing stalwart in row formation. Three rows of five. Fourteen soldiers committed to a victory for His Majesty. All of them donning red. Warmups for the warriors. A robe for the royalty.
Their battle song blared. Almost broke Franco’s eardrums. Not the noise level. The lyrics. Somethin about Mansionnns. Ferrariiis. Diamond ringsss. Bling. Bling. Bling. Please, somebody ring the bell. Ding. Ding. Ding. No, of course not. The Prince has to lead the Redcoats on a deliberate march. His Highness and his Hessians from his father’s homeland. Mercenaries now loyal to the Crown. To the almighty pound.
The motley crew of revolutionaries circled the wagons around Franco. They, too, loyal to the pound. The one in Franco’s chest.
With every march-step forward, the Redcoats grew more and more imposing.
“We shoulda hid in the crowd. Ambushed their asses,” offered Joey.
“Think we’d get disqualified,” floated Franco.
“Least we’d win.”
A fourth ominous sign? Was Joey insinuating that they weren’t about to win? Nah…
Franco met The Prince in the middle as the ref meddled. Franco was flat-footed while The Prince popped up and down like a popcorn kernel about to pop. And why not? He had three inches of height and three less pounds of fat. Fat that Franco had packed on in advanced years. Confirming his concern about what DeNiro had said in Cape Fear. Somethin about how a man past his prime starts puttin on a pound of fat per year. The Prince also had two A-plus ankles. And who knows what coursing through his veins. Franco’s last physical meanwhile. High fuckin cholesterol. Ate healthy as hell. Didn’t drink. Didn’t smoke. Still. There was something innate inside him that couldn’t be changed. Reminded him of an old tone. “Bad to the Bone.”
As the ref said what refs say, Franco tracked the pristine Prince popping from side to side. Intermittently revealing his coach father and his metallic mother. Back and forth. It was then that Franco realized why he was so taken by The Prince at the beginning of their last fight. Going into the fight, on paper, Franco had felt good at five-nine 170. A nice size for a welterweight back in ’01. The Prince was listed at six-foot 170. A twig that Franco’s tree-trunk arms would snap. Then the actual sight of The Prince in the cage. Taller with just as much muscle. What he took in vertical inches, he wasted at the waist. The first of these new wave fighters Franco had fought a few times since. Taller, leaner, stronger. Ripped from shin to shoulder.
And there again the two were at the center of the octagon. Franco. And The Man of Franco’s Dreams. Franco at five-nine, nine percent body fat. The Prince at six feet, four percent. Making Franco look like a fat midget. Or worse. Like The Prince’s lesser brother. Every pair of brothers Franco ever met, the one with the extra height got to stretch out all that predetermined DNA. While the shorter one got the extra snub of stub. But Franco and The Prince didn’t have the same parents, did they? And maybe that was the only difference, Franco figured as he eyed the army of trainers behind The Prince. Headed by his father. His decorated mother in the front row right behind them. That’s why Franco’s roll was slowed the first time he stepped into the cage with The Prince. He was everything Franco could’ve been. If he had grown up with proper parents. Nutrition. Sleep. Guidance. Mental health. Money. Franco was feeling that new cat Kanye more and more. Thinking, Damn. Hearing “Everything I Am.”
While Franco was feeling forlorn, his town was jacked from Fords to Hopelawn. Everyone in Woodbridge was rooting for The Bunns Lane Brawler. Errryone. From the cops crowded around the big screen at Big Times to the small-time crooks crowded around Screws’s hospital bed. From the Colonia country clubbers in the clubhouse to the Poor Billy’s night clubbers packing the house. From the Indians screening it in an Iselin temple. To the Sewaren salts flocked on a docked yacht. From Port Reading heads hyping the fight on Facebook. To Avenelers replying: Franco by left hook! From the crazies at the Elks in Keasbey. To the crowd in the Bunns Lane projects. Crowdin around the projector projectin the fight. Right off the bricks of The Brawler’s old apartment. Cuz everyone in Woodbridge could ascertain. That Franco was gonna bring the pain.
The fight was on. Fran
co stepped to the center of the cage. The Prince danced around like a merry-go-round. One that could go in either direction on a dime. Yet Franco was the one dizzied. An old axis creaking as it kept up. The dazzling merry-go-round with its dashing speed. Muscular horses. Flawless bobbing. The ride didn’t last long before there was a foot to Franco’s face. A move so rarely successful on Franco that he wasn’t even sure if it was a left or a right. He tucked like Chris Tucker. But The Prince was more a fan. Of Jackie Chan. He rushed forward with a flurry of fists and feet. Franco deflected six of them. Absorbed a half dozen of the other. But he had nowhere to run. No one to run to. No father, no mother, no sister, no brother. Only his betta meta-brother. The Prince. The strapping foreigner. Franco his pudgy Jersey brother. Like they were Schwarzenegger and DeVito in Twins.
Franco tied The Prince up against the cage. Stood in one of his least favorite moves. The pummel clinch. Not the wrestler’s clinch that afforded opportunities to free up his fists and give his opponent the business. Not the Muay Thai clinch where he could throw knees to abs above. Just the pummel fuckin clinch. The all-in tie up that bored the hell out of boxing and MMA fans alike. A neutral position at best. Just so Franco could grab a rest. Take some breaths. For his heaving chest. While The Prince was like Young Franco at his very best. His kick had caught Franco so bad, Franco was already gushing blood from a gash ten times worse than T’s. The boot caused a swell to boot. Left Franco’s left eye as blind as the condom-covered eye of Lisa “Left Eye” Lopes.
Franco countered with a couple kicks. The Prince swatted the first. Caught the second. Stepped on Frank’s jank ankle. Tipped him like a pole vault. Franco slipped his foot free, fell into the cage, then did something he never did. Ran. On his now hyperextended ankle. He backpedaled with the grace of an excavator on uneven terrain. He deked. Ducked. Then trucked the other way. An outmatched hero in some kinda Terminator movie. Being attacked by a new, improved version of himself. Younger, faster, stronger. Franco 2.0. Hunting down the one that used to drive a 5.0.