Simple Things

by Press, Lycan Valley

  He fumbled with the drawstring, hands less steady than they'd been that afternoon. He wasn't to be denied, though, and soon, the tiny burner sat on the dresser, a desiccated cone waiting for the tip of the match.

  The head flared against the strike strip, the flame dancing inches from his fingertips.

  The Bushmills, he thought, picturing the mattress soaked with it. His nightclothes, too. The box of wooden matchsticks laying empty on his chest, save for one. Just like this one.

  Whoosh

  He blinked, pushing away the thoughts. They weren't unfamiliar. He supposed many of his fellow center dwellers had spent a sleepless night considering them. Cooler heads had prevailed, however. There were sprinklers in every room, of course, and the linens themselves were flame retardant. Even so, he wasn't the only gent in the wing with a flask in his nightstand. For a couple of bucks, or a pack of smokes, one of the residents who couldn't get out any more might strike a bargain. He'd spent his share of nights calculating how much it would take to actually get the job done. In the end, though, nothing came of it. Nothing ever did, truth be told. Not that there hadn't been fires, of course. Fires…and stretchers.

  The nub smoldered, guttered, then caught. Walt shook the match, the heat stinging his flesh. He stared at the gnarled stump, crowned by a glowing ember.

  He covered the cone with the dome and sat back, joints protesting. It had been a long day, and now, he was paying the price. His sciatica was acting up. His arches felt like he'd been walking barefoot on gravel for miles. His right hand trembled. Something that was happening more often these days. He hadn't told Dr. Mercer about it, though. And wouldn't, until it became a problem. Mercer would order tests, and Walt didn't want tests. What difference would it make? Whatever might be coming, he wasn't interested in putting up a struggle. His fighting days were over.

  He closed his eyes. Inhaled deeply. Felt the tension in his neck ease some. Letting the pull of the incense carry him to places he'd known in a different life. One that dissolved further into the mists with each passing day.

  It took him a moment. The smells…the smells were overwhelming. The greasy odor of fried meat. Sauces hot enough to sting your eyes just looking at them. Humidity thick as swamp water. Magsaysay Boulevard, Olongapo City. '61, he thought, though that might have been him being generous. A navy buddy, Jerry Danko, slapping him on the back. Catching his San Miguel before it hit the pavement. Sucking cold suds off the back of his hand.

  "Look!"

  Walt followed Jerry's finger. Saw the sign, and the enormous man in the white suit beside it.

  FIGHTING TONIGHT

  CHALLENGERS WELCOME

  $5000 pesos prize money!

  "That's a hundred bucks!" Jerry shouted, though Walt had already done the math. A hundred bucks? To knock the shit out of some Filipino street thug?

  They were inside the joint, a rotgut peddling dive bar with bench seats around a makeshift ring no more than a foot off the floor. Sagging corners. Bloodstains on the gritty canvas. Two skinny fighters of indeterminate age slugging it out, neither one willing to retreat. A throng of cheering locals, showing their appreciation or derision, depending on who they'd wagered on. Men passing bills, shirts ringed with sweat. The place stank of piss and desperation. Walt and Jerry stuck out like Martians.

  "You want in?"

  The fat man from the front stood behind them, a mischievous look in his eye.

  "Hell yeah," Jerry yelled, shouting to be heard. Things in the ring were getting interesting. One fighter sported a vicious cut beneath his left eye. Blood streamed down his face. Jerry proceeded.

  "How many slots you got?"

  The fat man looked them over. Weighed his options. Rubbed his double chins with a bear paw of a hand. Walt eyed the piggy man's knuckles. Recognized the scars of a fellow pugilist. He started to reconsider.

  "I can fit both," the man replied, nodding at them. "You have fee?"

  Jerry handed him a wad of pesos. Ten dollars, American. Not enough to break the bank, but an awful lot of money by '61 standards.

  "And you?" the promoter asked, a twinkle in his eye. Walt wanted to walk away. Jerry nudged him.

  "C'mon, man. It's an easy hundred!"

  The crowd erupted. They turned. Inside the ring, the cut fighter was pinned against the ropes, absorbing a relentless barrage of head shots. It was then that Walt noticed there was no referee. Just a timekeeper. The onslaught continued. Walt waited for the beaten man to fall, but it didn't happen. Whether he was being held up by the ropes or by the other fighter's refusal to let him drop, Walt couldn't say. A bloody rag lay in one corner, but there was no one there to throw it. Finally, the cornered fighter collapsed, falling to the mat, not moving. Jerry threw up one fist and whistled. Walt felt it was a bad omen. A beefy hand fell upon his shoulder.

  "Ten dollar," White Suit said, beaming. "Ten dollar you get chance."

  Jerry was already being led to the back by one of the moneychangers. Walt peeled some bills off the roll in his pocket.

  "How many rounds?" he asked, drawing a deep belly laugh.

  "There no TV here," the man said, his disgust obvious. "However long it take. You fight. You win when you win, or you lose when you lose. You got problem with that?"

  The man in the corner still hadn't moved, but that didn't mean anything to the crowd. One of the moneychangers dragged him out by his feet as two new fighters walked to their respective corners. Yeah, Walt had a problem with it. A big problem. But it was too late to back out. He'd been in his share of scrapes before, with a lot less money on the line. Still…

  Someone tapped him on the back. The kid who'd dragged the unconscious fighter from the ring.

  "Follow me," he said, not waiting for acknowledgement. The fat man smiled so wide, Walt thought his skin might rip.

  It hadn't ended with a fire, Walt knew that wasn't right. It had ended badly, true. But not with the club going up in smoke, the fat man and his bookies burning alive, like they deserved.

  "BP's fifty over thirty!" shouted someone Walt couldn't identify. He gazed up at the man from the canvas, trying to place him. He couldn't.

  "Still dropping!"

  Another new face. Walt tried to focus, but it was hard to make anything out. Blonde, he thought. Short hair maybe. Face like a melting candle.

  He stumbled out of the ring, the ten bucks forgotten. The monster who'd needed the wager takers to hold the ropes apart so he could fit through, had put a hurtin' on him. But he hadn't gotten away unscathed. Not like the son-of-a-bitch who'd knocked out three of Jerry's teeth and left him bleeding from the right ear, eyes swollen to slits. Walt had carried him the last three blocks to the ship, Jerry's legs unable to support him. Walt was in rough shape, too, but at least he'd walked out of the ring. Jerry had been carried past him as he'd left the locker room, the moneychangers slowing up to give him a good, long look at his bloodied friend.

  The first round held few surprises. He'd felt out his opponent, a mountain of a man with a scarecrow-like reach that kept him backpedaling for most of the first three minutes. Being booed was a great incentive, though, and in the second round they'd traded blows. That's when Walt figured out how the scam was being run. When he took the first right, and felt the weight of the glove that sent him reeling. The bastard had something wrapped around his knuckles, no doubt. Not much Walt could do about it now, though, besides stay away and try to get in some shots before taking the dive. Because, he was gonna take the dive. He wasn't going to be carried out like Jerry, who God only knew what was happening to now. Wallet had probably been emptied, same as his. The hundred meant nothing. The only thing that mattered now was surviving.

  The giant they'd matched him with stood between rounds, too fat to fit on the stool. Walt was certain the beast was related to the promoter. The champion. Goliath, Walt had dubbed him. The thing was, he wasn't a particularly tall man, which gave Walt an idea. In the third, he'd thrown a weak jab, drawing the big man's weight to one side. Then he'd g
otten in underneath, an uppercut planted squarely on the giant's genitals.

  It dropped him. Walt had no illusions, though. It wouldn't be the end of the fight, no matter how long the man stayed down. But it would slow him up some. Give him something to think about.

  In the fifth, Walt ducked the right and got in a cross that landed like a sledgehammer. Goliath's lower lip split, blood splattering Walt's face. He could taste it. It made his stomach roil. The big man hadn't gone down, but he'd been hit harder than anyone else had managed lately, that was clear. And that was about the end of Walt's highlights. In the eighth, he took the right hand again. In the ninth, he'd taken a left right combination that had sent him to the canvas. While on one knee, the right hand came down again, splitting the top of his head. In the thirteenth, he'd managed to rally, forcing Goliath into the corner, where the lumbering behemoth had wrapped him in a bear-hug. The move drew jeers that turned Goliath's face crimson with embarrassment. In the sixteenth, Walt got in his last hurrah, an uppercut that had caught Goliath leaning, and snapped his head back with such force the crack of vertebrae was audible. For good measure, Walt timed it, and landed a right thumb to Goliath's eye, shutting it. It was the best he could hope for. In the seventeenth, he got close enough to let Goliath land the right, and took the dive. He'd lain on the canvas for a full minute, hoping the big man wouldn't kneel over him and continue the beating. But Goliath had had enough. When Walt crawled out of the ring, Wobbling back to what passed for a dressing room, Goliath had stayed behind, watching him go. Neither wanted to risk crossing paths with the gloves off.

  Jerry had a broken jaw, the missing teeth, a grade three concussion and broken ribs. They hadn't even left his empty wallet. Walt had gotten away with nineteen stitches, a cracked molar, and a neck so stiff the girls the warrant officer arranged to come on board for massages and other 'recreational activities' couldn't give him any relief.

  "Jerry—" he began, trying to get the young man's attention. "Where is he?"

  "Hang with me, sir," the EMT replied. "Almost there."

  EMT. Walt's mind jumped tracks. He could see his hand, hanging in midair. Not the hand of a navy man, undefeated against fellow crew members and the competition in three ports of call. Nor a fighter with six wins, four by knockout. No, this was the hand of an old man. A very old man. One being wheeled through the chilly evening air, into the maw of a waiting ambulance.

  That was Sunday night. Today was Wednesday, and still, no one he spoke with had any explanation for what had transpired the night of the bus trip. Walt had been found bleeding, face down on the bathroom tile. He was dressed to go out, nightclothes discarded as if he'd been in a hurry. His right cheek was swollen, his lips split. There was no evidence he'd hit anything, though, because he'd been in the corner, curled up in a ball. There was no blood on the tile or the sink or the wall, just in his mouth and on his shirt. The strangest thing of all, though, were his hands. His knuckles were scraped raw, and badly bruised. But no one, not Doc Mercer, not the paramedics, not the cleaning crew nor Lana could find any damage to anything in his quarters that would explain the injuries. The object Walt had bruised his hands on remained a mystery.

  Lana. He'd considered talking to her about it. Sharing his nightmare with her, and what had happened to him in that godforsaken hole-in-the-wall in Olongapo City. But in the end, he'd decided against it. Not that it mattered. She'd come to him.

  He told her much of the story, but not everything. Not the nightmares that had haunted he and Jerry after they'd shipped out. The way he sometimes saw Goliath, standing over his limp body, one crooked eye staring off in another direction. The rage contained in that bloated face. Knowing the death blow was about to fall.

  Lana had been captivated. At least, that's what he told himself. Still, he wouldn't have traded that hour for any he'd passed in the last nineteen years.

  After two days in the hospital, he'd been released with a clean bill of health. Percocet, which the staff would make sure he took as scheduled. Not that Walt planned on taking any. The pain in his hands was an alien thing, something from his old life transported into the present. He didn't enjoy the pain, but he wasn't bothered by it. His swollen cheek, the blue bruise cutting through his translucent flesh like something struggling to break free…

  It made him feel alive.

  He slept fitfully. Keenly aware of his bed's barrenness, tossing and turning, his shoulder muscles feeling like overcooked spaghetti. The way they did in the days following a fight. Having strained them to the point they were unreliable, even for mundane tasks. Brushing his teeth. Blowing the clotted snot from his pummeled nose. Touching his lover's skin.

  Thursday night came, but sleep hadn't arrived with it. His body ached. He'd been cheerfully taking the plastic cup with his painkillers every six hours, spitting them into the toilet when no one was looking. He wanted to be alert, to be as sharp as possible if he went through with this.

  Debating with himself, however, had never been one of his skills. Once he made up his mind, he followed through. As Thursday night gave way to Friday morning, he dropped another cone into the burner and fired it up.

  Goliath. The man whose eye he'd ruined. Long dead by now, he supposed. Men that big rarely enjoyed old age. Especially those who gave in to their indulgences so completely. No, Goliath was gone, he had no doubts about that. But if he could relive that night in his dreams… could return to that place… Was it possible he could do something to change the outcome?

  Madness, right? Surely. But at his age, wasn't madness to be expected? He focused on the twirl of fragrant smoke, filling his lungs with it.

  It wouldn't be easy. He understood that. He'd replayed the events of that night over the years enough to have cemented them in his mind. And the mind would always go back to what it knew best.

  What his mind knew best was the ass-whipping he and Jerry had taken, in an ill-advised attempt to make some easy coin. Goliath. What if…?

  He thought about Jerry for a moment, then exiled his old friend from his thoughts. There was nothing he could do about Jerry's adversary, the one who'd haunted his pal for another tour, and then into the afterlife.

  Jerry had left the ring damaged far beyond a need for dental work and four days in sick bay. He'd never been the same after Olongapo. Oh, he'd tried his best. For a while, he put up a good front. Walt had seen through it, of course, he and Jerry had been too close for the ruse to hold up for long. He'd let it go, though, thinking it better to play along than confront his friend about it. Afterward, he wished he'd done things differently, but that was how life worked. Hindsight being 20-20 and all. Besides, it wasn't like he could have expected Jerry to do what he'd done. Not really. They were looking at six weeks in Hawaii, after all. Ha-fucking-waii. In the days following, the men tasked with the investigation, from the chaplain to the Lt. Colonel, had all asked him the same questions. Had Petty Officer Danko shown any signs of distress? Had he ever mentioned harming himself or others? Had he discussed suicide?

  Walt let that part fade, the room filled with that scent from long ago. He stared at the glow emanating from the tooled dome. He was convinced they were figures now, he'd studied them enough. They were reminiscent of characters from the many cultures he'd encountered over the years. Kokopelli. Cali. Shiva. Only, these were…different. Similar, but not the same. Darker, somehow. Malformed.

  Walt ignored these, concentrating instead on where he needed to go. Trying to find his way through the maze of memories back to Olongapo.

  He was alone on the street, San Miguel in hand. The smell of cooked rice in his nostrils. He looked for a landmark, something to latch onto. So many of the buildings looked the same. He spotted a sign, felt a tingle in his brain as the memory solidified. No fat man, but the beaded entrance called to him.

  A slight woman with pinched features stepped into his path, speaking a mix of Tagalog and English, attempting to entice him to take a room. Walt waved her off, but she continued her pitch, taking hold of hi
s arm and pointing toward an open door.

  "No," Walt said firmly, pulling free. "I'm not looking for—"

  A figure crossed his field of vision. Though he barely caught a glimpse, he couldn't turn away. He'd come for Goliath. Instead, he'd found…someone else.

  He pushed open the door. The Filipina beside the bed was mixed-race, far curvier than the average Olongapo working girl. Tall, with exotic features, foreign, but curiously familiar. The wide hips. The generous breasts. She crooked a finger, beckoning him closer. He heard the door click shut.

  "I'm looking for someone," he said, mouth dry. He swigged from the San Miguel. It didn't help.

  "Am I not someone?" she asked, extending her arms. Her robe parted, exposing deep cleavage and a tuft of silky pubic hair. Her voice, too, stoked the fire of memory. But he was too taken by her appearance to recognize her.

  "A club," he tried, beer sour on his tongue. "I need to find a club."

  She turned on a transistor radio. Travelin' Man, by Ricky Nelson. She took a seat on the bed.