by Adam Berlin
“Grandpa would never make a sound.”
“What does that mean?” Gary said.
“It means he had strong hands and he would never make a sound.”
Gary was looking at me.
“You don’t think I would have beaten him?”
“You didn’t beat him.”
“You think I’m weak because I’m fat?”
“I didn’t say you were weak. Keep your eyes on the road.”
“I’m taking you along because you’re family.”
“You just want to get close to me.”
“I just want you to shut up.”
“I forgot. I’m not here to talk.”
“You’re here to drive.”
“My wrestling has nothing to do with it. Needing protection has nothing to do with it.”
Gary swerved over two lanes and stopped hard on the side of the road. He shifted his body as much as he could to face me.
“Let’s go, tough guy.”
“I never said I was tough.”
“You walk tough. You wear your precious garage uniform cut off at the sleeves to show off your arms. I bet I can beat you at the game.”
“That’s a bad bet.”
“Let’s go. Let’s play.”
He had his small hand out, ready to squeeze my hand first.
“No stakes?” I said. “No money on the line? That’s something new for you.”
“And what’s new for you? A day without a shower? A night without a bed?”
“I told you we had it easy.”
“Maybe you have it easy. Maybe all that easy living made your hands soft. It’s been a while since you wrestled.”
I felt the blood rush. I put out my hand.
Gary adjusted his small hand around my palm. He’d played the Hand Game enough to know where the bones were, where it would hurt the most. He started to squeeze. I kept my face calm and took it and took it and thought of Evan Kessler and how I should have fought harder, how I should have taken the chance even if it meant getting pinned, easy to think back on it, easy when the panic wasn’t there, when my back was not against the mat. Gary’s face turned red, his forehead beaded up with sweat, he breathed heavy. My grandfather had taught me well. Gary let go.
I watched him catch his breath.
“Let’s go, tough guy,” he said.
Tough guy. A tough guy who parked cars. A tough guy whose parents were disappointed, whose brother was making them proud. A tough guy who was kicked off the team, who beat men not ready to fight in bars, who beat his old boss. A tough guy driving to Las Vegas whose blood was always rushing. My grandfather’s excuse was the family. I had no excuse. It was a headlock I couldn’t get out of. I started to squeeze Gary’s hand. Hard. Harder. Tough. Tougher. Like squeezing the mattress before I flipped it.
Gary cried out. It was a child’s cry. I guessed it was the cry my grandfather heard and that was why my grandfather had stopped playing with Gary.
I let go of Gary’s hand.
“You win,” he said.
Gary put his hurt hand in his lap and his left hand on the steering wheel. He got back on the highway and drove.
The highway was no longer as straight. Not straight like the trip my grandfather had taken, not across country but across the ocean, a flat plane of blue with nothing to break the monotony, a piece-of-shit boat, everyone sick, eating fast, shoving the food down because a minute after one guy doled out the bowls of stew another guy came around to pick them up, that was the story, and then finally there was the Statue of Liberty, the torch probably looking like a waving welcoming hand from the distance, and then the cold-water apartment, the job stuffing mattresses, the two kids waiting for their father to come home from work, how tired he was, long day after long day, but he kept going for them, his sons, his boys. That’s what my dad called me and my brother too, his boys.
“Do you know any other stories about Grandpa?” I said.
“The same ones you probably know.”
Gary’s voice was quiet. I could hear how he hated to lose.
“You knew Grandpa a lot longer. You must remember him as younger than I remember him.”
“In those days people were never young,” Gary said.
“It seems that way.”
“I’ve seen photographs. I don’t remember him like the old photographs.”
“He was great looking. He looked like a movie star.”
“He should have gone to Hollywood. He could have been my connection.”
“Sometimes I wish the stories about Grandpa weren’t so violent.”
Gary slowed as the highway curved around a mountain. The slanted trees looked like they might rise with the sun.
“Supposedly your dad spent all his money on books when he was growing up. Whatever odd job he had, he spent his paycheck at the bookstore and Grandpa couldn’t understand it. He said books were worthless, a waste of good money, all of that. So one time your dad brought home a copy of Moby-Dick and he showed it to Grandpa and asked him what he would give for Moby-Dick . Grandpa looked at the book and looked at your dad and said he wouldn’t pay two cents for that junk. Your dad asked Grandpa if he was sure and Grandpa said he was absolutely sure. So your dad opened the book and stuck between the pages was a crisp ten-dollar bill your dad had planted there. Grandpa had one of his rare laughs and never complained about your dad’s book purchases again. At least I inherited something from Grandpa. The only reading I do is The Business of Blackjack and The Racing Form.”
“My dad never told me that one.”
“He didn’t want you to rebel and not read.”
I had rebelled anyway. In the gym, on the mat, it felt natural. I didn’t have to struggle like I struggled in school, hating my parents’ expectations, ignoring homework, fighting about grades. I had to give my brother credit for not rebelling but he wasn’t the oldest son. Derek studied, worked to be number one in high school, was getting straight A’s in college. Of course Gary had chosen me for his driving partner. We were the keepers of the circle and on the wrestling mat the circle was painted in black, a thick mark around that would take generations of bodies sliding across it in grappling battles before it could be erased. Maybe one day we could step out of the circle. At the end of a hard fought match, hands were shaken. I had even seen wrestlers, other wrestlers, hug each other when the time ran out.
“Grandpa used to save us a parking space whenever we went to Florida to visit,” I said.
“He did that for us too. He was always ready to kick some ass defending that space. I wonder what other people thought of him. There’s old Mr. Rose spending the day saving parking spots.”
“I know how that is.”
Gary laughed. His hurt hand probably still throbbed but he seemed over it, at least on the outside.
The road curved. Saturday morning. A full day to Sunday. There was some construction on the highway and we were diverted onto a smaller route. We passed a town named Eagle. Welcome to. Population. Altitude. All I needed to feel at home. There were a lot of pickup trucks with full loads. Stacked near many of the houses were cords of wood, dried and ready to be split. We passed a town named Parachute, a good place to bail out but Gary was family.
“I’m beat,” Gary said.
Gary pulled over and got out of the car. We both pissed on the side of the road. My piss steamed when it hit the snow and sunk in, created a clear line.
I walked around the hood. I got the camera, leaned over the top of the Jaguar, asked Gary to smile just as he was starting to work himself into the passenger seat. I steadied my arms and took a picture of the Jaguar’s black roof, Gary’s thick shoulders, his exhausted smiling face, the mountain in back of him, the slanted pine trees going all the way up. I got in and waited for Gary to settle himself. The car was idling. Gary pulled his coat from the back, adjusted it against the side of the car, leaned his fat body against it, relaxed his head, closed his eyes.
“Wake me when you get tired.”
&n
bsp; “I’ll try.”
“We’re making good time,” Gary said.
The highway went around a mountain, then another, then straightened out. I stepped hard on the gas.
“You ever think of going to Hollywood?” he said. His voice was tired. He was almost out.
“Not me.”
“You got that look. That Grandpa look.”
“I got the wrestling from him. Rose blood. That’s enough.”
14
I DROVE UNTIL I couldn’t drive. I slowed, pulled into a rest area somewhere in Utah, parked, didn’t care about the light, didn’t care about the cold, didn’t care about Gary’s heavy breaths next to me, just needed sleep. I went out with images of the highway stretching before me, what I had looked at so long imprinted behind my eyes and then I went out all the way.
The car door slammed. I opened my eyes. Gary was walking across the lot to the bathroom, his untucked shirt flapping from the wind, his pants completely wrinkled. His hand went to his mouth. He was eating something. It was a clear day and cold looking and I was cold. I didn’t know how long I’d been out. I got out of the car, stretched my legs, looked around. The country had opened up again.
Gary was leaving the bathroom as I was going in. I washed my face with cold water. I didn’t care about my underarms anymore, how my crotch seemed stuck to my thighs, how my face felt filthy. There was no mirror so I didn’t have to check my eyes.
Gary took the wheel. He weaved through the traffic. He tested me on the count. He told me the story about Bugsy Siegel’s dream to build an oasis in the middle of the desert and how he never lived to see his dream come true. The radio played Courtney Love, Kurt Cobain, Tracy Chapman, Blues Traveler.
The highway was so straight that a steering wheel seemed unnecessary. I focused on a point in the distance and the car approached it and then I focused on another point. One radio station went into the next.
Gary turned off at Richfield and found a diner. He ordered a cheese omelet with hash browns and sausage and the meat-loaf special with mashed potatoes and two Cokes. I ordered a lettuce and tomato sandwich on whole wheat. The waitress asked if I wanted any bacon on the sandwich and I said No thanks. She asked about mayonnaise and I said No thanks to that too. I’d learned my lesson about heavy-handed condiments. Gary hardly fit in the lumpy booth. I would never get like that. Not even close. There were no more wrestling seasons but I stayed at my weight. At 165 pounds I was lean. My shoulders were square. My arms were defined. My stomach was flat. My waist was thin. The skin in my face was tight and my eyes were clear. In bars the women looked at my body and in bed I liked that they moved their hands over my muscles, felt my strength. Sometimes I thought they could feel all the fights I’d won. Gary took a napkin from the dispenser, crumpled it into a ball and shot it into my water glass.
“Double or nothing,” Gary said.
“It feels like a month ago,” I said.
Three guys were at the counter, swiveling back and forth on their stools, smoking cigarettes, drinking bottled beers. They swiveled around, looked us over. Next to them was a young kid sitting precariously on a stool. He kept asking when the pancakes were coming and the guy next to him told the kid to shut up and wait. The guy next to the kid was the biggest of the three. He called the waitress Honey.
The waitress brought the guys their food and put the plate of pancakes in front of the boy. I could see the back of the kid’s head tilt, sizing up the stack of pancakes he’d been waiting for. He lifted his fork. His father grabbed the container of syrup and started pouring it over the pancakes and the kid started screaming, said he didn’t want syrup on his pancakes, said he wanted regular pancakes and then he started sobbing while his father ate his own meal. The kid’s body shook and it looked like he would fall off the stool at any moment. The sound of him trying to catch his breath filled the diner. I couldn’t help feeling sorry for the kid.
Our food came out. The three guys kept swiveling to look at Gary. The biggest guy first. The other two guys followed him. He’d swivel, they’d swivel. He’d laugh, they’d laugh. My sandwich was dry, the edges of the lettuce turning brown and the tomato mealy. The leader swiveled again. The two other guys swiveled again. I heard the stools squeak, saw the position of their bodies change. The kid was still crying. Gary finished his omelet and started on the meatloaf special.
“You have quite an appetite there, big guy,” the leader said.
I looked at Gary. He smiled at me and looked at them.
“Yes I do,” Gary said.
“My friends and I just made a little wager on how much you ate during the day. I said six meals.”
“You lost your bet.”
“How many?’
“It depends.”
“So some days you do eat six meals.”
“Some days I eat five meals. Some days I eat seven meals. Some days I eat three squares, double portions like you see here. But I never eat six.”
“We weren’t betting for money anyway.”
“Lucky you.”
“I’m a lucky man,” the guy said.
“Why don’t you spread some of that luck and buy your son a new order of pancakes so we can eat in peace.”
“Don’t worry about my son. He’s none of your business.”
I chewed the dry wheat bread, brown lettuce, mealy tomato.
“You’re right,” Gary said. “Now why don’t you let us enjoy our one meal.”
“Am I bothering you? What is this shit? My son’s bothering you. Now I’m bothering you. You have a problem?”
“I like to concentrate on my food. Have a nice day.”
“He likes to concentrate on his food,” the leader said to his two friends.
He laughed. Two laughs followed. If they’d been synchronized swimmers they would have taken home the gold.
“I can see that,” he said. “I can see that’s about all you concentrate on because you are one disgustingly fat mother-fucker.”
“You should know,” Gary said.
“Me and anyone else who sees you. Anyone can see you’re a fat pig.”
“I mean about the motherfucker part,” Gary said. “I didn’t recognize you at first, but now I do. You’re my stepson, aren’t you? I stepped over you to fuck your mother.”
“You fat fuck.”
The big guy swiveled off his stool, bumping into his crying son, and started coming. His arms were down. His head was too straight. He was already off balance trying to puff out his chest. I was out of the booth, shooting at his legs. He went down hard. I got his arm behind his back, pulled it over and up until it broke. I took his other arm, got a hand on his hand, broke his wrist. He was screaming and kicking his legs out on the floor. I felt a foot in my side and on my back. I covered my head, rolled, stood, turned, my hands in front of my face. The friend who had been kicking me picked up a beer bottle from the counter, emptied it on the floor, broke it on the counter. I looked at the broken bottle, backed away a step, crouched. The third friend just stood there looking at his leader on the floor screaming. The kid had stopped crying. I circled the guy with the bottle, touched his head with my hand. He thrust the bottle at me. I backed away. Gary had stood up. The guy looked at Gary and I touched the guy’s head, pushed his head down. He thrust at me with the bottle. I backed away. I touched his head, pushed his head down, put off his equilibrium, put off his balance. The guy cocked his arm to take another swipe. He thrust at me hard, hesitated to see if he’d done some damage. I grabbed his arm, pulled it back, pulled him into me, the bottle fell. I put him in a half nelson, pressed his neck down. His other arm was free and I felt his elbow hit me above my eye. I put my head against his back and put my arm under his crotch, lifted, threw him down. His head bounced off the floor. I kicked him in the head with my work boot. Blood was coming from his face. I kicked him in the head. He was out. I kicked him again. I felt something against my leg. The big guy was trying to drag himself under our table. He was screaming that his arm was broken. Hi
s legs were kicking out in agony and I kicked his kneecaps, his thighs, his balls. He curled up with his broken arm hanging limply at his side. I lifted my leg and brought my boot down on his broken arm and he screamed and I brought my boot down and down until it was out of me.
The third friend was still standing there. I looked at him until he sat on the stool. Gary put money on the table to cover the bill, went over to the kid, gave him some money, told him to get a new order of pancakes, threw me the car keys, picked up his unfinished plate of meatloaf and we walked out. I opened the car door for Gary, went around, opened my door, drove forward, listened to Gary’s directions like he’d grown up in town, ate at the diner everyday, worked in Richfield’s chamber of commerce. I was out on the highway and Gary was licking meatloaf gravy from his fingers.
“You beat the fuck out of them.”
“They’re punks.”
“They used to be punks. Now they’re injured. You must have broken that fucker’s arm in ten different places.”
“Fuck him.”
“That other guy was out cold. I didn’t know you could use your feet like that in wrestling.”
Gary told me to get in the right lane so he could throw the plate out. I waited for the smash but he must have thrown it past the breakdown lane and into the grass. I touched my head where it had been elbowed. I felt a knot just above my eye. A fight in a diner. The classic half nelson had been the only classic thing about it. It had been another ugly display and I was too far from the Hudson River to walk it off.
Gary started recounting the fight, glamorizing it, until it sounded like a movie scene. That was what nonfighters usually did. Guys would approach me on campus and after they complimented me on whatever match I’d won they’d tell me about their own big fight, probably their only fight in life, like that would connect us. They described their heightened moment in all its glory, the same story told over and over, like Gary’s new story about the fight in the diner. I shouldn’t have been surprised that he kept recounting the fight. My parents would not have been surprised. I never heightened my fight stories. I had been in too many fights, spent too many minutes on the mats, one fight blending into the next, one hold blending into another, one long wrestling match. I never built my stories into myth, making them technicolor, slow motion, exaggerated shit. Only one fight was like that for me. Only one. And after the fight was officially over there was more slow motion. I saw myself getting up from the chair. I saw myself taking off my headgear. I saw myself crossing the lines. Gym floor. Mat. Circle. Mat. Gym floor. I saw myself swinging my headgear at Evan Kessler’s face. The technicolor red of blood. The perfectly white tooth flying in a choreographed trajectory. I saw myself grabbing his neck, lifting him out of his chair, picking him up, throwing him down. I saw myself holding a chair and hitting him, slow motion smashing his head in until the weight on my back and the hands on my arms were too much and Evan Kessler’s teammates took me down.