Don't Skip Out on Me

by Willy Vlautin

  Horace looked down at the picnic table. ‘It’s okay, Mr Reese,’ he said. ‘I knew I’d probably have to do this week’s drop. I guess I just forgot to tell you that I knew.’ He stood up but he didn’t look at the old man. ‘Well, I guess I better get my things together and start packing. And I have to get the trailer cleaned out.’

  ‘Don’t worry too much about cleaning the trailer. It’s your home. You keep it the way you want it.’

  ‘You never know when someone else might need it. I want to make sure I leave it the way I found it.’

  ‘You don’t have to. That trailer is yours.’

  Horace half-nodded.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Mr Reese said.

  ‘No need to be sorry,’ Horace replied and he walked down the steps of the house and headed toward the trailer.

  *

  He slept until 3 a.m. When he woke, he got up and filled his duffel with all he was going to take to Tucson, put what remained in cardboard boxes and spent the rest of the night cleaning the trailer. He washed out the cupboards, the refrigerator, the bathroom and the kitchen. When dawn came he showered, put on clean clothes and moved the belongings he wasn’t going to take to an unused tack locker in Mr Reese’s barn. He set his sleeping bag and backpack in the bed of Mr Reese’s pickup and went inside for breakfast.

  By sunrise they were on the road. Mr Reese drove, Horace chewed Copenhagen and worked his hand exerciser, and the bay gelding, Lex, and the old mare, Honey, swayed back and forth in the stock trailer.

  ‘I know it’s early to talk, but I was hoping we might,’ Mr Reese said. He held a cup of coffee in his left hand and steered with his right.

  ‘What is it?’ said Horace.

  ‘I’ll need you to be honest with me.’

  ‘I’ll be honest.’

  ‘Even if it hurts my feelings?’

  ‘Well … I’ll try, Mr Reese.’ Horace spit into an old McDonald’s cup and the truck shook as the road worsened. The old man slowed to twenty-five, finished his coffee and set the mug between them on the bench seat.

  ‘If I’m optimistic about my back, I have maybe four years left where I can work. As you know, after I hurt it the first time, we hired Albert and his wife to help out. You were still in school. He and his wife had talked about buying the ranch someday, but then his wife left him and that idea fell apart … The reason I’m bringing this up is, sooner or later, I’m going to have to sell the place. We’ll have to move into town or in with one of our daughters. I know we’ve talked about this before, but I wanted to again before you left. You seem a natural for this sorta work and you’re good at it. I know you’re young and you don’t have a woman or a family and it’s a lonely life. That’s something only you know if you can take. What I’m saying is, after your boxing career, why don’t you come back? We’ll set out a plan for you to take over the ranch. For you to own the ranch yourself. I’d hate to see all the hard work we’ve put in these years disappear like it has with the Casey place and the Hass place. We’ve seen both those go from working ranches to nothing. Now Morton’s is sold too. And who really knows what will happen to it? Working a ranch is hard, especially if you’re single. There’s not a lot of money in it either. I know you’ve been skittish with us and it’s hard for you to accept gifts. I also know it’s been hard for you to relax around us. To trust us. But we trust you. What I’m trying to say is that Mrs Reese and I think of you as our son and we want you to have the ranch when you’re ready for it.’

  Horace looked at the old man but he couldn’t speak. Tears welled in his eyes. He looked out the window at the hills of sage and the distant mountains behind them. They drove for miles before he said anything. ‘I don’t think anyone has ever thought I could run a ranch,’ he said finally. ‘But that you and Mrs Reese think I could, well, that’s the nicest thing I’ve ever heard. I won’t forget that you said it. I really won’t. You and Mrs Reese saved me. I know that.’

  ‘Well, you saved us too,’ Mr Reese said. ‘And you helped Mrs Reese. She wasn’t herself after our daughters left. You know how she was, how she gets. You helped her.’

  Horace again looked over at him. ‘There’s been a lot of years I dreamed that I was your son. A lot of years. But, Mr Reese, I’m going to be a world-champion boxer someday and I don’t know how long that’s going to take. And to do that I have to move to the city. I have to change the way I live and where I live. I wish I could do both at the same time, but I’ve thought a lot about it and there’s no way I can.’

  ‘But boxing’s such a hard life, Horace.’

  ‘It’s not going to be that bad.’

  ‘But fights are hard to get. You’re the one who told me that. That the other way of fighting is more popular now.’

  ‘MMA is more popular, but people still like boxing. They really do. So I’m not too worried,’ he said, but his voice grew uncertain. ‘I’ll get the fights, Mr Reese, and I’ll be okay. You’ll see. It just takes work. You’re the one who told me that. You’re the one who said, if you just keep working hard, things tend to break your way.’

  ‘That’s true, I have said that …’ Mr Reese’s voice trailed off. He rubbed his face with his free hand and cleared his throat. ‘Can I ask you another question?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘Why do you have to change who you are? Why do you have to become a Mexican boxer?’

  ‘I should have never told you that,’ said Horace.

  Mr Reese looked over at him. ‘I’m glad you did. I’m glad you told me. It’s good to be honest. And I’m honoured you’d share that with me. But I just have to ask, why?’

  ‘Because Mexican boxers are the toughest,’ said Horace. ‘Everyone knows that. They go toe-to-toe. They’re true warriors who never quit, who never back down, who are never scared. Érik Morales was never afraid of anybody. Not anybody.’

  ‘I bet he was.’

  ‘He never was. I know he wasn’t.’

  ‘But you’re not Mexican,’ Mr Reese said.

  Horace didn’t answer. He rolled down the passenger-side window as the sun began to come over the Monitor Range. He let his arm hang out and the morning air was cool and smelled of sage and dust.

  ‘Did I upset you, Horace?’

  ‘No,’ he said, but it wasn’t true. He wanted to jump out of the truck. He wanted to be a million miles away from that old truck. ‘The thing is, Mr Reese, there’s no tough Indian boxers.’

  ‘But that’s where you’re wrong,’ the old man said, suddenly excited. He slumped down in the truck’s seat and steered with his legs. He took the wallet from his back pocket and pulled out a piece of paper with Mrs Reese’s handwriting on it. In bold letters at the top of one side it said Indian and the other side it said Irish. ‘Mrs Reese and I went to the library and looked on the computer. We found out some things. There was a boxer in the seventies named Danny “Little Red” Lopez. He was part Ute and part Mexican and part Irish. You’re part Irish – your grandfather, Doreen’s husband, was from there – and you’re part Paiute. That’s different, sure, and he has some Mex in him, but not as much as you’d think. And then there’s Marvin Camel. He was a Flathead, and it says here he was a champion too. Now Flatheads are out of Montana. He isn’t from Nevada but he’s close. Not that far away, when you really think about it. And last is a guy named Joe “The Boss” Hipp. It said he was the first Native American heavyweight world champion.’

  ‘I don’t want to be like Marvin Camel or Joe Hipp. I know who they are.’ Horace fell silent for a moment and then looked at the old man. ‘Mr Reese, I don’t want to be an Indian. No good fighters are Paiutes. Paiutes aren’t good for anything.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ the old man said, ‘and you know it’s not. That’s your grandmother talking. It’s a bad thing to say. Anyway, like I said, you’re part Irish too, and there’s a lot of great Irish boxers. I have a list of those on the other side.’

  ‘Don’t bother, Mr Reese,’ Horace said and shook his head. ‘No one thinks I’m whit
e ’cause I don’t look white. I don’t look Irish, so I’m not Irish. But I look like a Mexican. Everybody who doesn’t know me thinks I look Mexican. They really do.’ He again looked out the window and his feet tapped down on the floor of the truck faster and faster. He began to pick at his fingernails. His voice faltered. ‘I appreciate all you’re saying, Mr Reese, but I’m going to be a champion. I am. It’s like the B.O.A.T. book said. To be a champion you have to create your own future, you have to make it yourself. You have to build your boat little by little and brick by brick until it’s unbreakable and unbeatable. And that boat will take you to the next level, to the level of champions, and that’s what I’m going to do.’

  ‘But what if it doesn’t happen? What if you don’t become a champion? What will you do then?’

  ‘A winner doesn’t think like that, Mr Reese.’ And for the first time in Horace’s life he was mad at the old man. His voice shook. ‘Don’t you get it? A winner only thinks about winning. A champion only thinks about being a champion.’

  The old man slowed the truck to a crawl and again looked at the boy. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Horace. I’m sorry – I am. I just feel I have to ask these questions ’cause you’re my friend and that’s what friends do: they watch out for each other. What if you get hurt in some permanent way?’

  ‘I won’t get hurt,’ Horace said. ‘Anyway, I can’t worry about things I can’t control. A champion doesn’t think that way. A champion only thinks of the things he can control and he does the work on those so he can get to the next level. And when he gets to the next level he just thinks of the next level after that. He just keeps building the boat.’

  Mr Reese again rubbed his face and tried to think. He cleared his throat. ‘I hate to bring this up,’ he said, ‘and I hope you’ll forgive me someday for what I’m about to say, but I feel I have to. I have to because boxing’s so dangerous. Remember, Horace, I took you to your fight in Las Vegas. I’ve seen you box. I’ve seen what happens when you get pressured or cornered. I’ve seen how you panic.’

  ‘Don’t bring up Las Vegas!’ Horace shouted and tears fell suddenly from his eyes. His feet tapped harder against the floor and he fidgeted uncontrollably. A mile passed in silence and then his voice became nothing but a broken whisper. ‘Please don’t bring up Las Vegas. Please don’t ever bring it up again. I’m begging you. I’m seriously begging you, Mr Reese. It was just one fight. And I told you I never wanted to talk about it again and you promised me you wouldn’t. You promised me you’d never mention it, not ever.’

  ‘I did promise, that’s true,’ the old man said, ‘and I’m sorry I broke that promise. This conversation hasn’t gone the way I was hoping it would go. I didn’t mean to upset you so much. I’m not the most eloquent, but I mean well. I just want to help you. I’m running out of time and I believe I have an answer to some of your problems and some of mine, too.’

  Horace wiped the tears from his eyes. ‘I know what you’re talking about, Mr Reese. I do. I appreciate it. And don’t worry, when I come back I’ll buy the ranch for a lot of money. One of my main goals is to make sure you and Mrs Reese can live the easy life. You deserve that and I’ll make sure it happens. I’ll take care of you both and I’ll take care of the ranch. All the horses and dogs too. Everybody. I really will – you’ll see. You’ve been the best parents I’ve ever had. I know that and I know my own mom and dad don’t care. So it’s my solemn promise that I’ll help you. And I don’t break promises, Mr Reese. I’d rather die than break one. But for right now I’d rather if we just quit talking.’

  The old man nodded. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘I’ve talked enough and I’ll stop. I just hope someday you’ll forgive me.’

  Horace looked at the glove compartment in front of him. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Mr Reese. You’re just trying to look out for me. I know that. You and Mrs Reese are my best friends and you’re the only ones who’ve really cared about me. I know all that. But you shouldn’t worry so much. I have a good plan. I’ll be okay and I’ll make sure you’re okay too. Because that’s what champions do. They take care of the things they should take care of.’

  *

  Horace stopped Lex and Honey at the first turn into the canyon. Mr Reese was finally out of view and he could hear the old man starting the truck and leaving. He took his backpack off, found his CD player, looked through the small stack of discs and picked Metallica’s Ride the Lightning. He put on his headphones and turned up the music so loud that Lex’s ears swung back and both horses looked nervously about. Horace ran a hand over Lex and moved them on. The morning was quiet and still but for the faint sound of the music and the horses’ shoes clanking against the rock and gravel. They headed up through the canyon and into the Monitor Range.

  It was afternoon when they arrived at the same high mountain valley from which Horace had brought Víctor down. At the meadow’s edge he stopped and took a pair of binoculars from his pack. He saw the sheep and heard the faint barking of the dogs and finally made out a blue tarp in a different location on the far side of the valley. He put the binoculars away and headed for it.

  He called out to Pedro as he came into camp but only the dogs came to greet him. He got down from Lex and high-lined the horses next to the donkey, Myrtle. He unsaddled Lex and unloaded the supplies from Honey’s panniers. In camp he called out Pedro’s name a half-dozen times but Pedro was face down on his old canvas sleeping bag, snoring. So Horace set his backpack and sleeping bag under the shade of the aspens and walked back to Myrtle, who stood half-asleep in the sun. He picked her feet and looked her over for any cuts or signs of lameness and then walked out to the meadow and whistled for the dogs. Each one he checked for ticks, cuts and mats, and then let them go.

  When he came back, Pedro was making coffee on the Coleman stove.

  ‘We took Víctor to the bus,’ said Horace. ‘He’s gone now.’

  Pedro nodded but said nothing.

  ‘Mr Reese is hiring a kid named Lenny. He’ll be up next week with your supplies ’cause Mr Reese’s back is still hurting. Anyway, I’m going to go look around and I’m gonna take Little Roy with me.’

  Pedro again nodded but remained silent. Horace took his CD player, the binoculars, his water bottle and a Spanish-to-English dictionary, and called for the dog. Together they climbed for an hour until they came to a small ridge overlooking the meadow. There was no sight or trace of humanity for as far as he could see but for the blue tarp, now just a dot at the edge of the meadow grass. He sat on a rock and Little Roy curled in a ball at his feet. Horace opened the dictionary and randomly went through Spanish words.

  Carrot: la zanahoria

  Tree: el árbol

  Cow: la vaca

  Tire: el neumático

  Sleep: dormir

  Head: la cabeza

  But no matter how hard he tried, the words wouldn’t stick. For a year he had listened to Spanish lessons on CDs, read books on learning Spanish and left sticky notes on his things in the trailer: el plato, el bol, el baño, la mesa, la puerta, el fregadero, el colchón, la ventana. He took the Macy’s underwear section from the Sunday Las Vegas Sun newspaper and wrote, next to a woman modelling underwear: el sostén, las bragas, la pierna, el brazo. The words would stay with him for an hour, sometimes a day or even two, but if he took the note away from, say, el plátano, it would soon become ‘the word that started with a P’ and then there would be nothing left but the banana.

  A high mountain breeze blew constant and cool and the sky was empty but for a few lone clouds barely visible in the distance. Horace closed the dictionary and laid on the dirt and rocks next to Little Roy. Why did Mr Reese have to see him in Las Vegas? And why had Las Vegas happened at all? He’d won three Golden Gloves fights before that, hadn’t he? And why did he have to remember the loss so clearly, and why did he have to remember it every single day of his life?

  It had happened at the Nevada Golden Gloves championships and it was his first bout of the tournament. His oppo
nent was a black kid named Cordarrel Watkins. Watkins was fast and hit hard and had won the state championship the year before, but Horace had seen him fight three different times and knew he had a weak chin and a bad temper and, worst of all, was careless.

  He and Mr Reese had made the trip to Las Vegas the day before and got a hotel room. Mr Reese arranged for a trainer from Carson City named Eru Ríos to be Horace’s corner man. They ate an early dinner in a casino restaurant – New York steak and broccoli for Horace – and then walked the Las Vegas Strip. They saw a high-wire act and a dog show at Circus Circus and watched a fake pirateship battle in a fake ocean in front of Treasure Island. They were in bed with the lights out by nine thirty and Horace slept well and woke refreshed.

  The bout was scheduled for 3 p.m. at Barry’s Boxing Center. He and Mr Reese ate breakfast and took another walk through the casinos before coming back to the hotel to rest. Horace ate again at eleven – a hamburger patty with mustard and ketchup and a side salad – and then they left for the match.

  When he entered the ring at Barry’s, it was exactly 3 p.m. There were fewer than fifty people watching. Cordarrel Watkins stood nearly six feet tall and was rail-thin at one hundred and twenty pounds. He lived with his aunt and her four children in a rundown two-bedroom apartment in South Las Vegas. All five of them were there, along with his boss from Jiffy Lube, a chubby white man in orange sweats. They all sat ringside screaming ‘Cordarrel!’ as the bell rang.

  Watkins’ long arms were reluctant to throw a punch for the first minute. Horace, a bundle of raw nerves, danced around the ring and connected four jabs and an uppercut. The uppercut stunned Watkins. At the two-minute mark, Horace saw another opening and threw a hard right that landed on Watkins’ nose and Watkins stumbled back, his face suddenly bloody. But more than anything, the punch had awoken Watkins. It caused him to lose his temper. He began throwing wild combinations and they came in barrages so fast that Horace fell back against the ropes and was unable to move. He froze. It wasn’t that there was power to Watkins’ blows – it was just that Horace panicked. He became suffocated by punches that didn’t even hurt. He knew he had to get away from Watkins and he knew he had to get away from the ropes, but he could do neither. He was stuck. He saw the gloves coming, he heard the sound of them landing, but he could do nothing to stop them. It was as if he’d somehow become paralyzed. Watkins continued punching at will until he tired and moved back to the centre of the ring to rest and the round ended.