Plantation of Chrome

by R. J. Coulson

  “I’m terribly sorry,” said Stone. “It seemed a good idea to come by as I was walking outside, but…”

  “Oh, don’t worry. It’s late October, so it seems a lot later than it is. Come inside.”

  Stone lumbered on through the doorway, his gait slow, almost careful.

  “You seem a bit uneasy,” said Julia.

  “Oh… My friend has just been in an accident, but he’s all right now.”

  “That’s terrible!”

  “Yes, but he’s all right now, so nothing to worry about.”

  Julia smiled.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry. It’s just very easy for me to see when someone’s feeling down. And very hard for me not to ask.”

  “And that’s why you make them hats?” asked Stone jokingly.

  “Not always,” she smiled. “Come with me upstairs, and I can show you your hat. Just drop your coat somewhere.”

  “I just think I’ll keep it on,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. Something about it disappointed her, though she knew not what. It was almost a childish feeling, distant yet familiar. “I’ll have you know, Mr. Stone,” she said as they were nearing the top of the stairs. “This isn’t just any hat, and I’m sure when you see it, you’ll…” Julia stopped talking and she froze on the spot.

  “Julia, are you ok?” asked Stone. He climbed up next to her, seeing the burning hat on the windowsill. Little flames from the candles were burning holes in the slowly charring felt. Julia gasped out a whispered ‘no’, while Stone rushed to the other side of the workshop. He pushed the hat onto the floor and started stomping on it to kill the flames. Julia slowly came into the workshop as the fire died out, her hands covering her mouth.

  “No, no, no, no,” she kept repeating, the ruined hat still decorated with a few harmless specks of ember. Stone closed the window.

  “Please don’t worry about it,” said Stone, putting a hand on her shoulder. “I can’t imagine the time you’ve spent on it, but don’t think it’s been wasted.”

  “I know,” she said from underneath the cover of her hands. “It’s just that I’ve done such a good job with it. I’m afraid I won’t be able to make one like it again.”

  “Oh, of course you will. If it’ll make you happy, I’ll wear it as it is now.”

  “I’m certain you would, Mr. Stone,” she said. She laid a hand on her own shoulder where Stone had his, neither affirming it or brushing it away, but putting it there to confirm his comfort. They gazed out the window and towards the horizon that was tucked away under the thick expanses of the dark harbor. Stone let go of her shoulder and started walking idly around the workshop.

  “I didn’t just come for the hat,” said Stone.

  “Oh, then what for?”

  Stone turned towards her. “I was thinking that we could visit the new fair… or carnival, park or whatever down by the docks. You know, the mayor’s gonna be inaugurating it. Red ribbons and all.”

  “I’ve heard about that, yes,” she said. “Maybe I can finish you another hat by then.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t want you to get all distressed because of a hat. That’d be a shame.”

  “Yes, wouldn’t it, Mr. Stone?” she said, grinning.

  “And please call me Noah,” said Stone. He walked closer to her, his fists awkwardly clenched under the cover of his long coat sleeve.

  “Noah,” she repeated, putting out her hand, tasting his name. “I’m Julia to you then. Not Ms. Sedgewick anymore.”

  “That sounds like a firm deal,” said Stone. He gently pressed her hand, but then let go, earlier than she thought he would.

  “I reckon you’re good with firm deals, Mr. St…” She corrected herself. “Noah. I don’t think you’ve ever told me what it is exactly that you do. I mean, here you are, in the very lair of my everyday doings, my very lifeblood, but I know nothing about you except for that shroud of mystery that I’m sure you flaunt at every woman in town.”

  “I do just what you said,” said Stone solemnly. “Firm deals.”

  “Business?” she asked, squinting her eyes questioningly.

  He nodded. “Business.”

  “Well, the business in America these days is business, so I guess it’s no wonder that a man like you would be involved in it as well.”

  “And what exactly is a man like me?”

  “A man like you?” Julia looked down at the floorboards of the workshop, suddenly sad. “You’re like one of the ghosts of this town, I guess.” Her voice was very airy and distant. “Everywhere, but nowhere, and with a violin case in your hand. Only thing is that with you, there is no violin case.”

  Stone nodded, and took a step closer to her.

  “I’d like to go to the fair with you,” he said.

  “I’d like that,” she almost whispered.

  As Stone was preparing to leave the workshop, he looked at her and said, “And Julia?”

  “Yes?”

  “There are no other women.”

  Noah Stone left the room and went down the stairs. The three candles had died out, and the only light now came from the shop beneath. The bell rang to signal a leaving customer, and Julia went to pick up the destroyed hat. She curled up the soft material in her hands. She looked timidly out the window, but she knew that it was too dark to see anything but the imagined shadow of Noah Stone leaving.

  CHAPTER 16

  Even though the fight between Messenger and Holden had been advertised as nothing more than a local bout at the Pit by a very few posters, the boxing ring was completely surrounded. More people were still pouring inside, and as they joined with the existing group already inside, their immense chanting rose up like little pillars of smoke, creating a thundercloud in the immense vertical expanse of the warehouse.

  The ring itself, however, was empty with the exception of De Gracy, who had positioned himself by the bell. He tapped the little mallet against his knee, looking out at the sea of people. Their many heads were turning and shouting, looking through him like he wasn’t there. They were like a mass in loud prayer, only yearning to be set free by what would silence them, only bellowing for the giant that would fall for them and grant them the most momentary and bestial of releases.

  In the locker room sat Paul Messenger and Clay Holden, and even though the tension between the two connected them by every fiber in their bodies, the presence of Noah Stone was enough to channel any disputes away from the locker room, through the door, and out into the ring. He paced slowly from left to right, right to left, keeping both his eyes on the two boys.

  “This is very extraordinary,” he said. “We’ve never had a home fight like this before.”

  Messenger sat still, hunched over, joining his hands over his knees, his eyes sleepy and aglaze. He was looking at a spot beneath Stone’s shoes, blinking every time Stone moved his feet away from it.

  “Of course,” said Stone, “I want you to fight out there, but I won’t have any bad blood showing, you hear? If I see one of you pulling anything that I don’t like, well then guess what?” asked Stone, gesturing at the door behind him.

  “So we can’t do anything you’ve seen us do before?” asked Messenger.

  “I’ve seen you both bite an ear, knee a crotch… I don’t want any of that dirty shit.”

  “How about if we kill the other one,” said Holden. He grabbed his nose with two fingers and grinned.

  “I don’t want any dirty shit. Now shake hands. I want to see it now, and I want to see it out in the ring.”

  The fighters looked at each other. Holden put his one hand across his knee. Messenger looked at it, but didn’t put out his own hand at first. He was looking directly at Holden, not at his eyes, but through them; through them, so that he might see the very inner of the man that he was about to defeat. He looked down at Holden’s hand; it was naked and pale, shaking slightly with a clear, thin lining of sweat along the fingers. He looked at it again, and it seemed almost like a child’s hand, and it was darker an
d thinner, and this was the hand that Messenger finally shook. He looked up at Holden’s eyes, but the child was gone, and Messenger gave him an indifferent nod to settle the handshake. He looked back up at Stone, who was trying to hide an impatient grimace.

  “Good,” said Stone. “And once more out in the ring, you understand? In front of the crowd.”

  They both agreed.

  As Messenger walked out through the crowd and towards the boxing ring, he had only a vague idea of what was really going on around him. All the hands and the mouths that moved in the room made no sounds to him, and as he let his gaze fan out across the many silent faces, he tried to find one, just one, with which he could identify; a face to fight for. But the faces were all smeared, and they were all gone, and as he climbed the ring, moving the tight ropes out of his way, he saw no light in anything at all. Only occasionally, when he glimpsed at Holden, he could see the face of a child, but it was very brief, fleeting, like a ripple in his memories.

  Stone put a hand on Messenger’s shoulder, and Messenger drew a deep breath as if he had just been pulled up from a body of water. He noticed that Stone was looking at him; that he might have done so for quite some time.

  “Are you all right, Paul?” whispered Stone.

  Messenger saw Holden walk to one of the corners, hailing the crowd with broad hand gestures and victorious bellows. Messenger wiped some sweat off his brow.

  “I am.”

  “You sure?” asked Stone.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  Stone patted him on the shoulder and walked to the center of the ring. He looked over at De Gracy, who was already impatiently signaling that he was ready. As Stone began speaking to the surging crowd, introducing the bout, the two fighters slowly shuffled towards their respective corners. The spectators cheered at the announcement of each of the boxer’s names. Stone left the ring, and Messenger realized that he was now forced to endure several rounds of eye contact with Holden. He only waited for the two slight dings of De Gracy’s bell.

  Eckleburg’s bell, he thought, and the bell sounded. Holden left his corner as if released from a spring, but Messenger only moved slightly. He wanted to wait for Holden’s approach, wanted to keep an erect defense for as long as possible. When Messenger looked at Holden now, he knew that he had to forget who his opponent was, and that he was forced to relearn the incoming moves, Holden's repertoire, by parrying, shielding and dodging as much as possible.

  Holden’s initiating charge was quick and precise, with the intent of crippling Messenger from the inside out as early as possible. Messenger was by far the lightest and fastest of the two. He floated around his opponent, but Holden seemed utterly tireless, and with the tenacity of his barrage, he was able to put in a few punches through Messenger’s parades. Messenger, however, didn’t waver or change his course. The round ended, and with no real change in the match, the two fighters slowly returned to their corners for brief respite.

  The following few rounds were very similar to the first with the one exception that Messenger got hit less and less. As he was continually exposed to Holden’s advancements, Messenger was able to perfectly execute the right defenses at the right time, minimizing the most critical blows towards his stomach and face. However, the match was still a stalemate, caught between Holden’s aggression and Messenger’s abstinence.

  Messenger looked at Holden. He saw the child stand there once more, right in front of him, short and thin. The boy was pathetically putting up his parades, pacing slowly from side to side, sobbing softly. Aggressive chanting from behind him yelled out, and Messenger looked to his sides, and he was no longer in the Pit, but instead surrounded by walls of an alleyway, reeking containers and hanging laundry. Messenger stepped forward. He felt a need to comfort the boy so strong that he could only talk in between sobs. He found himself crying.

  "It's ok, John," he'd say, his little voice crippled by emotion. "It's better if we just do it."

  And then, Messenger moved in and lay the first blow on the boy.

  Holden's face sprung back, his whole body spiraling into the ropes, but he regained his composure. His face was drenched in anger, and he resumed his attack on Messenger's sides, but just as they were about to make contact once more, the bell called. The bell stopped echoing and Holden put a punch to Messenger's unguarded stomach. Messenger flinched and bowed, and just as he was about to charge against Holden, De Gracy had already jumped the ropes and grabbed him. He looked begrudgingly at Holden while keeping Messenger back.

  "Just because we don't have an actual ref at these matches," panted De Gracy, still careful not to let Messenger slip, "doesn't mean that we'll allow shit like that, you understand?"

  Holden stepped back a bit, retreating into his own corner. De Gracy turned to Messenger and whispered, "Don't let bullshit like that get to you. Just finish the fight in--"

  "Do you think a punch like that, to my damn gut like that, will throw me off? I'm not here to win a boxing match, but a fight, and I don't care what--"

  "Listen here, god damn it," said De Gracy, tightening his grip. "If any of you pulls more shit like that at all, you're out of the Pit for good. Think Stone won't kick you out just because you're the Messenger?" De Gracy moved in closer. "'Cause I saw him twitch down there the same moment I rushed in here, and I'm telling you... This could be your last match, Paul Messenger. I clear?"

  Messenger nodded carelessly.

  "Hey timekeeper De Gracy" said Holden from his corner. "How about we get the ball rolling?"

  "How about you shut the hell up?" said De Gracy hoarsely while moving out of the ring. He sat on his little stool, grabbed his mallet, and with two quick flicks, the match was quickly resumed.

  Behind a door that led from the Pit's main hall to the west end of the warehouse, cloaked well in his surrounding darkness, sat Grundy with his eyes glued to a little crack that allowed a perfect view of the boxing ring. Grundy found the cheering masses to be overpowering, and even though he felt compelled to move away from the door and further into the shadows of his part of the Pit, he was more compelled still to witness the outcome of this one fight. He saw the two combatants stirring around each other like two mixing colors in a bucket, forever blending to one final, unavoidable state of entropy. The chaos that existed in the world was the most obvious thing to him, but here he yet again stood helplessly by, watching evil happen without stepping in. The only thing he could try to arrange and organize, the only things to save from the chaos, were the thoughts in his mind, and even those seemed destined for wreckage.

  In the end, his conclusion for watching was painfully simple.

  I have to watch for Messenger's sake... for Paul's sake.

  Holden flung his entire body at Messenger in a focused charge, stretching out his right fist for one massive blow; Messenger sidestepped the attack, making Holden's immense momentum wasted on the ropes. Holden turned, swinging three punches at Messenger, all dodged.

  It was the sixth round, and Holden was finally panting with breaths of frustration. Messenger was breathing heavily as well, but it seemed not to affect his movements at all, and it was now clear that the sluggishness of Holden's situation, the way he was bogged down by the effort of his lungs and muscles to keep his enormous body going, put him in the disadvantage. They circled each other for a while, and Messenger started seeing the boy again.

  "I can't do this, Paul," said the boy, blood seeping from his one nostril.

  "Shut up or he'll hear you!" said Paul with a forceful whisper. He hit the boy, who staggered backwards.

  "Come on!" said a voice inside of Messenger; a voice that rang beyond time, a voice that Messenger wouldn't admit to hearing right now, a voice he didn't want to admit ever hearing.

  He wiped away a slew of blood from his nose, but it became invisible on the red of his glove. Holden was jumping from foot to foot in front of him, sending tired looks at the bell. Messenger let the sand pour all the way down the hourglass, and as the sixth round came to a close, h
e noticed that Holden did nothing more than retreat to his corner, fetching the towel to dry his face.

  When the next round began, Messenger knew that he had already won the fight. He saw how Holden’s face was distorted in the fear of failure that now seeped throughout him. He saw how his opponent swallowed nervously most of the time, moving around the ring only to buy a few more seconds, and his attack, which minutes earlier had been seemingly unstoppable, had now dwindled into a silent scream for surrender. But there, in the empty gaze of Holden’s blue eyes, Messenger once more saw the boy, and for moments and moments there was nothing but the boy and the alley and the voice. The Pit had disappeared into a fine dust that now muffled all sound from the enveloping crowd, and all of Messenger’s senses were on the boy, and on nothing else. There was nothing but the boy, the alley and…

  Holden slammed a right hook into Messenger’s unguarded face, waking him up. The noise of the crowd spilled back into Messenger’s ears, and his muscles stiffened from the feeling of suddenly being alive and present somewhere else. He drew a deep breath and looked at De Gracy, who was moving his mouth in very big circles, screaming words that Messenger didn’t hear. He tried looking back at Holden, but not before having another fist grazing his skull so hard that he felt part of his jaw loosen and crack. Pearls of sweat were slung from Messenger’s waving hair, columns of blood running down the dips and curves of his body. He looked around, but was disoriented, not realizing that Holden was now behind him, and that he was raising his fist for a blow to Messenger’s temple from above, and then, when that blow finally hit, like a rocket plowing down toward the earth, something went very small and disappeared inside of Messenger, dissolving into a million little pieces like an implosion, and Messenger collapsed onto the floor of the ring, his body sounding hollow against the stretched leather. Messenger tried pushing himself back up, but his arms were too weak, and his blood seemed to have stopped pumping to and from his muscles. He felt the voice once more, and its words were like the stabs of long, heavy spears through his head.