A Bouquet of Fists

There’s no escape. Trapping his opponent in the corner of the ring, my dad’s right-hand man, Bacon, nails a sadistic one, two, uppercut into the cowering man. The last thud is followed by a painful groan and the man falls to his knees.

“Don’t even think about getting up,” threatens Bacon, glaring down at him.

I wince. It’s all so cliché. Can’t he be remotely original? Not that my dad minds. He loves it.

“Yeah that’s what I’m talkin’ ‘bout, Bacon!” his thick Bronx accent echoes in the empty gym.

It’s 12:30 on a warm Thursday afternoon in April, and while the rest of New York is soaking up the sun after the bitter winter, he and his buddies prefer to beat the crap out of idiots dumb enough to get in the ring.

My dad turns around and sees me still sitting there neatly in my cord jacket and trousers. I swear he forgot I was there. He sighs, wipes his face, and eases himself down into a seat. His hand raises up; he likes to gesticulate when making a point.

“Like I told your mom, I ain’t supporting you no longer.” His index finger and thumb form a tick or is it a gun? “It was cute that you wanted to be a writer. God knows I was patient.” He looks to the heavens. For someone who hates the theatre, he has a penchant for the dramatic. “But it’s time you forgot this fantasy, or whatever it is, and get a real job.”

“Dad,” I interject, before clearing my throat, sensing my voice needs to drop several octaves if I stand a chance. I start afresh but he cuts me off.

“We ain’t talkin’ ‘bout this no longer,” he says as he brings his fist down hard against the armrest. He stands and begins walking away.

“You have no idea what it’s like,” I shout after him while getting to my feet. “I need to write. It would be a lot simpler if I didn’t, trust me. But I can’t just stop. What if Whitman, Kerouac, or Nabokov had just given up?” My dad’s brow furrows into a question mark. I simplify. “You liked the Departed, right? What if Scorsese never made it because twenty years before he just gave up?”

I can tell I’m annoying him because he looks about exasperated, but then it seems like he has an idea.

“You really want it that bad, huh?” he asks.

For the first time I dare to look him in the eye. “Yeah,” I say.

“Then I tell you what, you go a round with Bacon and I’ll give you all the money you want.”

“What?” I ask, hoping I’ve misheard him.

“If you go a round with him then I’ll believe that you’re serious about writing. If not, I don’t wanna hear another damn word about it, got it?”

“He’ll kill me,” I say, appealing to common sense.

“Then I guess you don’t want it enough,” he counters.

He looks at me, waiting for my response. I can’t believe it. He’s serious. In fact, I can see he’s getting a kick out of it. What a son of a bitch. Then it dawns on me that maybe this is his way of sticking it to me for not liking boxing as a kid. He used to bring me to this very gym, but I hated it, and after a while I told him I wanted to go back to playing soccer. That pissed him off no end. I weigh Bacon up. The man’s like a boulder. He’s going on fifty but he’s still lethal.

“What’s it going to be?” Dad probes.

I grab my satchel, “You’re sick, you know that?” I say, turning to leave.

He calls after me, “I just wanna know what kind of son I’ve got.”

He really knows how to get under my skin. I try to think my way out of this dumb bind he’s put me in, but my mind blanks out and I just fixate on a dirty soda cup under the nearby seat. Worst of all, I can sense something rising up in me, like I’m about to say something stupid.

“Give me some gloves,” I blurt out angrily.

The next second, I’m shedding my jacket. I try to climb into the ring while at the same time rolling up my sleeves. I can’t concentrate and my legs are abandoning me. Thankfully Ricky helps me up. He’s one of dad’s guys but I like him. Over the years he’s even read a few of my shorts. His mom was an opera singer back in Naples, so he gets arty folk.

“You gonna be alright?” he asks, as he puts my gloves on.

“Yeah,” I mumble, but his worried expression doesn’t change.

“Just keep moving, okay.” He pats my gloves and nods in the direction over my shoulder. I turn. And there he is, all six foot, 260 pounds of him, rocking side to side in the middle of the ring.

“Don’t go easy on him,” says my dad to Bacon.

“I won’t,” I quip. The fact that I’m making jokes right now surprises everyone as much as me, but it gives me a lift. I scan the ring. It’s enormous. Just keep moving, I repeat to myself.

The bell rings.

My feet stutter as I step forward. I cautiously begin bobbing around the edge of the ring staying far out of reach. Bacon watches me without a sound. And then, like a tank dropping into gear, he comes at me. For a big man he moves frightingly quickly. Suddenly the ring seems tiny. I frantically side-step the hell away from him, but he just turns and continues to stalk me. He throws a hard left, right jab. I duck just in time behind my gloves, but the punches still crush my forearms. I stumble backwards and search for open space. Jeez, this guy isn’t messing around.

He advances again. I try to skip away but he cuts me off and shepherds me towards the ropes. As he closes in on me, the rest of the ring begins disappearing out of view like a door closing. This time he opts to disembowel me with swift blows under the ribs. I drop to the canvas gasping for air. Somewhere in the murky distance I hear voices shouting. Is it over already? Thank God. But when I upright myself and look up, I see Ricky beckoning to me and there’s still two minutes left on the clock.

Ricky’s talking to me fast while he's helping me to my feet. I understand nothing, at least not until the man starts quoting Shakespeare at me. His rendition wouldn’t get him the part of Julius Cesar, but I get the point: A coward dies a thousand deaths, the brave just get on with it. A few seconds later I find myself leaving the safety of the corner and padding towards the center of ring. And then I charge at Bacon and unleash a wild combination of punches; some jabs, some hooks, some I don’t know what you’d call. Like a true rookie, my head is down the whole time, but a few must land because I hear him grunt. The problem is that I’m tiring too quickly and in the next moment I’m spent. I peer over my gloves and see that he’s still standing, but there’s a trickle of blood running from his nose. Then he puts me out of my misery. He slides towards me but this time I don’t retreat. He hits me hard and faster than I can count. I double-over and feebly try to hide from the blows. And that’s when I see it, out of the corner of my eye, a red streak of leather. It hits me like meteor.

I don’t remember what happens next. After a while I come around all confused and concussed, barely able to see, dried blood on my lips. I’m still sprawled out on the canvas. My ears strain for the sound of footsteps and voices. Silence. I prop myself up and see that I’m alone. My gloves are gone, but there’s something in my left hand. My teeth? I unclench my fingers and squint closer. Two slender bricks of bank bills are looking up at me.

I stagger down a dim corridor looking for the locker room. Eventually I find it and fall through the door. As I inch closer to the mirror, my face comes into focus. Blood is oozing from cuts above both eyebrows, and my eyes are swelling up like two peaches. I touch my nose gingerly. It’s slanting sideways. I gaze at my reflection and I find myself thinking about all the boxers that must have stood in this very same spot. Who’d have thought I’d be standing there too? After a while I remember the money. I start counting it, but I have to stop because there’s so much of it and I can’t concentrate, but I reckon there must be close to twenty thousand dollars! I instantly think about my stage play lying on my bedside table that had been rejected by the few agents who’d bothered talking to me. I could now put it on myself! I reach down slowly into my satchel and take out my black notebook. A drop of blood lands on its front cover. I tuck the cash inside, and I don’t know why, but I place my bloodied hand onto the blank open page, leaving a crimson handprint. The blood glistens on the ivory page before I press the book shut and wrap the elasticated band around its bulging form.

A year later I put on my play at an old theatre that’s down a seedy street a few blocks from Broadway. It’s the opening night, and I’m all nervous and whispering the lines from the wing. After the encore, while I’m on stage taking a bow, I think I see Ricky in the audience. A few nights later, as I’m being interviewed by a reporter, Bacon comes striding through the theater’s foyer towards me and the jerk even fakes a jab. I almost crap myself. He looks at me expressionlessly and then he finally tells me the play wasn’t half bad. He then nods politely to the reporter and boulders off through the crowd. As for my dad, I didn’t hear from him after that day in April. I thought about sending him tickets but figured he wouldn’t come. But as I’m locking up after the closing night, I hear a voice behind me. I turn around and there he is, standing all foolishly with a bouquet of flowers. He shakes them dumbly.

“I hear that’s what you give the director,” he says.