Tom Schreck - Out Cold

I raised my glass to salute Rudy and his plan. I hoped for his sake it worked out.

Meanwhile the Foursome was still transfixed by CNN. There was Dr. Theodore Martin, the talking head guy, going on about the psycho-emotional effects of a foiled terrorist act on a community. He said it tended to make people frightened and a little uneasy.

No shit.

After that the Foursome segued into a discussion about going over Niagara Falls in a drum.

"They use a drum because you can sit in it like a little tiny boat and because its floatacious," TC said.

"Whatyamean you can sit in it?" Jerry Number One said.

"You know, the big bass drum, the one that has the band's name on it. Dennis Wilson's said 'The Beach Boys' on his," TC said.

AJ started whistling 'My Little Douche Cup' on cue.

"You jack ass. They use industrial drums," Rocco said.

"The kind of music isn't important," TC said. Jerry Number Two started singing 'Little Douche Cup' under his breath.

"You're just an idiot," Rocco said. "I'm goin' home to paint another coat on 'The Deuce,'" he said.

TC started humming with the other three.

They kept awful time.

The next day at work figured to be a beaut. Without nearly enough caffeine I had to have a session with Suda-Fred, my long time client, who got himself addicted to over the counter cold medication. Fred wasn't doing so great in terms of his ability to stay off the little red devils. On this particular morning I had to call his sobriety into question.

"Hey, Duff, whatsgoinon? Everything good? Good. HowabouttheYanks? Phew, isithotinhere?" Suda-Fred said.

"Uh, Fred," I started to say.

"Oh shit, hereitcomes. I'm busted, right? Damn, shit, piss." Fred patted his wet forehead and then started to drum his fingers.

"Fred-"

"Sorry, Duff 'bout the language. Shit, piss. I've been tryin, really Duff, really. Shit piss."

"Fred-"

"Duff, I just get the snots and then I can't breathe and that's what the shit is for. I gotta breathe, Duff. You unnerstand, right?" Fred's eyes were wide.

"How many did you take?" I asked. I tried to be soothing.

"Eleven…no, no…I ain't lyin' no more. It was more like 22." Fred shook.

And so it went.

Right after Fred, there was Martha, whose last name happens to be Stewart. Martha struggles with food issues and sex issues-meaning she can't get enough of either. On this day, we worked through the grieving process of her having to give up 'Hog Wings' at Stan's Sports Bar.

"I've never heard of 'Hog Wings'," I said.

"They taste just like chicken wings but they're pork," Martha said.

"When pigs fly!" I said and laughed a little bit. Martha just stared at me.

"Oh, this is funny to you? I loved those things." Martha was wounded. I spent the rest of the session trying to be genuine, which is actually kind of tough when you're suppressing a laugh. Sparky was in after that, and he had a big smile on his face. He had just hit seven months clean and sober. Even though he didn't always connect with people at AA, they made a cake for him and toasted-er, saluted his achievement at the last meeting.

"It felt good, Duff." He allowed himself a bit of a smile.

"Like the first time I've been on the right track and doing something positive."

I didn't want to bring up the daughter thing and shit on his day. I didn't have to.

"If only…" Sparky put his hand up to his eyes and squinted hard. A couple fat tears ran down his face.

"If only I could make things right with Kristy." He bent over and let more of a cry out.

Once again, I didn't have much to say in terms of anything worthwhile. I sat there while the guy cried. That's me, Mr. Therapeutic. It gave me a sick feeling to watch a guy, who life was giving a raw deal to. This whole counseling thing often seemed like bullshit, but on days like today it felt worse. Afterwards, I grabbed a cup of coffee and headed back to the cubicle. Doing paperwork after dealing with Sparky just didn't seem right and I just sat there and pondered my bulletin board. I don't know how long I had been looking into space when Trina broke me out of it.

"Hey, genius," she said.

"Yeah?"

"Claudia's planning a full review of your charts this week.

You might want to get started soon." She did that thing with her eyebrows, raising them up and making a face. It was a face that let me know she knew the potential trouble I was in.

"What else is new?" I said.

"That's it, good attitude. Go ahead and get your ass fired." She headed back to her desk.

I took a less than half-assed stab at the paperwork and got through Fred's and Martha's. I did some old chart stuff on the Abermans, Sheila, and Eli. I picked up Sparky's and looked at it for a little while, then realized it was quitting time. I decided to give the gym another shot. It had been almost a week, my head hadn't been throbbing a lot, and I wasn't hearing a bunch of shit about being wobbling or repeating myself. To be honest with you, if I'm tired or under-caffeinated I tend to be kind of stupid.

I wrapped my hands in front of the mirror when I felt someone watching me. Smitty was in the doorway to his office chewing gum and staring at me. He didn't say anything, but he didn't break his stare. When I started to warm up, he took a couple of steps closer and watched me as he stood there with his arms folded.

I just shook things out, throwing jabs, and an occasional left and began to circle the ring. Jab, jab, left, slip, move to my right. Jab, jab, jab, stutter, step, move to my left, flurry with a series of uppercuts to the body, spin to my right. It was how I loosened up every single day and it did a couple of things. It got me loose, but it also ingrained in me automatic patterns that, hopefully, my nervous system would respond to when split-second things happened in the ring. It wasn't unlike what I did when I trained in karate and we'd do katas for hours and hours. It programmed the nervous system to do things without the delay of consciousness. Guys drifted into the gym little by little. Angel, the 116pound guy with a dozen fights, and seven or eight wins was there. Fat Joe, a guy who didn't ever get in the ring, but who hit the bags, grunted and scowled, was there, not doing much. I think Fat Joe liked telling people he went to the boxing gym. Larry, the middleweight, came in, probably high, and started right in on the speed bag. He did three or four rounds there and then left.

Tashaun, the 200 pounder, came in and wrapped his hands. I was on the heavy bag and checking him out at the same time. He shadow boxed and I caught him glancing over at me once in awhile, but he pretended not to. Unconscious and semiconscious stuff is going on constantly in a gym, especially when someone comes in who's a potential sparring partner. Eyes dart around, evaluations are silently made, weaknesses are explored, and a mental game no one ever admits to is begun from the moment a fighter crosses the threshold. No one talks about it, no one wants to get caught doing it, and no one ever, ever admits to it. When the coach suggests two guys work in the gym both guys will act like they didn't even know the other guy was there and they'll shrug like the sparring partner is an inanimate object. Smitty came out of his office looking at me again. I knew he was evaluating me and he knew I knew but neither of us spoke. It was my first day back in this gym and he probably didn't know anything about Ravenwood, so it was about the time he would let a guy get back in the ring. That is, if he felt the guy was okay.

"Tashaun and Duff. You want to work?" I'd been waiting for the call.

Both Tay and I gave muted affirmative shrugs and got our gear on. Smitty helped each of us with the gloves, and he took a long look into my eyes without saying anything. I held his look for a while before it creeped me out a bit. I turned away and started to dance a bit in effort to look like I was loosening up, but it was mostly to break his stare.