Tom Schreck: TKO

“Uh-” was all that came out of my mouth.

Claudia handed, actually threw, the fax at me and snorted out her nose.

It was on Dr. Manny Pacquoa’s stationery. It read:

Please be advised that Duffy Dombrowski has been under my care for the last six weeks with the diagnosis of posttraumatic stress disorder. His condition is such that he requires full temporary disability. This diagnosis was rendered six weeks ago, and it has come to my attention that Mr. Dombrowski was still attending work during that period. Because of his disability any disciplinary action taken against him cannot be enforced. He must be given full pay, and it is my recommendation that his leave be extended four weeks for him to deal with the stress he has been under. Please be advised that this diagnosis is on file with the New York State Labor Department and has been approved.

Sincerely,

Manuel Pacquoa, MD

“I don’t care what this says. I’m firing you,” Claudia said.

“Now Claudia, you know you can’t do that. Have some sympathy for us PTSD sufferers,” I said.

“Just watch me.”

“You know, Claudia, rules are important and you must follow them,” I said, and I couldn’t help but feel a smile spread over my face.

“Get out and go home, now!” she said. Her bright red face clashed with her purple polyester blouse.

“What about-?”

“I said go home!”

I walked past Trina, who smiled, winked, and started whistling “Hound Dog.”

I left but I didn’t go home. Instead, I headed to the Y and I let Elvis bring me there with “Follow That Dream.” I wrapped my hands, threw my gear bag over my shoulder, and headed down to the gym.

Smitty had a young middleweight in the ring and he was working the recoil drill. There was no one else in the gym. The bell sounded and Smitty directed the middleweight to the ropes for three rounds of work.

“Duff, in the ring,” Smitty said. I climbed through the second and third rope.

“You ready to work today?” Smitty said.

“Yeah, I’m ready to work,” I said.

Smitty took me through the same workout he’d been taking me through all my life. It felt automatic, like it should, and it felt good to sweat and get the heart rate up again. Ten rounds of drills later, Smitty called it a day and asked me if I’d be in tomorrow.

“Yeah,” I said.

“I got a phone call last week about a show in Rochester. Guy’s 10 and 14 and he’s from Erie,” Smitty said.

“I’m in,” I said.

“Good,” Smitty said. “I’ll make the call.”

I headed up the stairs to the showers and coming down the stairs at the same time was Billy Cramer. He had on gray sweats and a white T-shirt.

“Hey, Billy. What’s up, man?” I said.

“Just heading to the boxing gym for a workout,” he said.

“Not going to the karate room?”

“Inside, Duff. I’m keeping it inside.”

It dawned on me that Billy’s face had cleared up-not a single zit, anywhere.

“Have a good workout,” I said.

“Thanks, Duff,” Billy said, and he went in for his workout with Smitty.

Al was happy to see me back at the Blue and even happier to get his dinner. I cracked open a Schlitz and noticed I was down to my last one. That wasn’t going to get it done and I felt like a night away from AJ’s. I sat on the couch and flipped through the cable deciding how I was going to address the impending Schlitz drought. Al joined me and we sat there watching an A amp;E special on John Wayne Gacy.

I was about to flip the channel when I heard a knock on the door. I looked through the window and it was Trina. She had a gift-wrapped box with a shiny bow.

“Hey, what’re you doing here?” I said, holding the door open for her.

“I’ve heard that PTSD people need lots of social interaction,” she said.

“How beautiful was that? I thought the Michelin Woman was going to have a shit hemorrhage,” I said.

Al jumped off the couch and up Trina’s legs to say hello. I opened the package and it was a cold twelver of Schlitz.

“Ahh… and just my size,” I said.

She smiled at me and tilted her head in that way that made her hair gently rest on one shoulder. She had on her faded Levis that were tight without being slutty and a white men’s button-down shirt that she left untucked. Her high-heeled boots made her legs seem even longer.

“You cut it pretty close this time, Duff,” she said, taking the beer I handed her.

“Too close,” I said.

Our eyes met and I pulled her close to me. She was tall enough to kiss me without going on tiptoes, but she did have to stretch and I loved the way the small of her back felt in my hands. She closed her eyes and kissed me hard.

I let my hands go under her shirt and I held the small of her back. Her back and abdomen had that wonderful combination of being hard and soft at the same time. Trina ran her hands over my shoulders and across my back as we kissed.

Al slumped off the couch and mumbled something that sounded like a stifled bark. I knew that sound and its prelude to a long barking fit. Unfortunately. Trina knew that sound too. She pulled back from our kiss.

“Duff, I can’t do this if Al’s going to be part of it,” she said.

Al was sitting, quite comfortably, his eyes going back and forth between me and Trina like he was watching tennis. Then he kind of snorted and got up and turned away from us on his way toward the stereo.

Trina and I watched as Al waddled over to the eight-track and sat in front of it. He paused and then nosed in the tape that was sticking out. The tape played “Rock-a-Hula Baby” and Al nosed the program button. It played “Ku-U-I-Po” and he nosed it again. He got the tape to the fourth track and the King kicked in with “Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

Al turned and looked at me and then Trina and then me again. He barked loudly once and headed off to the kitchen.

I swear to God I saw him wink.

Not long after that, Trina and I got lost in the uninterrupted bliss, first on and then off my sofa. My attention was going in and out but at one brief interlude it focused on the lyrics Elvis was crooning. It was the second verse of Al’s favorite.

It had something to do with the sin but more with letting yourself go for love.