Craig Davidson - The Fighter

Bile rolled up Rob’s stomach and spread into his mouth. He’d never been called a bully before, and was proud of the fact. But next his hands were wrapped up in Darren’s jacket and he was shaking him so hard his teeth rattled. He yanked Darren’s jacket until their noses touched.

“You don’t know anything,” he growled. “You’re not getting out of here. You’re not—”

Felix Guitterez jammed his body between them. “Take it outside, guys.”

The rage drained out of Rob; in its wake only regret at the hollow-ness of his actions. He smoothed Darren’s jacket. “Sorry,” he mumbled. “No, no going outside. Sorry, sorry.”

Kate grabbed his hand. As she dragged him up the basement steps, Rob caught Darren looking at him, giving him the most sympathetic smile he’d ever seen.

Outside, Kate dropped his hand and marched down the sidewalk toward her home.

“Idiotic, Tully,” she called over her shoulder. “Grade-A asshole material.”

The night sky was salted with stars. Rob walked down the street on snow packed hard from car tires. Revelers headed to their cars — wives supported drunken husbands; husbands cradled drunken wives. He felt awful for what he’d said about Darren.

He shouldn’t have recited Kate’s poem, either.

Tommy sat on the porch steps; he raised a hand and shook his head, a wry, guilty gesture.

“Your dad’s still up. Don’t think I can face him right now.”

Rob said, “You lose at cards?”

“Yuh.”

“The whole Christmas bonus?”

“Yuh. So what happened this afternoon?”

“I wasn’t on.”

Tommy scratched his neck, winced. “I don’t know… looked to me you had the guy.”

“Don’t know what else to tell you.”

“It’s just, y’know, boxing is rough business, Rob. If you’re not very, very good, you can get killed or made over into a vegetable or what have you. Anyone who doesn’t have his heart in it can get himself hurt.” His memory twigged.

“I ever tell you about Garth Briscoe? He was this light-heavy used to train at the club. Good fella; a give-you-the-shirt-off-his-back kind of guy…”

Fritzie Zivic’s bulldog rounded the corner at 22nd Street, followed by Zivic himself.

“Put that hell-hound on a leash,” Tommy called. “Damn thing nipped my toes tonight.”

“Were your toes under the table? Under the table is a dog’s domain.”

“So where you want they should go?” Tommy wanted to know. “Maybe you nail boots to the ceiling and let us all hang.”

Zivic came up the walk. “Your uncle, uh?” he said to Rob. “Always the bitch and moan. And to think, I come bearing gifts.”

He produced a few sawbucks from his navy peacoat and shoved them at Tommy.

“What’s this?”

“Yours, dummy. Dropped them under the card table.”

Tommy, skeptical: “Another guy could’ve dropped ’em.”

Fritzie cut a glance at Rob, like he wished he wasn’t here to see this. “They were under your seat, okay?”

Tommy’s big hand reached out and covered Zivic’s; when they came apart, the bills were gone. “Thanks, Fritzie. Ought to be more careful.”

“Tell me something I don’t know. Ah jeez… I’m sorry, fellas.”

Fritzie apologized on behalf of Murdoch, who had chosen to bestow his nightly movement on the Tullys’ lawn.

Tommy said, “Looks like he’s enjoying himself. Bring a bag with you?”

“Ah, come on, Tommy. It’s nature’s way. Whaddayacallit — biodegradable.”

“Yeah, and so are corpses. Doesn’t mean I want one —”

“—on your front lawn, yeah, yeah.” Fritzie kicked snow over the load. “Did I hear you talking about Garth Briscoe? Sad story, was Garth.”

“What happened?” said Rob. “He get hurt in the ring?”

“That was his problem,” Fritzie said. “He couldn’t get hurt enough .”

“Let me tell it,” Tommy cut in. “Fritzie tells it, we’ll be here come next New Year. Briscoe was a good guy; he taught English composition down at St. Mary’s of the Sacred Heart —”

“The Professor, is what the guys around the gym called him,” said Fritzie.

“And in the beginning, he did have that professor-like air about him.”

“But he had a problem,” Tommy said. “He was one of those whaddayacallems — like to hurt themselves?”

“Punch pugs,” Fritzie supplied.

Rob said, “A masochist?”

“Right,” Tommy continued, “so a masochist. Briscoe took punishment the likes of which I’d never seen. He’d hardly protect himself. His ribs were always bruised, face always bristly with catgut.”

“His old lady left him,” Fritzie said. “Took the kids. Briscoe kept on fighting.”

Tommy said, “Don’t get me wrong — I respect a man who sucks it up and can give as good as he gets for a few rounds and, when it comes down to it, takes his beating like a man —”

“You should,” Fritzie cut in. “Made a career of it.”

“People in glass houses, Fritzie…”

Fritzie gave Rob a pointed look. “Some of us, that was the only way to go. We didn’t have such talent.”

“I asked Briscoe one time,” Tommy said.” What exactly is the point? He told me his aim was to get hit so hard and so often that, y’ know, not getting hit became its own pleasure.”

“Euphoric pleasure,” Fritzie said, pleased with himself. “Thought if he dealt with pain on a nonstop basis, when that pain was taken away, his body would exist in this state of constant bliss. Crazy, but…” He shrugged.

“God, it was awful watching him fight after hearing that. And the problem was he never reached that state of grace, so after a while the pain became an end in itself. A guy can get addicted to pain, just like anything. Get so his body craves it.”

Rob pictured a man taking that sort of punishment — e ating leather, the gym bums called it: That poor palooka ate leather till his face was full.

Murdoch was now chewing on the wooden steps. Gnawing with rotten yellow teeth, a meringue of foam slathering his chops.

“Can you stop him doing that, Fritzie? First he turds in the yard, now he’s like a beaver on the steps. You’d think he was sent by the realtors’ board to drive house values down.”

“Yawh!”

Fritzie prodded the dog’s haunches. “Scit!” Murdoch wheeled and nipped Fritzie’s boot. “Miserable devil. He’ll be dead soon.” Feeling poorly for having wished his sole companion dead, Fritzie picked the old dog up and kneaded its ears.

“Briscoe…” Tommy went on, “… ended up not entirely human. Your dad booted him out of the club: guys felt ill staring at his bashed-in mug. I saw him a few years ago, walking down Ferry Street. His face was so scarred I barely recognized him. And this nothinglook in his eyes — like he was dead and hadn’t quite figured it out yet. Boxing’s a wonderful thing, Robbie, but it’s not the only thing. It wasn’t the thing for Garth Briscoe. It isn’t for everyone.”

Murdoch squirmed and whined. “Fine, you loveless brute,” said Fritzie, setting him on the ground. The dog’s hips gave out; his rear legs crumpled under his haunches.

“It’s why he’s so mean all the time.” Fritzie’s eyes glassed over; Rob was worried he might start sobbing. “A dog gets old, it doesn’t understand why it can’t do the things it used to. Makes a creature ornery.”

“That thing was ornery as a pup,” said Tommy. “Poor Murdoch…”

Fritzie went on,“… doubt he’ll see another year.” Inside the house: a crash, a drunken roar. Tommy said, “Reuben’s pissed as a jar of hornets.” Fritzie said, “Sounds like he’s just plain old pissed, too.” Tommy nodded. “Yuh.”