Matt Bell - Scrapper

If it’s drink, then name it Drink . If it’s drugs, then name it Drugs . If you’re a thief, then you’ve got a thief inside you, named by his action.

Name the killers, the apostle said. Speak every name of every bedeviling thing. The music boomed. The members of the congregation held their swords up and they spoke their high speech and at his command the apostle saw the angels filling the room too, their winged glory summoned, their pale and dark faces. God had made an angel for every shade and an office to obliterate every shadow and they were in the room too, ready for the one who was to be delivered to call out the names of their opposites and as he did so the expressionless angels stepped forward and put their flaming brands to what was called. Someone set a plastic-lined trash can in front of the one being delivered and he filled it with retch and when the sickness was out of him the two ministers on his sides lifted him to his feet, wrapped him in their embrace, a new brother.

Say what you’ve come for, the apostle said, and the one delivered answered.

Sanction, he said. Protection.

The one delivered was wobbly on his feet but the ministers added him to the circle again, got him back in step, pressed a dollar’s worth of plastic into his hand. There were others to save and his voice would help the saving get done — a charge, a commission. The speakers offered loud directions to the body, and if the one delivered couldn’t speak right yet, it owed to how he opened his mouth. He could mimic, work out some call-and-response until he earned his own voice, his own universal manner of speech. The apostle hollered above the noise, danced with his feet high, lifted his knees and kicked up his robes, promised tonight they would all sleep sweet dreams, and the one delivered heard this, considered. The apostle said it was hard to sleep with the lights on but it was impossible to rest without the light within and by the end of the night they would all have their light renewed. The apostle said he would preach until dawn if it delivered them all. The apostle said he was sixty-two years old and if it took forever to put all these waiting angels to work then he planned to live forever.

THE EVENING OF THE FIGHT Kelly awoke with ashes on his forehead and his heart thudding wrong — a scuttling, a shallowness. In the bathroom he listened as his heartbeat drummed louder, the blood jerking. He locked his hands over the ache in his chest, pressed hard, as if from outside the ribs he might hold the jumping muscle still. When he turned on the shower he didn’t wait for the water to warm, just sat down on the edge of the tub and let the cold water fall. Afterward his eyes jittered in the mirror, bloodshot and blank. There was a slackness to his mouth he hadn’t seen before. He brushed his teeth, scrubbed the night from his skin, ran a comb through his hair, forced the part. When he dragged the razor across his face the coldest skin resisted, begrudged. He moved carefully across the floor, water everywhere underfoot, slicking the tiles. He fed his body broader commands, noticing every step of every action, thinking of the parts of objects. He smoked before he brushed his teeth and then he dressed, an undershirt, underwear and pants, the watchman’s jersey under heavy flannel, thick socks and the worn boots, the impossible loops of the laces.

While he dressed he watched the news and on-screen the blonde reporter said this was the week ten new homicides were reported inside the zone. Ten homicides including two triple killings. Ten homicides including five men and four women and one child. The names of the victims withheld pending notification of the family. The names of the killers withheld pending arrest and arraignment.

This was the week a burnt and decapitated body was found inside a closed and shredded elementary school, found in a hallway with torn ceilings, with busted tile, without locker doors or lockers left.

This was the week a suspected arson killed a man and a woman and a seven-year-old girl at one thirty in the morning, their bodies falling through the collapsing house, drowned in the smoke and the fire.

This was the week a woman was shot dead in her driveway, still sitting in the driver’s seat with two other friends in the car. The shooter a man in dark clothing .

This was the week a clerk and two elderly customers died at a check-cashing center in a strip mall, the clerk shot despite the bulletproof storefront. There was a buzzer she had to press to let customers in but how could she know who was dangerous before they were standing at the counter.

This was the week a charred body was found inside a trash can behind a bar and this was the week the spokeswoman for the medical examiner’s office said the body was burnt beyond recognition but at least they had his teeth.

This was the week a woman was killed by a neighbor when she knocked on his door, her face bloodied and cut, seeking help after a car accident. This was the week the homeowner opened a locked door to fire a shotgun at the color of her skin.

This week was the week it always was.

What would it have taken to make this week different.

She wouldn’t come to the fight because she didn’t want to see him get hurt and for Kelly there was no one else. Before the appointed time arrived the trainer came into the locker room, sat down in the corner where Kelly was resting, his eyes heavy, hands wrapped and gloved and ready. Kelly wore the red shorts and the red shoes and the orange jersey of the watch, considered his color-draped bulk in the mirror across from the bench. He lifted his eyes at the trainer’s approach but didn’t stand to meet him. Whatever had happened in the circle of swords had taken everything he had but he hoped his energy would return before the fight began. The effects of the late mass lingered, the lifting of the swords, the turning circle, the loud thunder of the boombox, the ashes streaked across his forehead, the presence he hadn’t felt in many years. Perhaps imagined, he didn’t know. In his youth he had craved this feeling. He thought he did not believe in God again but he did still believe in that feeling, the absolute and temporary lack of doubt.

You’re not wearing the robe, the trainer asked.

No, said Kelly. Is it time?

Not yet. Soon.

I’m ready.

Soon. Make it a good show and you’ll get your money.

I won’t fall for nothing.

You will.

I won’t.

I wanted you because I knew you’d think so.

I won’t.

He’ll hit you. He’ll hurt you. Bringer will punch you until you go down or the referee makes him stop and you will have no chance of changing this.

This isn’t what’s going to happen.

Like I said. I knew you’d think so.

It was nothing but bravado speaking. Kelly hadn’t come to win but to lose in the right way. He’d never understood the scoring, didn’t want to keep score. He only needed to understand if he didn’t plan on forcing the knockout.

When Kelly entered the gym he saw the lights turned up, a spotlight over the center of the mats inscribing a glowing circle in the center of the ring. The crowd wasn’t large but there were more people watching than Kelly was used to, more noise. The chatter before the spectacle, the boredom muddled with expectation, the crowding of bodies in the motionless air, the gym the hottest room Kelly could remember, sweat already wicking his skin.

The trainer walked out beside Kelly, lifting the ropes for Kelly to climb into the ring. He spoke to Kelly’s corner man, then took his place on the opposite side: the contender assigned the blue corner, Kelly dressed in his gifted red. The contender not coming out until Kelly was set. Making Kelly wait, trying to shake his nerve. At last the contender ducking under the ropes, arriving tall and sleek in his corner, his body in motion even before he dropped his robe.