I shadow box in front of the gym mirror. The punches land on my reflected nose, chin, ribs. Uppercuts come next, number nine and ten in my combination sequence. I imagine my head snapping back, my jawbone breaking, blacklights dancing before my eyes. I throw jabs that lack snap, overhead rights without power, slow hands that can no longer do damage.<\/p>\n
It was my doctor who suggested I box. A good cardio workout, he\u2019d said. Get the old heart pumping. Drop a few pounds.<\/p>\n
Jab, jab, cross, hook.<\/p>\n
He was right. My heart is skipping rope. Sweat mats my gray hair. This must be good for me, I think, as my wrapped fist finds my left eye socket in the mirror. Twice a week I climb the back stairs to Terry\u2019s Gym to hit the speed and heavy bags, to chase my trainer, Jonathan, around the ring, to throw punches at myself. My arms already ache.<\/p>\n
Lynette, my wife, thinks it\u2019s funny. She calls me Sugar Ray now and laughs when I shadow box in front of our bathroom mirror, telling me to float like a butterfly, forgetting that I once could float and could sting. She\u2019s kept in better in shape over the years than I by planking and Pilates, yoga and indoor cycling. Our old Oster blender has been replaced with something called a Bullet, which I don\u2019t know how to use. It produces green drinks made of kale. Lynette is a woman who gets her daily steps in, walking here, jogging there, sometimes marching in place by our bed as she stares at her Fitbit until she hits her magic number. Then she\u2019ll slide in next to me, already satisfied.<\/p>\n
Jonathan calls time and says that\u2019s enough for one day, that I did good, that I should hit the showers. I look at the clock above the mirror. He\u2019s ending our session eight minutes early, my flushed face and heavy breathing probably scaring him. I don\u2019t argue, just stick out my aching arms so he can unwrap my hands. He is tall and lean, and speaks softly as he unwinds the tape, reminding me to tuck my elbows when I throw uppercuts, to torque my body on the hooks. I nod and watch a Puerto Rican kid with the Virgin Mary tattooed on his chest crunch sit-ups. His body gleams sweat, his eyes, like the inked Madonna, are turned heavenward. He is young, all muscle and bone, abs visible, looking like he could do sit-ups until the end of days.<\/p>\n
I shower quickly, dress, and head for my car parked behind the gym. Boys approach me, walking three abreast. They\u2019re maybe sixteen, sporting first attempts at sideburns. They wear strap t-shirts and gold chains, ballcaps with brims turned backwards. I step aside and let them pass, wondering if I would\u2019ve crossed the street before they got close if it was after dark. I hope not. I never would have before.<\/p>\n
My car is blocked by a rusting pickup, the driver-side door open. A man dressed in green work pants and matching shirt is arguing with a woman with red hair. I don\u2019t recognize them from the gym. Maybe she works next door at the hydroponics place. His voice rises as I approach.<\/p>\n
He slaps her. Hard. The sound is as surprising as the blow.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey,\u201d I say, not very loud.<\/p>\n
He slaps her again.<\/p>\n
\u201cHey!\u201d I yell, this time.<\/p>\n
He turns, his chin stubbled dark. \u201cMind your own business, old man.\u201d<\/p>\n
She tries to rush by him, but he grabs her above the elbow. His fingers sink in and I know that fair skin will bruise. Her face is red where he\u2019d slapped.<\/p>\n
\u201cLet her go,\u201d I say, and move toward them, my heart skipping rope again.<\/p>\n
\u201cWalk away, old man,\u201d he says, over his shoulder, his eyes as black as his stubble.<\/p>\n
I stop a few feet in front of them and drop my gym bag. I slip into the boxer stance Jonathan taught me: fists raised, chin down, eyes up.<\/p>\n
\u201cReally?\u201d he says, and pushes her away. She rubs her upper arm where he had squeezed. \u201cReally?\u201d<\/p>\n
He faces me, copies my stance and screws up his face, aping, I guess, my scared expression. He looks like a man who knows how to keep elbows tucked and how to torque his body when throwing hooks. My fists are trembling, and I picture the mirror.<\/p>\n
Jab, jab, cross, hook.<\/p>\n
Fast hands, bad intentions, Jonathan always says.<\/p>\n
He laughs. \u201cYou crazy, old man.\u201d<\/p>\n
He lowers his arms and turns to the girl, his back facing me, the punk. \u201cGet your shit out of my apartment. Be gone before I get back or you and your crap go out the fucking window.\u201d<\/p>\n
He walks towards his truck, sees me still in my stance, and cocks his arm like he\u2019s going to punch. I flinch. He laughs all the way to the pickup. I think he\u2019s still laughing when he pulls out of the parking lot, the rusting truck backfiring gunshots. I lower my fists certain I look foolish and relieved.<\/p>\n
\u201cAre you okay?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n
Stupid question. Neither of us are okay. She nods anyway.<\/p>\n
\u201cDid he hurt you?\u201d<\/p>\n
Another stupid question. Her face is red. She\u2019s still rubbing her arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019m Ray.\u201d<\/p>\n
She nods but doesn\u2019t tell me hers. Her head is tilted, as if trying to remember something or maybe she\u2019s ticking off the time it\u2019ll take to get home and pack her things.<\/p>\n
\u201cOkay then,\u201d I say, and pick up my gym bag. \u201cTake care of yourself.\u201d<\/p>\n
I head to my car, digging in my pocket for keys, but she doesn\u2019t move. She just stands there rubbing her arm.<\/p>\n
\u201cWas that guy your ride?\u201d<\/p>\n
She nods a third time, and I wonder if she\u2019s in shock and unable to speak.<\/p>\n
I should get in my car. I should go home to Lynette. I had stood up to that guy. That was enough.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan I drive you somewhere?\u201d I hear myself say. \u201cTo your apartment to get your stuff maybe?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI can take the bus,\u201d she says, and stares at the back of Terry\u2019s as if she can see through the brick wall and heavy bag and the Puerto Rican kid doing sit-ups, all the way to the bus stop on Hertel Avenue.<\/p>\n
I should open the door. I should get in. I should turn the ignition and put it in gear.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt might be faster if I drive you. Before he gets back.\u201d<\/p>\n
She turns, and I see fear flicker across her face. She studies me hard, wondering, I imagine, if she can trust me, if she can trust any man. A few heartbeats pass before her shoulders sag and she starts towards my car, deciding, I guess, that I\u2019m harmless.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhere to?\u201d I ask, and she gives me an address. I know the neighborhood. It\u2019s not too far. The homes are mostly rentals, doubles and triples, with sagging porches and peeling paint.<\/p>\n
It\u2019s a warm spring evening. I drive with the window down. Jasmine drifts to me. When I was younger, after long months of winter gray, I would think that anything was possible on nights like this, that hope was blossoming as much as flowers. That same feeling grabs me by the shirt and shakes me now. I had stood up to that man in the pickup truck. I had been ready to fight. If I hadn\u2019t been there in my comical boxing stance, if I had pretended that I\u2019d forgotten something at Terry\u2019s and turned around as soon as he slapped her, maybe he would have hit her a third time or fourth\u2026 or done worse. That second wind that Jonathan always promises blows through me. I feel like I could shadow box for that remaining eight minutes or do as many sit-ups as that Puerto Rican kid. My arms no longer ache.<\/p>\n
I think about texting Lynette, letting her know I\u2019ll be late because I\u2019m taking a pretty red head home. She\u2019d laugh, text back \u2018Yeah right, Sugar Ray\u2019, the idea ludicrous to her.<\/p>\n
Jab, jab, cross, hook.<\/p>\n
I turn the corner onto her street, and she points out her apartment, a blue house with an overgrown lawn.<\/p>\n
\u201cTop floor,\u201d she says, and winces, as if remembering his threat.<\/p>\n
I pull in front and we both get out of the car.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re coming up? That\u2019s not necessary.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure it is. I can help carry things. Drive you wherever you want when you\u2019re ready.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019ve done enough. You should go. Thank you.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cYou can\u2019t walk carrying all your stuff. How would you manage on the bus? I\u2019ll take you to a friend\u2019s house or home to your folks.\u201d<\/p>\n
She considers this. Tilts her head. Checks her watch. Her shoulders sag again. \u201cOkay.\u201d<\/p>\n
I follow her up the front walk. She lives in the upper flat. A red puddle stains the driveway. Transmission fluid. I wonder if that\u2019s where her boyfriend\u2014husband?\u2014parks his truck. Was she wearing a ring? It\u2019s been years since I checked a woman\u2019s left hand.<\/p>\n
The stairs leading to her apartment are long and steep. I hold the railing and it\u2019s loose. It would take me two minutes to fix it if I had my tools. She pulls her keys from her purse, unlocks the door, and I step back in time. It reminds me of our first apartment on Breckenridge Street after Lynette and I were married. Mismatched furniture, probably inherited from parents and grandparents, fills the living room. An old cedar chest, certainly a garage sale or Salvation Army find, doubles as a coffee table. Artwork\u2014hers?\u2014line the walls: still lifes, pen and ink street scenes, Hoyt Lake watercolors.<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll just be a minute,\u201d she says, and heads to the bedroom.<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you need help?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNo, stay there.\u201d<\/p>\n
I hear a closet door squeak, the clatter of wire hangers falling to the floor, dresser drawers being opened and shut as I walk around her flat. A vase of fresh-cut lilacs sits on the small kitchen table, their fragrance mixing with vanilla. From a candle? Potpourri? Incense? The windows are propped open to let in fresh spring air and children\u2019s laughter. It\u2019s a good apartment, an attempt at a home. I take it all in, the sights and sounds and smells, and those early days on Breckenridge flood back to me. For a moment, I\u2019m that man again, the one who could work all day and then rush home afterward not even tired. Lynette, as young and as pretty as the redhead who darts back and forth gathering her things, would smile with her lips and eyes and entire face when I\u2019d walk through the door. She had called me just Ray back then, and her arms would open when she saw me.<\/p>\n
The nameless woman emerges from her bedroom, a suitcase clutched in one hand, a plastic garbage bag bulging with her possessions in the other.<\/p>\n
\u201cReady,\u201d she says.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat about the artwork?\u201d<\/p>\n
She stares at the walls, as if remembering each brushstroke, every line drawn, all the hours spent that can never be refunded. \u201cThere\u2019s no time.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cSure, there is. It will just take me a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI won\u2019t be able to carry everything.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cI\u2019ll help,\u201d I say, and move to the closest watercolor. As I lift that first painting off its hook, Breckenridge returns to me again. I remember hanging a framed print from the mall. Lynette had stood next to me, handing me the nail, her body so close it had made my own come alive. After hammering in the hook, she\u2019d drifted away, telling me a little more to the right, to center it, now to the left as I tried to hang it straight. I had stepped back towards her after thinking I\u2019d gotten it right. Our arms had slipped around each other, and we stared at the JC Penny print like we were standing in The Louvre.
\nPerfect, she had said.<\/p>\n
\u201cWe should go,\u201d the redhead says. \u201cI can come back for them.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe\u2019ll throw them out the window,\u201d I say, and move to the next watercolor.<\/p>\n
\u201cPlease.\u201d<\/p>\n
I turn and see her trembling lip, and the arm bruises beginning to form. I want to stay, to stretch this moment out so I could continue shadow boxing with the past, to relive what I thought I\u2019d forgotten or, worse, wouldn\u2019t allow myself to remember. But her face is still red from his palm, and the memories begin to fade. I\u2019m certain as soon as I leave this tiny apartment, they\u2019ll slide away, becoming as distant as Breckenridge Street once again.<\/p>\n
\u201cYou\u2019re right,\u201d I say, leaving the second watercolor hanging in place, the ache returning to my arms. \u201cYou can get them another time.\u201d<\/p>\n
I linger, taking one last look around, trying to memorize the still lifes and ink drawings that we both will never see again. I breathe in the lilac and vanilla and try to hold them inside me, not wanting to lose them, too. The homemade curtains flutter, the breeze bringing jazz and a mother calling that it\u2019s time to come in. We head to the stairs and I\u2019m about halfway down when I stop and examine the railing. The brackets are brass and tarnished and some are missing screws.<\/p>\n
\u201cWhat?\u201d she asks, stopping a few steps below me.<\/p>\n
\u201cIt\u2019s loose. I can fix it.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome on,\u201d she says. \u201cHurry.\u201d<\/p>\n
I follow her down, thinking about broken sash cords, loose railings, the front lawn that needs mowing and all the ways I could repair this house even if I don\u2019t know how to mend my own. We\u2019re almost at the bottom when I hear a truck pulling in the driveway, the exhaust backfiring, the evening shattering as if from gunshots.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
\nAn older man’s confrontation in a gym parking lot leads to consequences<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":15676,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[116,974,2621],"class_list":["post-15469","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-aging","tag-boxing","tag-fiction","writer-stephen-g-eoannou"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15469","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=15469"}],"version-history":[{"count":3,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15469\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":15678,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/15469\/revisions\/15678"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/15676"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=15469"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=15469"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=15469"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}