Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  She shot me a look. “I was born in Wayne, New Jersey, you muttonhead. But my parents were both from Thailand, yeah.”

  There was a strain in her voice, and it was hard not to take note of the past tense. I mumbled an awkward, “Oh, sorry.”

  She shrugged. “My folks died a long time ago when I was just a kid. Since then, my uncle’s taken care of me. Or I’ve taken care of him. It’s complicated.”

  I could tell this wasn’t a topic she was comfortable talking about, so I didn’t press her. Now I knew who was making those sounds in the night. It was my guess there were two beds back there, or maybe she slept on a cot or something.

  There was still a tense vibe in the air, and I thought she might be about to say more, but Khajee stayed quiet, glancing over to some graffiti high up on the underbelly of the bridge. Somebody had gone to a lot of trouble to write “Warriors Rule!” but the sloppy lettering made it look like “Worriers Rule!”

  Stiffly, we went back to work on my stance and my striking, and for a little while, we did some of what I’d call mat work. In the dirt, she showed me a few simple chokeholds and how to defend against them. This all came more naturally for me, and as we sparred, Khajee noticed. Sitting across from me, elbows on her bent knees and huffing with exertion, she said, “A good strategy for you will be to get the guy down as soon as possible, then whale on him. Ground and pound, baby. The longer you stay on your feet, the more likely you are to get your clock cleaned.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  “Come on,” she told me, rising and offering me a hand. “There’s a water fountain back by the station. I’m late already.”

  “Late for what?” I asked.

  “School,” she said, jogging away from me. “I’ve got a calculus test in an hour. Got to get home and catch the bus.”

  This surprised me, as over the course of the morning I’d decided she was older than me, and I asked, “You’re still in high school?”

  “A junior,” she said. That jerked me back to my own reality. In theory, I was supposed to be finishing my semester online, but that wasn’t looking too likely now. I tried to push this out of my head as we jogged back to her apartment, through thickening traffic. No point dwelling on a problem you can’t fix.

  At one point, Khajee led me down an alleyway and paused by a nondescript door, almost hidden by a green dumpster. “We’re six blocks from where I live,” she said. “Can you remember the way here?”

  I looked around and took in a few landmarks, then said I thought I could.

  She nodded. “Sunday set up a totally crappy gym in here. It’ll open about ten. Mostly all brawlers. You can come lift, fine. But don’t spar with anybody.”

  “Wouldn’t it help to practice?”

  “I’m the boss,” she said. “No sparring till I say. And only with me there. I’ll come by after school and check in on you. Other than my place or here, you can’t be anywhere else. Blalock said to be sure you understood that.”

  This made sense. But it sounded boring. “What am I going to do at your house all day?”

  She gave me a look that suggested she knew more than I did, but only said, “Last six blocks, we sprint.” With that she bolted off, and I did my best to keep pace.

  When we entered her apartment, my chest heaving, the TV was on and an old man was sitting in the armchair, Rosie curled up at his feet. The dog lifted her head and gave a lame growl, and then the man, thin with wispy gray hair, turned and regarded me with a broad smile. He lifted a frail hand from the blanket covering his lap and waved loosely. “Okay,” he said. “Very hello to you.”

  Khajee chuckled hard and raised an eyebrow his way for some reason. Then she went into the kitchen, shaking her head. She returned with a couple glasses filled with water and passed one to her uncle, saying, “Lung lâyn à-rai kŏng lung nîa? Man mâi dtà-lòk láew ná.”

  Khajee then turned to me. I took the glass, which was cool on my palm. She said, “This is my uncle. Most folks call him Than. Uncle! This is Eddie.”

  Than nodded at me and shrunk a bit under her gaze. “Hâi pôo yài lâyn sà-nùk sàk nít. Naai nêe doo òk jà sêr sêr.”

  Khajee sniffed, and I smelled the faint scent of lemon air freshener. “Were you smoking again?” Khajee snapped, brushing a hand through the air. “Gam-lang kâa dtua ayng róo dtua rĕu bplào?”

  He grinned and crossed his hands in front of his face, as if defending against an attack.

  Khajee told me, “Trust me when I say my uncle’s not to be trusted.”

  The old man smiled, apparently understanding her English just fine.

  “He’s got a neighborhood boy who sneaks him cigarettes.” Than lifted his shoulders but didn’t deny anything. Next to the old man was a walker with wheels on the back legs and tennis balls on the front. Khajee told me to help myself to whatever was in the fridge and went off to get her shower. I had toast and some microwaved eggs, watching a repeat of the World Series of Poker with Khajee’s uncle, who flinched every now and then at somebody’s decision. “Bad bad choice,” he’d mutter. “Not so good.”

  As I watched, I slowly became aware of a sound I couldn’t quite place at first. It came from the background, this soft voice beneath the hush of the shower water, which we could hear easily from the living room. Khajee was singing. I couldn’t make out the tune, but her voice was powerful — true and strong and somehow vulnerable. Than saw me listening. “Like angel,” he said, nodding. I couldn’t quite match that voice with the tough fighter I’d met.

  As Khajee left for school, she reminded me to stick to myself at the gym and kissed the old man on the cheek. She said something to him in Thai and he grinned at me widely.

  “What?” I asked. But without answering, Khajee left us on our own.

  I took a while cleaning up in the bathroom and when I got back to Than, the poker was over and Family Feud was on. The host prompted, “Name something a customer might do to annoy a waitress.”

  “Tip less than fifteen percent!” Than shouted. I was surprised, then impressed when it was the number one answer.

  “Good job,” I said, and he turned, looking like he’d forgotten I was around.

  “Eddie. You do the fight, yes?”

  I nodded. He tapped his own chest. “I do fight too.” He coughed then, hard, and I asked if he was all right. He sipped at some tea from a TV tray next to his chair and pointed to a closet. “Get box now, okay? High up on shelf.”

  I did what he said and brought him a dusty cardboard box. Inside we found a couple dozen VHS tapes, things I hadn’t seen in years. Each one had writing scrawled on it, but not from any alphabet I knew. Than lifted a couple and considered them, then finally seemed satisfied with his selection. He aimed a shaky finger at a VCR on top of the TV, and I inserted the tape. Moments later, a grainy image appeared. On the screen, two sinewy fighters faced off in a ring. They had colorful ribbons tied to their elbows — yellow and red — and the crowd, all Asian, were roaring in anticipation. The boxers were cobra quick, and just like Khajee under the bridge, they spun and flicked their fists and feet, spiked their knees into each other. “Muay Thai?” I asked.

  Than straightened in his chair, beamed a bright smile, nodded deeply. “Muay Thai.”

  Together, with Rosie snoring on the carpet between us, we watched a few fights without speaking. But then, Than began to make small comments on what we were seeing. He pointed out the way one guy telegraphed his spins and how another worked combinations. Fumbling with the remote control, he’d pause the tape and lean into the screen, tap at a guy’s exposed face or belly and say, “Not so good.” When he resumed the play, inevitably a punch or kick would land where he’d indicated. He used the same comment when a fighter tried a lame punch or half-assed spin kick. Other times, especially after a devastating knockout, he’d rewind the film and point to the fighter’s stance or mimic how he held his fists. “Good,” he’d tell me, nodding and pointing with a shaky finger. “Do you see?”<
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  When that first tape finished, he picked another, and we ended up spending the rest of the morning viewing fights. I couldn’t get over the speed of the slender fighters and their ferocity. Gradually I started perceiving the openings myself, before Than pointed them out. And I got good at predicting which fighter would win after just the opening exchanges. I’d tap the screen and give a thumbs-up. Sometimes Than would echo my sign and others he’d shake his head. Every now and then, our viewing would be interrupted by a coughing jag. Once he hacked something nasty into a handkerchief, but I acted like I didn’t notice.

  During one of the later matches, a somehow familiar boxer bounded into the ring. Than’s eyes grew bright.

  “Is that you?” I asked.

  He hesitated for a second, like he was trying to decide something. “Me,” he said, patting his chest with a trembling hand. “So very long time ago.”

  On the screen, young Than’s motions were slick and smooth. He was a deliberate fighter, not wasting any energy, only punching when he had a clean shot. His opponent bloodied his nose with a kick, and in the end the judges awarded the other guy the victory. I said, “Tough match. You fought well.”

  “Fight good,” he said with a shrug. “Still make loss.” Then he laughed. He slumped a bit, then nodded to himself. “But fight good.”

  After that tape ran out he pinched two fingers to his lips and inhaled, lifted his eyebrows my way.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I don’t smoke.”

  He seemed disappointed, but not surprised. “Okay,” he said, then dragged his walker around in front of his chair. He pulled the blanket off his lap and I was surprised to see his right leg end in just a stump, cut off at the knee. That pant leg was knotted. It took Than effort to rise up, and I recovered from my shock in time to set one hand on his back and anchor the walker with the other. “Yes thank you,” he told me. Slowly, he ambled into the kitchen, planting the walker and hopping. For lunch, he made us some soup. I don’t know if I expected some sort of Thai food, but when I tasted it and glanced his way, he shrugged and said, “Can’t beat chicken noodle.”

  I cleaned the dishes and decided to violate the terms of Khajee’s parole, walking Rosie down to the river a few blocks away. She liked the grass and the sun. When I got back, Than rubbed the dog’s head and said, “Eddie, now I do nap. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I said. I pointed to the TV. “Thank you very much. I’ll go work out.” I made lifting motions with my hands, mimicking military press and curling exercises. He nodded and crept away on his walker. I couldn’t help but wonder what happened to his leg, but it’s not the kind of question you ask somebody. At his bedroom door, he paused and looked back. “Eddie,” he said. “Do you know Peppermint Patty?”

  I thought of the character from Peanuts and I’m sure I looked confused. Than brought pinched fingers to his mouth.

  “Oh,” I said. “The candy? Yeah sure.”

  “Maybe you buy a couple some for Than, okay?”

  I could feel my cheeks bunch up as I smiled. “You bet,” I said.

  I dug my MP3 player out of my duffel and made my way back to the alley where Khajee showed me the gym. Gym was a bit of a stretch really. I’ve worked out in some beat-up places, but this was more like a scene from one of those stupid Saw movies Shrimp always wants to watch. When I opened the door, I had to step down three or four stairs to the concrete floor, and I planted my sneaker right in a standing puddle. This was explained by the dripping pipes crisscrossing the ceiling. There were no windows in the room, and the only light came from mismatched lamps hung overhead, along with flickering fluorescent bulbs. A half dozen guys were scattered across the space, which was the size of two basketball courts. They turned when I came in, but nobody asked for a membership card or anything. They just went back to what they were doing, and I got to work myself.

  I stuffed in my earbuds and dialed up some Pink Floyd, comfortably numb sounding like a pretty good way to feel, then found an empty weight bench repaired with duct tape so many times I couldn’t tell what color the original was. The weights were a random mix of different brands, and it took me a while to be sure I had the same amount on both sides. It was good to lose myself in music and sweat.

  Between reps, I tried to take in the other guys. A black kid with cornrows running along his scalp and long dreads draping down his back worked a heavy bag with punches and spin kicks, making it swing on its chains. His gut was ripped like a body builder’s, and as he danced around the bag, his beaded hair swam. A chubby guy, pasty white, tried jumping rope, cursing with each missed effort. In another corner of the room, a thin Latino dude with a Jesus beard was practicing some sort of kata on a mat. I recognized the choreographed karate moves meant to simulate battle from my time at the Y. Older kids had to learn these to test for higher belts.

  In a fighting stance, Jesus punched the open air, hollering “Keeya!” then circling his forearms, blocking imaginary blows. He unleashed a volley of elbow shots, punctuated with “Hu! Hu! Hu!” and then twirled and retreated, advanced again on his invisible opponent, crouched low to the ground and did a 360 leg sweep, and rose up once more. Apparently this dropped his foe, as he looked at the mat grinning with satisfaction. For the finale, he executed a forward flip with a rattling “Sai!” and pounded his front foot into a space I’m sure he pictured a face to be.

  I had to admit there was something undeniably elegant about it all, like a violent ballet.

  Every now and then the gym door would open, casting sunlight into our netherworld, and somebody else would enter. A couple guys gathered together here and there, and I saw their faces turn my way as I progressed from set to set. My presence hadn’t gone unnoticed. Through my earbuds, Roger Waters and David Gilmour advised me to “run like hell,” but I was pretty sure that was just a coincidence.

  At one point I had to use the john, which made highway gas stations look like five-star hotels. There was a running toilet I knew I could take care of with the right tools. When I came out, I found myself looking up into the face of Maddox, the blond brawler who lost at the barn. His pimpled cheeks were puffy with swelling, and a blue-black bruise rimmed one eye. “Tough match last night,” I said, waiting for him to get out of my way. “My name’s Eddie but most call me Mac.”

  He stared at my hand, extended for a shake. “Nobody gives two turds what the hell your name is.”

  We stood there for a few seconds, and I was aware of eyes on us. The clanging of dumbbells behind us stopped, and over on the mat, young Jesus paused from his kata to openly stare. Maddox shoved past me, bumping shoulders as he said, “I got to take a leak.”

  I didn’t take the bait. Instead of responding to the guy’s big bad move, I walked back to my workout, and everyone watching turned away, tension diffused. Pecking orders get established every time you put a bunch of testosterone in the same room. I knew that. I figured I’d call the encounter a draw.

  It was important to get right back to something, to show I didn’t care about the diss, and I considered trying to work the speed bag. But it’d been a while, and I didn’t want to look like an amateur. So instead, I made my way over to the squat rack, which faced a grimy mirror. My thick legs have always served me well on the mat, and a strong back is the key to not getting thrown. I was happy to see a weight belt hanging on a nail, and I slipped it around my waist for the support. Only a fool risks getting injured.

  My first two sets went great — I could feel that healthy burn in my thighs — and I was considering how much weight to add for a third when Maddox stepped into the squat area. Just off his flank was the kid with the dreads. I figured they weren’t here to give me friendly advice.

  “One more set,” I said, pulling out an earbud.

  “Yo Dominic,” Maddox said. “What’s with new boy wearing my belt?”

  Dominic shrugged. “Very disrespectful, you ask me.”

  In response to all this, I hefted a twenty-five-pound plate and slapped it on the right side, then scre
wed the collar tight. Then I got a second plate to balance the bar. But when I moved around to the left side, Maddox blocked my path.

  “Look,” I said. “The belt was hanging on a nail.”

  “I know,” he told me. “That’s where I keep it.”

  Still gripping the plate to my chest, I sidestepped him and walked right into Dominic. He grinned and asked, “You think you can come in here and just own the place? You think you’re special?”

  Again, all the other brawlers had stopped. The air felt tense. And here I had one of my prophetic visions, the first since my match with Dunkirk at the Giant Center. Before what happened happened, I knew what was going to go down. I even felt the crunch of broken glass underfoot.

  Dominic reached out and ran a hand along my cheek, like he was checking to see how close my shave was. Then he plucked free my other earbud.

  “Look,” I told Dominic. “If you meatheads want a fight, just ask next time.” And with that, I heaved the plate into his gut.

  As he caught it, I popped a right hook across his chin, sending him tumbling back over a rack of barbells. When I turned to Maddox, he was wide-eyed and backing away with both hands up. Guys with freshly tenderized faces shouldn’t be starting something they aren’t prepared to finish, which he was just realizing. I advanced on him, undoing the belt, and he said, “Hold on now.” But we’d passed that point. I snapped the belt from my hip and whipped it overhead, walking steady as he scrambled backward. As he passed under a loose hanging light bulb, I twirled the buckle and bashed it, then felt the crisp crunch under my sneakers. “You want your freakin’ belt?” I asked, with every intention of smashing it into the side of his thick head.

  I felt the rush of blood, the thrill of seeing Maddox’s wide-eyed fear, and knowing for sure that soon, any second, he’d be begging me to stop. I get that violence is wrong, sinful, etc. But there’s nothing like that power, that safe sense of control.

  “Yo Hothead!” a voice cried out, freezing the room. This wasn’t part of my vision. I steadied my right hand, gripping the belt behind my head like a whip about to crack. Young Jesus walked toward us, bending to snag something off the ground.