Brawler

by Neil Connelly

  Than inhaled sharply through his nose. “It takes a long time to get right.”

  “Okay,” I said, not wanting to be a pain. But his face radiated this look of ease and contentment. It reminded me of Father Singh at St. Sebastian’s when he was consecrating the Eucharist, an expression that suggested peace with one’s place in the universe. It made me jealous. “Well, say sometime a guy wanted to try, how would he start?”

  Than tilted his head, as if shaping some calculation. Then he said, “Take off your shoes. Sit up straight. Relax in your chair. Be comfortable but alert. Be present. With me so far?”

  “Sure,” I said, following his instructions. “I’m with you.”

  “Now close your eyes and focus on your breathing. Don’t force anything, just let the air come in and go out. It’s a natural thing. You do it all the time. Breathe and let your mind be still.”

  Curious, I did what he said and there was just the darkness, the incense smell, and his calm voice. “Don’t think about what you should do or what you shouldn’t do. Yesterday’s gone and tomorrow isn’t here yet. Just be here now with your body. Take ten good slow breaths and let that be everything.” He counted them out for me — one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten — and with each number his voice grew distant. I felt a little woozy, almost like I was being hypnotized. The blackness surrounded me and it seemed I was floating. It was trippy. But after a few seconds, the darkness brought the mothball smell, and I snapped my eyes open for the light.

  “No, no,” Than said gently. “It’s important to keep your eyes closed. It looked like you were getting somewhere.”

  I shook my head. “I’m good,” I said. “I think you were right about it being too hard.”

  He could tell I was a little rattled, and he tapped my forearm gently with his crooked fingers. “It’s hard not to think. Your mind is eager to be active, awake, excited. Instead of all that, just look into the dark. Thoughts will come up, some happy, some sad. Just breathe with whatever comes and say, ‘Okay, there’s that thing but I can let it go,’ and get back to your breathing. Stay in the moment.”

  I looked at one of the incense sticks turning to ash. “But it’s impossible to not think. You can’t turn your brain off.”

  “You’re right. But trying has its benefits. In your mind, picture nothing but a summer sky, all blue. And when a thought emerges, some problem you’re facing or a troubling memory, picture it like a puffy little cloud drifting by. Focus on it fading, disappearing until it’s gone. Keep your sky blue.”

  I pondered this weird idea. The ash curled and tumbled into the sand. “What’s the point though? I mean, if you still have all your problems when you come back?”

  Than unfolded his good leg, setting his foot on the floor. “Struggling to find answers doesn’t always provide them. Samatha helps me understand better.”

  “Understand what?”

  He lifted his hands palm up and looked around the living room, even glancing out the split curtain of the window. “Everything.”

  I was baffled but sick of asking questions. So when a commotion at my side got my attention, I was glad for the distraction. Rosie had appeared and was burrowing her nose into the plastic bag from CVS. She had a Peppermint Pattie between her teeth. “Hey!” I shouted. “That’s no good for you!”

  She bolted back to the bedroom with her stolen treasure, and I snagged the bag, handed it over.

  Than took it and glanced inside. What he saw made his eyes shine. He was quick to unwrap one of the patties and take a bite. “I love these things,” he said. “You just bought yourself one more night at the inn.”

  I knew he probably wasn’t supposed to have these, for some reason, and I wondered if the incense hadn’t been cover for a snuck cigarette, at least in part.

  I gathered some things and went into the bathroom to change into my workout clothes. When I came out, the incense had burned out, and Than was back in his easy chair. Some home-repair show was on the TV, and Rosie was curled up looking guilty at his feet.

  I told him I was heading to the gym and he nodded. “Have a good sweat,” he told me. At the door, I paused and looked back, feeling his stare. Sure enough, when I looked his eyes were on me. “Eddie, it’s not easy, but if you can quiet your mind in that darkness, settle your heart, sometimes you can actually see things more clearly. Believe me.”

  “Sure,” I said, clueless as ever. “I know what you mean.” I wondered what Than knew of my troubles, what Blalock told Khajee and what she told her uncle. It was all a mess.

  “One last thing,” he said, raising a quivering hand and jabbing a finger my way. “That Sunday guy. He’s not so good, you know?”

  I appreciated what the old man was trying to tell me, but I didn’t need samatha to tell me Sunday was out for himself. I nodded to show Than I appreciated the advice, then closed the door.

  At the gym that Wednesday, everybody gave me space, and I burned my way through two albums by Metallica and Megadeth. I was just in that kind of metal mood. I worked my chest first (bench press and inclined barbells), then shoulders (seated military, shrugs) and arms (upright rows, curls with an old preacher bench that made me feel like I was in confession). On a rusty universal machine desperate for a can of WD-40, I did dips and lat pulldowns, working the creaky pulley and letting the weights crash at the end of each set. I jumped rope for twenty minutes at high speed, lost inside the buzz, not thinking about anything but the moment. I wondered if what I was feeling was something like what Than found in his meditation. There’s a purity of purpose that comes on the mat too, even better than working out, in the middle of a match with a guy who really challenges you. You’re not worried about all the things you’ve done wrong in your past, and you’re not trying to figure out any big decisions about your future. You’re just wrestling, and crazy as it sounds, it’s peaceful.

  Craving some version of that, I decided to go for a hard run. Between my hoodie tucked over my head and the stubbly beard that had sprung up over my chin, I hoped I wouldn’t draw the attention of any police, but still, I jogged along the river with my head down. The flowing water didn’t seem to care about my problems, and my music stopped without me noticing.

  I got back to the apartment to find Khajee doing homework on the couch and Than hobbling around the kitchen, where the air was thick with amazing smells. I tried to lift the lid off a pan, and he thwacked me with a spatula and ordered me to get cleaned up. After my shower, I came out to find dishes spread around the table, something I’d expect to see in a fancy restaurant. There were three plates, each heaped high with white rice, and big bowls in the center, filled with steaming, colorful food. My mouth watered and I asked, “What’s all this?”

  Khajee closed the book she was reading and came in from the living room. “Your last meal if you take tomorrow’s fight lightly.”

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

  We each settled into a chair and the old man rolled an open hand over the table. “Traditional Thai dinner,” he announced. “Family style.”

  I couldn’t be sure, but I felt like he put a little extra emphasis on the word family. Could be I was only hearing what part of me wanted. I covered my rice with what Than had prepared: pan-fried pork, steamed veggies, and curry so spicy my eyes teared up. At this, Than mumbled something in Thai that got a good chuckle from Khajee. I gulped some water, then dug in for more.

  Even though my belly felt full, I was reaching for seconds when Khajee said, “Enough. Help my uncle with the dishes while I walk Rosie and let this digest. Then we need to work on a couple things.”

  I slid my chair back. “Okay, Boss.”

  And so half an hour later, we were clearing a space on the living room floor, and Khajee continued my education on the subtle art of the chokehold. Rosie watched from the couch, barking every now and then. From his chair, Than offered his advice in between coughing fits. Sometimes he’d say something to Khajee in Thai and they’d both have a laugh o
r nod together. But he also gave me some looks of approval, and even a thumbs-up at one point. When we finished the practice session, I asked him, “You think I’m ready for my big debut tomorrow?”

  He shifted back to his broken English and said, “My belief, not so important. What Eddie think? Eh? This decide you, okay?”

  I glanced at Khajee, then back at Than. “That’s a little more Yoda than Miyagi, don’t you think? What’re you trying to say now?”

  Than grinned. “It don’t matter crap what I think. Nobody knows if you’re ready but you. Either way, you’ll have an answer tomorrow night.”

  About twenty-four hours after our impromptu living room training session, the three of us were waiting for Blalock to show up. Khajee boiled a plastic mouthpiece in a teapot and shoved it between my teeth still hot, telling me to bite down and suck hard to make a good mold. When we heard Blalock’s horn beeping out front, I stood and Khajee grabbed a backpack. Than leaned into his walker to rise to his feet and shook my hand. His grip was weak but his eyes were bright. He said, “Be tough tonight, okay? Tough like the Tiger King.”

  Slightly confused, I figured he was messing with me again, so I just said I’d do my best.

  I sat up front next to Blalock during the forty-five-minute drive. As we headed up the highway, he asked Khajee how her uncle was getting along and, from the back seat, she said, “Fine.”

  “Diabetes is a vexing affliction,” Blalock said.

  Khajee answered, “Yeah. It’s a bitch. Poor man’s got a list of problems as long as my arm. He’s dealing with them his own way.”

  Something struck me. “I saw him meditating yesterday,” I said.

  Khajee said, “It helps with the phantom pain.”

  Blalock changed lanes and passed a minivan, then glanced in the rearview mirror. “Phantom pain?”

  “From the amputation,” Khajee explained behind us. “That leg’s been gone for nearly two years, but that foot still bothers him. Sometimes it’s an itching sensation. Others it’s more of a burn. Damaged nerve endings.”

  “That sounds intolerable,” Blalock said, naming what I was feeling.

  Blalock and I traded glances, uncertain how to follow up. This notion of feeling pain from something no longer there, something literally cut away, seemed familiar, almost like déjà vu. I couldn’t place it. The SUV was quiet for a while, and we eased past a cop parked on the side hiding in wait for speeders. I turned to Khajee and asked, “What did Than mean before, about the Tiger King? He was just yanking my chain, yeah?”

  Khajee glanced at Blalock, like she wished I’d asked when we were alone. But still she said, “That’s King Sri Saan Petch, an ancient ruler of Thailand. He was a great Muay Thai fighter, so fierce he could not be defeated. At a certain point, he couldn’t even find opponents because none of his loyal subjects would fight him if they recognized that he was the king. So he cut off the head of a tiger and wore it as a mask to hide his identity.”

  Blalock said, “Charming ancestral mythology.”

  Khajee didn’t say anything more, and I realized I was glad. For some reason, I didn’t like picturing a man with a tiger’s head.

  I was surprised when we pulled off 78 and seemed to be following signs for the Taj Mahal Resort, one of Pennsylvania’s first casinos. The electric billboard out front blinked “Tonight Only, Men at Work.”

  “Guess I’m not the headliner,” I said.

  Blalock parked and told me, “The evening’s exhibition is an atypical affair.”

  I stared at him, and he said, “Out of the ordinary. Unusual.”

  “I know what you meant. I just can’t tell why you talk like that.”

  “Your opinions aren’t especially material. But know this too: Hold that loose tongue in Mr. Sunday’s presence. He isn’t a man who brooks foolishness. Is the meaning of these words also clear?”

  I heard Khajee’s breath shift behind me and wondered what was up. But I said only, “You bet.”

  Blalock led us inside, through the throngs of would-be winners crowded around roulette tables and hunched over clanging slot machines. One old lady wore a single white glove, and its tips were black with ink from the coins she was losing one at a time.

  We made our way to an elevator marked, “Employees Only — Service” and stepped in. Because I was behind Blalock, I didn’t see what button he hit, but I could feel us descending, down into the lower levels. When the doors split open, Grunt was standing there like a brick wall, arms crossed and blank-eyed. He didn’t grin or welcome us in any way, which seemed to be his MO, and this second time around really hit home how the guy had no discernible neck. His eyes were set deep in his face, two black marbles that didn’t even register recognition. He just turned and started walking.

  The three of us followed Grunt down a dim concrete corridor to a door with “Banquet Storage” written on it, and when he opened it, I could see tables and chairs stacked against the walls. But the center of the large room was cleared, and the fluorescent lights on the low ceiling overhead illuminated just four figures. In his white suit, Mr. Sunday stood next to a gentleman seated in an electric wheelchair. The light cast a shine off Sunday’s bald head. Behind them both, on the fringes of the shadow, was a young woman — a nurse, or a young bride, or both. The old man’s arms twitched involuntarily, some sort of spasm, and his hand trembled as he lifted a cigarette to his thin lips. He blew smoke into the air and clapped as we approached.

  The fourth figure, clearly my opponent, was off to the side, shadowboxing against a cinderblock column. He turned at the sound of the thin applause, and I sized him up: about 220, a bit shorter than me. He wore a black tank top, gym shorts, and sneakers.

  Sunday said, “Mr. Kaminski, your date has arrived.” He met us in the center of the cleared square of concrete and continued, “Mr. Blalock, would you handle the introductions, please?”

  Blalock frowned and said, “Mr. Sunday, Edward MacIntyre. Edward, Mr. Sunday.”

  Sunday offered his hand and we shook. His palm was sweaty but his grip was strong, especially for a geezer. He fixed his blue eyes on me and said, “Ed MacIntyre Jr., isn’t it? It’s true what they say. You’re a dead ringer for your old man, Kid.”

  As usual at the comparison, I flinched on the inside. He went on, “I’ve also heard you’re a scrapper like him.”

  “I can handle myself okay,” I said.

  He released my hand. “That’s what we’re here to find out, isn’t it?” He reached inside his jacket pocket and pulled out an envelope. “Two thousand to the winner. Loser gets an ice pack and a coupon for a free buffet upstairs.”

  Blalock and I hadn’t discussed specifics, so I saw no chance to negotiate these terms. With his cut, I’d make just over $1500.

  In the far corner I shrugged off my hoodie and unlaced my sneakers. Something buzzed in Khajee’s backpack, and she pulled out her phone, checked a message with a regretful look.

  “What’s up?” I asked.

  She shook away my question but answered. “Just some friends from school. I was afraid it might be Than.” With this, she returned the phone and pulled a bottled water from her backpack. I took a shot but my mind snagged on this notion that she had friends at school, of course. Outside this fighting world, she had a whole other life. But for now, she was laser-focused. “Get warmed up,” she said sternly. “Don’t let them rush you.” Khajee wrapped some tape around my knuckles and wrists and then eased my mouth guard into place, something I wasn’t used to but knew I’d need if I wanted to keep my teeth. “Stick to what you know with this guy. Ground and pound. Don’t box him or try to finesse anything.”

  “I don’t do finesse,” I mumbled out.

  “All right,” she said. “Lose the sneakers.”

  It felt weird to be barefoot, the concrete floor cool on my toes and the balls of my heels. I bounced on my chilly feet, cranked my head left and right, then slapped my cheeks a few times to get the blood going. I heard Coach Gallaher saying, “Your moves. Y
our moves.” My opponent watched from fifteen feet away, eyeing me up. He looked like he was in his later thirties, maybe even forty. His mouth guard was black, and he was sporting two enormous cauliflower ears, bulbous and thick. I nodded to Khajee and said, “All set.” She signaled Sunday.

  Blalock had unfolded a seat and settled in by the wheelchair. Sunday bent to whisper in the old man’s ear, who pulled the cigarette from his lips, kissed out a cloud of smoke, and croaked, “No mercy! Prepare! Brawl!”

  I guess I wasn’t worthy of cameras or gongs just yet.

  I trotted to the center and, purely from habit, extended a loose hand to shake. Kaminski swung a left hook over the opening and connected square on my cheek, hard enough to crank my head. I backed up, blinking away the stars, and saw him advance through blurry vision. He landed a couple shots to my ribs, and I finally woke up. Hunched like a wrestler, I grabbed one of his wrists but he yanked back, staying in a boxer’s stance. I lurched forward and grabbed his other wrist, but that one too he snapped free.

  We circled each other, then his fists flew in rapid combination. I lifted my forearms to protect my face, but he just pummeled my gut, bending me over into a crouch. With no real target, I poked out a few punches but only found empty air.

  His assault paused for a moment, and when I looked up, between my raised fists, I saw Kaminski easing back, sucking air hard. His tank was emptying fast. I charged in blindly, only to eat his knee as he plowed it up into my face. Dropped to all fours, I saw my mouth guard on the concrete. When I reached for it, Kaminski booted me in the ribs. I collapsed on my side, right by the shiny black wingtips worn by the man in the wheelchair. He leaned over and I looked up at his face. Behind him, his nurse/wife/girlfriend looked down on me with pity. The old man turned to Sunday and said, “Singularly unimpressive.”

  Sunday glanced at Blalock. Next to him, Khajee said, “Get up, Mac!”

  But that didn’t happen because Kaminski made the mistake of his life — or at least of the night. Instead of attacking right away or waiting for me to get up and go back to boxing, he circled with his arms on his hips. His gut was sucking in and out, and I knew he was just catching his breath. So sure, I sort of played possum, rolling to my back and going limp. Lured in, Kaminski stood over me and stretched down for my right wrist, extended my arm, and pinched my elbow between his knees. Most guys would panic, getting locked in an arm bar, but not me — I saw what was coming next, as clear in my mind as a movie on a screen. Standing with my arm, Kaminski planted one foot under my neck and one under my armpit, and when he sat to his butt, he expected to stretch out that arm until I screamed in pain and gave up. Instead, as he dropped down, I snapped to life, rolled into his momentum, jabbing my elbow into his belly, freeing that arm, and ending up on top of him, chest planted on chest. I righted myself, kneeling over his body, and my hammer fists rained down on his face like bombs. I even sprinkled in a few elbows just to show Khajee I’d been paying attention. Exhausted as he was — and shocked by my resurrection — Kaminski put up a crappy defense, barely deflecting any of my strikes. When he realized he couldn’t protect his face, he managed to slide onto his belly and tuck his forearms along his head, a turtle retreating to its shell. So I whaled on his arms for a minute, and Blalock cheered. I glanced up and saw them smiling, Sunday and the old man and his nurse/wife/girlfriend. Khajee simply nodded, satisfied by the turn the fight had taken.