We traded places as his body collapsed to the mat and I rose to my feet, never releasing his arm. Lazily, he kicked up at me, and I decided to upgrade. I let go of his hand and snagged an ankle, tight in my grasp.
Santana flopped around like a fish on the rocks, desperate to get back to the creek. I worked my way down that leg and once I saw my opening, I dropped heavy and hard on his back. He let loose a “whumpf!” and I wrapped a thick arm around his waist. I had him now.
He reverse–head butted me, which stung my nose good but also got me focused. I needed to quit screwing around. Time for ground and pound.
With my left forearm, I pinned his neck to the mat, and with my right fist, I began to hammer on the back of his head. When he tucked his arm up to deflect my blows, I snuck in a few punches to his temple and cheekbone, nailing his ear a couple times too for good measure. At least, that’s what it felt like. My eyes were streaming tears, but my vision wasn’t totally clear.
Now that I’d taken the fight out of Santana, I shifted my chest so it rested on his head and dug my right arm under his neck, all the way through to the other side, so my radius pressed into the artery that runs under the ear. People think you choke somebody by squeezing their throat, and while that might hurt like hell, the throat’s for eating. You want somebody to go lights out, you need to cut off the blood supply to their brain. So with my right forearm in place, I scooped that fist with my left hand and began to tug. You don’t need to do it all at once. It can be slow, gradual, like an anaconda squeezing its prey. Patience is key with a chokehold, Khajee had helped me understand. And so I was patient.
Beneath me Santana bucked and fought. Following a standard defense, he tried getting purchase on my elbow to tug it off his neck, just release a little pressure, but my choke was set deep, and he knew he couldn’t last more than thirty seconds. In desperation he rocked back and forth, and I rolled with him, tumbling us sideways. From my back, with him splayed out on my belly, I actually had even better leverage, and now I could really apply pressure. I also hooked both his legs with mine, secured him tight. I was in total control.
Me and Shrimp used to mess around before practice with chokeholds, arm bars, other things we’d seen on MMA. Coach Gallaher had some judo training and showed us a few techniques after practice, just monkeying around with moves he warned us never to use in a real match. Mostly he used to always demonstrate on me, because I was the toughest SOB in the room. In my stubbornness, I refused to tap one time when he had me in a rear naked choke. It’s a crazy feeling, having your brain shut down like that. The edges of your vision go dark first, and then you have a tunnel you can see through. All the sounds of the world go quiet, and you can only hear your heart. Then the tunnel begins to narrow until there’s just a pinpoint of light, and when it goes out, you’re gone. The party’s over.
I could tell Santana was close. He’d stopped flailing and I expected at any second to feel his tap out. I was surprised when he twitched with a last surge of energy, made one last grab at my elbow with both his hands. He didn’t really weaken the choke, but he did manage to make enough space so he could turn his head, tuck his chin down into the crook of my right elbow. I was impressed but hardly concerned. I just had to work the radius back to position, return pressure to that vein, and finish him off.
Santana had other plans.
He sank his teeth into the fleshiest part of my forearm. I heard myself scream and head-butted him from behind, tugged even tighter on the chokehold. But because I wasn’t on the right part of his neck anymore, it didn’t have the effect I was looking for. He didn’t let up. Indeed, I could tell my yell had given him some hope, and he ground his teeth hard on my muscle. Because of how we were positioned, the crowd could see what he was doing. I shouldn’t have been surprised when this schoolyard tactic was met with thunderous applause.
It took every bit of willpower I could muster to not release my grip. Above us, the stage lights were clear now, and I could see the hazy shape of his head, my bicep. Was that blood trickling down it? I couldn’t be sure.
Just offstage, I could hear Badder hollering, “That’s the way! Chew your way to the bone!”
The pain was rising, like a white-hot knife. And damn I needed to wipe the cleansing tears flooding my eyes. But they were clearing out whatever crap Santana had spit. I flung my head around, found the outlines of the group watching from the other side of the stage. There, in the front, the small shape that could only be Khajee. I spit my mouth guard clear and yelled, “Son of a bitch is biting me!”
Khajee’s voice was calm and quiet, yet it pierced the crowd and reached me with crystal clarity. “Bite him back.”
I blinked away the tears, rubbed my eyes into my shoulder the best I could without losing the grip, and tried to focus my vision. Though it was still a bit hazy, I could see the side of Santana’s head now — and there, right in front of my mouth like a prize — was his ear.
I snapped down hard and fast, taking in about half that curvy flesh. Like an animal, I chomped and I gnawed, and I could feel my top and bottom teeth nearly meeting. While holding Santana’s head fast in the remnants of my choke, I yanked my face away, still gripping his ear. A chunk of it came with me, a meaty little oyster in my mouth. I turned toward the sound of the cheering crowd and spit it in their direction as tribute. They roared.
Santana let loose a sound I’d never heard before, something between a painful banshee wail and a defeated battle cry. His hands were slapping the mat, my arm, everything, but I held on to him for another few seconds, just to display his helplessness and be sure everyone watching was clear that he’d surrendered, that I, Wild Child, was in control.
When I did release him, he slumped away off the mat. I could see colors now but not faces. I rose and rubbed at my bicep, came away with a thick swab of blood from where he’d bitten me. With my other, I wiped my face and again found more blood, though this was my enemy’s. I could taste it on my lips. I lifted my arms over my head, both palms bloody as if I’d been crucified, and I screamed to the cheering mob, “Who’s next?! Who else you got for me, Sunday! Who? Who?”
I bathed in their applause, and I heard a few folks holler out “Badder! Badder!” One voice from the balcony cried, “Badder versus Wild Child!” I thumped my fists into my sweaty chest, whipping the congregation into a fury. And maybe I’d have stayed there longer, drinking in their adoration, but Khajee appeared at my side, touching one elbow gently. “Mac,” she said, “let’s take care of your eyes.”
She led me backstage, and unknown hands slapped my shoulders in admiration. Unknown voices congratulated me. In a bathroom she had me bend into the sink and ran the faucet, splashed water over my face. It was cool and cleansing, and I dropped to my knees and cupped my hands, doused my eyes until I was no longer blinded. My vision fully restored, I looked up at Khajee and said, “So tell me again why you think he’s a dirty fighter?”
She laughed and Blalock pushed in through the door. “Edward!” he said, hands raised. “Most impressive exhibition!” He swooped in as I rose and embraced me in an awkward hug. “This is an occasion for celebration! Santana was sixteen and three, and your victory was decisive.”
Khajee added, “Also kind of gross, you know?”
I told them both, “I didn’t have many options.” I considered making a tasted like chicken joke, but decided against it.
“Well the fans adore you. Badder’s contest is about to commence. I’ll secure an audience with Sunday. We need to have a constructive dialogue about how best to proceed.”
“Just get our money,” I said, and he left us.
After I slid back into my T-shirt, Khajee and I roamed through the labyrinth until we found the stage, where the main event was well under way. Badder and his opponent were trading playful jabs, bobbing and weaving, dropping head feints. We went out onto the floor with the crowd, standing off to the side. A few folks saw me and there was a bit of a commotion as those nearby applauded and chanted “Wil
d Child! Wild Child!”
“More like a brat!” came from the stage, and when I looked, Badder was staring our way. He was ticked that I’d distracted his audience, but he was the one who should’ve worried about distraction. His opponent executed a textbook front snap kick, planting all his weight on his left leg and extending his right, driving that foot into the side of Badder’s turned head. It’s the kind of blow that’ll typically knock a guy out, maybe even cause a concussion. Badder took a half step back.
He turned away from me, stone-faced, and I saw his opponent’s eyes go wide. Badder charged like a bull, wild and blind — something I took note of — and his opponent retreated, circling backward and to the side. When he stumbled, Badder collapsed on him, unleashing a flurry of elbows and hammer fists to his face. The guy was taking a beating, and taking it badly. This went on for a minute, and Badder only stopped because he was sucking wind. He spat into his opponent’s bludgeoned face, raised a victorious fist, and contorted his expression at the crowd and me, tongue lolling, eyes crazed. I figured the match was over, but Badder had other ideas.
He bent down and hoisted up his opponent’s limp body, cradling him like some gigantic sleeping baby. The guy must’ve gone 250, and deadweight is damn hard to lift, but Badder strode across the stage like he was carrying a bag of groceries. That old guy in the Hawaiian shirt, a trainer, a manager, ran out to block him, and Badder swung up a front kick that dropped him too. Once the path was clear, he made his way right to the edge of the stage, standing above me not five feet away. I pulled Khajee behind me but didn’t retreat.
Without saying a word, Badder shifted his grip and pressed the other brawler’s body up over his head. I’d seen muscle boys before, various impressive feats of strength, but this stunned me, nailed my feet to the ground. Badder’s arms trembled at the strain, but he managed to take one huge step forward and heave his cargo in my direction.
The defeated brawler’s body landed on my feet with a crash, and I tumbled into Khajee. As I scrambled to get up, Badder leapt down and drove into me. He slammed my back into a wall, and I banged my open palms together like cymbals on both his ears. That tends to get a guy’s attention, and Badder was no exception. He staggered back, shaking his head and getting his bearings. All around us the crowd scattered. Even Khajee bolted for cover. Badder and I squared off, but then a huge shape stepped into the space between us, dark and blocky. It was Grunt, who crossed his arms and eyed us each in turn.
Above us on the edge of the stage, not far behind him, Mr. Sunday appeared, looming. “At ease, gents,” he calmly ordered. Sunday waved one of the cameramen to get in position in front of him, and then he addressed the lens and the theater crowd simultaneously. “We’ve just witnessed some savage brawls, and I know you’d like to see these guys tear each other apart. Well, I’m a man of the people, and I’ll give the people what they want!” This announcement was met with enthusiastic cheers, fists pumping the air. Sunday glanced at Badder, then me, grinning, before going on. “I’m hereby setting a championship match for three nights from now. Then we’ll see who brawls supreme.”
As the applause rose, he nodded at the cameraman, who lowered his lens. The crowd around us shuffled away, and Sunday descended the stage stairs. Grunt stepped out from between me and Badder, and Sunday took his place. He put one hand on my shoulder and the other on Badder, drawing us together. “You boys both made me proud tonight, and you’ll be rewarded.” Badder kept scowling at me, and I was ready for him to make a move. In a lower, nontheatrical voice, Sunday continued, “Come Monday, you can kill each other, but you’ll do it in front of a new paying audience, understand? Hands off till then. For now, this show’s officially over.”
Sunday swooped one arm around Badder’s neck, maybe holding him back, and the two of them turned away from me and walked toward the door that led backstage, trailed by Grunt. Sunday was still talking to Badder, but I could no longer hear him.
I looked around and found Khajee on the ground behind me. She was kneeling over Badder’s opponent, who I’d forgotten about completely. His face was pulverized, with blood oozing from his lips and nose, and an open wound around one eye. Across from Khajee, the guy in the Hawaiian shirt was cradling the brawler’s limp head. “Oh, son,” he said. “What did they do to you?” I realized then how much the two of them looked alike. And this bothered me more than anything else.
That Sunday morning, alone in the apartment, I slept in late. Only Rosie’s need to go outside finally drove me from the comfort of the couch, dragging myself into the new day. On Saturday afternoon, even though I’d been aching from the fight with Santana, I’d made it to Than’s sick bed and sat for a while, quiet and still. When I got ready to leave, Khajee told me she was going to spend the night and I promised to come back. But the truth was, I didn’t want to. I still couldn’t shake my uneasiness being inside a hospital.
So yeah, I felt guilty when I stalled and took my time making breakfast Sunday, when I lingered in an extra-long hot shower. On the two-mile walk to the hospital, did I need to pause by the churches I passed? Not really. There must be a half dozen in downtown Harrisburg, planted all around the capitol. St. Stephen’s Episcopal, Our Lady of the Blessed Sacrament, Pine Street Presbyterian, Salem United Church of Christ. As I strolled in front of them one by one, my hands stuffed in my pockets, I could hear the rising songs of the true believers inside, and each time, I felt the urge to join them. I can’t say why.
The tug got so strong that by the time I neared St. Patrick’s Cathedral, where Mom and I used to attend before we moved across the river, I mounted the stony steps. Mass was under way, but I pulled back the big door and slipped inside, found an empty pew in the back.
The priest, a young guy with a bright smile and a neatly trimmed beard, was well into his sermon, so I’d missed half the service. And he was clearly energized about his message that morning, something about the pilgrim’s journey, hope and renewal. After he left the pulpit and moved on to the preordained script, my mind wandered. Sometimes it fixed on my upcoming bout with Badder, or the notion that I was a wanted man, or my predicament with Grunt. But mostly I worried about my mom, about Than, and Khajee. I even thought about why I hated hospitals. It sure wasn’t because of all the sick and dying folks. Was all this a kind of prayer, focusing on your problems in the presence of God, hoping for a solution to present itself?
As the congregation recited the Our Father, I tried to concentrate on the words that held the most meaning for me. “Thy will be done.” “Forgive us our trespasses.” “Lead us not into temptation.” Could be I found some brief consolation, but no grand epiphany about my dilemmas came to me. And when my fellow pilgrims rose to receive the Eucharist, I reflected on some of my recent activities. I stood with them and went to the end of my pew, but rather than joining the line headed for the altar and communion, I turned away and shuffled back out into the gray morning.
At the hospital, I found the scene in Than’s room unchanged from Saturday. He was propped up in bed, pale and sagging. Buried deep in the pillow, his frail face was covered by an oxygen mask, and the respirator at his side made a constant shushing sound. The thin tube snaked from the crease of his elbow, twisting up to a clear bag of fluid suspended from a hook. On a whiteboard on the wall, thick Sharpie letters announced, “Hello!!!! Today is Sunday!! Your nurse’s name is Wendy!!!” Though it was nearing noon, the curtains were still drawn, and Khajee was curled up on a chair, huddled beneath a thin white blanket. I stood in the doorway and felt like an intruder. Maybe this was an excuse to skip my visit. But then Khajee stirred, lifted her head, and I realized she was awake. “Hey,” she said.
I entered the room and took a seat near her. “How is he?”
“Same as yesterday. Same as the day before. It seems they can keep him from getting worse, but they can’t help him get better.”
“That sucks,” I said.
Khajee nodded. “It’s like he can’t recover but can’t quite die.”
> “Did Dr. Ngoyo say —”
“The doc’s a good guy,” she snapped, cutting me off. “But at a certain point, it’s more faith than science. They’re just giving their best guesses.”
I couldn’t think of how to respond, and we listened together to the hiss and sigh of oxygen pumping from the green tank into Than’s lungs. I wondered if this experience made Khajee want to go into medicine more or less.
After a while, Khajee sat up and folded the blanket, split the curtains to let in the clouded sunlight. She set a hand on Than’s arm, bowed her head in what I took to be prayer, then came back to her seat across from me. She stared, unapologetically, and when I returned her gaze she asked with a slight smile, “Mac, how come you keep coming back here?”
“What do you mean?” I asked, a little hurt.
She had a slight smile. “You’re clearly not comfortable. You’re fidgeting, sweaty even. You don’t need to come you know.”
“I want to,” I told her. “I should be here. I want to support you.”
“Not if it rattles you like this.”
“I’m not rattled,” I said, to which she cocked a single accusing eyebrow. I shifted the conversation. “Has he been awake at all?”
She nodded. “For a while last night, after you left. He came to for fifteen minutes or so. He was pretty disoriented, kept calling me Buppha — that was my grandmother’s name. And he kept asking me to open the window more, to let in some air. I tried to get him to eat some Jell-O.”
Brawler Page 17
